He licked his lips, but did not get the chance to speak. There was a shout from the bow. “Captain!” It was Yousef; his voice was deep and rich and musical. “Wind changing speed and coming from the north!”
Eyes still on Andrew though his hand had dropped away, Rory called back, “Any sight of lightening?”
“No, sir, but the clouds grow tall,” Yousef answered.
“Grow tall?” Andrew asked, unable to quell his curiosity.
“Yousef uses words like one would paint a picture,” Rory told him, sounding and looking pleased with Andrew’s question. “The clouds will sprout upwards, like smoke from a fire. It is not always sign of a storm, but the cooler winds at our backs combined with what the clouds hold could very well bring one upon us.”
The thought of being ship-bound in a storm, subject to the wind and waves at their worst, made Andrew feel a bit queasy. “What do you do?”
Rory smiled. “I send a man aloft to scout the horizon and then ready the ship. Are you ready for another trip up the mast?”
Andrew smiled back, his fear forgotten with the promise of another glimpse of the wide sea around him. “I am!”
Andrew was not set in the swing this time. He was hurriedly hoisted with a rope around his chest, and clung to the topmast to keep steady. He could see the storm, to the north, as predicted, and it was magnificent; a roiling black cloud, turning the sea below it to dark grey. There were flashes of lightening within the darkness, intermittent but awesome streaks of white tracing through the billows. Turning his head, he scouted the south and saw a sail shimmering in the distance. Was it the same one from that morning? Was it Acklie’s ship?
The wind was indeed blowing cold now, casting a chill over him as he was lowered. “There is a storm, coming from the north. It looks…vast.”
“Did you see anything else?” Rory asked, helping him off of the line.
“The ship from this morning, I think,” Andrew said. “Still headed southwest.”
“With the weather gods at our back, our course is set,” Rory muttered. He looked at Fleming and nodded.
“What does that mean?” Andrew asked, eyes moving between the two of them.
“It means that we’re going to ride that storm,” Fleming answered with a grin. “And perhaps catch that ship.”
Chapter Five
Andrew was in the captain’s—Rory’s, quarters once more, helping to secure the few loose items kept by its occupant. There were drawers below the cradle-like bed, panels that would slide out and flip up to secure and preserve small items. He thought it wonderfully practical and said so, marveling over the retracting basket of apples. “So simple, is it part of the original design?”
Rory was seated, watching him, in his hand another apple. “Algerian craftsmen, master ship builders. Storms of this magnitude are not uncommon here, especially during the warmer months, and they designed their ships accordingly.”
Andrew paid attention, always eager for instruction. He took a seat on the floor. “The sail construction is far different and would seem to allow for faster mobility, more like a kite than a windmill.”
“The sails are raked to catch the wind close to the deck, to help the bow stay above the water. It provides upwards momentum instead of forcing down and forward. It moves the ship more efficiently and aids against capsizing. Without a wheel the winds can blow us where they wish if they are strong enough, but we take to the oars willingly when the need calls. We have the experience,” Rory finished, smiling.
“The sensible nature of the design is quite a surprise. Why do the navies use such slow moving beasts when faced with this?”
“Guns. Firepower. Utter destruction is more impressive than stealth.” Rory finally cut into his apple.
“I suppose an actual hit would be devastating, if they manage to hit you.”
Rory smiled and cut two slices, handing one to Andrew. “You will be a joy to teach.”
The words were spoken lightly, but Rory’s gaze became heated once more as he watched Andrew eat. “I haven’t agreed to anything,” Andrew said after he’d swallowed his apple.
Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, Rory said, “You don’t strike me as the priestly type. You are too…earthy, more a sprite of the forest than a child of God. How did you get yourself in an abbey?”
Andrew frowned. “I was left there. Father Armand, God rest his…soul” he paused to make the sign of the Cross, but stopped himself when he touched his heart, “found me on the threshold, a pink, mewling babe. He thought I was a changeling. He told me so many times. He raised me as a monk, hoping that I would follow into the order, or priesthood. He thought to thwart the Fae that dared to leave me at steps of God’s house. I had not taken vows, though, and had no plans to.”
