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.
“f**k,” 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 so
