The Captain's Cornish Christmas Read online

  “My handsome,” Sam murmured, punctuating his words with kisses, “dashing…exciting…captain.”

  Jago’s hands trembled as he prepared himself, overwhelmed by the desire that Sam clearly felt for him. “I’m ready,” he whispered, and gently slid his finger between Sam’s buttocks.

  In response, Sam sighed a heated breath onto Jago’s skin then asked, “How would you like me?”

  Bashful, Jago admitted, “I’d rather like to spoon you, darling. That’s how I picture it, when I think of us together on your yacht.”

  They shared another kiss before Sam rolled onto his side. He glanced over his shoulder with a comically coquettish look and gently pushed his bottom against Jago before telling him innocently, “This is very comfy, I could get used to this.”

  Jago whispered at Sam’s neck, “I could too!” He stroked Sam’s bottom and gently nudged the tip of his erection inside, sighing his lover’s name. When Sam snuggled back just a little farther a frisson of pleasure ran through Jago, increasing at the touch of Sam’s hand as he reached back to take hold of his thigh. Putting his arms around Sam while kissing the nape of his neck, Jago thrust and was at last all the way inside. He paused, taking in the pleasure of being so close to his lover, the warmth and the comfort of their union.

  “Oh.” It was a gasp, Sam’s hand closing over Jago’s as the exclamation slipped from his lips. “You feel bloody spectacular, captain.”

  “I’ve wanted this for so long.” Jago began to thrust, holding Sam tight. “You handsome, gorgeous darling, you!”

  “I can’t wait to walk into the pub tomorrow with the sexiest man in Polneath on my arm,” Sam told him breathlessly, thrusting back to meet his rhythm. “I’ll be the envy of the whole place.”

  “I don’t think anyone will be surprised, do you?” Jago caressed Sam, sweeping down his body from his nipples to his cock, eliciting sighs with every touch. He stroked Sam’s erection firmly and gasped with the delicious effort of their lovemaking. Sam’s hand closed gently around Jago’s, letting Jago dictate their pace. Then Sam arched his neck, his full lips seeking a kiss.

  As Jago crushed his mouth to Sam’s, a great flood of pleasure washed through his veins. He thought he would cry or laugh or something from the sheer joy that he felt from being with this man. Sam Coryton, whom he had admired and longed for, but never hoped to count even as a friend, and certainly not as a lover. But here, in a little cottage by the harbor, Jago’s body was fused with Sam’s, in bliss.

  “Oh God!” There was a hint of laughter in Sam’s unexpected, joyous exclamation. He gave a low gasp of delight, then said, “I’m not laughing at us, I’m just so bloody happy!”

  “I was dreading Christmas,” Jago managed to tell him between moans of pleasure. “Yet…you’ve made it wonderful.” A shudder of joy ran through Jago, and he whispered, “Oh, Sam…is it too soon? I love you.”

  “I already told you,” Sam teased. “But I don’t think you saw my love note…”

  “What—what love note?” Jago brushed his lips against Sam’s neck, still thrusting, still stroking.

  “I signed it today.” He murmured, losing the words for a few moments. “I dedicated the new book to you—to my dream captain, I love you.”

  “That’s so…so lovely! But I didn’t have time to read it—because you turned up on my doorstep!” Jago laughed.

  “I love you,” Sam told him again, his voice low with the effort of their lovemaking, his hand and hips pushing harder. “My captain—”

  “My storyteller, my king.” Jago was barely conscious of much now, apart from the love he felt for the man in his arms. A glowing, precious warmth seemed to surround them and Jago realized he was close to his peak. He felt the change in Sam too, the tightening of his muscles, the taste of salt on his skin in the moments before his climax claimed him. Sam whispered his love for Jago, moaned his pleasure, whispered his love again as he came over their joined hands.

  Only a moment later, Jago came, his arms tight around Sam, their bodies joined deeply and completely. Jago thought of the weak December light on Sam’s sweat-sheened skin when he’d found him in the cabin. Now the same man was in Jago’s arms, with the luminescence of the snow and the moon shining in at the bedroom window. Life could change so suddenly, with just a glance or a smile.

