by Lee Rowan
It had nothing to do with religion. His father might have been a minister, but Will had long since decided that the being called God, if he existed at all, was at best coldly indifferent to suffering and at worst a sadist. At first Will had been angry at God, or Fate, call it what you would, but as time went by, he had no one left to be angry with but himself. Anger took too much effort, too much energy, and he had none left. He had nothing.
Back to the mundane. Back to his modest lodgings, a room let to trustworthy gentlemen by the widow of the master’s mate from the Titan. Mrs. Quinn was motherly to a fault. He found her solicitude bearable for the day or so he was in town every month; sometimes he even welcomed it. Tonight he could not stand even the thought. Perhaps it had been the time he spent with those soldiers, seeing their friendship, the easy camaraderie that reminded him too much of what he’d lost. He should have bought a bottle of wine and stayed indoors.
But he had not, and it was too cold and wet to spend time walking about Portsmouth. His shoes were already damp, and he would need to let them dry slowly, so the leather would not crack. It had become a point of pride—useless, stupid pride, Davy would say—that he was living entirely on his half-pay, not touching the prize-money from his years in the Navy. Soon he must see about getting another pair of shoes. Perhaps he would use tonight’s winnings; that should be more than enough, so long as he stayed away from the expensive shops that catered to fashionable gentlemen. But he did not care to stay in town long enough to visit even an ordinary shoemaker, and this pair was still good enough for everyday wear.
“…if you should ever be in need….”
The late-night whisper nagged like a hungry ghost. He did not have to do this. He could write a letter—one line would do—and he would be on the way back to where his heart was. Or Davy would come to him—they could buy a cottage out in the country, well away from anyone who might be involved with Naval Intelligence. Even if Davy was no longer in Jamaica, a letter to Baron Guilford would always find him.
Was Davy still in Kingston? Marshall didn’t know. It didn’t matter. He would not write that letter. He could not. What future would David Archer have with a sodomitical lover?
“You wouldn’t tell me, would you?”
No, Davy. I cannot. For your own good, I cannot.
That part of his life was over. The door was closed. Davy was no longer even David Archer; he was now David St. John, woods colt of a noble family, an honorable family, his natural ties of blood and honor. A better life for David. It was the life he had been born to, free of the trials and danger he’d had to endure in the Navy. Once he was able to leave off that ridiculous guise, he would have no trouble finding another lover—or a wife, if he chose to settle down and raise a family.
Surely Davy could shake off the aberration, the consequence of a womanless nautical isolation that had brought them together. He didn’t need a hanger-on from his past, a fool who had nearly caused his death, interfering with his chance for a future.
Yes. That was for the best. Loneliness had been the root of it, no doubt. A lover who was also a friend had probably been good for Davy, after the abuse he’d endured from the dregs of the service, and Davy had given himself in response to Marshall’s need. He knew, at least, that he had given Davy pleasure—such times they had shared!—and, of course, Davy would miss his lover for a time. But he had most likely already met other, more congenial friends, people from his own class. Normal people. Of course he would accept Will back even after all this time, and no word; his sweet, giving nature would make it impossible for him to refuse a friend. But Davy had given up so much, had given him so much—that Marshall could not conscience asking any more. And in some ways, a clean break was all to the good.
You are better off without me, Davy. I let you down so badly.
He had bungled matters thoroughly on the Valiant. He should have stuck with Davy every minute; they should have confronted Dowling together. The man would have known he could not kill both of them—and if Humberstone’s plan had been diminished, what of it? Killing the saboteur, or arresting him, would have removed him from the ship and ended the danger. But he had not considered that Dowling might act against Davy, not until it was too late. He had let Davy down both as a lover and a friend. If he was alone now, it was because he deserved it—and at least he would know that he had not ruined the life of the man he loved.
He looked up and realized his gloomy maunderings had carried him all the way to Mrs. Quinn’s. As he reached to knock on the door, it opened before his hand. Damn the woman, could she not wait until he was within doors?
“Mrs. Quinn, I’m sorry to be so late.”
“Oh, Mr. Marshall, it’s no trouble. In fact, you have a caller.” She patted him on the shoulder as he walked in, as though he were some sort of wandering hound come home at last. “A gentleman fine as yourself, he’s in the front room. Having a drink.”
Something in her tone made Marshall suspect that the gentleman had paid handsomely for that drink, but he chided himself. The poor woman was getting by on next to nothing, and had he not just earned the price of his lodging by teaching applied mathematics to some other fine gentlemen’s sons?
And then he read the card she held out to him. His visitor was none other than Kit’s friend, Sir Percy, one of a handful of men besides Marshall himself who knew David St. John’s true origins. Marshall had met Sir Percy once, briefly, at a party in London, thrown by Davy’s mother to celebrate her youngest son’s elevation to Lieutenant.
Will mumbled thanks to Mrs. Quinn and hurried into the little common room. In his elegant fop-about-town attire, sleek brown hair brushed back into a tidy queue, Sir Percy looked like a lily in a cabbage patch amid the homely surroundings.
“Mr. Marshall!” The nobleman rose, nodding graciously.
