Kindred Hearts (55 page)

“No, thank you,” Randall said, and he managed a polite smile. “I have a message from your invalid, however: he would like someone to remove the horrible novel from his bedside and replace it with something more to his taste, regarding obscure Hottentot ritual healing or something of that nature, if you have it.”

“I’m not sure I can manage the Hottentot ritual healing,” Tristan said, “but I’m sure I can find something more entertaining and equally obscure. How is Himself feeling?”

“Cranky,” Randall said. “Well, my message to you has been delivered, and I’m off to see if His Grace of Richmond has an answer to the message I delivered to him earlier. I expect by the time I return to Brussels you’ll be back in England?”

“We expect to leave as soon as Charles is well enough to travel,” Tristan replied. “Dr. Crosby said another week, and then only if the carriage is well sprung.”

“Then, definitely,” Randall said. “With Bonaparte fled from Paris and the Royal Navy blockading the French ports, we’ll have him in our hands by the end of this month—possibly even by the end of the week.”

“We’ll be glad for the peace,” Lottie said. “I don’t know what it will be like—after all these years of war.”

“A lot of unemployed soldiers,” Tristan said dryly. “What are your plans, Captain?”

“To stay in the army as long as I can,” Randall said promptly. “And then cast myself on my family’s good nature until I decide on a peacetime career. Not medicine, thank you!”

Tristan laughed. “Well, good luck to you. I hope we will see you again in London, soon.”

Randall gave him a queer look, but said only, “That would be pleasant. I look forward to Mountjoy’s recovery. Good day, ladies, gentlemen,” and with a bow, he was gone.

“Well,” Liesl said, “are you going to find something for Charlie to read, Tristan? Or do you wish Lottie or me to go up and drive him mad again?” She gave him a irrepressible grin.

He laughed again, and said, “No, I think I have something in my bookroom that Maartens gave me the other day. It should help him pass the time. Too bad we read the Scott’s I bought him for his birthday—that might have entertained him. At any rate, since the good captain has softened him up, I shall beard the lion in his den.” He glanced at his partner. “You’ve won this hand already, Montolivo; I concede with bad grace and retire from the field.”

Montolivo chuckled and scooped up the cards. “Liesl, my love?”

She sighed and set down her embroidery. “The things we do for our loved ones,” she said dramatically as she took Tristan’s chair.

Tris winked at Lottie, and went to find the book.

Maartens had brought over several books from his own extensive library, ones that he had duplicates of, for when Tristan or his invalid guest had a moment to read. The physician was short-tempered, opinionated, and irascible, but over the course of the past several weeks Tristan had decided that he liked him quite well enough, and vice versa. He had joined the pantheon of sharp-tempered mentors along with Crosby and MacQuarrie: intelligent men with no patience for foolishness. They didn’t always agree on principle: Maartens was a proponent of bleeding and purgatives; while Tristan admitted the value of each, he disagreed with the Belgian doctor on when they should be used, and had staunchly refused to allow Charles to be bled or purged. They’d also disagreed on amputation of Charles’s injured leg, although now Maartens admitted that Tristan had been right “in this instance and this instance only, mind! And you were damned lucky at that!” But he agreed with Crosby and Tristan about the importance of cleanliness of instruments, and the use of waxed linen or silk thread or catgut instead of cheaper alternatives when stitching wounds.

The book Tris was looking for was a review of folk practices and a “scientific” analysis of each. Tristan had to doubt the accuracy of the science, but he thought Charles might be amused by it. He took it upstairs and was surprised to find the bedroom door open.

“Is it safe to come in?” he asked, peeking ostentatiously around the doorjamb.

“Oh, hell, Tris,” Charles said disgustedly. “Of course. Come in. Where have you been these last three days?”

“Oh, here and abouts,” Tristan said lightly. “Busy social calendar and all that.”

“Right. Well, I’m sorry for being such a bear. Bored and miserable and brooding doesn’t lead to a happy patient. Will you accept my apologies?”

“Willingly,” Tristan said, crossing the room to sit on the arm of Charles’s chair and lean over to kiss him. Charles’s lips were soft and warm and welcoming, and Tristan sighed, weaving a hand into Charles’s tumbled curls as he deepened the kiss.

“Mmm,” Charles said when Tristan had released him. “That’s more like it. What have you brought me?”

“You sound like Jamie,” Tristan said, laughing, as he gave him the book. Charles took it eagerly and flipped through the pages.

“Oh, this looks like fun,” Charles said. “It’ll be a challenge; I haven’t read French for a couple of years, aside from the odd dispatch.”

