The Red King

  “A dangerous one,” Malik finished, chuckling. It was not his normal, thunderous laugh, but it was close. “I would like to see him awake, even if it is to greet as a stranger.”

  “And you will, soon,” Rory promised. “He needs rest now.”

  “How are you, Ruaidhri? I have not seen you since we left the keep,” Malik asked, leaning back in the chair.

  “I am resting, too. I feel quite well, considering all that has befallen me,” Rory said, flexing his arm and working his wounded shoulder.

  “And fallen on you,” Malik supplied, with another low laugh.

  Rory laughed with him and used one of his knees to help stand. “Indeed. Those bruises run deep, but they are fading, as well. I shall be fit and fighting soon enough.”

  “I had hoped to hear that you are done with fighting, Captain.”

  Rory did not answer, but looked over his shoulder at the figure on the bed.

  “I like this chair. It does not feel as though it will fall into kindling beneath me,” Malik commented, his hands stroking the finely varnished wood of the armrests.

  “It is a Captain’s chair. It fits you nicely.” Rory smiled. “We will find one for you, if you like.”

  Malik grinned back and stood. “When I am a captain, it will be for trade and travel. My fighting days are over.” He cast a longing eye over the enormous chair, tracing the intricate carvings with his fingers. “Still, a fine, sturdy chair would not be amiss.”

  “You’ll have one, I promise,” Rory said, warmly.

  “If you’re making promises, swear you will send for me as soon as Andrew is awake and able.”

  “Yes, and no more secrets will be kept.”

  Malik nodded, squeezed Rory’s uninjured shoulder, and left.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed with a sigh, Rory leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. In truth, he was worn thin, his mind and heart both exhausted and his body only a step behind. Even with this lengthy convalescence he knew he was far from hale and hearty. The promise to Malik that he would no longer keep secrets was made after he had already lied on the subject, thankfully, and he laughed at himself under his breath. “Fit and fighting, hardly. It has been barely a fortnight.”

  Gingerly he touched behind his ear, which itself was now lower than its mate and tilted more forward, and would likely remain that way. The healing skin was already puckering and no hair would ever grow there again. It would be a fine scar for a brigand and a pirate, but for anyone else? What would he do now, when all he had fought for was finished?

  A memory came to Rory, of whispered words in a darkened room. A sweet moment he had only recalled days later, after waking to find he’d been a hair’s breadth from death. To find that Andrew was gone.

  “A farmer?”

  “I come from a long line of farmers. I am Irish.”

  “It would be tedious for you.”

  “After all this time, tedium would be a welcome change.”

  An orchard, he’d said, of olives or apples or even apricots.

  “I would not mind being a scholar; learning and studying, perhaps teaching.”

  Rory frowned. Of their disagreements, especially their more vociferous arguments, the point had always been Andrew’s freedom to choose. It was a trait Rory admired, even when it tested his patience. Time and again, Rory had stripped that away, by design or thoughtlessness. It had been Andrew’s patience that was truly tested, for he had forgiven Rory for each infraction. Would he be taking away Andrew’s chance to pursue his love of knowledge, if he kept Andrew now?

  His thoughts were interrupted by a gentle touch to his back. Turning, he saw that Andrew was awake, watching him. “Are you all right?” he asked, shifting so that he faced Andrew more fully.

  Nodding, Andrew rolled onto his side, carefully arranging his head on the cushions. He pointed at Rory, looking at him inquiringly.

  It took a moment for his meaning to become clear. “Am I all right?” Rory couldn’t stop his smile. “I am not fully well, but I am healing. At this moment, however, I am quite content.”

  Andrew’s lips curled at corners for an instant and he mimed another question. First he held up two fingers, and then pointed to his own ear.

  “You heard me talking with another,” Rory stated, waiting for Andrew’s nod before continuing. “That was Malik. He is a friend, a dear friend, and is worried for you.”

  Pointing at Rory again, Andrew raised his eyebrows.

  “And me, as well,” Rory conceded. “His concern is primarily for you, especially now.”

  Andrew frowned, waved his hand as if to ask for more.

