“We are pleased to be here,” I said.
“There is much I feel we should discuss,” Father Pierre continued—to Gaston.
“Oui,” Gaston said—and looked to me.
“There is a thing we must tell you,” I said. “We have only recently informed our friends of the matter.”
Rachel sighed, somewhere down the table.
“There is a thing I would say first,” Gaston said quickly.
I glanced at him, doing my best to conceal my surprise. He did not look toward me: his gaze was steadfast upon Father Pierre.
“Monsieur Theodore has informed me that you have been tasked with reporting to your superiors about my sanity and competence as a lord,” Gaston said.
Father Pierre nodded uncomfortably. “Oui, my lord. Please allow me to assure you that I have no interest in passing judgment on the matter; nor have I been empowered to do so. I am merely to interview and observe you, and give a faithful accounting of such.”
Gaston nodded. “I intend to remain here and act as Cayonne’s physician until the matter is resolved. I believe I am allowed that trade as a nobleman. I will return to the Church and attend mass, take communion, and even confess. I will hold to my marriage vows in my dealings with women.”
“I am relieved and pleased to hear it, my lord,” Father Pierre said, but his narrowed eyes showed that he heard Gaston dissembling as I did.
“But,” my matelot said with a wolf’s voice worthy of his father, “I will not abandon my matelot. I will not lie and sneak about in the name of discretion. I hold only to him. He is the seat of my sanity. I will not be fit to be a lord without him. If that does not meet with the Crown’s or Church’s expectations, and neither can find acceptance of it, then so be it.”
Knowing he felt so was one thing, hearing him state it was another altogether. I thought my heart would burst from pride and love. It took all my resolve not to bowl him from the bench and smother him with kisses.
“But… my son, you cannot contradict the laws of God on this matter...” Father Pierre said gravely, but his gaze was speculative.
“Oui, I would be mad to do so,” Gaston said with a firm smile that was all Horse. “And I will remain in the New World for all of my days and trouble no one.”
The good father cast about for some support and found none from me and apparently none elsewhere at the tables. He finally sighed and nodded in acquiescence. “I see.” And then some new understanding dawned behind his eyes, and his brow smoothed and he said, “I see,” again with a touch of wonder.
“Will not your father be disappointed?” he asked Gaston earnestly.
“It cannot be helped,” Gaston said sadly.
Father Pierre nodded again. “I see.” He thoughtfully contemplated his soup over steepled fingers.
“And there is the other matter,” Gaston said and looked to me.
Our gaze met, and it was as if he had handed me his heart. I tried to give him mine in return. We smiled as one.
I turned back to the priest, who was watching us with wonder. I had expected condemnation, and thus his expression caused me to stumble and robbed me of my bravado.
I stirred my soup and wondered how to begin. “We wish it to be known that we have engaged in a deceit,” I said carefully. “Lord Montren will write his father about the matter as soon as possible, and we have commenced telling all we know upon our arrival. The matter has apparently caused a great deal of havoc, and we would see that ended.”
I discovered I could not meet his gaze and deliver the rest, so I told my soup, “Lord Montren did indeed marry Mademoiselle Christine Vines—the woman who claims she is his wife in France. When he found her unsuitable, we paid the pastor in the Port Royal church to have the matter annulled—claiming it was not consummated. But that too was a lie. She has born Lord Montren a child. He then married Mademoiselle Agnes Chelsea to appease his father.
“The Marquis is innocent of all involvement and was deceived as any other in this matter, as were all present. Only Lord Montren and I—and Mademoiselle Vines—actually Lady Sable—knew of the matter and the deceit. Well, and the English priest.”
All was still at the table. I finally dared to meet Father Pierre’s gaze.
“You are lying,” he said with conviction and curiosity, his gaze darting to Gaston and Theodore.
I sighed and shrugged, struggling to think of how to explain. One of the babes wailed into the uncomfortable silence it could surely sense, and two of our women turned to take it up. I smiled resolutely.
“Is there not a tale of wise King Solomon and a disputed infant?” I asked. “Two mothers came to him, both claiming a single child as theirs. Solomon pronounces that the matter should be settled by dividing the child in two, and immediately one of the mothers relinquishes her claim. And King Solomon awards that woman the child, saying she was obviously the mother because she put the child’s welfare above her own.”
