Winds of Change & Eye of the Storm

by Lee Rowan

  “I had to, Will. I had to know why. It nearly sent me mad, wondering. I was almost ready to do myself in—”

  Will’s arms tightened convulsively. “I didn’t realize—”

  “I could not understand why you refused to answer me.” There was pain in Davy’s voice and a ghost of frustration. “But once you sent that damnable sonnet, I guessed you were only being noble and stupid. You and I have nothing to do with Shakespeare and his dark lady—or his dark laddie, either.”

  Will shook his head. “Not noble. Stupid, perhaps. I only wanted you to have a better life.”

  “There is no better life,” Davy said with certainty. “Not for me. But if you’d decided to try for a proper officer’s life—a wife and children—Will, for all I knew, you might have met a girl. If not for me, you’d have found yourself a wife by now—a sweetheart, at least. You should, you know—once you make Post Captain, it will look peculiar if you don’t settle down.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake! I’ve never wanted anyone else.”

  “You never had a chance to look for anyone else,” Davy said sagely. “You’re the one who should be thinking of a better life. I have no military ambition, but you’ll make Post before long.”

  It might have been the late hour or the wine, but Marshall found himself completely muddled. “Do you truly want me to do that?”

  “It’s nothing to do with what I want. I should love to find a place we could just live quietly together. What I want is simply not possible. But—Will, marriage is what’s expected if you mean to stay in the Navy, and I know you do. Since you don’t have rank or position outside the service, your ambition would be best served by finding a wife who can advance your social standing.”

  “And where would that leave you?”

  Davy was quiet for a moment that spun out in the darkness. “That depends on you, I suppose, and on what sort of marriage you might make. For some women, it seems to be more or less a business transaction, trading an heir for security, with hardly any feeling involved. And so many married men have mistresses… I suppose we would contrive.” He yawned hugely. “I’m sorry if I sound cynical, Will, but one of my own sisters married her husband in order to have her own establishment. She was quite pragmatic about it. She’s given him a son and she’s a splendid hostess, but according to my other sister, they seldom even sleep in the same house. If you had that sort of businesslike arrangement, you would be safer.”

  “I don’t—”

  “We’d both be safer,” Davy insisted. “And if we were at sea, your wife would be her own mistress most of the time—or even someone else’s. I wouldn’t mind sharing, if she didn’t.”

  Marshall was a bit shocked at Davy taking this line—though to be honest, a nice, safe, affectionate marriage—certainly not a business arrangement—was exactly what Will had been thinking would be best for his lover. But even though what Davy suggested was true, Will didn’t want to find some unsuspecting woman and marry her for public appearance. It would be the most despicable sort of lie, and he already felt like ten kinds of a scrub. “I don’t deserve you.”

  “Very likely not, but you’ve got me.” Davy took the harshness out of the words with a kiss. “We’d better sleep now, if we can. We’ll have no rest tomorrow—or later this morning, to be precise.”

  “That’s true. As early as possible, I must locate Barrow. He’s a proper bosun, he’ll know where to find the men we need. Old Calypsos, if we can find them.”

  “And I must take a letter to your landlord, pay your shot, and pack your dunnage. You’ll be busy enough here. There’ll be no time left for such errands once you start hiring.”

  “Oh, lord, I’d forgotten the Vicar. Yes, if you would. Thank you.”

  “A command enters your mind and all else flies out.” Davy’s lips brushed across Will’s. “I’ll be playing second fiddle to a Mermaid.”

  “You’ll play second fiddle to no one,” Will said. “Besides, I can’t take a ship to bed.”

  “Lucky for me.” Davy said, stretching luxuriously. “But it’s too bad we can’t take this bed to the ship. Come morning, it’s back to separate hammocks and best behavior.”

  At this moment, warm and sleepy and sated, Will felt as though he had all he would ever require. “Oh, I’m sure we’ll find time now and then.”

  “Until we sail, you won’t have a moment to spare.” Davy flung an arm across Will’s body and nestled against his shoulder. “But at least we’re together now. Good night, Will.”

