Arthur tucked the flashlight under his arm. “But why did you bring the ring?” he asked, as he bit the middle finger of his right glove.
“I kept having these dreams about that tidal wave and the wind and the thought of leaving it behind was making my skin crawl—what’re you doing? I’m not taking your gloves—”
“You really thought I wouldn’t understand bad dreams after something like Coney Island? You thought you couldn’t tell me? And the hell you’re not taking these gloves. You’re a lot closer to frostbite than I am.”
“I was gonna tell you but I didn’t get a chance. And you’re making an elephant out of a fly, I never wear gloves and you’ll be cold now—”
“How about you pretend I’m an ex-soldier who knows my own limits?” Arthur bit out. “One who’s seen what exposure can do to a man and will do whatever necessary to spare you that fate?”
It came out raw, bad memories and anxiety making the words too honest.
But Rory didn’t throw it back. “Oh.” He worried his lip with his teeth again, then offered Arthur a rueful smile that was sweeter than it had any right to be. “King of the Wind shoulda been King of Idiots, huh? Maybe I oughta let you make all the calls tonight.”
Arthur let out a breath. “Maybe I ought to have a record of you saying that,” he muttered. “I’ll play it every time you argue.” He passed the gloves to Rory, who pulled them on quickly enough that Arthur knew his hands were hurting. He shed his coat next and draped it around Rory’s before the other man could form an argument. “I will take the coat back when I have to.” Bent so their eyes were level, he added, “But wear it until you’ve warmed up. Per favore, Teddy, please. For me.”
“Aw geez.” Rory pulled the too-big coat tighter around him, his voice gruff. “You know I’d hang another moon in the sky for you.”
Arthur broke into a smile. “Thank you. Now hold the flashlight while I look at that ankle.”
Rory’s sneakers were soaked, the laces wet and the ragged knots pulled too tight. But Arthur knelt on the snowy dirt and worked at them until he had Rory’s wet shoe off. The flashlight on the ankle, revealing angry red skin and swelling around the bone. He ran his finger over the area as lightly as he could, but Rory still hissed through his teeth.
“Can you move your toes? Your foot?” When Rory was able to do so, Arthur asked, “How much weight can you put on it?”
“A little. Hurts like hell, but I’ve been trying to walk. I figured I’d find the road sooner or later and then maybe a town with a phone.”
“A fine plan, except for the part where it would take you all night to limp to Highland or Esopus.” Arthur pulled off his scarf. “Well, I think it’s sprained, not broken, which is one thing we have going for us. I’d say ice it, but under the circumstances, you practically have. It’s certainly not as swollen as it could be.”
He wound the scarf around Rory’s toes and ankle. Rory hunched a bit. “That’s a real nice scarf to put on a foot—”
“I know you’re not about to argue when you just promised me another moon,” Arthur said, without pausing his wrapping.
“All right already,” Rory grouched. “I’m shutting up.”
It wasn’t a great ankle wrap, but at least Rory’s shoe was off and his toes were still covered. Arthur stood and took the flashlight back. The beam caught Rory for a moment, in the hunting cap and giant raccoon coat, and despite his ornery words his expression was vulnerable, a blend of uncertain and grateful. Arthur was sharply reminded of when he’d bandaged Rory’s fingers at the antiques shop, the same look of lost surprise that someone had given enough of a damn to show up when he was in need.
Arthur couldn’t help it; he leaned down and kissed him, drawing a startled but happy noise. “Incredibly unsporting of you,” he murmured against Rory’s lips, “to be this cute after you made me use magic to find you in a frozen forest.”
Their noses bumped together. “Cute enough you’re not gonna stay mad at me?” Rory said hopefully.
“Oh, now you want miracles.” Arthur straightened. “How about you keep groveling by not fighting what’s coming next?”
Rory wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“I’m sure you don’t,” Arthur said, “but it’s fastest to get out of here if I carry you.”
Chapter Eight
It didn’t matter how sexy Arthur’s muscles were; Rory had never daydreamed about being soldier-carried over his shoulders.
“Did you pick me up like this just ’cause I’m shorter?” he accused.
“I’ve carried men my own size in this manner. I didn’t think I was carrying you because I was taller; I thought I was carrying you because you decided to crack my safe behind my back and got into a heap of trouble.”
Arthur’s tone was pointed. Rory tried not to squirm with guilt. “You’re lucky I’m not the bigger one,” he muttered, instead of acknowledging that yeah, that was exactly what he’d done. “I’d pick you up all the time.”
He heard Arthur snort. “As if I wouldn’t let you do what you like with me,” he said, sending Rory’s mind scattering as a million tempting ideas flooded his brain at once. “But flattering as it is that you seem to believe I could sweep you into my arms and bridal-carry you for miles, this is far easier.”
Rory shook his head slightly, trying to remember why he was grouching. “It’s humiliating—”
“Sweetheart, there’s no one around until we find the road. That’s rather our problem. We should hope someone finds us—and hope they are, in fact, a someone, and not someone’s dogs.”
Rory sighed. But Arthur was right; they were alone in the trees, the Hudson River behind them, the only light coming from the flashlight in Rory’s hand. The snow was still falling with no signs of stopping and Arthur’d given up his giant fur thing for Rory, probably adding twenty pounds of weight to carry uphill and freezing himself in the process. The sooner they got to the road and a phone, the better.
The coat sure was warm, though.
“How about you distract yourself by telling me exactly what happened today?” Arthur said. “I leave for one pesky fundraiser lunch and come back to find the Hudson River flowing with you stranded and hurt on the other side.”
Rory made a face. “I scried the ring.”
Arthur made a strangled sound. “You scried it—”