“Why is that?” Rory prodded, taking another slice of apple for himself.
“I wanted to be God’s servant,” Andrew said, his voice soft, melancholy, “but I wanted to do it in the world. It needs care more than a cold, stone sanctuary.” He felt the threat of tears and rubbed his hand across his eyes. “It is of no matter now. That life is gone.”
“Gone? Surely you have the learning to…”
“I no longer have the….grace…for it,” Andrew interrupted, his eyes still burning. “God turned away from me, away from men who so faithfully served him. And I have turned from him.”
“You sound like a petulant child, not a prospect.”
“Aye, you catch my meaning,” Andrew answered, meeting his stare with red, but now tearless eyes.
“You are most intriguing, educated and innocent, bitter and yet somehow emboldened at the same time. You know, you must know, that it is not as common a state as you would think, even in monasteries….no, especially in monasteries,” Rory observed. He slid from his chair to kneel in front of Andrew. “Have a bite,” he said, holding the apple up to Andrew’s face. Andrew reached up to take the offered fruit, but Rory pulled it up and out of reach. “A bite,” he repeated, and slowly lowered it to Andrew’s mouth.
Andrew parted his lips, both unsettled and strangely spurred on by the gesture. He took the offered bite, chasing the juice with his tongue as it ran down his chin. Rory watched, his own tongue touching to his lower lip as if in sympathy… or hunger.
“You say that I am uncommon; what do you know of monks and abbeys?” Andrew asked, not angry, only curious. Rory smiled again. Andrew now recognized the bright look in his eyes. He felt a shiver start in his shoulders, but fought to control it.
“I know what comes out of them,” the man said, still with that rapacious gleam. “Tell me, in the whole of your time in their care, did not one of them try to seduce you? Force you?”
The question startled Andrew. He blushed, stammered, looked down at the floor. “What…why…no. Never. Well…I overheard Brother George confessing once…he, ah, thought of…my bottom…bare.” He recalled the day; he’d too young to know precisely why the words were so villainous, but they had unsettled not only himself, but also Father Armand. The days following were more quiet than usual and Father Armand had watched him, closely, and he was left on his own far less often, afterwards. Despite this strange experience, his memories of Brother George were wholly affectionate. “He never said anything to me, but the things he said to Father Armand were…”
“What?” Rory asked, leaning closer.
“I…I cannot repeat them.” Andrew felt even his ears grow hot.
“And what punishment was deemed appropriate for this sin?” Rory asked, smiling.
“After his penitence he was sent to bathe in the stream. It was mid-winter; he nearly lost four of his toes.”
Rory laughed, a derisive sound. “Because he wanted to touch your precious arse? Fools, the lot of them.”
“To keep his vows and honor God! He faced his sin, repented, and was absolved.” Andrew defended, standing. When Rory followed he stood his ground, not retreating despite their closeness. “Not that you would understand such a thing,” he contin
ued, more temperately.
“Ah, that got you spitting,” Rory said, his smile changing from scornful to smug. “Your defense is quite impassioned. Are you sure you don’t wish to take the cloth?”
Andrew found his breath stolen again; the nearness, the heat of the man was overwhelming. “It seems somehow inappropriate.”
“Inappropriate? You have done nothing to warrant a change of heart. You are still pure.”
“Not…entirely.” His voice was softer still.
His smile fading, Rory tossed the apple aside, wrapped an arm around Andrew’s middle and pulled roughly. “Tell me, what became of Brother George and his interest in your bottom?”
“I was a child and he was a kindly servant of God. Whatever he may have thought, he never acted upon it.” Andrew was trembling, but had no desire to be released. He was caught in the captain’s gaze, in the web of feelings spun by his touch.
“I’m curious, what did he say? Did he want to touch it, stroke it… perhaps strike it and see the shape of his fingers rise as welts upon it?” As he spoke he spread his hands across the rounded curve of Andrew’s bottom, the tips of his fingers branding his skin through the rough fabric of his breeches.