  Chapter 2

  SOMETIME LATER, Marshall woke in the darkness to find himself wrapped around a familiar form, and fought to stay asleep so the dream would not vanish. Then Davy wriggled his rump backward and rolled over for a kiss, and Will remembered this was no dream.

  “Are you asleep?” Davy murmured.

  “Yes. And I’m having a wonderful dream.”

  A soft laugh. “You fool.” Davy touched his face, his thumb trailing across Will’s lips as the hand brushed down the side of his neck and shoulder. “Do you have any idea how I’ve missed you?”

  “Oh, possibly.” He ruffled a hand through Davy’s hair, thinking of the beautiful golden mane that had been sacrificed to disguise earlier that year. “I’m glad you gave me your pigtail, but this suits you.”

  “You’ll need your own mop tidied. Only the oldest sea-dogs are still wearing the queue.” Davy pulled him close for another kiss, forestalling a reply. The taste of him drove away thought, and Will realized he wasn’t going to get much sleep this night.

  He couldn’t find it in him to care. The feel of Davy’s hands upon him, the sharp intake of breath when he licked the side of his lover’s neck, then blew upon it, laughing softly as Davy shivered. “Do you want that salve now?”

  “Yes, wait….”

  He let go enough for Davy to be able to reach down into the bag that held his things, and prepare himself. This was worth taking time for; Davy was right, they would not have time later. He reached between them to find Davy once again roused and ready, as he was himself.

  “Lie back,” he suggested. The last time they’d been together, Davy had been too recently wounded to risk Marshall lying atop him, though he liked that best of all. Was he healed enough for that now? Will hovered over him, kissing down his chest, capturing a nipple as he pinned Davy’s legs together, running his fingers down one side of his body, then the other, steering him like the finest ship that ever sailed. Their cocks rubbed against one another, delicious friction that made him want more, and he moved up for another kiss, their voices the barest whispers in the dark.

  “Will—Oh, yes!”

  “Is it safe now? For you, I mean.”

  “It should be. Do you want to?”

  “Are you mad? Wanted nothing else since I first saw you.” He shifted his weight so Davy could open his legs, then raised his lover’s hips and slid sweetly home, feeling like a ship come into harbor at last.

  Davy groaned and he froze. “Does that hurt—ow!” A sharp pinch to his arse made him thrust forward, and Davy pushed back against him, turning the movement into a gentle rocking as he wrapped his legs around Marshall’s so he could not get away.

  “It feels good, Will. For pity’s sake, don’t stop!”

  It was worth taking the time to make love properly, and as they moved together, Will lost track of everything but the sensation spreading from his belly and balls until it burst like fire throughout his whole body. Davy gasped a moment later, thrusting against him and then falling back with a satisfied sigh.

  “To answer your question,” he whispered, “Yes. I’m fine. Never felt better. And the towel is under your pillow.”

  Marshall dipped his head to catch Davy’s half-open mouth and kissed him into silence, savoring the sweetness he’d missed so much. “Confident, weren’t you?”

  “Well, since you ask—yes. Here, give me the towel.”

  Davy wiped the stickiness off them both; they would wash the cloth out tomorrow, when the
y shaved, another little precaution that was a constant reminder of the vigilance they must maintain.

  It was worth the effort, worth the lost sleep. However tired he’d be in the morning, Will didn’t grudge a moment. But he fell asleep immediately, a sleep deeper than any he’d known since the last time they’d lain together.

  A LOUD, staccato noise hauled him up like an anchor from the deep. It resolved into a thumping on the door, and Marshall blinked as he tried to remember where he was. This late in the year, the sun took its time rising; it was still dark outside.

  Davy was already up, struggling into his nightshirt. He opened the door, admitting a servant boy who carried in the shaving water that had been requested the night before. After the boy left, Will sat up, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. The bare floorboards were cold against his equally bare feet, but the sensation helped him wake up. He needed a moment to soothe his rattled nerves before he felt prepared to apply the edge of a razor to his face.

