Kindred Hearts (24 page)

He gave himself over to the luxury, focused only on the feel of Charles’s mouth around him and fighting the urge to seek release. He barely realized it when Charles’s warm, slick fingers stroked over his nether entrance—it was just another sensation added to the litany—and when those fingers pressed lightly inside, that was just another sensation too. He relaxed automatically, the pleasure outweighing the faint burn of resistant tissue.

And then Charles’s fingers brushed over a spot that sent lightning flashing down his spine, and he arched, crying, “Stop! Stop!”

Charles froze, drew back, but only from Tristan’s cock. His fingers stopped moving but stayed inside Tristan. “Stop?” he rasped.

Tristan panted, but his hands still obediently clutched the headboard spindles. “Wait,” he amended. “Wait.”

“I’m not hurting you?”

“No. No. It’s just—it’s just too much.”

Charles leaned forward and brushed a kiss on Tristan’s forehead. “You’re sweating,” he said.

“I don’t know why,” Tristan gasped. “You’re doing all the work.”

“Not work,” Charles corrected. “Pleasure…,” he said and bent to draw Tristan back into his mouth, stroking and sucking as his fingers drew more lightning, a steady series of soft shocks. Tristan was sobbing now, trying to catch his breath, wound up as tight as a watch spring, pulling on the wood posts, arching his hips in rhythm with Charles’s mouth and fingers.

Charles released his cock and that helped, but now the discomfort in his arse was gone and the fingers were twisting and rubbing against
that spot
, and Tristan was sure he was going to explode. “I can’t,” he sobbed, “I can’t….”

“You can,” Charles whispered in his ear. “You can.” And suddenly Tristan was past speaking, past the almost painful urgency, and flying, lost to everything. That strange sense of peace was back, but now it was tied up with his need for release and his trust that Charles would take care of him, that his pleasure was in Charles’s hands, and all he waited for was Charles’s word….

And it came, soft, against his mouth as Charles bent to kiss him: “Let go,” Charles whispered. “Let go.”

Tristan screamed into Charles’s mouth, and spent, his body bowing under Charles’s hands. His orgasm seemed to go on forever, more fierce, more intense than any he ever remembered, a high, wild release that spun him out of control and then crashed him back into his drained, exhausted body. He lay limp a moment; then, overwhelmed, began to weep.

Charles
slid the blindfold off, then gathered Tristan into his arms, holding him while he wept. He knew that being deprived of any sense during a sensual experience made the experience more intense; his first lover had been a master at games-playing, and he’d tried the blindfolding with Gregory once, and the other man had loved it. He also knew that it would give Tristan the feeling that Charles was in control, and if he later had regrets, it would be easier on Tristan to blame Charles than himself. He didn’t want Tristan to blame himself for anything they did together—he only wanted Tristan to relish the experience, but understood that Tristan’s upbringing made what they’d done together unacceptable. He sighed. It was so much easier coming from a less structured household the way he and Lottie did; the Mountjoys were rather notorious.

But he hadn’t expected Tristan to react so strongly. It was as if everything that had been tied so tightly together had exploded, like canister shot.

He stroked the bowed back gently, noting the prominent shoulder blades, the knobs of the spine, the defined ribs. Tristan was too thin, too frail, pared down to bare essentials like this; he was considerably more fragile than he had been when Charles had arrived. Had he been on this downward track since before then, or had Charles’s presence set him sliding? Charles swallowed hard to stave off his own tears and bent to kiss Tristan’s hair. “Shh,” he whispered lovingly. “Shh… I’ve got you, love.”

Slowly the weeping eased, and Tristan sank bonelessly into sleep. Charles laid him back down on the bed and slipped the nightshirt back over his thin frame, then went to make up the herbal tea he had waiting. When it had steeped long enough, he brought it back and set it on the nightstand, shaking Tris gently awake. “Love?”

Tristan’s eyes blinked open and he gazed blankly up at Charles. “My head aches,” he said thickly.

“I know. I’ve brought something to help with that.” Charles helped him sit up and cupped his hand around Tristan’s to hold the mug. “Drink up.”

“This stuff tastes foul,” Tristan complained.

