Snowbound

Chapter Six

Within a mile of the inn, Angel halted their progress, pulling his horse across the narrow track and turning back to look at his companions, his face filled with confusion. “Am I dreaming?” he demanded. “What trickery is this?”

They had rounded a corner and entered a land of dull brown and grey, without a touch of the snow that lay so thickly a few feet from the hooves of Angel’s horse, prancing nervously as Angel’s disquiet communicated itself to the beast.

Wesley’s gaze went from Angel to Spike; a few yards apart, yet one stood amidst winter, the other in early spring. “I did say that I thought perhaps we had been guided to the inn,” he said quietly. “We did not plan to stop there; not with it lying so close to our destination.”

“Guided? Or driven?” Spike said, spurring his horse forward until he was clear of the snow. “I have never seen anything to equal this.”

“It might be either,” Wesley answered soberly. “Yet given what we found in that place, I do not feel a malign hand behind this magic.”

Angel kicked his horse gently, urging it over so that he could reach Wesley; stretching out his hand to clasp his shoulder briefly. “You have the right of it, Wesley. And if the runes of that bed were similar to those on the books Giles lent you, then –”

“We were meant to have a night of bliss,” Spike finished.

Angel shook his head. “Spike, do you ever think of aught but that?”

Spike grinned. “Provide me with a more amusing subject and I will consider rearranging my priorities, Duke.”

Wesley glanced at them both. “Our road to Summershaven is clear,” he reminded them. “Night will come early and we’ve wasted too much time fighting our way through the drifts. I would prefer to reach the manor before dusk falls.”

Angel nodded. “As would I.”

The three horses moved down the lane and towards their destination, the salt-tang in the air strengthening with each mile. They passed few on the road and paused only to ask directions after taking the wrong fork at a crossroads marked by a sign so weathered that the lettering on it was indecipherable. Despite this setback, the winter sun was only slowly westering when they crested the hill that overlooked the manor, lying snugly in a hollowore ore the cliffs. Gulls cried out, silver wings silhouetted against the darkening sky, and as they watched, warm lights winked on in the house below them, giving it a cheery, welcoming look. Exchanging smiles, they set their tired horses in motion once more and rode towards Summershaven with lighter hearts.

***

Spike stood with the reins of all three horses looped around his hand as Wesley hammered on the oaken door, massive and dark with age. For all the lights they had seen and the noise of their horses’ hooves, striking sparks from the stone driveway, none had come out to greet them. Then the sun set, spilling a ruddy, dying glow across the winter-bare gardens and the door swung open, revealing a butler, stooped with age, keen grey eyes studying them curiously.

“At last,” Wesley exclaimed. “I had thought we were to stand here all night.”

Angel frowned. Wesley’s asperity was unlike him; normally he was courteous to servants, getting good service that owed more to his appealing smile rather than the coin with which he rewarded it. Wesley’s next words revealed the cause of his curtness.

“We are friends of Professor Giles and have reason to believe that –”

“Ah! Come in, sirs,” the butler said, his face creasing into a smile. “You’ll be the young gentlemen from the college? The ones who’ve been away fighting the French?”

Wesley smiled back, his good nature restored in an instant. “Indeed we are. Lord Harris is at home then?”

The butler shook his head. “Gone to visit Lady Anne and not expected back until week’s end.”

A tall figure appeared behind the butler, his face amused and his eyes twinkling. “But I trust I can fill his shoes and welcome you adequately. Merrin; send someone around from the stables so that Captain Williams can join us inside. I’m overjoyed to see you all.”

“Giles!”

Angel watched as Wesley started forward, an eager smile on his face, his hands outstretched towards his mentor and friend. A pang of jealousy darkened his face and he tried to force it from him, turning away from the sight of Wesley and Giles embracing in a swift hug, their faces alight with pleasure.

Spike tossed the reins to a stable boy who appeared at a run and flicked him a sixpence, which the boy caught dexterously, giving Spike a gap-toothed grin in return, before sauntering over to Angel.