  “I’ve ordered hot chocolate brought up,” Davy said, closing the door, “and rolls with butter. We can put those in our pockets if you mean to run off immediately.”

  “I do mean to run, but not this instant.” Will caught his hand and pulled him down for a quick kiss. “My God, I’ve missed you. Not only this”—he stroked Davy’s naked thigh—“but just having you here to talk to.”

  Davy leaned closer, bending down to kiss the top of Will’s head. “Yes. But there’s no time for either now, is there?” He smiled ruefully and turned to his own shaving gear. “I do wish we could find ourselves a little cottage somewhere, at least until the war resumes. But you’ll be happier with a deck underfoot, and perhaps I will be too.”

  Perhaps? Not wanting to borrow trouble, Will said nothing, focusing instead on scraping the stubble off his face. He hoped that Davy was truly well enough to undertake this mission, and that he really wished to do so. How ridiculous if would be if each of them had signed on because he thought the other wanted him to.

  But no…. That was not true in his own case. Even if there’d been no David Archer thrown into the bargain, wild horses could not have kept William Marshall away from the deck of that schooner. He had never realized how fully his own existence had centered around life aboard ship, where one’s whole world was comprised of a few dozen, or at most a few hundred, faces. The clutter of buildings in Portsmouth, the ever-changing panoply of people and carts and beasts, the sheer noise of a busy port—it was one thing to spend a few days ashore now and then, a pleasant diversion. To be trapped here in the crush of humanity, with the crowds and stink and the swooping gulls screaming his own longing to be out and away, running before the wind with all canvas set….

  “Ahoy, Captain Marshall!”

  He jumped and nearly cut himself. “What?”

  “Breakfast is served.” Davy slid the tray onto the table beside the shaving pan. “Out at sea, weren’t you?” he asked shrewdly. “‘Spill your wind and eat your wittles,’ as Calypso’s old cook used to say.”

  “Sorry,” Will said with a smile. “You’re right, I was wandering. It seems an age since I’ve been at sea. I do miss it, Davy. I’d begun to wish I’d never made Commander. There are so few vessels in that class, and every one spoken for.”

  “You’ll be glad of the rank when war resumes. Even if you hadn’t been promoted, there seem to be a dozen lieutenants for every post in what remains of the fleet.”

  Will nodded, breathing in the delicious aroma of hot chocolate. “Two dozen, at least. Perhaps more. And now this, after I’d given up all hope—how can I thank you?”

  “Don’t be foolish.” Davy split open a roll, steam rising in the cool morning air. “I hardly slept since we made landfall, for worrying that you might have found someone else.”

  “I hope you’ve done with that, at least!” Will sipped the chocolate, then spread butter on one of the fragrant rolls. “In order to find something, one must seek it, I think—and I have no talent for such things even had I the interest, which I do not. I must be like one of those birds that mates for life—I feel jealous when a shop-girl so much as smiles at you.”

  Davy looked up quickly. “No, really?”

  “Yes—so, if you please, no advances toward the Vicar’s wife when you return his cart and collect my sea chest. Her name is Mrs. Merriman.”

  With a grin, Davy asked, “Is she pretty?”

  “She’s a handsome woman,” Will began. Davy’s eyebrows shot up, and he could not resist laughing. “She’s also about twice our age, and properly disdainful of young gallants, as she told me when I made my manners. But they’ve both been kind to me. I shall miss them.” He finished off the last of his breakfast. “And I’ll miss the chance to find Barrow if I don’t shake a leg. Come, I’ll take you to the stable where I left the Vicar’s cart.”

  “One moment.” Davy leaned against the door and pulled Will into a kiss. Will didn’t object, and he didn’t hurry; this last touch of lips and body would have to last them both till God knew when. But he didn’t dawdle either. He could hear his Mermaid calling.

  “STOP HERE, Davy.”

  Archer checked the mare, a docile, obedient creature whose thick winter coat let her disregard the drizzly November rain. “Where’s the house?”

