by Ruby Moone
Standing propped in the door was the most handsome young man he had ever seen in his life. Charles’ jaw actually dropped. He was tall, with sodden, inky black curls plastered to his hatless head and eyes so dark they appeared black in a sharp angular face. He had the sort of direct, piercing gaze that made whomever was subject to it faintly uncomfortable. The eyes fluttered shut.
“Thank God,” the man muttered and staggered over the threshold. Charles grabbed him awkwardly and shoved the heavy door back, shutting out the freezing snow and wind. The man was dead on his feet. He swayed badly and Charles caught him under the arms, staggering a little as he did so. He was soaked to the bone and the icy chill of his body soaked into Charles. The man’s head lolled and Charles braced himself to hold him up, but he regained his balance a little and stood, swaying precariously. Charles maintained his grip on him just in case.
Before he could speak, the man’s eyelids fluttered open and Charles found himself eye to eye with that searching gaze.
“Oh…” he said. Dark brows narrowed into a quizzical frown, and those equally dark eyes ran over every inch of Charles’ face. “Oh…” he said again, and Charles held his breath, barely daring to move when the man ran his hand over his hair, actually touched him, and then trailed a thumb across his cheek. Charles’ mouth went dry and his heart thundered in his chest.
“Are you an angel?” the man said and brought his other hand up so he was cupping Charles’ face. Charles couldn’t have spoken or moved if his life had depended on it. “You must be,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, and his eyes continued to search Charles’. “You are all golden. A beautiful, beautiful golden angel,” he said in an odd singsong voice, and tilted his head to one side.
Charles’ knees were about to buckle so he held on to the stranger and presumed he was talking about his fair hair. “Thank you for saving me, beautiful angel,” he whispered, his eyes appeared to lock onto Charles’ mouth. “Thank you, thank you…thank you…” the stranger whispered as his mouth came closer, closer to Charles’ until it hovered so close over his that he could feel the warmth from the stranger’s skin, his breath, his very being.
Charles was not sure who closed the fraction of an inch until their lips met, touched, and held, but he knew that the strangled sound of naked, shocked pleasure and need came from his own throat. It had been an age since he had been kissed; he pressed his lips to the other man’s and squeezed his eyes shut. The stranger sighed and his lips moved over his with increasing, rhythmic pressure that Charles, after a faltering start, echoed. The man held his face, and he held it still whilst he dragged his lips away to touch them to Charles’ eyes, his forehead, and then came back to his mouth.
They kissed until the man pulled back again and Charles let go of him. His hands were shaking, so he balled them into fists and tried to breathe, tried to speak, but he couldn’t. The man smiled. Smiled right into his eyes. “Beautiful, beautiful angel, thank you,” he said, and crumpled to the ground.
Chapter 2
Charles was shaking from head to foot with a soul deep ache coursing through every fibre of his being. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before in his life. The young man was sprawled on the floor, unmoving.
“Sir?” Charles said as he sank to his knees to shake the man. “Sir, can you hear me?” There was no reply, but the man was clearly freezing, his lips having taken on an alarming bluish tinge. Charles took one large hand in his and chafed it, but to no avail. He continued his ministrations as he looked around the entrance hall frantically for inspiration. He needed to get the man dry, warm; get some food or drink inside him, and hope that he regained his senses. He doubted he would be able to get to the village to summon assistance, and by the time he got back it might be too late. What in God’s name was he to do?
Fear and anxiety bloomed in an almost overwhelming wave. What if he was unable to revive him? What if he…Charles squeezed his eyes shut.
Stop it. Just stop it, Farrington.
Forcing away the encroaching panic, he settled on a plan. He would bring bedding from upstairs, fashion it into a temporary billet before the fire in the study, and carry, or more likely drag, the stranger to it. The unconscious man was similar in height to Charles, perhaps a little taller, and was slender in build, but moving a dead weight was never easy.
He ran a hand over the wet curls. “I will be right back,” he said, and then paused. He couldn’t resist stroking his thumb across the man’s temple. Then he ran upstairs.
Within minutes Charles had created a neat bed on the floor in front of the fire in the study. A quilt lay on the rug with a selection of soft pillows, blankets, and yet another quilt raided from the guest rooms.
He hurried back into the hallway to find his guest in exactly the same position as he had left him. Charles hesitated and rubbed a hand over his mouth, considering how best to move him. In the end he tugged and pulled until the man was flat on his back, and then managed to get behind him and lift his shoulders to get a grip around his chest, but he didn’t move. Frustrated, Charles looked around the ancient hallway and then hit upon an idea. He removed all the rugs from the floor between the door and the study revealing the old, polished wooden floor, braced himself behind the man again, and managed to get his arms firmly around his chest so that he could drag him. The old polished wood assisted this enterprise admirably. He stumbled and fell a few times when the water in the man’s clothing clung stubbornly to the floor, whacking his knee quite painfully as he did so, but eventually he got the man parallel with the bed before the fire. The cat trotted over and sniffed tentatively at the stranger, but recoiled immediately and leaped into the chair.