  There they remained, soft gasps and kisses accompanying the gentle snowfall outside. Eventually, wordlessly, Sam shifted a little in Jago’s embrace and turned so they could be face-to-face once more.

  “I love you,” he whispered, his fingertips caressing his lover’s face, rasping gently against the stubble he found there. “This is the happiest Christmas ever, thanks to my captain.”

  “The first of many happiest Christmases.” Jago ran his hands about Sam’s body, across Sam’s warm skin. “I’m fairly sure that doesn’t make much sense, but I’m sure you know more or less what I mean!”

  “Just one thing… That lunchtime drink tomorrow?” Sam’s smile was filled with mischief. “Let’s put it back a couple of hours—I’ve no intention of letting you out of this bed anytime soon.”

  “I vote we stay here until the new year.” Jago grinned as he pulled Sam into another kiss. Outside the snow fell but here, in a little cottage overlooking a peaceful harbor, the very air seemed to sizzle. It had been a very merry Christmas indeed and Jago had a feeling that it would be the happiest of happy new years.

  Want to see more from these authors? Here’s a taster for you to enjoy!

  Captivating Captains: The Captain and the Cavalry Trooper

  Catherine Curzon & Eleanor Harkstead

  Excerpt

  Northern France

  1917

  The wagon carrying Jack Woodvine bumped and jerked along the poplar-lined lanes, a fine spray of mud rising up each time the huge wooden wheels splashed through a puddle.

  He had given up checking the time and, even though the journey was far from comfortable, tried to doze as he passed along under the iron-gray sky. A chateau, they’d said. Different from the barracks he’d been in when he was first deployed. Doubtless it would be a dismal old fortress, but was it silly of him to hope for bright pennants fluttering from a turret?

  Finally, the wagon drew up at a gatehouse of pale stone. As Jack climbed out, dragging his kitbag behind him, sunlight nudged back the clouds and turned the gray slate of the roofs to blue.

  “You the new groom?” A soldier appeared from the gatehouse. His cap was so low over his eyes that Jack couldn’t make out his expression.

  “Yes—Trooper Woodvine. Jack Woodvine.” He took a letter from his pocket and held it out to the man. “I’ve been transferred from another battalion. This is the Chateau de Desgravier?”

  “Yes, Trooper! Turn left at the bottom of the drive for the stables. Quick march!”

  The last thing Jack wanted to do was march, quickly or otherwise, but he shouldered his kitbag, jammed his cap onto his head and marched down the tree-lined avenue.

  It was thickly leaved, but through the branches he could see the white stone of the chateau ahead. He rounded a bend in the driveway and he saw it—Chateau de Desgravier.

  An enormous tower rose up in front of him, its roof reaching into a delicate point. Jack sighed, the spots of mud on his face cracking as he smiled. It might not have had pennants floating from it, but it was exactly like something from a fairytale. Beside the tower were the stone and brick and filigreed windows of what looked to Jack like a palace. Who would ever think that the front was only a few miles to the east?

  Quick march!

  Jack continued on his way, turning to his left just as he’d been ordered. The path here bore evidence of horses—straw, manure, the marks of horseshoes. Ahead, an archway, figures at work. A lad of Jack’s age maneuvering a wheelbarrow, another leading a horse out to the paddock.

  This wouldn’t be so bad. It seemed to be a peaceful place, and easy work for a lad like Jack. He raised his hand and grinned at the grooms as he headed under the
archway and into the vast stable yard.

  Then he heard singing. In French.

  Jack dropped his kitbag and looked round. The voice was that of a man, yet heightened slightly, giving it a teasing, effeminate edge, and Jack couldn’t help but follow it like a sailor lured by a siren, pulled along the row of open stables toward that lilting chanson. Inside those stables young men labored and sweated, brooms swept and spades shoveled, yet one of the boxes at the far corner of the yard seemed to have been transformed into an impromptu theater.

  Jack hardly dared glance through that open door, yet he couldn’t help himself, blinking at the hazy darkness of the interior where half a dozen grooms lounged in the straw, watching the chanteur in rapt silence.

