The Wrong Kind of Angel

Chapter 2

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 c**k simply throbbed. 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.”