  “Malik thinks of you as a brother. You are of kindred spirit, if not blood, and found each other instantly. He brought you to me a rescued captive, pulled from a burning ship,” Rory said, finding himself smiling once more. “It was he who made you welcome, for I had plans for you that were not so…familial.”

  Rory saw Andrew’s face go blank, the same emotionless mask as before. He watched closely, saw the rapid blinking and slight start as Andrew’s awareness returned. It was a curious reaction, seen three times now, each in response to a declaration on Rory’s part, of love, devotion, and now lust. What did it mean?

  Pressing one hand to his own chest, Andrew looked into Rory’s eyes. He held up two fingers and carefully mouthed the word rescue.

  After a moment, Rory grasped the meaning. “He rescued you twice! Yes!” He laughed. “It seems to be his habit, for he rescued me, as well, pulling me from the pile of rocks as others drove my horse to lift the largest. When I woke, two days later, he was the one who convinced the others to rally and give chase. It was he who captained the Taibhse on our journey to find you, he who struck the initial agreement with Ortega.”

  Then Rory stopped, for Andrew was gone again, his eyes hazy and lost while his face twisted into something like horror. When he started to shake, Rory took his hand. As his breathing became labored, Rory pulled him into an embrace.

  “Andrew!” Rory called, stroking hair, shoulders; any place he could reach that did not bear a mark. “Andrew, come back!”

  He felt Andrew jerk in his arms, heard a hitching breath, and then Andrew calmed, stilled.

  Andrew raised his face to Rory’s, met his worried gaze, and breathed, “I’ve done something terrible.” His eyes rolled back then, and he passed out.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Rory sat with a cup in his hand. He thought it might be rum, but it was heady with spice and citrus and almost too sweet to drink. He kept his head down and listened.

  “It must be this Salvatore. What else could it be?” Etienne said, tapping his fingers on the table, restlessly.

  “But how do we find out, for sure? And how do we convince him that he is not to blame?” Malik asked. There was no answer.

  It was the question on all of their minds. Andrew had slept hard and long, and woke again to strangers, not knowing any of their faces or recalling their meeting the day before. This time he did not react with smiles and trust, as previous, but faced them with fear. He was skittish, silent and withdrawn, and would not let anyone touch him.

  The blow was felt by them all, Rory knew, yet he could not find it in his heart to offer comfort to his friends. His own heart was raw and he could muster no confidence for himself, much less anyone else. He was well aware of their nervous glances, as if they waited for him to…what? Explode? Collapse? Those looks would have made him angry once. Now, he felt nothing save a bitter resignation. He finished his drink and continued to stare at the floor.

  “Every time he sleeps he forgets more and yet rest is what he needs,” Etienne said, not for the first time.

  “Do we keep him awake? Force him to forgo the healing sleep?” Malik was on his feet, pacing the length of the kitchen where they sat.

  “No, that cannot be done. Not without giving cause for more distrust,” Laurent insisted.

  “Then what do we do?”

  Feeling their eyes on him, Rory
raised his head. “He has asked to be left alone. We shall grant that to him. Perhaps,” Rory paused looking into the bottom of his cup as if it had the answers, “all he needs is time.”

  “But we will be leaving this ship, soon. Time is what we do not have,” Etienne replied, his voice carrying all of their worry.

  “We have a few days, yet. I will join Malik and Yousef with the crew for the remainder of our journey,” Rory said, softly. Ignoring Etienne’s expression, one of sadness and hurt that he knew was meant for him and no one else, he set down his cup and stood.

  “Ruaidhri, you are not giving up.” Malik was shocked still, his eyes wide and dismayed at the prospect.

  “No!” Rory shouted. He saw all of them tense, as if in wait upon cannon they knew was about to fire, and took a breath to calm himself. “No, I am not. I will not. Neither will I burden him, or provoke in him any feeling other than contentment. Etienne, Laurent, you will take him his meals. Perhaps ask if he would like to move about the ship. I will ask Ortega if he will grant the use of some clothing.”

  Etienne straightened his shoulders and rose from his chair. “Of course, Captain,” he said, formally.