  Right in front of Jack, his back to the door, was the figure of a young man, clad in jodhpurs, polished riding boots and nothing else. No, that wasn’t quite true, because he was wearing something, the sort of something Jack didn’t really see much of in Shropshire. It was some sort of silken scarf, a shawl, perhaps, that was looped around his neck twice, the wide, dazzling red fabric decorated with intricate yellow flowers. They were bright against the pale skin of his naked back, as bright as the tip of the cigarette that glowed in the end of a long ebony cigarette holder that the singer held in his elegant right hand. He gestured with it like a painter with his brush, making intricate movements with his wrist as he sang, his voice a low purr, then a high, tuneful trill, then a comically deep bass that drew laughter from his audience.

  He moved with the confidence of a dancer, hips swinging seductively, head cocked to one side, free hand resting on his narrow hip and here, in this strange fairytale place, he was bewitching.

  The singer executed a near-perfect pirouette yet quite suddenly, when he was facing Jack, stopped. He put the cigarette holder to his pink lips, drew in a long, deep breath and blew out a smoke ring, his full lips forming a perfect O.

  “Well, now.” He sucked in his pale cheeks and asked, “Who on earth have we here?”

  Jack blinked as the smoke ring drifted into his face.

  “Tr-trooper Woodvine, reporting for Captain Thorne. I’ve been transferred—I’m his new groom. I don’t suppose—”

  The words dried in Jack’s throat. As enthralling as this otherworldly figure was, with his slim face and high cheekbones, there was an unsettling glint of mockery in his narrow blue eyes.

  “Sorry.” Jack took a half-step backward. “I interrupted your song. I should…”

  The singer moved a little, just enough that he could dart his head forward on its slender neck and draw his nose from Jack’s shoulder to his ear, breathing deeply all the way. They didn’t touch but the invasion, the authority, was clear. However lowly their station, Jack had wandered innocently into someone else’s domain.

  When the young man’s nose reached Jack’s ear he threw his head back and let out a loud sigh through his parted lips, arms extended to either side. Then he finally spoke again, declaring to the heavens, “I smell new blood!”

  Behind him, his small audience tittered nervously and his head dropped once more, those glittering blue eyes focused on Jack.

  “Trooper Charles, sir!” He executed a courtly bow, the hand that held the cigarette twirling elaborately. “But you’re so darling and green that you may address me as Queenie. Aren’t you the lucky one?”

  Jack reached for the doorframe to casually prop himself against it and essay the appearance of calm. Queenie?

  “You may call me Jack.”

  He extended his free hand to shake. A handshake showed the mettle of a man, his father was always telling him so. A good, firm hand at the market and a fellow would never have his prices beaten down.

  Queenie’s narrow gaze slid down Jack like a snake and settled on his hand. He didn’t take it, didn’t move at all for a few seconds as the silence between them grew thicker. Then, in one quick movement, he placed his cigarette holder between Jack’s fingers and said, “Have a treat on me. Welcome to Cinderella’s doss house!”

  Jack brought it hesitantly to his lips, smiling gamely at the grooms who made up Queenie’s audience. He pouted his lips against the carved ebony and inhaled.

  The cough was so violent that Jack nearly dropped the holder, but an instinct in him born of a lifetime on a farm of tinder-dry hay meant he clamped it between his fingers. As he heaved for breath, he stamped on the nearby straw, suffocating any sparks that might have fallen.

  The other grooms laughed and Queenie’s head tipped back to emit a bray of hilarity as a strong hand walloped Jack’s back.

  A friendly Cockney burr chirruped, “Cough up, chicken—there’s a good lad!”

  “We have a new little chicky in our nest,” Queenie told his audience, turning to address them. “I want you all to make him terribly welcome, or he might burn down our stables and then where would your Queenie sing?”

  The stocky lad who had rescued Jack from his coughing fit was a head shorter than him. He pulled a face that could have been a smile or a sneer and took the cigarette holder from his fingers. He passed it to Queenie, all the while fixing his stare on the new arrival.

  “Trooper Cole. Wilfred, that’s me. You’re Captain Thorne’s new boy, aren’t you?”

  He laughed, then turned his head to spit on the floor, pulling a skinny roll-up from behind his ear.