Andrew swallowed, flushing clear to his hair. “He wanted to…kiss it…” He felt Rory’s fingers tighten and his mouth went dry.
“Just kiss it?” Rory arched the smallest bit, pressing his body against Andrew, a provocation. “Or did he want to pry open your ass and devour it, to press his tongue in that tender hole?”
Andrew waited with his lips parted.
“Mmmm…yes, I see in your eyes that is what he wanted. I also see,” he said, bending his head, “that you want it, too.”
Rory did not have to hold his head steady, nor immobilize him…Andrew simply opened his mouth. He was hot, burning all over one moment and then shivering and chilled the next. When Rory kissed him this time he was not afraid, not exactly, but his heart pounded just the same. It was a different sort of kiss than he’d been given before; this was slow, deep, as if Rory were trying to memorize the feel of his lips, the texture of his teeth. He suckled, drawing on the man’s tongue in his mouth as if it were his sustenance, his only lifeline.
This pleased the captain, who breathed his own sound into Andrew’s mouth and bent him back. He left off kissing Andrew’s lips and moved to nuzzle at his ear. “Yes,” he whispered, “a joy to teach.”
He withdrew slowly, setting Andrew an arm’s length away.
Andrew was panting, shaking, eyes wide. “Captain?” he asked, confused.
Rory laid a gentle hand on his cheek, his own eyes dark. “We still have work to do.”
***
The storm overtook them that night and drove them hard. Andrew was huddled close to the mizzen mast, eyes closed and head bowed against the driving rain. He had already retched twice from the rolling of the ship and still his stomach ached and twisted with every crashing drop. He was tied off to the mast, a precaution all the men shared, though his line was considerably shorter than the others. He was of no use to anyone, too sick and exhausted, but he refused to go below. It was worse in the stifling dark.
Every other man was at work, holding the ship steady with oars as she rode the violent waves of the storm. Rory and Malik manned the rudder, steering the ship to keep her upright. Andrew could hear shouts, commands passed from man to man, but the wind blew so hard he could not make out the words themselves. When he dared to look at the captain, he found the man grinning wildly, laughing into the tempest as the beak pointed skyward once more. Andrew found his eyes lifted to the clouds, quite against his will, and was sure he would be doubled with cramps once again. On the downward arc he felt the now familiar roll and pressed his face closer to the mast.
He felt a curious shudder against his cheek. Opening his eyes, he looked to the rigging. A spar had cracked, and as Andrew watched, it broke away. The line attached came loose and began to thrash in the wind like an angry snake, pulling free of the laces. The sail began to unfurl. Andrew’s mind raced, taking into account the direction of the winds and the speed at which they traveled; the added sail would not be a help. In converse, it would push the smaller, lighter ship farther leeward, allowing the waves to thrash from above as well as below. The ship would capsize.
With a flash of fear, urgency that threatened on panic, Andrew looked to Rory. Malik had the rudder under his arm and was leaning against it, while Rory pulled from the other side, both of them using all their weight to bear it windward. Andrew tried to call their names, but the words were blown away. He looked up to see the sail unwinding more fully, the line slipping further from its laces. The only way to stop further catastrophe was to catch the line and hold it fast, keeping the sail lashed. The only person who could do it was himself.
He pulled himself to his feet using the line to which he was tied. The sail billowed in its loosening rigging, hitting him in the face and knocking him backwards. For a moment he was stunned, the pain in his nose and mouth turning to numbness after a moment’s shock. Shaking his head to clear it, he reached out again. With slow, steady hands, he gripped the sail and gathered it, fingers cramping as he fought the strength of the wind. Even as the ship rose and fell, he kept the up motion of his hands. He was hugging the mast, keeping the sail bustled between the wooden post and his body. When at last he felt the eyelets of the lacings, he was trembling with the effort of holding it secure.