“Sir Percy. Whatever brings you here on such a night? Is—” He did not want to ask if anything were amiss with David.
“Lord St. John and his cousin are well, and send their regards,” the gentleman said. He glanced toward the doorway; Marshall could imagine Mrs. Quinn just outside, with either her eye or ear to the keyhole. From his amused expression, Sir Percy had taken the lady’s measure well enough—benevolent but excessively curious. “Your landlady seems most….” He raised an eyebrow. “…attentive. Can we be private here, or may I invite you to dinner?”
Marshall’s stomach gave a small cheer at the suggestion; he had forgotten all about dinner, as he often did. “Thank you, sir, but that is not necessary. We might step out for a drink, though I regret the night is unpleasant….”
“I have not yet dined,” Sir Percy said, “and I insist that you join me. My carriage was only awaiting your return.”
“Carriage, sir?”
“Indeed. It should be ready—I asked Mrs. Quinn to send round for it as soon as you appeared.”
To please a guest, Mrs. Quinn would have sent round for the Devil himself; the carriage was indeed just outside the door. As soon as they were safely inside, Sir Percy settled back. “Well, Mr. Marshall, are you interested in returning to active service?”
“Of course! But with this peace, the chance seems unlikely. There are so many ahead of me on the list—”
“For regular service, I am sure. But I am speaking of irregular service.”
Sir Percy, Marshall knew, ran a most irregular enterprise. “The League?” he asked.
“In a manner of speaking. What I am about to tell you must go no further—and if you decide to decline my offer, I must ask that you forget everything I am about to say. But, of course, I know you can be trusted with important secrets.”
“You have my word, sir,” Marshall said.
“Excellent. Well, to put it briefly, which is hardly my normal style, there are certain branches of Intelligence which have made use of the League’s services. Flittin’ about as we do, it is inevitable that we pick up certain information that those gentleman find useful.”
Marshall nodded, still not s
eeing how this affected him.
“I expect you know that nobody on either side believes this peace will hold. And in any event, espionage never stops in peacetime—both sides are too busy keepin’ an eye on one another to see who’ll cheat first. Now, since my friends and I are already engaged in this unofficial news-gathering arrangement, some of the gentlemen in Intelligence circles thought it might be convenient to have us just carry on a trifle more vigorously. And to do that, we need a few more small, fast vessels, and a few more trustworthy men.”
Sir Percy’s brows lifted inquiringly, and Marshall’s heart leapt. “Sir Percy—are you—?”
“Offerin’ you a job, man. You come highly recommended.”
“By Mr. Ar—Mr. St. John?” Davy, bless him. Though he could not possibly accept. “It was kind of him—of all of you—to think of me, sir, and I thank you, but I should stay near Portsmouth, in case a post might open.”
“That gentleman spoke well of you, yes. So did Baron Guilford. As did your former commander, whose expertise I hope you will not dispute?”
Marshall shook his head. Captain Smith was involved?
“They all warned me you would try to talk yourself out of the idea. So let me add that the position includes the unofficial rank of Commander, your usual rank when hostilities resume. The ‘unofficial’ business is strictly a formality, of course.”
Unofficial. So if anything were to go wrong, this might all evaporate. But to have a ship again and something to do besides the everlasting walks—real work, and a deck beneath his feet? “Yes. I accept. Thank you.”
Sir Percy grinned. “Well, that was easier than I expected. You must be mellowing, Mr. Marshall.”
“I am anxious to be back at sea, sir.”
“As is Mr. Archer. You both will have your work cut out for you, to have the Mermaid ready to sail in a week’s time.”
Marshall’s breath caught. “Mr. Archer? Do you not mean Mr. St. John? I thought he—”
“Archer he was born, sir, and Archer he is once more. I fancy there is a grave you might want to dance upon, now that things are back to normal. A fellow named Dowling, old shipmate of yours. He was caught one day in an office at the Admiralty, in circumstances so compromising that he could not extricate himself. He was hanged as a traitor these two months past.”
“Two months? How kind of them to keep me informed!”
“Mr. Marshall, we’re speaking of the Intelligence Service. Some of these johnnies wouldn’t tell their own mothers that they’d been born. It was nothing personal—but if it is any consolation, a message was sent to Mr. Archer as soon as humanly possible.”
Will leaned back against the coach seat, exasperation mingled with relief. However late the news, the nightmare was finally over. Davy was free. “Thank you, Sir Percy.”
“My pleasure. Now, I had already offered Mr. Archer the position you just accepted. But he declined command, decided he would be more comfortable serving under one particular officer of the Royal Navy.” Sir Percy’s expression was all wide-eyed innocence.
Will’s heart thumped. “We—we would be serving together? Mr. Archer and myself?” He was afraid to let himself believe he had heard correctly.
“Yes. Details to be worked out, of course. Which is why we’ll be dinin’ with the Baron and his cousin in a few minutes. The last leisurely meal you’ll have for some months to come, I’m afraid.”
“I hope you’re right, sir.”
This was a dream. It had to be a dream. He could not be on his way to take command of a ship, with Davy once again at his side. These past hours had all been fantasy. Any minute now, he would wake up alone in his cold, dreary room, with nothing to look forward to but another day of solitude and regret.
