Kindred Hearts (22 page)

“Bugger you,” Tristan said harshly.

Charles reached down and laid his palm on Tristan’s groin, feeling him already half-hard and stiffening. Tristan panted shallowly, his sneer gone, his eyes wide and shocked. “Now we get to it,” Charles said quietly.

Tristan shoved at his shoulders, trying to scramble away. Charles caught his wrists. “Tristan,” he said, his voice firm, as if he were dealing with a recalcitrant horse or dog, “Tristan.”

“Let me go,” Tristan muttered, his color high. He wouldn’t meet Charles’s eyes. “For God’s sake, Charlie, let me go.”

“No,” Charles replied. “Not until I’m certain you won’t—” He was going to say, “Hurt yourself,” but Tristan had lunged forward to kiss him, his mouth bruising on Charles’s. Charles felt a sting and tang of blood on his lip, then Tristan’s tongue was sweeping into his mouth and he was lost in the heat and hunger of Tristan’s kiss.

He didn’t remember releasing Tristan’s wrists but he must have, because Tristan’s hands were in his hair, and his own were running up and down Tristan’s back, dragging him close against him.

Tristan tasted of brandy and licorice and Tris; he was warm in Charles’s arms and hot in Charles’s mouth. He pushed at Charles, and Charles went down on the carpeting, Tristan sprawled over him, his hips against Charles’s and his lean thighs between Charles’s own. He rocked his groin into Charles’s, then dragged his mouth away, staring down at him with shocked eyes. “You’ve got a cockstand,” he accused.

Charles slid his hands down to cup Tristan’s arse and pull him hard against him, shifting to rub their erections together. “Of course I bloody do,” he growled. “I usually do around you,” and he moved one hand to the back of Tristan’s head to pull him down into another kiss. This time he took control, exploring the sweet recesses of Tristan’s mouth thoroughly before moving to claim the side of Tristan’s jaw. He fumbled with the linen cravat binding Tristan’s shirt points, pulling the knot loose and dragging the cravat off so that he could explore the long lines of his neck and throat with lips and tongue.

He was just reaching for the buttons on Tristan’s trousers when a soft scratching came at the door. “Sir? Major Mountjoy?”

Tristan shoved Charles off him and scrambled to his feet, his eyes wild. Charles stood up and said aloud, “Yes, Will?” moving to stand behind the desk.

The door creaked open and Will peeked in. His eyes widened when he saw the table knocked over and the petals strewn on the floor; he turned to look at Charles and his eyes got even wider. “Sir? Major? Are you all right?”

Tristan had turned his back to Will and was staring down into the fire. Charles raised a hand to his face and winced as his fingers made contact with a swelling jaw. “Fine,” he said heartily. “I just walked into a fist. Mr. Northwood is quite handy with his fives.”

Tristan barked a laugh. Will looked from Charles to Tristan and said guardedly, “Well, sir, so I understand from what George says about Mr. Northwood’s sessions with Mr. Jackson. I’ve locked up, and lit the fire in your room. I’ll be right back with a broom for the potpourri.”

“Fine,” Charles said. He waited until Will had bowed himself back out the door and closed it behind him, then walked across the room to Tristan and laid his hands on his shoulders. “Are you all right?” he asked quietly.

Again a laugh, this one half sob. “No, of course not. I don’t know. I don’t know what to think.”

Charles rubbed his shoulders gently, his cheek against Tristan’s hair. “Well, he’ll be back momentarily, so while I think we need to talk, here is probably not the best place. Why don’t you go upstairs and get ready for bed? I’ll close up shop here and come to you when I’m done.”

“No,” Tristan said, and Charles’s heart stuttered. But then he went on, “Reston is in the habit of dropping in and out of my room, unlike your Reid. I’ll come to you.” His voice shook.

Charles nodded and turned his head to lay his lips gently on the side of Tristan’s throat, breathing in the brandy and licorice scent of his skin. He felt him swallow nervously. “You don’t have to,” he said softly. “We can leave it at this and just forget it ever happened.”

“No,” Tristan said. He turned in Charles’s arms. “No. Charlie. This… this….” He trailed off, his expression uncertain.

“Yes, I know. Go on. I’ll see you upstairs.”

He walked to the door to watch Tristan climb the stairs, his head bowed, his fingers clutching the banister.
Wrong
, he thought unhappily. This was wrong. He loved Tristan, wanted Tristan, but not like this. Not, not
broken
. He wanted the arrogant, challenging Tris, the one who raced his horse in Hyde Park, who chased swans, who took punishing blows at Jackson’s with a grin on his face. Not this fragile, broken thing.

No, what was wrong was that he
did
want him like this. Wanted the other, true, wanted that for Tristan’s sake, but he wanted this Tristan, too. Wanted Tristan however he could have him. He leaned his head against the doorframe and closed his eyes.

“Is Mr. Northwood all right, sir?”

It was Will, his face anxious and embarrassed. Charles stared at him blankly a moment. “He’s… tired, Will. I think perhaps he’s not feeling well.”

“I hope it’s not a fever,” Will said anxiously. “Lot of fevers goin’ about these days, with the cold wet weather and all. Make a man act out of character, they do.” He eyed Charles’s bruised face.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Charles said. “I’ll check on him in a few minutes, after he’s had a chance to get ready for bed. He’ll feel better once Reston has him tucked up, I’m sure.” He gave Will a brief smile.