“I know. You say that every time, but you know it works. I’ve added honey to it so it shouldn’t be so bad.”

Tristan took a sip. “Doesn’t help,” he growled, but he finished the contents anyway.

“All right,” Charles said. “Now I’m going to take you back to your bed, and you’re going to sleep. Sleep as long as you like—sleep as long as you have to. You’re exhausted, Tris. You’ve had months of being exhausted.”

“It feels like forever,” Tris said tiredly. “But Charlie—I dream….”

“You won’t dream,” Charles assured him. “Not now. Not tonight. I promise.”

“I trust you, Charlie.” Tris let him help him to his feet, but his legs nearly gave out when he tried to stand. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he complained.

“You’re tired, that’s all. Put your arm over my shoulder, and I’ll hold you up…. There.”

Once tucked into his own bed, Tristan let out a long, worn-out sigh. “I’m so tired,” he said. “I’m just so tired, Charlie.”

“I know, love. Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Tristan froze. “No,” he said sharply, all sleepiness gone. “Don’t say that. Just—don’t. Be here or not, I don’t care. Just don’t
promise
. Just—don’t.”

“All right,” Charles said in a placating tone. “I won’t promise anything of the sort. But is it all right if I sit with you while you sleep?”

Tristan nodded, and closed his eyes.

Charles smoothed a tumble of hair back from Tristan’s forehead and frowned. He was warm—warmer than the temperature of the room warranted. A fever wasn’t unexpected with the state of nervous exhaustion Tris was in—he was likely fighting off some infection his worn body had let in. Charles might only have begun his physician training, but he’d seen this often enough in the army, the susceptibility of the human body to illness after physical or emotional stress. Fortunately, the herbal tea wasn’t only effective for nervousness or sleeplessness, but was a useful febrifuge. Mostly what Tris needed was rest—not only physical rest, but surcease from the nervous exhaustion that plagued him. Charles smoothed the tangle of curls off Tristan’s damp forehead.
Rest
, he thought at his lover.
Rest.

As Tris settled back into sleep, Charles pulled a chair over beside the bed to sit and watch over him a little while. He didn’t think he could sleep, anyway; his fierce hunger for Tris had been overridden by his concern for his lover’s state. There was time, he thought, time for patience. He’d waited this long to make Tristan his; another night wouldn’t matter. He bent and dropped a gentle kiss on Tristan’s brow, then settled back in his chair.

Charles
wrung out the flannel in the bowl of cold water and wiped Tristan’s brow gently. Sometime during the night Tristan had developed a fever; Charles, who had been dozing in a chair by Tristan’s bed, waiting for him to wake, had been wakened himself by Tristan’s restless tossing and muttering. He never quite woke up; exhaustion had him tight in its grip.

In the flickering candlelight, Tristan’s face looked drawn and haunted. Charles cursed himself for the thousandth time since his vigil began, for letting his desire for Tris push him into seduction of a man hovering on the edge of nervous collapse. Small wonder he was ill; in the space of a few hours Charles had fought with him, seduced him, forced him to acknowledge feelings he’d probably denied his whole life, turned him upside down, and left him helpless. Tristan Northwood, the consummate Corinthian, competent and independent, a man who from all reports never asked for help from anyone, had surrendered to Charles, turned his life and his body over into Charles’s hands. If he had been well, it would have shaken him, but it appeared Tristan had been skating on very thin ice for a very long time now, hiding his fear and his loneliness behind that fearless façade.

He hoped Tristan’s surrender to him wasn’t just another dare Tristan had had to take.

The cool cloth seemed to calm him; his head stopped its restless thrashing and he lay still, though his breath was labored. Charles reached under Tristan’s jaw to finger the glands there; they were hard but only slightly swollen. Some kind of infection, then, not just exhaustion; although he had never read any documentation on it, he’d observed that people who were tired or worn down had less resistance to infection. Tristan had probably been exposed to someone with an illness in one of those low dives he frequented. His fingers rasped along the jawline, against the dark bristles, then up to gently stroke the fierce cheekbones.