“Unless you wish to make it quite clear how you feel, I’d advise a change of expression,” he said in an aside. “If Wesley sees that look on your face, he will –”

“It’s nothing,” Angel said abruptly, pushing past Spike and walking to the door. “Just – nothing.”

When all were inside and the door closed against the night-chill, Giles looked them over, his face as they recalled it, strongly handsome for all his years and the troubles he had borne.

“You three...” he said, shaking his head. “I read of your escapades in the dispatches and felt sure that you were headed toward an early grave.”

Spike laughed. “Grossly exaggerated, all of them.”

“Not all...” Angel said, some measure of cordiality returning in the face of Giles’ evident pleasure at the sight of them. To be sure, it was a little annoying to have arrived post-haste to find Giles apparently well and in high spirits, but he could not wish the man in danger.

“Come in and have a drink, “Giles urged. “I see you are travelling light – unless a coach is following you?”

They walked beside him into a large room, well appointed and comfortable, showing none of the style of a London drawing room but offering them deep soft chairs in which to sit and a glowing fire to warm their chilled hands and feet.

“We are as you see us,” Wesley said. “When we found your letter behind the panel – Giles, what happened? We thought you lost to us!”

Giles looked down at him, his green eyes softening. “And you came here on a quest to save me? My dear boy!”

He turned from them and poured drinks, bringing them over and sitting beside Wesley on the couch. The firelight threw odd shadows across his face, making him seem distant and strange for a moment and Angel felt a prickle of unease.

“I wrote that letter at a time when I knew but little of what I now feel I hold within my grasp,” he said. “It was written in ignorance, the act of a man blinded by fear and beset by t.” t.” Giles smiled, his gaze travelling between them. “I sense you three know that emotion, for all your heroics. “The fighting you have seen – it must have opened your eyes to the brutality and the heroism within the most ordinary man – though I fear the first is the stronger.”

Spike frowned. “If all is well, why did you leave the letter there? Why did you not send word to us?”

Giles shrugged an apology. “I have been busy; my time much occupied of late. I was not sure when you would return, nor confident that you would discover the letter. I thought I still had time.”

“Occupied with what?” Angel asked bluntly, a reserve Spike knew well creeping into his voice. He was every inch the Duke now, lying back, the glass of brandy untouched in his hand, his powerful body deceptively relaxed.

Giles met Angel’s eyes, his own sharpening for a moment and then he smiled. “Research,” he said. “And I’m sure you’re all too fatigued to want to hear about that tonight.”

“No,” Angel said. “I would –”

Giles stood up and tugged at the bell rope hanging beside the fireplace. “You’ll want to wash and change before dinner, I’ve no doubt.” He glanced at them knowingly. “I cannot promise you a bed such as the one you slept in last night, but I hope your rooms will be comfortable nonethel”
”

“How did you know where we stayed?” Spike asked, rising to his feet, closely followed by the others.

Giles looked annoyed for a moment, but the expression was so fleeting that Angel wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. “How could you miss the opportunity after all the tales I’d filled Wesley’s ears with?” he said lightly. “Come; this way.”

Some force held the three friends silent as they followed Giles up the stairs, carpeted thickly in deep green, a force that held numberless questions captive within their throats. Giles led them down a long corridor, paneled as was all of the house that they had seen so far, and paused in front of a door. “This suite of rooms has been prepared for you,” he said, his gaze moving between them with a knowing look. “Three rooms lie beyond this door, but there is access to them only through this one entrance. Your - sleeping arrangements will cause no gossip here, you have my word on it.”

Wesley flushed as Giles’ voice, insinuating and amused, stressed what his words had left unsaid and Spike bristled indignantly, seeing his distress. Angel trod lightly on Spike’s foot in warning, smiled at Giles and looked meaningfully at the door. With a lift of his eyebrows, Giles performed the menial task of opening it and ushering them in, before indicating their small heap of luggage, placed neatly on the floor in the centre of the room.

“Dinner will be in an hour. That should give you ample time to get settled. Please – call if you need anything further.”

With an ironic nod of the head towards Angel who stood, arms folded, a faint frown on his face, Giles left the room, closing the door behind him with a firm click.
Spike’s lips parted immediately but Angel held up a warning hand and nodded at the door.