“I’ll help you,” Tris promised. He rubbed Charles’s shoulder through the dressing gown. “Did you have a good visit with the captain?”

Charles glanced up. “What did he say?”

“Nothing of any import. Just that you wanted something better to read than….” Tristan picked up the novel. “Good grief. I thought Lottie’s taste was better than this.”

“Lottie’s is. My dear mama’s is not.”

“We shan’t bother you with this any longer,” Tristan said, and he carried the book to the dustbin by the door to drop it in. He stood there a moment, then reached out and closed the door, turning the key.

When he turned around, Charles was watching him, an eyebrow raised. Tristan grinned wickedly. “You’re looking much better,” he murmured.

“Oh, my,” Charles said, mock-faintly. “You have mischief in mind.”

“I do—and you at my mercy.” He came back to the chair and eased Charles’s right leg off the hassock, careful not to jostle the broken one, then gently pushed the hassock a little to the side. “Is that all right?” he asked softly.

Charles nodded wordlessly, his face flushed.

Tristan knelt before him, unbuttoning Charles’s banyan and parting it, then pushing the hem of his nightshirt up to his waist. Charles was already half hard; when Tristan leaned forward and placed a soft, wet kiss on the inside of his thigh, he groaned and buried his fingers in Tristan’s hair. “Tris,” he sighed.

“Yes,” Tris said, easing Charles’s legs wider and shifting closer to take Charles in hand, his thumb and forefinger circling his shaft and his other fingers curling down to cup his ballocks. Then he drew his tongue up Charles’s rapidly hardening shaft, licking under the edge of foreskin and pushing it back with his lips so he could tease the tender head with his tongue. “We can’t do much more than this now,” Tristan murmured, “but soon, Charlie… soon.”

Charles leaned his head back against the chair. “Yes, Tris. Oh, God, yes….”

Tristan took him in his mouth, feeling the flesh thickening and firming beneath his tongue. God, he loved the taste of Charles, warm and musky and always with the faint woodsy scent of his favorite oils. He sucked lightly, then harder, then slid away altogether to nuzzle into Charles’s groin, smelling him, tasting him, licking the crease of Charles’s hip before returning to worship his thick staff. He slid a finger into his own mouth, wetting it; then as he took Charles’s cock deep, slipped the finger behind Charles’s testicles and into the heat of Charles’s arse.

Charles jerked and groaned at the pleasure, his head falling back against the chair, his fingers tightening in Tristan’s hair. “Tris,” he moaned.

Busy, Tris didn’t answer, but sucked Charles harder as his finger explored the hot, tight tunnel until he found his quarry. Charles groaned again, louder and more heartfelt, and Tristan grinned around him as he put both his mouth and hand to work.

It only took a few moments before Charles arched and spent, spilling into Tristan’s throat and tightening like a vise around Tristan’s finger. Tristan kept sucking until Charles whined faintly, then released him and reached for his own buttons, stroking himself briefly until he, too, spent, then collapsed against Charles’s good leg, panting and hot-faced. Charles had held onto Tristan’s hair even as he brought himself off, and now released him, stroking the dark locks gently.

Tristan looked up at him and said fiercely, “You are everything to me, Charlie. I cannot live without you. When we went so long without hearing news of you—when I was so afraid—I promised God I would do anything, give anything except Jamie and Caroline….” He turned his face into Charles’s thigh and burst into tears.

Bending awkwardly, Charles leaned forward and rested his cheek on Tristan’s head, his arms curling around his lover’s shoulders. “I’m here, Tris. It’s over—there’s nothing more can keep us apart. I won’t leave you, ever again. I love you.”

Tristan nodded at the words, but he couldn’t stop weeping. He remembered talking to Derek about it at that little farmhouse where they’d found Charles, saying he’d never been a watering pot before he’d met Charles, and Derek’s quiet answer. And it was true. He’d never loved before Charles, not like this. Not ever like this.

He wiped his eyes with his hand, made a face, and got stiffly to his feet, crossing to the washstand and fetching a damp cloth to clean them both up. When he was finished, he said, “Do you want to sit up a while?”

Charles looked at him, and Tristan saw his heart in his eyes. His own heart swelled. “No,” Charles said. “I want to go back to bed. And I want you to come with me.”

“Your leg….”

“Not for loving,” he said. “Just to lie with me. Be with me.”

“Is that all you want?” Tristan asked.

Charles smiled up at him and held out a hand. “No,” he said, “but I’ll take what I can get.”