  Will nodded toward the short road to his left. “Just three doors down. I’ll get out here. You can continue along this street, then take the first left turn at the apothecary on the corner. I’ll meet you down at the Sally Port, then, sometime before noon?”

  “Oh, I’ll find a boat to bring me out. I remember where we moored her, you know.”

  David Archer exchanged a discreet hand-clasp with his lover, then watched until Will reached the door of the rooming-house. He looked back with a quick, bright smile and disappeared inside. With a sigh, Archer lifted the reins and started the Vicar’s gentle mare back toward her home. He was nearly there before he realized that, in the excitement of their reunion, neither he nor Will had really considered the details of this expedition. Once he returned the cart, he would have no way to haul Will’s dunnage back to the Mermaid. He would have to throw himself on the mercy the Vicar’s wife, and trust her to find a solution.

  The rain had let up by the time he found the place, a modest church building with the vicarage set behind it, the house abandoned but for a girl in the kitchen. Ten or twelve years of age, she was cleaning dishes and minding a bowl of rising bread dough.

  “Missus is gone out,” she said.

  “Yes, I had gathered that. Will she be back soon?”

  “May be.” Her small face set in a resolute frown, she said nothing more until she’d finished punching down the dough and replacing the damp cloth that covered it. “Legget’s baby is sick, she took ’em some broth. Likely she’ll stay awhile, let Mrs. Leggett sleep.”

  “Do you know where Mr. Marshall’s cottage is?”

  “Cowpath out back, past t’ pond.”

  “Thank you very much for your trouble.” He placed a penny on the table and left her staring at it, round-eyed, hurriedly wiping her hands on her apron.

  He led the horse down the cowpath, hoping the wheels would not lodge in the rutted, squelching mud. The cottage was a simple thing, one front room with a sleeping room beyond it, and the usual out back. The door had no lock, only the simplest latch. It had probably been the original parson’s cottage, thriftily kept in repair down through the years.

  The bedroom was like a monk’s cell. Will’s uniforms, one dress, one second-best—he was wearing his everyday garb—were folded in his sea chest, along with stockings and winter drawers. Beneath these were his navigational instruments and reference books, and a few odds and ends. Four shirts and two pair of trousers—one threadbare, the other Sunday-best—were folded neatly on a low shelf beside the bed, with a well-worn deck of playing cards tucked beneath the shirts, no doubt to spare the religious sensibilities of his landlord.

  Archer made a mental note to see whether he could find a tai
lor in town who’d be able to produce a respectable merchant-captain’s coat using Will’s uniforms as a guideline. A proper merchant did not want a seedy-looking captain at the wheel… and Will did look splendid when he was properly dressed.

  Three books lay on the small table by the window of the clean but spartan room, holding down the latest copy of the Naval Gazette. The first was a Bible, which, according to an inscription on the flyleaf, belonged to the household, the second a well-thumbed book of navigational mathematics—how Will could find such material soothing to read, Archer did not understand—and the last was a pocket diary.

  He meant to restrain his curiosity, but he could not resist a peek—just one quick look, he would close the book immediately if there was anything inside he should not see…. But there was not. The book was nothing more than a record of Will’s efforts to find a ship, or even a shore assignment, dating from the moment he’d arrived in Portsmouth until just a week ago. There were a few captains’ names at the end, two with “London?” behind them, one without a location. Nothing more.

  What had Will been doing all that time? From March to November, this dreary, fruitless search, all to no avail. The cards…. Yes, he could imagine Will laying them out in endless games of patience, creating order in the random fall of numbers. He might have borrowed books, too, and newspapers, but what a bleak life this must have been!

  Well, that was ended now. Life would be back to normal.

  At least it would be for Will. If Commander Marshall felt back on an even keel, Archer himself was now adrift. And he had been drifting ever since he began to recover, back at Kit’s plantation in Jamaica.

  He still loved the sea, and the fresh, open expanse of sun and water and the sense of purpose that came with travel. The voyage home had been a delight, even when they ran into dirty weather. It had been good to be active again, back in motion, sailing somewhere with something important to do.