by Ruby Moone
Chapter 6
Milo woke to find Robert’s head pillowed on his chest, his arm around his middle, and his leg inserted between his. He peered down his nose to see the man who had turned his life inside out. He sifted his fingers through those dark curls and felt an odd sadness settle in his chest. Was this really love? This feeling of all consuming need yet all-encompassing fear that he would die should it end? When Robert tired of him, tired of his nasty tongue, his nasty ways, and his immobility what would he do. He tried to imagine living in the house alone again and couldn’t. Tried to imagine not having Robert by his side and couldn’t. How long had he got? A week? A year? A day? He remembered the day his mother left him. He’d thought his heart might break when she ignored his pleas, his tears. He’d watched her drive away with her new lover with just a wave and was sure something inside him had died. He squeezed his eyes tight against the tears that threatened as he realised the rest of him might die when Robert left.
Robert moved. He stretched and then realised where he was and wrapped Milo in an enormous hug. “Mmm, you smell divine.”
“I must smell like a pig.”
“No, you smell of…pleasure.”
“Idiot.”
Robert snuggled tighter. “You do. You are so beautiful.”
Milo’s heart clenched. “Stop saying that. I am not beautiful at all.” He struggled in Robert’s hold.
“Stop it, Milo,” Robert said and tried to nuzzle closer. “Not after last night, not now. Can’t you just accept that I adore you and I think you are beautiful? Just once? Please?”
Milo wanted to scream. Grab him up in his arms. Say the words. Say, I love you Robert. I love you more than life, stay with me, stay with me…but he couldn’t it all stuck in his throat and got messed up in his head.
“Let go of me,” he said, hating the wobble in his voice. “You need to go.”
“Why? It’s not as though your valet is going to come and find us, is it?”
“Get off me. Now.”
“Do you really mean that or are we playing again?”
The reminder of that sensitive, most vulnerable place he had been in last night, and the very real fear gripping his throat ignited Milo’s temper. “Don’t be an ass. I am not playing games; I am not saying stupid bloody words. Get off my bed and get out of my room. Now.”
Robert rolled off him and stood up. Milo felt the loss immediately and wanted to call him back. He watched, stupidly speechless as Robert grabbed his nightshirt and flung in over his head. He pulled it down to cover him. It was inside out.
“I’m going,” he said with as much dignity as a man wearing an inside out nightshirt could muster.
“Thank God. About time I got a proper valet anyway.” The words were out of Milo’s mouth before he could think, but the look on Robert’s face almost broke him. Such shock, such hurt, such betrayal.
“You want another valet?” he whispered and then the shocked look was replaced with something cold and empty. It was not a look he had ever seen on Robert’s face before. Those sunshine eyes were unreadable. “Of course you do. Why would you want to be saddled with me? I suppose I’ve served my purpose now.” He nodded a couple of times, turned on his heel, and left.
Milo stared at the closed door. It was only then he registered the sound of rain outside the open window.
* * * *
After about an hour Brownlow came up to the room. Milo had managed to get himself sat up and was struggling into a shirt when the door opened.
“May I be of assistance, sir?” he said.
“Yes. And what the hell is all the banging and clattering about downstairs?” The noise had been going on for some time. “I need my chair and it is downstairs.”
“It’s Mr. Grange, sir.”
Milo stopped struggling and looked more carefully at the man. Disapproval was writ large across his face. “Beg pardon?”
“Mr. Grange is finishing the job he has been working on for you.”
“I see.” He didn’t.
Brownlow started feeding his arms into his shirt, and Milo shook him off. “My breeches and stockings please.”
Moments later he was dressed. “Send Grange up. I want to go downstairs.”
“As you wish.”
Milo noted the lack of ‘sir’ but forbore from commenting.
Robert came into the room, but he didn’t smile. He stood and waited for instruction. It was raining hard now and the sound echoed loudly through the room. It was the sort of summer storm that was supposed to break the heat, but it didn’t. The air was stifling. Milo was terrified that after the storm he would be alone.