Panting, he laid the man down and considered how he might get him onto it. He scratched his head and then pulled off his coat and rolled up his sleeves.
“Come along old chap,” he said to the man. “We are going to have to roll you onto the bed. Can you lend a hand?” The man remained motionless. Charles made a mental note to increase his physical activity, as his strength had clearly dwindled since his departure from the army, but as he stooped to move him, he bethought himself. His guest was sodden. His clothes were saturated and if he wrapped him in the blankets like that he would never get warm.
Charles hesitated, ran a hand over his mouth, took a deep breath, and then started with the shoes and stockings. The long, slender feet were ghostly pale and wet; the skin wrinkled and puckered.
“You poor thing,” Charlies muttered as he took each foot and dried it. Once done, he took a deep breath and then unbuttoned the man’s breeches and stripped them down his legs in a brisk, businesslike fashion, but his heart stopped for a moment when he realised that beneath them the man was naked. He blinked, looked away, then returned to towelling him dry. Getting rid of the coat, waistcoat, and shirt turned out to considerably harder as the wet fabric clung stubbornly, and the man was incredibly heavy, but eventually Charles had him laid before him naked.
His heart skipped along at an alarming rate. The man was young. Probably much younger than his own thirty some years and in his unconscious state he looked terribly vulnerable. Charles covered him with the blanket and quilt and tucked a pillow beneath his head. His heart was thundering in his chest as he tried to banish images of sleek muscles that ran down a tailored torso from surprisingly wide shoulders to narrow hips. Through school, university, and the army Charles had encountered many naked men, but this one was unspeakably beautiful.
Charles pulled the door to, hurried to the kitchen, and prepared a pot of tea, needing to be away from the man for a moment or two. He loaded a tray with milk and sugar along with a pile of bread, Twelfth Night cake, and cheese and then was forced to grip the edge of the table and take several deep breaths. He had never been kissed like that before in his life and it seemed to have triggered something in him that was like a live thing coursing through his entire body, but gathering into his heart and his groin. His chest was so full it hurt, and his cock simply t
hrobbed. Beside the intense physical reaction remained a very real fear deep within him that he would not be able to revive him, or would not know how best to help him to heal, and if he took with a fever, he was not sure he had the right things to hand.
He mentally reviewed the books in the library and could recall some treatise on medicine and healing. A physician was at least an hour’s drive away in good weather. Goodness only knew how long it might take in the snow and wind. He eyed the plate of food that he had prepared. Wasn’t one supposed to starve a fever?
Shaking his head and sucking in several long breaths, he attempted to compose himself and shake off the feeling of complete inadequacy before he headed back.
Holding onto the tray he put his shoulder to the door and then leaned on it to shut it, intending to put the food and drink on the table, but jumped when he realised the man was awake. Awake and staring at him with his mouth open. Charles stared back.
“You’re real,” the man whispered as he struggled to sit up. “Oh, Christ, you’re real.”
Chapter 3
Charles set the tray down, carefully avoiding his gaze. “I am indeed.” Firelight flickered over naked shoulders; a log cracked and hissed and they both jumped. “How do you feel?” Charles asked.
The man ran his tongue over his lips and scrubbed one eye with the heel of his hand. “Dreadful. Are you going to shoot me?”
“Shoot you…?”
“Beat me?”
Charles stared and then realisation dawned. The kiss. He cleared his throat and felt his face heat.
“Ah…no. No.” He wanted to say more, but the words stuck so he shook his head.
The man managed to sit up, only swaying a little, and as the coverlet fell to his lap, he looked down at his naked chest. He said nothing about his state of undress but shot Charles a questioning look.
“You were soaking and freezing,” Charles felt compelled to explain. “I…ah…um…undressed you and dried you.” He cleared his throat again and then gestured to the tray awkwardly. “I brought something to eat and drink. You should eat. Unless you have a fever?”
The man’s eyes were riveted on the food. “I’m not feverish.”
Charles put the tray on the floor and after a moment’s hesitation, folded himself to sit cross legged in front of the stranger. It was as if they were engaged in some bizarre picnic in front of the roaring fire. He poured the tea and passed a plate of bread and cheese. The man fell on it and devoured every scrap, in the way that young men do, then polished off the cake with two cups of tea. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “Where are my clothes?” he said, eyes darting around the room.
“Drying in the kitchen. You don’t have to leave,” he said and immediately looked away. He got to his feet and lifted the tray. “I have plenty of rooms if you would like to stay the night. The weather is atrocious.”
“That is very kind of you.”
No, it’s not. Charles ran a hand around the back of his neck and searched for something to say. “It’s Christmas. The season of goodwill.” He sighed inwardly.
“Christmas day?” the man asked with a frown.
Charles glanced over at him. “Not quite. Christmas Eve. Happy Christmas.” Dear lord. He had definitely been alone too long. He risked a glance at his guest and saw a shadow of a smile on the man’s face as he pushed the covers away and moved to stand. Charles whirled around to give him some privacy, but not before he caught a glance of that long, sleek body and what he would have sworn was the beginning of an erection. He closed his eyes and tried to breathe normally, but his heart was almost beating him to death.