  Rory felt chagrined, but by his own forceful nature and not Etienne’s chilly response. “My friends,” he said, softly, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “I would be lost without you. You have given me your strength and your hope; please, now I need your patience.”

  “If he’s afraid, familiarity would ease that fear,” Etienne argued.

  “Not Andrew,” Rory said, and found strength for a chuckle. “No, he will come to us on his own terms. If there is one thing I have learned, it is that his freedom must be honored at all costs.”

  Etienne’s voice had an angry bite. “And if it does not help, if he does not recall us or you, what then? Do we leave him with Ortega? How will he have his freedom if you abandon him to mercenaries?”

  It found its mark in Rory’s chest, latching onto his heart. Closing his eyes against the pain, Rory said, “When we draw near, within a day, I will…present him his choices.” The words were difficult to say, the possibility harder to bear, and he swayed a bit on his feet. “It’s the only way to do this, the only acceptable way.”

  A hand took his shoulder and he opened his eyes. Etienne’s face had lost the resentment; sorrowful apology remained. “My apologies, Ruaidhri, you are right.”

  “It happens, on occasion,” Rory quipped, covering the hand with his own. He smiled, tremulous but true. “Now, what do you do all day on this ship?”

  As the day lengthened, Rory was ever more grateful for his friends. Where they had left him to his bed on the journey out, to heal and scheme and silently rage, on this final voyage they kept him fully occupied. Malik and Yousef were happy to share the workings of the much larger galleon. Both of them had gladly taken turns at the jib and line, proving their seaworthiness and earning their shot. The other crewman had taken to Malik, particularly, and they traded stories long into the evening.

  Etienne took great pleasure in introducing him to the men whose names he knew and happily took a cup of wine from one of them. The young man had silver-blond hair and very pale eyes and stared at Rory as if he were the risen Christ. “Thank you, Nils,” Etienne said, graciously, and patted him on the back.

  Uncomfortable with the attention, Rory stepped away, edging towards the rail. Etienne caught him by the elbow. “You are The Red King, are you not? You have a certain reputation to uphold,” he whispered into Rory’s ear.

  “I cannot play this game now, Etienne,” Rory replied, too tired and worried to respond to such adulation.

  Etienne sighed, loudly. “A little sport would make the time go much more quickly.”

  “I neither wish to sport, nor game, nor any other sort of frolic,” Rory said, running his hand through his hair. He kept his tone temperate by sheer will. “Truly, Etienne, I am just…tired.”

  Malik laughed from his place on the quarterdeck, halting all conversation with the report.

  “It would help, Rory. Will you not try?” Etienne asked.

  Rory did not know how to impart to him how grueling it had been, separating himself from Andrew. A dozen times he had to force himself not to return to the cabin, just to check. Just to look. “Perhaps tomorrow night. Forgive me.”

  He bowed to Etienne, who watched him with sad, knowing eyes, and then to Nils, who clicked his heels and returned it, and left the deck. He made his way to the hold and sought an empty hammock. Wrapping his cloak around him, he settled into the canvas, and let the swaying of the ship soothe him into uneasy sleep.

  In his dream, he lifted an apple to Andrew’s lips, held his body close as gently rolling waves lifted and released them. He felt the phantom tugs of fingers moving through his hair, now shorn so short as to be ungraspable. He saw Andrew smile and heard him laugh, saw tears standing in his bright eyes. When the dreams turned to visions of passion, breathy sighs against his skin and hands stroking down his back, Rory woke, staring blearily at the beams above him.

  It was nearing daybreak when he stepped out into the open deck once more. There were sleeping men scattered about, for the wind was losing its northern chill and the clear skies made for more comfortable rest. The warmth, distant though it was, reminded him that soon they would be home. The thought cheered him, a bit, and he smiled to himself when he considered that if Andrew did not recover in time, he could use the temperate clime of Tipaza to convince him to remain.

  “I am hearing strange stories, Ruaidhri.”

  Turning, he found Ortega leaning over the quarterdeck, looking down at him. “What is that to me?” he asked, meeting the man’s stare

  “Regardless of what you believe of me, I am capable of admiration and affection. I feel both for Andrew,” Ortega answered. He jumped the stairs to land on the deck before Rory, who watched him suspiciously. “Why do you disbelieve me? It is what led me to agree to your terms.”