The ship did another sudden dip to the side, and this time did not right itself immediately. Looking up, Andrew searched for the line as it was flung about in the storm. He could see it, but he could not release his hold to take it. The only line he could reach was the one around his own waist. There was no time to plan otherwise; he reached for the rope and hefted it over his shoulder. Slowly, carefully, he made his way around the base of the mast, wrapping the line around the sail. He used his own weight as a counterbalance, leaning away to pull it tight and prevent the danger from returning.
Finally, he was able to reach the lost line and take it in his hands. He would have to undo his makeshift wrapping to re-lace the rigging and that would let loose the sail once more. He knew he did not have the strength to repeat his actions. Instead, he wrapped the line around his wrist, as tight as he could bear. The tension in both ropes held, wrenching his arm but staying bound. Andrew did not remember the winds ebbing, or the hellish rain changing to a more earthly downpour. He hung from the ropes, his exhaustion finally overtaking him as the storm left them behind.
Chapter Six
“Andrew! Andrew, I know you hear me, open your eyes!”
It was still raining, but less the painful sting of before and softer, more pleasant. Andrew opened one eye, turning his face away from the fat raindrops. He was on his back on the deck. A gathering of concerned faces hovered in his vision. “Is it ever going to stop raining?” he asked, wincing at the tenderness of his mouth.
There were cheers and laughter. The rain was suddenly gone, a tarp held above to protect him, supported as a canopy by the ring of men. He searched for and found Rory, whose gaze was different as it caught him; softer, warmer than he’d seen before. “You saved the ship,” he said, “and us with it.”
“I’m sure I did it wrong,” Andrew groaned as he tried to sit up, his right arm pained and weak. He looked to Fleming, who grinned at him with such joy that he felt compelled to smile back. It hurt.
“You can bloody well do it however you want!” Fleming clapped Andrew on the shoulder, causing a pained cry to come from his lips. Fleming was immediately contrite, taking his own kerchief from his neck and fashioning a crude sling. He helped Andrew put it on and settle his strained arm in the support.
Rory took Andrew’s face and studied it. “I’m sorry,” he frowned. “You’re not going to like this.” His fingers closed on Andrew’s nose, tightly, and Andrew heard a ‘pop’ within his own head. He saw stars and blooming black flowers before his eyes, and the sounds of the men around him faded.
When he woke once more he was back in Rory’s cabin on that curious bed, naked but no longer wet.
“Your clothes will dry while you rest.” Rory came to his side and helped him climb into the warm plush blankets with nary an improper touch.
“What did you do to my face?” Andrew asked him, refusing to acknowledge his own disappointment. “I thought I was to stay...pretty, for your plan.”
“I straightened your nose,” Rory answered, smiling, reaching for a small bowl. He took the cloth from it and wrung the excess liquid. “You’ll be glad I did. Your face could not support something so crooked. Hold still.”
“Not if you’re going to do that again!”
Rory chuckled and told him, “That only needs doing once. If you’ll allow me to press this to your face, it will take away the sting. If you will drink the rest, it will help you rest and ease the ache.”
Andrew eyed him doubtfully. “What is it?”
“Catmint tea.”
Andrew gave him a skeptical look. “I stand no chance, do I?”
Rory grinned. Andrew took a deep breath and tilted his head back, allowing the man’s touch. His gentleness was still a surprise, especially in light of the rough handling he’d given Andrew just two days prior. What was not a surprise, though, was the way Andrew’s heart sped up, or that his mouth went quite dry when Rory’s fingers took his chin.
The quiet between them made Andrew nervous and he sought to fill it. “How many days have I been here?”
“In the morning, it will be eight,” Rory answered, carefully wiping at his nose and mouth.
“Eight days,” Andrew repeated, wincing. “So little time…it feels like another life…”
“You were taken in the raid ten days ago.” Rory rinsed the cloth and then pressed it against his face. “Keep it there, let it work.” He leaned his elbows on his knees and continued. “The opium they put in your water kept you sleeping for a full day and half of the next. We didn’t wake you, knowing you had breathed the smoke and needed to heal.” His voice changed, took on a softer note. “You’re made of stern stuff, for all your pretty looks. You’ve been through so much. Many men would not have your fortitude. I think you are to be much admired.”
The Red King Page 4