“Sit me by the window.”
“Brownlow said that you wanted to go downstairs.”
Milo lifted his chin. “I changed my mind.”
Robert lifted him from the bed and Milo leaned into his strength. The scent of him was now so achingly familiar. Robert sat him by the window and propped a cushion in his back. From here he could see out over the courtyard, out over the gardens. The rain hammered against the glass. He leaned his head back and stared out.
“Milo?” Robert said softly.
Milo closed his eyes on a wave of pain. He heard Robert’s sigh and the click of the door as it closed. A rumble of thunder echoed in the distance.
* * * *
Milo had no idea how long he sat staring out into the rain until the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel roused him. Leaning forward he peered out of the window and saw the family carriage pull up and Robert stride out from back of the house and pile bags into it as Brownlow held onto the horse. His heart started to pound. What was he doing? He made another trip and threw another bag in and Milo felt panic claw at his throat. Robert made as if to climb up, but then paused. He said something to Brownlow, leaned his head against the horse’s neck for a moment, swiped his hand over his eyes, and set off in the direction of the lake. Brownlow jumped down and moments later Milo heard footsteps running up the stairs. Brownlow burst into the room closely followed by the new cook. Both men were red, flustered, and looking awkward.
“Where is Grange going?” he demanded.
The two men glanced at each other, and Brownlow cleared his throat. “He is leaving. He is…” Brownlow stood a little straighter. “He is heartbroken.”
Milo gaped. “Heartbroken?” His cheeks heated.
“Oh, sir, that boy loves you so much.”
Milo felt as though his heart seized in his chest. Did he know? Did they both know? What was he going to do?
The cook stepped forward and actually took Brownlow’s hand and held it tightly. “Mr. Callan, we don’t know each other very well, but I once turned away the love of a good man. I lived to regret it.”
Milo’s head was pinging back and forth between the two men, his mouth open.
Brownlow straightened his shoulders. “It took us forty years to make up,” he said as he gripped the cook’s hand. “Don’t make the same mistake we did.” He sighed and shook his head sadly. “It isn’t wrong, it isn’t disgusting, and if you love him go after him and bloody well find a way to create a life where you can be together.”
Milo’s was open mouthed. The cook had tears in his eyes, Brownlow was shaking, and Milo, well, Milo’s heart was about to burst.
“Get me downstairs,” he barked. “Drag me if you have to, but get me downstairs.”
Between them they managed to get him out of the room, down the stairs, but he managed to fall down the last few, rolling down and smacking his head against the post at the bottom. He saw stars but he didn’t care. They got him into the chair.
“You have to see the room he made for you,” Brownlow said. We won’t let him leave. He turned Milo and pointed him at the door at the end of the corridor. Milo hesitated as he took hold of the door knob. What on earth had Robert been doing? He pushed it open and rolled inside on the polished wood floor. It was the old parlour. Robert had turned it into a bedroom. A room with tables at wheelchair height. French windows
that led onto a small terrace where he could wheel himself outside into the sunshine unaided. Milo wiped the tears away with the back of his hand and set off to the front of the house down the long corridor that was now incredibly easy to navigate because someone had cared enough about him to take away the obstacles.
The carriage was still in the drive, and Brownlow wheeled him to the edge of the garden but Milo waved them away. “Leave me now,” he panted as he pulled on the leather gloves Robert had given him. He set off over the soaking wet grass. It was almost impossible to move the chair, but there was a slight incline that worked in his favour. He knew where Robert would be and headed—the tree where they had made love for the first time. Rain hammered against his bare head, thunder rumbled in the distance and lightning danced across the horizon. His arms burned, his heart was pounding almost out of his chest, and he could barely breathe when he got there.
“Get out from under the fucking tree, you idiot,” he yelled, voice shaking. “It’s going to start lightning here any minute and you will get struck. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to shelter under a tree in a storm?” Milo shook all over, horrified. Where were the tender words? The words of love of need of desire? The words that would beg him to stay?