  “That was the gold,” Rory said, woodenly.

  The look on his face was the closest to remorse Rory had ever seen on the man. “Ruaidhri, please.”

  Rory shook his head, sighed, and relented. “Andrew remembers nothing; not you, me, his friends….his reason for being here. He cannot retain even the freshest of memories; they are wiped clean as he sleeps and gone when he wakes.”

  Ortega frowned down at his feet, silent for a moment before saying, “I knew his injuries were severe, but I had no idea.”

  “It is not his injuries, at least, not directly,” Rory said. At Ortega’s confused glance, he elaborated, “He was party to a death while in Maarten’s grasp. Laurent thinks it may be his mind wishing to be free of the experience, causing the whole of it to be forgotten to that end.”

  “Mm, he’s a clever one, Laurent. I would say he has it right,” Ortega agreed, nodding. “Can I be of any assistance?”

  “He wishes to be left alone. We have committed to honoring that, so, please, leave him be. For now. It is your cabin, of course, so moving him to another will be necessary. If you could let us know so that we can assist, we would be grateful. Clothes, perhaps, in case he would like to see the sun again,” Rory said, reviewing the list in his mind. There was one more thing. He inhaled deeply and clenched his fists at his side. “And, his passage, should he chose not to remain with me.”

  “What?” Ortega was clearly shocked.

  “I will not force him,” Rory added, his voice low and gruff with suppressed emotion. “If he doesn’t want to come with me, I ask that you take him some place safe.”

  Ortega watched his face, expectantly. “You would trust me with this?”

  Absurdly, Rory felt his throat tighten on his answer and his eyes stinging. “Please, he has no one outside of the life he made with me. I need to know that he’ll be…” he pause to swallow, thickly, “taken care of.”

  “I will, of course. Do not fear on that account,” Ortega promised, gravely.

  Rory felt a bit of the tension in his body eas
e and tears caught in his lashes to blur his vision. “Thank you.”

  “He is a remarkable young man. He will do well in the world, no matter where he is,” Ortega added, stepping closer. “But only a fool cannot see that he belongs with you. I will do my utmost to see that he stays there.”

  Too relieved to be embarrassed by his sudden weakness, Rory scrubbed his hands across his eyes. He did not speak, instead turning his gaze up to the mast. To break the silence between them, he commented with more serenity than he felt, “You have a fine ship, Capitan.”

  Ortega smiled and when he put his hand on Rory’s shoulder, Rory did not push it away. “Let us break our fast, and then I’ll show it to you.”

  The day’s distraction was nominally more successful than the last. While never doubting that the man was of keen mind and quick action, Rory gained a fuller appreciation as he was introduced to the crew. Never once did Ortega falter in his familiarity with each man’s name, station, and origin; a triumph for Rory and his own crew of forty yet this was easily twice that count. Unabashed in acknowledging his own shortcomings, Rory was humbled, and said as much.

  “I was trained in service to the Crown of Spain, Ruaidhri, and have helmed this ship since dismissed from that station. It is all I know. Rather you should feel more accomplished for learning alone and under duress. It is no mean feat to take on a vessel with no inkling of how to run it,” Ortega answered, easily.

  Raising his brows, Rory looked at him, askance. “Is that praise, Captain?”

  Ortega snorted, indelicately. “Never. Simply an observation.”

  At midday a crewman found them sitting on the gun deck, discussing firepower, range, and the need for mobility. Rory recognized him as the pale, awestruck Nils, introduced to him by Etienne the previous evening. In his hands was a bundle of cloth, topped by a pair of highly shined and buckled black boots. Ortega thanked him and sent him back to work.

  “These are from the same chest, presumably the same man. Sized about right, though a bit flamboyant,” Ortega said, passing them to Rory.

  “So I see,” Rory murmured, eyeing the stiff blue velvet breeches. “Still, he’ll need them, eventually. Thank you, again, Captain. I am ever more indebted to you.”