Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Harry
The awkwardness comes when it’s time for bed.
By necessity, we’ve doused the fire. Neither of us is willing to chance keeping the fire going at night. At least we agree on that, so it’s not another point of contention between us.
Despite my initial reticence to stop moving, I can’t deny that it turned out to be a prudent decision.
My heels are feeling markedly better after being out of my shoes for a few hours and having a chance to dry out my skin by the fire.
Hopefully, they’ll sufficiently recover overnight, so we can start moving again tomorrow.
Succeeding in catching a fish has definitely buoyed my morale, and having a full stomach seems to have elevated Toby’s spirits as well. I have noticed he’s more irritable when he’s hungry.
It’s also the mental adjustment that comes from being able to procure some of our own food. The dwindling stock of energy bars is no longer so disconcerting.
We can do this.
But while I’m feeling assured of my ability to secure food, my confidence wavers when it comes to my ability to have Toby Webley in my arms without my body proving traitorous.
We’re getting better at constructing temporary shelters to ward off the cold. This time, we’ve made a shelter against a large pine tree.
Toby finishes tending to the fire and comes over to where I’ve made our usual nest of coats and survival blankets, looking slightly sheepish.
“I guess we should still take turns being sentry?” he asks.
“Yes. I think that would be prudent,” I say as I lift the survival blanket so he can slip into the cocoon of warmth.
I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself as Toby’s weight settles against my chest. He smells of smoke and some other deeply addictive masculine scent that is pure Toby.
It’s all I can do not to pull him closer, to bury my face in the crook of his neck and breathe him in.
I try to keep my mind away from replaying Toby and me this morning. His mouth on mine, his hand down my trousers. The feel of him, the taste of him.
Time to start summoning some Latin verbs.
Cado, cadis, cadit, the consonants are sharp and biting in my mind. Cadimus, caditis, cadunt. To fall, to sink, to surrender. It’s an apt description of my current state, this slow descent into something with Toby that I’m struggling to control.
I shift slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position, but it’s a grievous error. The movement brings Toby’s body closer to mine, and I bite back a groan at the contact.
Fero, fers, fert, I think, gritting my teeth against the onslaught of wanting. Ferimus, fertis, ferunt. To bear, to endure, to suffer.
“Harry?” Toby’s voice slices through me trying to conjure up Latin verbs.
“Yes?”
“Do you think a search party will find us?” His voice is low.
I swallow.
“I have no doubt they are conducting their search with the utmost diligence,” I say.
The only problem is we have no assurance they are even searching in the correct country.
Toby turns in my arms.
“What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get back to civilization?” he asks.
“Take a bath,” I say instantly.
He laughs, and the sound sends a flush through me.
“I’m sure you’re going to suggest the same for me,” he says.
“I do feel that raising our standards of personal hygiene back to acceptable levels would be advisable.”
“I think I’m winning the best beard contest, right?” he asks.
This lighthearted conversation with Toby may be more than my heart can handle.
I clear my throat before I answer. “Are you seriously boasting about your ability to grow facial hair like it’s some sort of admirable achievement?”
“Hey, I take my wins where I can get them.”
“I suppose it’s a good idea as a Labour politician to adopt that philosophy,” I say.
He makes another sound that almost sounds like a snort-laugh.
“Hey, do I need to remind you who is in government right now?” he asks.
“Need I remind you of the impending election?”
“Do you think that’s why Kade and his friends did this? To interfere with our election?” Toby’s voice is suddenly serious.
“I confess, I’m at a loss,” I admit honestly. “I’ve spent the last few days running through all the permutations of why this happened, but I haven’t reached any conclusions.”
What is the motive behind our current predicament? Was the plane crash part of the plan or an unexpected development? Before we crashed, where was Kade taking us? Did the terrorists target me directly? Is it because we’re leading in the polls and they want to change that?
But what foreign nation would benefit from trying to prevent the Conservatives from coming to power or me from becoming the prime minister?
“I can’t figure it out either,” Toby says. “Oliver always asks me for my analysis of any situation, and I pride myself on being able to give a good answer, but I’m at a loss on this.”
“Well, if you were advising Oliver Hartwell on strategy, I’m not sure that is something you should be bragging about.”
“Hey, Oliver’s ended up the Prince Consort, hasn’t he? He’s deliriously happy.”
“And is that what you think the aim of life is? To be happy?” I ask skeptically.
Toby is silent for a long time.
“For some people,” he says finally.
This conversation is unsettling. Whispered conversations with Toby in the dark feel dangerous at the moment.
“You better get some sleep,” I say stiffly. “I’ll be waking you up in four hours, so make the most of it.”
Toby rolls over, nestling back in my arms.
I close my eyes for a second, willing myself not to react to the feel of him pressed against me. It’s easier now that he’s given me something else to ponder.
But while I manage to stave off any sexual thoughts, I can’t help noticing how pleasant it is to hold someone as they relax and drift off into slumber.
Funny how I now know the intimate signs of Toby Webley falling asleep. His body will relax, and then just as he’s drifting off, he’ll suddenly tense again, his body twitching like he’s been electrocuted before he drifts off into sleep.
I’ve never had this. I’ve never held someone as they’ve lost consciousness.
And it strikes me what a sign of trust this is.
Toby Webley, who I’m sure a few days ago wouldn’t have trusted me in any other situation, trusts me now in this.
Though I know it’s only because heat is necessary to keep him alive, and I’m his most reliable source out here.
He’s such a complex man. Genial and outgoing, but with Toby, I’ve always sensed more percolating beneath the surface than he lets most people see. He uses that charm and biting wit of his as a defense mechanism to keep people away.
I lie there pondering Toby’s words about Oliver Hartwell.
I couldn’t fathom Oliver Hartwell’s decision to stand down as prime minister. I’d naturally rejoiced in it because he was popular with the public and the newly selected Labour leader, Rosalia Norsman, doesn’t have Oliver’s charisma and charm.
On a logistic level, I understand why he was compelled to make the decision. It was not feasible for the British prime minister and the Prince of Wales to be in a relationship, given the differing and conflicting roles of government and the royal family in the British constitutional monarchy.
But it still didn’t mean I understood the decision.
To relinquish his place in history as the British prime minister, his ability to shape the future of our nation, for a mere ceremonial role?
Why had he done it? And yes, he’d gone on to marry Prince Callum, and Toby was right.
Every time I saw Oliver in any capacity, he did seem deliriously content and far more relaxed than he’d ever been in politics.
But I’d been raised to believe that nothing was more important than fulfilling my destiny to have the name Matheson carved on the annuals of Westminster.
My own individual wants and desires were immaterial.
What mattered was completing the mission started by my grandfather renouncing his title after the Peerage Act.
I’m tantalizingly close. I’m the leader of the Conservative Party. We’re leading in the polls with an election on the horizon. The state of the global economy, the challenges faced by our nation, have definitely rendered the electorate in the mood for change.
All I have to do is survive the Nordic wilderness and return to civilization to fulfill my destiny.
Toby stirs, and I instinctively tighten my arms around him. I’m going to make it back to civilization, and Toby Webley will too. I shall make sure of it.
There’s a noise in the distance, a small, rustling sound.
I strain to listen.
An owl hoots.
But there it is again, the unmistakable sound of rustling. Quiet but distinct.
It sounds like footsteps.
My heart leaps to my throat as I fumble for the torch.
The darkness seems to press in around me as I struggle to steady my shaking hand to switch on the light.
The beam catches on two green eyes staring back at me.
I move my torch, scanning further around the clearing, and I find more eyes fixed upon me.
Wolves.