“Oui, I know that story,” Father Pierre said.
“Well, Father, we have two children and only one sire. We are doing the best we can to serve the needs of the children.”
His breath caught and he looked away with a deeply-furrowed brow. “I must think—and pray for guidance—a great deal.”
And, I imagined, write to France for guidance as well, but then I saw him look askance at one of his fellow priests who was eyeing me with confusion. I resolved to give Father Pierre the benefit of doubt: Theodore had thought him a sincerely pious man.
Father Pierre excused himself and stood, his baffled cohorts following suit. All said their goodbyes and watched the priests leave.
I tasted my soup and found it quite good.
“There you go again,” Gaston whispered, “driving the priests away before we even finish the soup.”
I sprayed my soup back into the bowl with a fit of surprised amusement.
Gaston smiled and set about eating his with grace and decorum.
“So that’s that, then?” Liam asked in English.
“For now,” I said.
There was still an awkward silence hanging over the table. I looked up and around and found curious and thoughtful gazes upon us. And then there was Doucette: he was glaring with great malice.
“Thank you,” I said to all—except Doucette.
There were nods and eyes darted away—except for Rachel.
“I do not like lying to priests,” she said emphatically.
“I feel it is of more import that I not lie to God,” I said diffidently.
She sighed. “Will, it is one and the same.”
“I do not feel that is true,” I said.
“I suppose that is sometimes true,” she said sadly.
“You do not believe in God!” Doucette spat at me.
“That is between me and God and does not involve you,” I said and met his angry gaze.
He snorted. “Liar!” Yvette tried to hush him, but he waved her off. “I am not so addled I cannot see a liar!” He turned back to me. “You have ruined him!”
“Shut up, Dominic,” Gaston said firmly.
Doucette sputtered on for a second, but he dropped his eyes and studied the table, commencing to rock back and forth with apparent frustration.
“I think it went well,” Agnes said into the silence that followed.
“Aye, oui,” Rucker agreed with an effusive nod.
I looked to Theodore. He smiled at me with a fatherly mien. I sighed with relief.
There was a hail from the hospital ward: the type offered from one ship to another upon approach.
“Ach, we need not go lookin’ fur ’em, then,” Liam said with a grin.
Our much-beloved cabal entered the atrium from the ward—and my gut clenched, and I almost wished for the awkward silence that had preceded their arrival. Gaston and I shared a resolute glance and stood as one. Our friends were already giving happy greeting to one another. This stilled when the newcomers saw us.
“Oh thank God!” Dickey cried and
ran to attempt to embrace us both at the same time. He was immediately followed by the usually laconic Bard: his face split by a sincere and happy smile I had rarely seen. I held them both in turn with great relief in my heart.
They were followed by Julio. I could see Davey beyond his shoulder, holding back, frowning.
“I am glad you are well,” I told Julio. Then I saw the brace upon his leg and realized the hard thing I was grinding into his ribs with my embrace was a crutch. “Well… alive,” I quickly amended.
His smile held no acrimony. “I am well enough. I am very pleased you are… better?”
“Aye,” I assured him. “I am much mended in the heart.”
He gave an understanding nod. “They told us…”
“Please say no more.”
He nodded with even more understanding, and a trace of sympathy which troubled me.
We released one another and I turned to find Pete filling my vision. The look in his eyes did not bode well—I did not even see his fist. I had the vague sensation of being lifted off my feet and then falling as stars exploded in my vision along with a somewhat remembered pain in my jaw. Then I was lying upon the floor: I did not precisely remember landing. The only thought I could initially form in my spinning head was that I surely deserved the blow. I stared up at the clouds. They were awash with a plethora of purples and oranges from the setting sun. I wondered if he had broken my jaw again.
Gaston’s legs appeared above me. “He deserved that, but you will not strike him again,” my matelot said calmly.
“NotIf’EGoes An’Sees’IsSister,” Pete rumbled.
“Aye,” I said weakly; though I wished to do as he said about as much as I wished for him to strike me again.