“I could loan you some clothes while yours dry?” he offered.
“Might you have a robe or something for now?”
“Yes. Of course. A robe.” With that, Charles fled to the safety of his bedchamber.
* * * *
He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, breathing heavily and blinking at the fire. After a moment, he threw more logs on to keep the blaze going. It was the only other room in the house that was warm apart from the study and the kitchen. He didn’t bother keeping any other areas heated and aired as there was usually no point. He couldn’t offer a guest room that was horribly damp and unaired. The man would have to sleep in his chamber. Charles let out a faintly hysterical laugh at the thought and sank his fingers into his hair. It took a moment, but he pulled himself together and found the warmest robe he possessed. It was a heavy blue brocade that his aunt had bought him a few years before. She said the colour reminded her of his eyes. He smiled at the memory and tucked it over his arm.
“This one is quite warm.” Charles handed the gown to the man who was standing hunched over by the fire, draped in a blanket, warming his hands.
He straightened and smiled. “You are indeed an angel.”
And there it stood between them again. The kiss.
“My Christmas angel,” the man said, moving closer to take the robe. His hand brushed Charles’ as he took it and he felt the contact ripple through him. He averted his eyes as the man shook off the blanket and shrugged into the robe and again caught sight of that lengthening cock. His own was as hard as marble and, without the protection of a coat, in all likelihood, frighteningly obvious.
“Would you like something else to eat?” Charles said, hoping the edge of desperation in his voice was not too evident.
“If it would be no bother?”
“Of course not,” Charles said, and yet again, fled.
Chapter 4
Henry Wilson, who more often than not went by the name of Harry, wrapped the loaned robe around him and watched his host almost run from the room. He sank into the chair by the fireside before his legs gave way.
“Fuck,” he said to the room. He felt like death. Exhausted from running, hiding, and then from trudging through the damned snow, but he was not completely dead he realised as he adjusted himself.
He was damned lucky. Lucky to have found shelter, lucky that the chap who had taken him in didn’t shoot him, or throw him back out into the snow after that kiss. Fancy being so stupid. He shook his head in disbelief. He had learned the hard way to keep his peculiar preferences to himself when in public. What were the chances of falling into the home and the arms of a fellow sodomite? He was bloody grateful though. He looked at the door that his host had closed behind him. He couldn’t linger. Daren’t linger no matter how delightful his rescuer might be. His angel. His Christmas angel. Christ, the man was gorgeous. Harry ran his hands over his face. This was a complication that he didn’t need and certainly couldn’t indulge, but the look in those dark blue eyes almost undid him. Longing, curiosity, loneliness; shame. He ached to take him in his arms and show him that there was no shame in the desire that he felt. But, where some men would be happy for a quick tumble, instinct told him that this man would want more. If his angel handed over his body, his heart would likely be attached, too, and that would never do.
Harry willed the fog that clouded his brain away and tried to focus. He had to reach the coast which was probably still at least half a day’s drive away, maybe more in this weather, and that would be if he could find a horse, work out the way to go, and if it stopped damn well snowing. He rubbed his face. Could he persuade his angel to loan him a horse and some money? He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. He probably knew the answer to that. It was what he was good at.
The door opened and his host returned pushing a trolley laden with food. Harry’s mouth watered.
“My housekeeper left me well stocked so I warmed some stew. I hope this is acceptable?” His angel looked up with a shy smile, dark blue eyes framed by fair hair. The man was a fair bit older than him and as neat as wax. When he looked around, he realised that the room was also frighteningly neat.
“That would be wonderful; you should have let me help,” he said, trying to get to his feet.
“I think you need to recover first,” his host sai
d as he placed a bowl of stew and a plate of bread on the table at the side of Harry’s chair and gestured for him to remain seated. He took a bowl himself and sat opposite. “I hope you don’t mind the informality; the dining room is freezing.”
“I don’t mind at all.”
His angel put the bowl down and looked a little sheepish. “Forgive me, I haven’t introduced myself. Charles Farrington.” He stood and held out his hand. Harry ignored the lure of the food, stood up, too, and took the proffered hand. “Harry Valentine.” Only a small white lie. “Please, call me Harry.”
“Harry,” Farrington smiled and shook, lingering over the handshake a little, so Harry squeezed the hand nestled in his.
“You should call me Charles.” Those blue eyes burned now and Harry felt his resistance slip as he stared back and felt heat burn through him at the contact. He felt Farrington’s breath catch.
Harry swallowed and pulled his hand back. “Does anyone call you Charlie?” he asked with a cocky grin, breaking the spell.
“No.”
“I think I might do. This looks delicious.”
Charles, decent chap that he was, followed his lead and returned to his seat and picked up his bowl. Harry picked up his own and watched covertly. Long, fine boned fingers held the spoon as he ate, movements neat and economical. There was also a stubborn thrust to his chin that Harry would have wagered got him into difficulty at times.