Robert came out from under the low slung branches, eyes wide. “Milo?”
“Get out from under the fucking tree!” His voice was breaking.
“I’m here. I’m out.” Robert knelt by his side. Water running down his face, hair plastered to his head.
Milo reached out to him but then snatched his arm back. “Why are you leaving? How can you leave me? I saw the room. I saw it…”
Robert closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them. “Because I can’t bear it any longer. I can’t just be a passing fancy for you. I love you too much. I can’t bear it when you belittle yourself, when you push me away…” His voice broke and Milo wasn’t sure if the water running down his face was rain or tears. I can’t bear the thought of you having another valet, of another man touching you, dressing you. I’m sorry, I know it was only temporary, but…after last night I can’t…” he put his head on his hands, hands that gripped the arm of Milo’s chair.
“I…I hurt you?” Milo whispered.
Robert nodded but didn’t look up.
Milo knew this would be his only chance. His only chance to be honest, to lay his heart out and offer it and somehow he needed to make sure his head and mouth connected. “I’m terrified,” he whispered at last.
Robert looked up. “Of what?”
“That you will leave me, find someone healthy, someone who you can ride with, run with…someone who isn’t a miserable bastard. I think I pushed you away before you could leave me. I thought it might hurt less. It didn’t.” He swallowed. “I love you. I love you.”
Robert stared at him, water dripping from his chin. “You love me?” He sounded so uncertain.
“I love you so much, but I have no idea how to love someone. I have no idea how…how to be happy.”
Robert blinked and smiled tentatively at first and then those blue eyes lit up like the summer sun, warming Milo down to his toes. Robert moved so he could insert himself between Milo’s legs, knelt, and put his head in his lap. He wrapped his arms around his waist. “I love you,” Robert said. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. This isn’t a passing thing for me. I wish I could marry you.” Milo felt him swallow.
“And I love you, too,” Milo said softly, stroking Robert’s wet head as the rain continued to hammer down. “So much.”
They stayed like that for some time until Milo felt an arm about his shoulder and a blanket was wrapped around him. Brownlow stood with Cook who was draping a blanket over Robert.
“Do you have a name?” Milo said.
“Neil, sir.”
“Do you have a name?” he said to Brownlow.
“Angus, sir.”
“Angus, Neil, I think Robert and I will have need of a…sensitive staff to take care of us. The job will come with extensive living quarters that will be completely private. An apartment for two with security and safety.”
Robert lifted his head, stared at Milo for a moment, and then smiled at Brownlow and Cook.
“We’d be delighted,” Neil and Angus said together, then laughed.
Robert got to his feet and heaved Milo out of the chair and into his arms. He adjusted him until Milo was standing upright with his arms tightly around his lover’s neck. Robert looked down at him and kissed him gently, then held him tight. “Rain’s stopping now,” he whispered.
THE END
The Wrong Kind of Angel
Chapter 1
Charles Farrington had long ago resigned himself to the fact that his deviant nature meant he was destined to be alone. He found himself unable to return the affections of a lady, and was unwilling to set up a pretence, so he embraced his solitude and satisfied himself with the very occasional foray into London for business and places where he could seek out likeminded company. After Napoleon’s eventual defeat he had resigned his commission and set up home in small, but pleasant house on the outskirts of a small village on the edge of the North Yorkshire moors, not too far from the coast. There was a distinct lack of local young ladies who might wish to pursue a bookish ex-officer, which pleased Charles, but this also meant that there was a complete lack of likeminded company which in many ways was a relief. To counteract the lack of company, Charles surrounded himself with things that gave him pleasure. Things like his growing collection of snuff boxes, his garden, and lately his writing of, what he considered to be, rather daring novels involving dashing young men flinging themselves into battle. So life, for the most part, was pleasant. Or so he told himself.