I tasted blood. I sighed and wrapped an arm around my matelot’s calf, questing upward for purchase. His hand appeared and he pulled me to my feet.
His gaze was full of concern and resignation as he examined my jaw and teeth. “You will likely lose that one that has been troubling you,” he said and poked the offending tooth so that I winced. “And your cheek is quite cut, but unless you feel shooting pains when moving it, I feel your jaw is not broken.”
I did not feel such pain, and so I shook my head resolutely and leaned past him to spit blood.
When I looked up I saw Striker watching us. His eyes were filled with anger and wariness I knew well: it had been my own towards him after the events of Porto Bello. I winced.
I looked away and found Cudro eclipsing all else. “Gods,” I mumbled. His eyes were not angry or cold. “Do you wish to strike me too?” I asked him.
“I don’t know,” he said jovially. “Can I turn my back on you?”
“I am sorry, I am…”
“Stop!” he commanded and pulled me to his great barrel of a chest for a lengthy embrace that smothered all complaint—and fear that he would not forgive: he already had.
“How are you?” he asked us when he released me. “I thought you would show once the rains ended.”
“We are much better, thank you,” Gaston told him with relief that echoed my own.
There was a shadow at Cudro’s side and I found Ash in it, smiling with as much regard for us as his matelot. I embraced him with even more relief: a man might choose to forgive, but sometimes his matelot could harbor a grudge—as Davey obviously did.
Emboldened by the acceptance of Cudro and Ash, I looked around once again. We had been greeted—after a fashion, considering Pete—by all who had arrived save Striker. I looked to him again. Now his gaze held the feigned nonchalance of a stranger.
I had done many a damned thing in my life, but I did not wish to countenance losing a friend again.
“Striker,” I said and took a step toward him.
Pete blocked my path. “Leave’Im,” he said gruffly.
I met his gaze with surprise and the beginnings of somewhat righteous anger that he should interfere in my attempt to make amends. I knew I had no business owning the damn emotion; and then what I saw in Pete’s eyes drove it away as if it had not existed. The Golden One appeared tired, old, and very sad.
“What is...” I began to ask in a whisper.
“ComeWithMe An’SeeYurSister,” he commanded. “BothO’Ya.”
He took my arm and began towing me to the door. I glanced at Gaston and found him following with a concerned frown; but as he was doing nothing to stop Pete, I assumed he had seen what I had in the Golden One’s demeanor.
I waved goodbye to the others. Theodore awarded me a tight, resolute nod that seemed to indicate he was pleased we were on this errand, but he knew it would be unpleasant.
Pete snatched the lantern from outside the ward door, and once we were in the street, released me and began to walk up the hill with great purpose and speed. I hurried to catch up with him with Gaston in our wake.
“What is amiss?” I asked quietly once we were on the outskirts of Cayonne.
Pete snorted loudly. “WhatAin’t?”
“Is my sister well?”
“SheBeWellEnuff. SheBeWithChild,” he said with resignation.
“Are all pleased about that?”
“TheyBe RightDelighted! SoTheySay. IBe… ItBeLikeAllElse.”
“How so? How is all else?”
He stopped and turned to roar at me. “ItStinks! That’s’OwItBe!”
I did not flinch now that I knew his rancor was not specifically directed at me.
Gaston caught up with us. He laid a gentle hand on Pete’s shoulder. “What is wrong, Pete?”
Pete shook him off and regarded us with exasperation that spoke volumes of his mood but nothing of its cause.
“Striker?” I prompted to give him purchase on something in the morass I sensed him drowning in.
This elicited a roar of frustration and sadness suitable to the great lion to which I had ever likened him. He turned away and wandered around like a lost child for a moment before stomping to the side of the road and sitting on a felled tree, placing the lantern carefully on the trunk beside him.
We exchanged a glance of concern and ambled over to join him: our lack of alacrity driven more by respect for his duress than trepidation.
He looked up at us when we stood before him. “INa’BeReady TaLay DownAn’Die.”
“But Striker is?” I asked kindly.
He began to nod his head, and decided to shake it instead; and it ended up bobbling about on his neck as if he did not know how to hold it. I noted that his hair was long and unkempt: six months’ worth of shaggy golden mane. Yet, oddly, he was clean-shaven—a thing he rarely did.