London, 1820

Sir Charles Mountjoy
, Fellow of the Royal College of Physicians, glanced up from the paper he was writing on the treatment of malarial fever as his partner came into their shared office and dropped into the chair opposite. “Did you successfully diagnose Lady Weyford’s malaise?” he asked dryly.

Dr. Tristan Northwood, Member of that same august body, ran an agitated hand through his already-tousled hair. “Indeed I did,” he said with a groan. “Terminal boredom, leading to a fatal case of hypochondria. I
told
her, however, that she had an imbalance of the humors, gave her that green tonic, and told her that she needed to take a brisk walk daily until she perspired, to balance the phlegm, and to take up a hobby that required concentration, like reading or needlework, to balance the sanguinary humors.”

“The green tonic?” Charles said thoughtfully. “Is that the stuff that’s mostly dandelion wine and mint?”

“That’s the one. Won’t hurt her, but will have precisely the placebo effect she needs. Charles, you didn’t tell me being a doctor was such a charlatan’s profession!”

“It’s not, really. You judged her correctly. I’ve been seeing her regularly for the past year for exactly that thing. She’ll follow your prescription for a while, show a distinct improvement, then slack off and the ‘symptoms’ will return. So we try something different.”

“Don’t you feel awkward taking money from her?”

“Why? She’s taking time from me, and I can afford that less than she can afford my fees. Plus patients like her support the ones like Mrs. Hill, who
can’t
pay.”

Tristan chuckled. “Ah, then it’s worth it. She is amusing, though, isn’t she?”

“As long as she doesn’t bring that damn pug in with her any longer,” Charles agreed. “That beastly thing stank. I told her it was in danger of infection, dogs being far more susceptible to human illnesses than humans are.”

“And her social standing improves our reputations,” Tristan pointed out. “Which brings more patients who can pay, so that we can treat more patients who don’t. Are you on for rounds at St. Joseph’s tomorrow?”

“Yes, for my sins. MacQuarrie will never forgive me if I renege on the agreement we made before we opened this practice. He’s making retirement noises again today; was talking at lunch about Sicily, or perhaps Egypt—someplace hot and dry for his aching bones. He has been shifting some of his younger patients this way, you know. Mr. and Mrs. Castleton brought their daughter by earlier—they were worried about consumption, but I’m thinking it’s more likely allergies, since her respiratory problems seem to be seasonal. I recommended they take her down to Brighton during the summer and see if that makes for improvement, and I thought both Mr. and Mrs. Castleton would fall upon my neck in gratitude.”

His partner laughed. It was typical of MacQuarrie to refer younger patients to them, who would potentially have a longer relationship with their practice; they had only been in partnership together for a little over a year, but were already doing well, thanks to the older doctor’s generosity. Charles had finished his education before Tris had, despite Tristan’s university degree; his experience in the Peninsula and his own research had given Charles an edge. Too, Tristan’s father had had a health scare three years ago, and had become obsessed about making sure Tristan was fully aware of the extent of the Ware responsibilities. He’d recovered completely, but his panic had been real. Tris, too, had been frightened; they had wasted so many years at odds that he was afraid that he would lose his father now that he’d finally found him. So he obliged him by taking time off from his studies to enter a very different training program.

Tristan had finally sat his exams a year ago. Charles had spent the intervening months as an assistant in MacQuarrie’s personal practice, but when Tristan had been accepted as a member of the Royal Society, Charles judged the time right to strike out on their own, with MacQuarrie’s blessing. They’d bought the house on Harley Street, among the other fashionable physicians, and set up their offices and housekeeping, with Charlotte and the children giving them respectability during the Season. Their profession gave them a perfectly acceptable excuse to remain together in Town the rest of the year.
Not a perfect situation
, Tristan thought with a smile, but a far superior one than he’d ever expected.

“Lady Weyford was the last for today. Ready to close up shop?”

“I am.” Charles put the lid on the inkpot and his quill back into the mug on his desk. “Are we dining at home tonight?”

“Yes. Charlotte tells me we’ve no social obligations, so Jamie and Caroline will be joining us. Caroline’s table manners have improved greatly.”

“Good.” Charles smiled as he shifted his weight onto the cane to rise. Tris watched him carefully, but made no move to assist. “You’re learning,” Charles said.

“You scolded me roundly the last time,” Tris said. “Hurts today, does it?”

“Damp and cold will do it. I’m thinking like MacQuarrie—Sicily, maybe Egypt?”

“Not without me,” Tristan said.

Charles leaned on his cane and reached up to wrap an arm around Tristan’s neck. “Never without you, my love,” he said, and kissed Tris gently. “Never without you.”