“You can’t think he’s listening!” Wesley said, lowering his voice after the first word in response to the dagger glance he got from Angel.

“Might be,” Spike said, in a matter of fact voice, after walking soundlessly over to the door, kneeling and squinting through the keyhole. “The Giles you knew wouldn’t have stooped so low, but this isn’t exactly him, now is it?” He glanced at Angel. “Don’t see anyone, but can’t say for sure without opening the door. The walls are thick enough; if we remain away from the door and are reasonably quiet –”

Wesley stared at them both as they picked up their bags and began to wander around the three linked rooms. The one in which they stood was a sitting room, furnished with tables, chairs and several bookcases. To either side were two rooms, but only one held a bed, equal in size to the one in the inn, though clearly of modern design. The other, windowless and bare as it was, seemed full of secrets. Spike gave it a cursory glance, before walking to the bedroom and tossing his saddle bag on the bed, unpacking by the simple method of turning it upside down and shaking it.

Wesley emerged from his brown study and joined Spike. “What do you mean by that?” he demanded angrily. “What do you imply?”

Angel appeared in the doorway, his face sombre. “Giles? This is not Giles,” he said. “You know him better than any of us and yet you cling to the belief that all is well?” He pushed the door closed and walked over to Wesley, whose stubborn face and mutinous lips warned of a difficult struggle ahead. “Search your memory, Wesley. When have you ever known him be so cavalier about worrying you? So pointed in his comments about our relationship?”

“Not to mention his story had more holes in it than your tunic when the moths had feasted upon it,” Spike put in. “He knows where we stayed; this room was ready and we were expected, yet he professes to ignorance of our return? A child could see through –”

“I am no child!” Wesley cried. “Nor will I hear more of this. Giles may be well when we had thought him in danger, but that is cause to celebrate, not to cavil and carp. I wonder at you both.”

Moving rapidly, he took a fresh coat from his bag and shook it out, laying it over a chair, sadly creased but clean. Pointedly ignoring the other two, he began to strip off his muddied, damp clothing, his eyes fixed on a steaming jug of hot water, a bowl and towel, laid out on the washstand.

Spike and Angel exchanged perturbed glances. How to reach Wesley in this mood was a puzzle. Of all of them his temper was the most dangerous. Spike had seen him once attack a gamekeeper, a burly brute, who towered over the young lad Wesley had been. The gamekeeper had not realised that the stripling he had caught wandering the grounds belonging to Angel’s father was a friend of his employer’s son. Ragged and filthy from hours spent searching for his dog, caught in a trap set by the keeper, Wesley had been exhausted and close to collapse from hunger and fatigue. Spike, who used the Liamstone estate as if it were his own, had been shooting with the keeper. He had fallen behind when he paused to examine a fallen tree that was blocking a bridle path and had entered the clearing to see the keeper belabouring Wesley, who stood, swaying and too weary to dodge the blows. The keeper had turned from him and aimed a vicious kick at the rescued, injured dog, whining and barking a weak but valiant defiance at his master’s attacker. Spike, vaguely recognising Wesley, whom he knew but slightly then, had called out sharply but his intervention was not needed. Wesley had launched himself at his foe, galvanised by the attack on his pet, with a wild flurry of blows, his face white and set. It had taken all of Spike’s strength to restrain him and when the fight went out of him and the keeper had been sent about his business, chastened and contrite, he had collapsed against Spike, his heart hammering, panting and shaking. Spike, sensing something of what the young lad would come to mean to him, had held him for a long moment, before stepping back, realising that Wesley was in need of more practical comfort and that his own response to Wesley’s courage and plight would but confuse him.

Several years later, Spike had kissed Wesley in that clearing, taking him there deliberately, with a fine sense of theatre, and telling Wesley of his emotions on that day. Wesley’s eyes had gleamed with humour. “Younk Ink I did not notice?” he enquired. “You think afterwards, when my mother had tucked me into bed, clucking and fussing over my scrapes and bruises as though I were eight, not fifteen, I did not touch myself, and measure my arousal against yours, thinking of those short moments when you held me, your face so concerned and angry, your hand on my back, cupping my face?”