“What the Devil has happened here, Pete?” I asked.
He sighed. “ItNa’JustBeHere. ItJustBeBein’ HereAn’Na’Knowin’…” Then the wind of anger hit his sails again. “’E’sNeverBeenHappy. Never! Na’Unless’E BeDrunkOrAtSea. We’AdItGood. We’veAlways’AdIt Damn Good. ’EAlwaysBeGood WithTheMoney, An’SmartAbout WhoWeBeSailin’ With. But’EWereAlways Lookin’AtTheHorizon. Nuthin’WereGoodEnuff! AnThingsTheyBeChangin’. An’’ENa’BeHappyAboutThat. YetTheWayItWasWere NoBetterIn’IsEyes.
“An’ThenYaCome. An’WeGetOurOwnShip. ThatBeAThing’E Always BeWantin’. An’We’AveIt. An’Then’EWantsAWife. An’IGive’ImThat. An’Then’EWantsABabe. But’EStillNa’BeHappy.
“’EWantsTaSail But’EBe Afraid O’Sailin’WithTheOthers. ’EDoesNa’ WantTa LeaveSarahAlone. ’EBeThinkin’ The BabyDieIffn’’EDoes. But’EDoes Na’WantTa BeAPlanterEither. So’EDrinks. All’EDoesIsDrink An’Whine. SixBloodyFuckin’ MonthsO’RumAn’Whinin’!
“SomeDaysIDream O’Just Hittin’’Im’Til’Is HeadClears!”
He slumped and buried his face in his hands.
“I am sorry we abandoned you,” I said.
He snorted and glared up at me. “YaDamnWell ShouldBe. YaBeThe OnlyTwoICan TellO’It.”
There was the trace of humor in his tone and I smiled. “Well, the next time we disappear to tend to our madness, perhaps you should accompany us.”
He sighed and
then pointed at Gaston and chuckled.
I found my matelot grimacing with consternation.
“YurManNa’’AveThat,” Pete said with continued amusement.
“You are a good friend,” Gaston said, “but I view such times as private.”
“Aye, YaBeFuckin’ An’Cooin’ AtOneAnother DayAn’Night.”
“Aye,” I admitted. “And a third man would be awkward.”
“Aye!” Pete was grinning at Gaston. “Iffn’ItWereMe.”
My matelot was stiff and uncomfortable.
“What is this about? Other than your changing the subject,” I chided Pete.
He chuckled.
“Tell him,” Gaston said with a note of challenge.
Pete sobered and seemed to reconsider his teasing. He finally sighed and met my gaze. “ITol’Gaston—WhileDrunk—An’Fightin’WithStriker—ThatIShoulda’Takin’Up WithAManLikeYou. OneThatFavorsMen.”
“Nay,” Gaston said with no humor. “That is not what you said.”
Pete’s face crinkled with a grimace of self-deprecation and embarrassment as he looked away while scratching his head. “ISaidThatIffn’Ya Weren’tWithGaston, An’IWeren’t WithStriker, IWouldBeCourtin’Ya.”
I was surprised to say the least, and my cock stirred at the mere thought of lying beneath Pete: a thing I immediately squashed with all the guilt I had ever felt when thinking that very thing in the years I had known him.
To distract myself—and avoid Pete’s suddenly knowing gaze—I looked to my matelot. “And you chose to never mention this?”
“Is it a thing you would wish to know?” he countered with jealousy I had not seen from him in a very long time.
I held his gaze and chuckled until he looked away with a sheepish smile.
“He was drunk,” Gaston said, as if that alone could explain his omission.
I understood, and I felt no need to press him on it.
I turned back to Pete. “I am flattered. Truly.”
Pete made a long disparaging noise like a disgruntled horse. “SpareMe. INa’BeSmart EnuffFerYa.”
I cringed in my heart but kept it from my face. It was not true, yet… “Nay, Pete. You are one of the wisest men I have ever had the pleasure…”
“ShutIt,” he said good naturedly. “IKnowWhatIBe. An’INa’BeSmart AboutTheCooin’ An’Talkin’.”
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