“Sir,” Will said, with a tug on his forelock, and went into the library, broom and dustpan in hand.

Charles followed him, and while he cleaned up, Charles banked the fire, covered the inkwells, arranged the papers neatly on the desk, and blew out the candles and the oil lamp. Will finished up and bade him good night; Charles responded absently, lost in thought. It was just as he was straightening the papers again in the near darkness that he realized that he was dragging his feet, and shook himself. He’d never been a coward, had faced down charging cuirassiers and irate Wellingtons, but this—this
possibility
—had him terrified.

With a muttered curse, he went upstairs to his bedroom.

The
stairs seemed endless but Tris climbed them doggedly, as shaky as he had ever been after a night of drinking. When he went into his bedroom, Reston was turning down the bed. “Sir?” he said in surprise. “I was under the impression you were going out tonight…?”

“I don’t feel well, Reston,” Tristan said. His voice was hoarse, as if he’d been crying. He felt like crying. He felt like singing. What was wrong with him? Why was he so frightened when he was so close to getting something he’d wanted for so long? And why wasn’t he
more
frightened of facing something so foreign to his experience, instead of this giddy combination of fear and exhilaration?

“If Mr. Northwood will pardon my saying so, you don’t look well, either,” Reston said. He crossed the room to assist Tristan out of his coat, then helped him out of his clothes and into his nightshirt and banyan. “Shall I send up a pot of tea, or some soup for your supper, sir?”

“No,” Tristan said nervously. “No, I don’t want anything. I’m just going to read for a few minutes, then I’m going to bed. I shan’t be needing you again tonight.”

“Thank you, sir,” Reston said with a slight bow. “I trust you will feel better in the morning.”

“God, I hope so,” Tristan muttered. When Reston had left the room, he went to the door and turned the key quietly, then leaned his forehead on the door.
What am I doing?
he wondered.
Do I dare take what comfort Charles is offering? And what exactly
was
he offering?
He shivered with fear—or was it anticipation? Was he ready for this? Did he
dare
?

Of course he did. He drew himself up unsteadily. He was Tristan Northwood. He’d never turned down a dare in his life.

He squared his shoulders and walked into Charles’s room, closing the door behind him.

Charles was already in the room, on one knee before the fireplace, adding coals from the scuttle. His coat was over the back of the armchair, and his boots beside the door, but he was otherwise still fully dressed. For a moment Tristan wondered if he should say anything, alert Charles to his presence, but then Charles said over his shoulder, “It’s a bit cold in here. I don’t want you to take a chill.” Then he got up, put the scuttle back in its place on the hearth, and went to the washstand to wash the coal dust from his hands. Only then did he turn and look at Tristan, a faint smile on his face. “I’m glad you decided to come,” he said softly, and he crossed the room to stand before him, reaching out to brush his fingers over Tristan’s cheek.

Tris leaned into the touch, thinking about all the nights he’d fantasized about this happening, dreaming about Charles touching him gently, lovingly like this. If this were all he could have from Charles it would be all right—just knowing that Charles knew about him and didn’t hate him, didn’t despise him. Or if he did, that he was still willing to treat Tristan with kindness. “You’re too kind to me,” he said huskily. “I don’t deserve it.”

Charles shook his head. “If we only ever received what we deserved, Tris, we’d all be damned to hell in short order.”

Tristan laughed humorlessly. “Oh, it’s far too late for me,” he said. “I’ll seek what comfort I can on this earth.” He reached up and folded his hands around Charles’s face, finding the rasp of beard underneath his palms unbearably erotic. “I want this, Charlie. But I don’t know what I’m doing,” he confessed unsteadily.

“Don’t worry,” Charles said. “I do. Do you trust me?”

Tristan laughed, the laugh as shaky as the rest of him. “Usually when people ask that, it’s because they’re about to do something you won’t like,” he said. “But—yes, I trust you.”

Charles just smiled. His hand slipped from Tristan’s cheek to behind his head, cupping his skull and drawing him forward into Charles’s embrace. Charles kissed him slowly, carefully, exploring his mouth with tender, licking strokes that warmed like the summer sun on an upturned face. Tristan let out a small sigh, a shudder of desire and hunger and surrender. “I hope you’ll like this,” Charles murmured, finding Tristan’s mouth again. His fingers moved between them, unbuttoning Tristan’s banyan, then drawing it and the nightshirt off and tossing them over the chair with his own coat and pulling Tristan back into his arms. Tristan’s skin rasped against linen and wool and the brocade and the buttons of Charles’s waistcoat, his nakedness against Charles’s clothing, and for the first time in a long, long time, he felt small and helpless and
safe
—though he was no smaller than Charles, no weaker than he, and on the verge of exploring something so frightening and alien he should have been frantic with fear.

But like that long ago morning on the balustrade of the balcony four stories above the street, he had moved way past fear… and into
peace.
Charles was the one in control now; he had nothing to do, no decisions to make—it was all in Charles’s hands.

Charles moved then, guiding him to the bed without releasing his mouth, until Tristan’s thighs bumped against the edge of the mattress, then he stepped back and helped Tris up onto the bed and crawled up beside him. “I promise not to hurt you, and if you tell me to stop, I will stop. We’ll just end it there. No regrets, no shame. But I need your trust, Tristan. I need you to have faith that I will not hurt you. Please don’t be afraid.”