He’d been intrigued by Tristan just from Lottie’s letters, but Tristan in the flesh was devastating. The first sight of him in the drawing room still haunted Charles: the lean, broad-shouldered, athletic body, the tousled, silky dark hair, the arrogantly handsome face—and those eyes. They’d struck him dumb, seeming to see right through him; silvery pewter and cold as stormclouds, a fierce contrast to that lush, sulky mouth. He traced a finger along that mouth now; it was soft and lax in sleep, but still kept that sweet lushness; not plump or thick, but just full enough, just sculptured enough. The kiss in the library had been everything Charles had dreamed of, wild and hot and hungry, and those in his bedroom fierce and desperate, but Charles longed for different kisses from Tris now. He wanted slow, lazy kisses, smiling kisses, warm and loving. He wanted them to make love not out of need and longing, but out of love and desire; to explore Tristan and let Tris explore him. Tonight he had made love to Tristan, not asking for him to reciprocate; he wanted Tristan to be able to say that he had done nothing to feel guilty about, if he woke so inclined. He didn’t want a repeat of the Gregory situation. He prayed desperately that Tris would still want him when he woke, but if not, he wouldn’t press it.

Tristan murmured something in his sleep; it sounded like “Charlie,” but Charles wasn’t sure. Then he said clearly, “Please,” and Charles touched his temple. “Tris?” he whispered, but it seemed his lover had fallen asleep again.

There was a scratching on the door; Charles glanced over at the clock to see that it was six in the morning. It was still dark out. “Come,” he called in a low voice.

Reston peeked in and blinked to see Charles. “Major?” he asked in a puzzled voice.

“Yes. I’m afraid Mr. Northwood is quite ill. I woke to hear him tossing about and found he had a fever. He’s sleeping now, but he’s had a restless night.” He kept his voice low, not wanting to wake Tris.

“Oh, sir, you should have rung for me!” Reston came in, wringing his hands. “He mentioned not feeling well last evening, and I should have checked on him!”

“Nonsense,” Charles said. “I was awake; why should you have been? I would not say ‘no’ to a cup of tea, however.”

“I shall have tea and toast sent up immediately,” Reston said, “and then I will be happy to sit with the master a while.”

“I may take you up on it—I’m feeling a bit grimy ’round the edges,” Charles said frankly. “If Reid is awake, can you ask him to lay out some fresh clothes for me?”

“Certainly,” Reston said. He came closer to the bed. “Does the master have a fever?”

“He does,” Charles said. “His neck glands are slightly swollen, so it seems he has an infection, probably one he picked up somewhere. We should probably limit the number of people that come in contact with him, but I suppose it would be safe enough for people to be in the same room. Lottie should not nurse him, but she could sit with him if she stays far enough away. The same for you—I should not wish you to be taken ill. Reid, however, never gets sick, and I’ve been exposed to far worse at the hospital, so both of us should manage nursing him. If the fever has not gone down by later this morning, I shall send for Dr. MacQuarrie. Fevers frequently are worse at night, for some reason, and ease during the day. Something to do with sunshine or something, I suppose.” Tristan was starting to toss again; Charles wet the flannel again and wiped his sweaty forehead. Over his shoulder, he said, “You can send up the tea, and sit with Mr. Northwood while I wash and change, but tell Reid I shall be requiring his services. And let Mrs. Northwood know her husband is unwell but that she is under no circumstances to expect to nurse him.”

“Certainly,” Reston said, and he left the room.

Tristan muttered something unintelligibly, and Charles stroked his forehead gently with the flannel. “Poor, foolish Tristan,” he said affectionately, “you should have said you were unwell. But no, my stubborn, fierce love, you had to pretend that all was well, just as you always do.” He leaned forward and kissed Tristan’s damp hair. “We’re going to have to have a talk, you and I,” he said against the tangled strands. “A long talk. But in the meantime, sleep, love. Sleep.”

The
room was dark and quiet when Tristan woke, only the faint sounds of the fire crackling in the hearth and a stray feather of sunlight through drawn drapes. He raised his aching head to see Charlotte dozing in the armchair by the fire. Confused, he laid his head back on the crisp linen pillowcase and stared up into the darkness.