“I had thought myself less transparent,” Spike said. “I thought I had managed to hide my attraction.”

Wesley had glanced down and essayed a bold caress. “Some things cannot be hidden,” he’d whispered, smiling. “This, I beg leave to tell you, is one such.”

Spike had answered his smile with one of his own. “Is that so, indeed?” he’d drawled. “Then, as it seems I am as an open book to you, Wesley, I need dissemble no further. I wanted you then and I want you now.”

Wesley’s lips had been soft against his as he replied. “Then might I suggest you reach out and take what has been yours since that day?”

Spike’s fingers had deftly tugged Wesley’s shirt free of his breeches so that he could run his hands over Wesley’s chest and back, touching him freely for the first time. “And what would that be, exactly?” he’d prompted, pulling Wesley to him so their bodies were hard against each other.

Wesley had met his eyes without flinching. “My body – obviously,” he’d said. “My heart too, if that does not displease you. I know that yours is already given to another. I expect nothing in return –”

Spike had stared at him in disbelief. “Not want your love, merely your body? Not return it because I also love Angel? What madness is this? Wesley, my love, I had thought you would be bringing some intellectual depth to us. Now I see your wits are addled, doubtless, as my nanny would have said, because of this dangerous swelling in your breeches. Allow me to take care of it for you, and I’m certain your mind will return to its usual sharpness.”

Wesley had been beyond words from that point as he and Spike sank to the bracken, crackling and springing under their bodies as their hands and lips reached eagerly to discover each other, tasting and touching, with Spike leading Wesley and guiding his efforts until the need that burned within them consumed them utterly and left them spent.

Now, as Spike stood beside Wesley in the bedroom, he remembered how Wesley had protected one he deemed his own. That he cared for Giles, Spike knew. That he cared this much, was a revelation and not a pleasant one.

Wesley, bare to the waist, strode over to the basin and poured out some water, splashing it over his face and hands. He dried himself and turned around, only to find his way blocked.

“What now?” he demanded.

Angel smiled slowly, his eyes filled with a lazy heat. “Why, Wesley,” he said softly. “I but seek to follow your fine example and wash myself clean.” His hands went to his collar and he began to unbutton his shirt, with Spike following his example in silence. “And after that, we still have time before dinner to rest a while, don’t you agree?”

Wesley gaze slid to the bed involuntarily and Angel’s smile broadened. “I see you agree.”

Wesley met Angel’s eyes and his face hardened. “This is not something to be solved by a tumble,” he said brutally. “I plan to dress and seek out Giles. You and Spike may do as you please.”

Thrusting Angel a, he, he completed his preparations for dinner and left the room without looking back.

Spike broke his silence, letting his pent breath whistle out in an astonished sigh. “Angel,” he asked, turning to his partner. “Tell me; do you still want me?”

“Always,” Angel said absently, his gaze fixed on the closed door as though it held a message he could read.

“Thank the Lord for that. Because unless I’m much mistaken, our Wesley is –”

“Enchanted? Bespelled? Insane?”

“Lost to us.”

Angel turned at that, his fierce. “That he is not,” he vowed. “Nor ever shall be. Come, Spike, dress swiftly. I fear once more we are amongst enemies and this battle will require more than a steady trigger hand and a sharp sword.”

Spike studied his face for a moment and then nodded. “We can save him, Angel,” he said quietly. “He’s but a little confused.”

Angel paused as he shrugged on a tightly-fitting coat. “There are two to save, Spike,” he said. “I cared – care- for Giles too. If it comes to a choice, we take Wesley, but whatever has Giles in its power now has us to deal with.”

They finished dressing with the speed of soldiers used to turning out to fight at a moment’s notice, and went to the door. Angel glanced at Spike and saw the concern masked by determination. He took Spike’s face between his hands and smiled down at him, brushing a swift hard kiss against his mouth.

“For luck,” he said. “I think we may need it.”

Thor oor opened and they walked out to do battle for their friends against an unknown foe, whose influence seemed to lie on Summershaven like tendrils of fog lie low on the moors, hiding the safe paths and luring men to their doom.