But it was such a beautiful dream. And he could feel his rationalizations slipping away like sand through a glass. If what Davy truly wanted was a wife and family, would he still desire to “serve under” his shipmate and lover? If Davy were to decide he wanted a wife, then he had only to say so, and however much it hurt, Will would set him free.
But what if he wanted the same thing Will wanted? What good would it do either of them to deny it?
He started awake when the carriage stopped beside the coach-lamp outside an inn. “Sorry,” Sir Percy said with a smile. “We must pick up a friend.” He tapped on the roof of the carriage with his cane; in a moment a servant opened the door and let the steps down. “Shan’t be a moment!”
What could he say to Davy? An apology, first off, for ignoring his letters. And a question, a serious question—would you not rather have a normal life? Because no matter how much they loved one another, a life together would never be easy, would always set them a little apart from the rest of society.
“Here we are!” Sir Percy’s ebullient voice floated in the carriage door, soon followed by his cheerful face. “It’s a lovely night, Mr. Marshall. I believe I’ll take the reins myself for the rest of our journey. But here’s some company for you, so you won’t be bored.”
Bitter cold and sleeting—a lovely night?
The carriage tilted a bit as someone came up the steps, and all Will’s considered speeches evaporated as David Archer settled into the seat opposite.
They studied each other in that moment of strangeness lovers sometimes feel when they have been long apart. In the meager light of the lamp outside, Davy’s face was very much the one that had haunted his memories, clean-shaven once again, but slightly different. Thinner, still, and touched with the look of one who had passed through suffering and been changed by it, a look Will knew from his shaving mirror. A man’s face, no longer a boy’s.
But it was still the face he loved, the face he thought he’d never see again.
“Davy.”
“Who else?” The carriage door shut, and before the vehicle had moved an inch, Davy shifted into the seat beside Will and enveloped him in an embrace that turned into a prolonged kiss, warm and sweet, the answer to his unspoken prayers. They were both weeping a little by the time it finished.
“Davy, I’m so very sorry—”
“I should hope you would be!” No soppy sentimentality for David Archer. “Don’t ever do that to me again, Will. That letter! Shakespeare’s thirteenth, for the love of God! Did you read my response?”
“No. No, I kept your letters, but I dared not read them. I knew I’d do whatever you told me to, and I truly thought you would be happier, better off, with a family of your own.”
“Mr. Marshall, if you want to know what makes me happy, you should look in a mirror.” He snuggled down in the curve of Will’s arm and said, “Did you ever read Barnfield?”
“A gentleman once warned me I should deny all knowledge of that fellow,” Will said.
“He was probably right. But I shall tell you one of his poems, and you may take that as an answer to Shakespeare’s thirteenth. Pay attention, sir.” Davy cleared his throat.
“Sighing, and sadly sitting by my love
He asked the cause of my heart’s sorrowing,
Conjuring me by heaven’s eternal King
To tell the cause which me so much did move.
Compelled (quoth I), to thee will I confess,
Love is the cause, and only love it is
That doth deprive me of my heavenly bliss.
Love is the pain that doth my heart oppress.
And what is she (quoth he) whom thou dost love?
Look in this glass (quoth I), there shalt thou see
The perfect form of my felicity.
When, thinking that it would strange magic prove,
He opened it, and taking off the cover,
He straight perceived himself to be my lover.”
“HE ACTUALLY wrote that?” Will asked, scandalized.
“He did. The one about Cherry-lipped Adonis is even more effulgent, but I did not want to make you blush.”
“Too late for that. But you just wait, Mr. Archer. When we have finished dinner with your cousin and Sir Percy, let’s
take a room—a very private room—and I shall see if I can make you blush, as well.”
“You never will,” Davy said with a laugh. “But never let that prevent you from trying.”
Will rested his chin against the top of Davy’s head and touched his face, letting his fingers rest on the exquisite sculpture of cheek and jaw. Despite the dark, beneath his fingers his lover’s hair was blond again, and smooth as silk.
“I’m sorry I was such a fool, Davy. Thank you for coming back to me.”
Davy snuggled closer and put his hand over Will’s heart. “What else could I have done? Sooner or later, my love, I had to come home.”
Eye
of the
Storm
Chapter 1
“STRAIGHTEN YOUR collar, Commander. And get your hand out of my breeches.”
William Marshall, Commander in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, choked on a laugh even as he reluctantly disengaged from a passionate, shockingly improper embrace with his dear friend and lover, David Archer. Davy was right, unfortunately. Their carriage was slowing as it reached its destination, and although fifteen minutes had not been near enough, it was more than he’d thought to ever have again.
“My love, I had to come home.” Will had been near tears at that simple statement. He did not deserve such fidelity; he had not expected it. For months he had ignored Davy’s letters, a deliberate severance of contact that had been meant to turn his lover away from this unsuitable, dangerous attachment. But it had been to no avail. Davy had refused to accept Will’s self-immolation and rejected the notion that parting was better for either of them. Since he had answered the desire of Will’s heart rather than his muddled head, it was impossible to wish he had done otherwise.