Inventory: One head, aching. Not unusual for him. Two pair limbs, both pair feeling limp and wrung-out as overdone string beans. Slightly less usual, but still not outside the realm of experience. Scent: warm, herbal; familiar but not his own, although he was alone in the bed. He raised a hand to his nose and sniffed. Yes, the scent was coming from him. It was faintly woodsy, and soothing; he sniffed again, breathing it in. Charles. Yes, that was the scent. Charles.

Charles.

Memory crashed in, and he tensed, drawing his knees up and rolling onto his side into a fetal position, tight and tense and unhappy. Not, he realized to his surprise, because of what Charles had done to him—no, that had been wonderful, the most amazing experience of his life. No—for what
he
had done—or rather, failed to do. Charles had made love to him gently, beautifully, generously—the first time anyone had ever done so. And Tristan had done… nothing. Nothing but weep like a deflowered virgin on Charles’s lap. Done nothing to reciprocate, to show Charles his gratitude for Charles’s patient, loving consideration; done nothing to ease Charles’s tension, fill Charles’s need. He’d been as selfish and self-centered as every other lover he himself had ever had. Been just like them, only concerned with their own pleasure.

The one true, important thing Ware had ever told him was that a gentleman never took his pleasure before his lover did. It had been Tristan’s touchstone through his long years of womanizing, a point of pride; never had he left a lover wanting.

Until now. When it really mattered, when his lover
meant
something, Tristan had failed. He’d proved himself self-absorbed and worthless, in the one area he had always felt worthy.

There was nothing more. If Charles hadn’t minded, if he’d just been waiting for Tristan to wake, wouldn’t it have been him in the chair instead of Lottie? Or more likely, in this bed, his arms around Tristan, his warm scent more than just lingering on Tristan’s skin? No, he’d wrecked whatever chance they’d had with his tears and his whining and his selfishness.

He pushed aside the bedclothes and slid out of bed onto legs that shook with weakness. Lottie still dozed, her needlework limp in her lap. She didn’t stir as he stumbled across to the windows, but as he pulled back the drapes and let the sunlight in, he heard her wake behind him. “Tris?” she mumbled sleepily.

He ignored her and unfastened the latch, throwing the casement wide. Three floors below, the street was quiet; he looked straight down and saw that the areaway to the lower floor was directly below him. That added another story. Good. If he went headfirst, he was sure to break his neck cleanly.

As he climbed into the window, crouching so that he would pitch forward onto his head, he felt Lottie’s hands in the back of his nightshirt and heard her screaming, “Reston! Charlie!!” as if from very far away. He hesitated, afraid for a moment that his weight would pull Lottie along with him. That wouldn’t be good. Jamie needed her. “Let go,” he snarled over his shoulder. “Lottie, for God’s sake, let go!”

Then a second pair of hands were pulling him back. He lost his balance and slid back into the room, but onto his feet; with a jerk and a curse he was freed of Lottie’s and Reston’s hands and turning back to the window. Reston was crying, “Sir, oh sir, please, sir…!” and Lottie was still calling out for Charlie as they grabbed at him again.

The door to Charles’s room slammed open and he came in at a run, his shirt loose over half-buttoned trousers, his feet bare. He took one look at Tristan fighting off the restraining hands and dove for him, tossing him onto the bed, and flinging himself on top of him to hold him down. “Tris, damn it!” he hissed in Tristan’s ear. “What the
devil
do you think you’re doing?”

The weight and warmth of Charles’s body pinioned him and he let out a long, shuddering breath as he went limp.

Charles
felt him collapse and went weak himself with relief. He’d stayed awake all night watching Tristan’s fevered sleep; when Charlotte had come in around dawn and heard that Tristan was ill and offered to sit with him instead, he’d updated Reston about Tristan’s fever, then taken himself off for a brief nap. Very brief—he glanced at the clock on the mantle—he’d been asleep barely an hour. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Lottie said. “He was sleeping, and I suppose I dozed off. The next thing I knew he was opening the window and trying to climb out.”

“Poor, dear master,” Reston said, wringing his hands miserably. “Is it the fever, Major? Or….” The tone of his voice was ripe with dread.

“He’s not mad,” Charles said over his shoulder. Tristan was weeping again, this time quietly, hopelessly. “It’s the fever. He’s delirious. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”