  “I’m Jack Woodvine. I mean…Trooper Woodvine.”

  “I s’pose me and Queenie better take you to your quarters?”

  “That would— But…oughtn’t I to introduce myself to Captain Thorne?”

  “I’d say that’s a bit difficult, seeing as he’s not here at the moment.” Wilfred picked up Jack’s kitbag as easily as if it were spun from a feather. “Come on, soldier. Your palace awaits!”

  “Captain T is an angel.” Queenie draped one arm sinuously around Jack’s shoulders and walked him back across the stable yard, his naked torso pressed to Jack’s rough tunic. “You’re going to have a bloody easy war, he’s soft as my mother’s newborn kitten.”

  He glanced back at Wilfred and asked, “Wouldn’t you say so, Wilf?”

  “Not half!” Wilfred laughed, striking a match to light his cigarette. “You couldn’t find a nicer bloke in the entire regiment.”

  Jack grinned as they headed up the creaking wooden stairs above the stables. New quarters and new friends, and he wouldn’t have to rough it in a tent. Maybe there’d even be warm water for a bath.

  “Well, that’s good to know. The officers were a bit…brusque at my last place.”

  “Brusque?” Wilfred raised an amused eyebrow. “That’s a fancy word for a groom!”

  “Ignore our lovely Wilf. Strong as an ox, bright as a coal shed.” At the top of the stairs Queenie turned to address Wilfred and Jack, his pale hand resting on the crooked handrail. “Thorny is adorable, not brusque at all. Welcome to our little slice of heaven!”

  With that he lifted the latch and threw the door open, directing Jack to enter with another low bow.

  The loft’s low, sloping ceiling made it difficult to stand anywhere other than in the middle of the floor. Dormer windows with murky, cracked glazing made no attempt to lift the gloom. The beds were lined up with military precision, as was to be expected, but they were a mixture of sturdy metal bedsteads and low camp beds. Above each, the soldier-grooms had left their imprint of personality, albeit their personalities were almost all the same. Images culled from the pages of gung-ho magazines, of tanks and explosions and enormous guns and heroic men leaping through barbed wire. Shapely stars of music hall and burlesque in enormous hats, elaborate costumes cut to show the boys a lot of leg. The occasional postcard from home had been tucked beside a poster of a woman wearing rather little.

  At the far end of that simple loft, someone appeared to have opened a door to an exotic land, a place far removed from the simple rustic pleasures of the grooms. From floor to ceiling hung richly embroidered tapestries depicting scenes of battle from another time, long since lost. Knights jou
sted on a field of emerald green, a sapphire sky above, dotted with pristine white clouds. Innumerable jabs of the needle had gone to create the sun that blazed down on the curiously bloodless battle, each thread of tapestry teasing out a story from another century.

  Between the two tapestries stood a tall screen of black lacquer that served as a door to the mysterious realm beyond, the sort of screen behind which a gentleman’s mistress might tantalizingly undress. A rainbow of butterflies fluttered over its polished surface but only one of its panels was folded back, affording no glimpse of the treasures within.

  Was it Queenie’s place behind those tapestries? Was that the peacock’s nest? The only thing Jack knew was that this wasn’t his chamber.

  “Now, little Jack, where shall we plant your magic bean?” Queenie strolled along and pointed to one of the metal beds, addressing his followers in a drawl. “Our lovely young Trooper Miles pissed all over this mattress on the night before he got shipped out. He was terrified, poor thing.”

  He took a draw on his cigarette and gestured with it toward the bed, its single scratchy blanket concealing that same soiled mattress.

  “Mardy Miles was gassed last weekend, so I’m sure it must be dry by now. Your home from home, little Jack!”

  The smile was fading from Jack’s face. Sleeping in the piss of a dead man—they never mentioned that in Boy’s Own Paper.

  “Thank you.” Jack forced a grin. “You’ve made me feel very…welcome.”

  Wilfred threw Jack’s kitbag onto the bed.

  “The crapper’s through that door at the other end. You want to get on it early in the morning—it’s been known to flood.”

  “Smashing. Thanks for the tip, Trooper Cole.”