Over the past year or so he had spent rather more time with his writing, and to his everlasting surprise he had published some of his stories, making a small sum of money from it. This supplemented his military pension nicely, and supported his rather expensive snuff box collection. So, as winter approached, he was happy to while away the dark hours hunched over his manuscript, fortunate in the fact that he could afford a good number of candles. As Christmas drew near, and the weather worsened, he tucked himself away with only his cat, housekeeper, and groom for company. Mr. and Mrs. Darnley lived in the village and came in daily to wash, clean, and feed both him and his horses. Horatio, an enormous ginger tom, kept the mice at bay. It was a good arrangement.
They had established a routine for the Christmas period that suited all of them; Mrs. Darnley left the house laden with food for both him and the cat, her husband organised the livestock for him, and then they returned to their family on Christmas Eve, not returning until after Boxing Day. He couldn’t quite countenance the idea that they would forsake their large, jolly family during the Christmas period to hang around to see if he needed anything. When the weather turned particularly nasty, he begged that they leave early on Christmas Eve.
“But it isn’t even lunchtime,” Mrs. Darnley said, shaking flour from her apron.
“Have you seen the weather?” Charles said, pointing to the window. “If you and Darnley don’t go now you may not make the village. I would not wish to be answerable to your entire family if they missed out on your dinner.”
She looked out and sighed just as her husband came into the kitchen, stomping snow from his boots making Horatio flick his tail in disgust.
“Darnley, my dear fellow, will you have words with your good wife?” Charles said. “You need to leave. I have enough food to feed an army. Several armies. I will not starve if you leave now.”
Darnley stuffed his cap in his coat pocket. “He’s right, m’love. Temperature is dropping and there’s a north wind coming in. I reckon snow’s set in for a day or two.”
All three stared at the whitening landscape and listened to the howling wind for a moment and then Mrs. Darnley sighed. “I don’t like leaving you here alone.”
“My dear Mrs. Darnley. No harm shall befall me. I will enjoy the solitude and no
doubt laze the days away in front of the fire.”
“You should consider getting someone to live in, you know,” she said for the hundredth time as she bustled about. “Not right, a lovely gentleman like you on his own. Not right.”
Charles smiled at her. “I give you my word I shall consider it,” he said, laying a hand on his heart. What she really meant was that he should find a wife.
With a little more huffing and puffing the Darnleys finally left, but not before she had made him a pot of tea. After he closed the door on the dreadful weather he took the tea and the plate of cake into his study, piled the fire high with logs, and settled himself in with a sigh as the well-banked fire blazed and drove away the worst of the cold. Listening to the howling wind and watching the falling snow blanket the landscape from the safety of his study made him feel exceedingly cosy. He picked up the paper, sipped his tea, and propped his feet on the stool. Horatio promptly settled himself on his lap and he was tempted to kick off his shoes and toast his feet by the fireside Mrs. Darnley had adorned with holly, making the room feel almost festive.
By early evening the snow had covered the land as far as he could see and the wind was causing spectacular drifting. Charles banked the fires in the study, the kitchen, and his chamber. There was no point heating anything more. He had catalogued more of his snuff boxes, written a couple of chapters of his book, and tidied his papers again, so he picked up a book on the history of York and helped himself to a glass of brandy.
After a while his eyes began to tire. He tipped his head back and closed them for a moment and indulged himself. He pretended he was not alone. Pretended that there was someone with him; someone special. Someone who would come into the room and take the chair opposite him, but first would lean over, run a hand over his hair, and kiss him. Someone with whom he could exchange a Christmas gift, kiss under the mistletoe, and retire to bed with. Wake up with. So vivid was the image, so clear the warm promise of the kiss, that when there was a noise at the front door he wondered if he had conjured it from his imagination. He jerked upright and listened. There it went again. Charles hastened from the room into the freezing hallway, pulling the study door closed behind him to preserve the warmth. He dragged the bolt from the ancient door and heaved it open, wincing at the blast of icy air and wet, swirling snow that hit his face.
