Part I

In the yellow glow of the Kingston infirmary, Horatio sat in silence. His eyes would not leave Archie’s eyes. Brightness burned out from them still from the fever and the unexpected tears of his final moments, a last glimmer of vitality from which Horatio could not bring himself to look away. But soon that brightness would fade. Archie was gone. His good name was gone. The ashes of memory were all Horatio had of him now.

He was numb inside, too numb to comprehend the shock of what Archie had done for him, the anger at the tribunal, and certainly too numb to be grateful for his own life. He would never be grateful for that. In fact, there was nothing in the world he would more willingly part with.

But he no longer even felt alive. He felt . . . not simply bereft, but non-existent in his own skin. It was as though he had been cut off from his senses and only sight remained. Sight showed him a body, one he had known with all his senses and that had reminded him that he had a body of his own. He so often forgot, lost in the prison of his own mind.

What a cruel coincidence; he would live in a prison after Archie had died in one. Horatio supposed it was fitting. It would be a gross disrespect to live in joy while Archie reposed in disgrace. Misery made for a worthy penance. Absent thee from felicity . . . He could still hear Archie’s voice reading snatches of verse. Horatio had never thought to pay the words much mind – he had scant appreciation for drama – but now he realized he remembered all the lines. Those elaborate death scenes he had once found so contrived and ridiculous did not hold a candle to the absurd tragedy here.

The lines continued to tumble through his mind and Horatio gave himself over to the absurdity, caught up in the puzzlement at his own half-alive state and the grotesque reverence for the body before him. It was not Archie – not anymore. Archie had gone away. But the body . . . Horatio looked upon it as one would a relic. It fascinated him. He could not wrap his mind around the idea that Archie no longer inhabited it. The idea of death itself began to puzzle him. How could Archie simply . . . stop? They had only been speaking a moment before. How could he vanish and yet still lie there?

Horatio swallowed. He was going mad. His mind was not working. The walk to court had torn Archie’s wound and he had bled to death. It was all very simple in medical terms. Archie was gone and he was alive because of it. Archie had thrown away a small chance of recovery to save him – the least of what he had thrown away. Horatio’s stomach knotted. What Archie had done had made so little sense that Horatio barred his mind from pondering it, his eyes still fixed upon Archie’s face as though waiting for Archie to come back and take him with him.

Why art thou yet so fair?

Archie had never been anything less than lovely, even in Spain with the grime in his hair and the filth upon his skin, but now he seemed to glow, his eyes alight and his hair a brilliant gold. Horatio longed to sever a lock, but he had no knife or scissors and recoiled at the thought of touching Archie as one would recoil standing too near the edge of a cliff. He had wanted to touch him moments ago, to take his hand while there was still life in it. He wanted it even more now, to run his fingertips over the curve of broad shoulder or caress Archie’s square jaw, unable to believe that something so strong could fall into decay.

On some logical level, Horatio supposed he should feel relief that the pain of the bullet and the anguish of fever could not harm Archie anymore, nor could any gallows threaten him now, just as Archie had said. But that relief was hollow, as hollow as his own sense of existence. Instead, the pain of Archie’s death cleaved him like a wound and already Horatio could feel the grief eating away parts of him like an infection all its own – the parts of him that felt and cared. It was as though, with Archie gone, Horatio suffered the slow rotting in his place. Archie had found his escape. How was he to find his?

**

Retribution was not much of a ship, but considering the number of officers on the half-pay lists, she was more than Pellew could reasonably hope to secure for his fine protégé. A man of such courage and ingenuity certainly deserved better than to linger ashore. Pride swelled inside Pellew’s body to recall the dashing tale Hornblower had relayed to the court of his assault on Santo Domingo. Such brilliance warranted the highest adulation.

At first he had feared Hornblower would refuse promotion, judging by his grim face and feeble protests over Kennedy’s disgrace and Lieutenant Bush’s seniority. Kennedy’s demise was regrettable, but the man had acted wisely. Surely a man of such loyalty would not wish for anything less than the highest rank for his friend. Hornblower had accepted his new command half-heartedly, but once he had a ship to run and the guns to man he would leave the pain behind and let himself be possessed by a zeal for duty once more.

As it was, Hornblower had not lingered in the infirmary, where Pellew had learned he’d had something a vigil. He had slipped away after Pellew had left him, speaking to no one in a daze of grief. Pellew had expected that on his honor Hornblower would demand to care for Kennedy’s body with his own hands, but that task had apparently been performed by Clive and another surgeon whose mates had seen to disposing of the remains at sea. The surgeons often seemed to find it inhumane to leave the corpses in the shallow sand for the crabs.

A sighting of Mr. Matthews had permitted Pellew to learn of Hornblower’s whereabouts. The man had spied Hornblower entering an inn in the city, and it was there Pellew went in the orange light of sunset. He was directed to Hornblower’s room without delay and answered with a monotone “come” after knocking lightly upon the door. Clearly, the boy was in no mood for intrusion but dared not refuse. That was just as well. In Hornblower’s state it would do him good not to see this as a social visit that he might turn his mind to the business of his ship.

But Hornblower’s state was nothing that Pellew could have prepared for. He opened the door to find the boy sitting upon the edge of the unmade bed in his nightshirt while tawny sunlight still shone in through the window. What fool would try and sleep at this hour?

In his nightshirt . . . . Pellew stopped, closing the door behind him. Hornblower showed only his profile to him, his head bent, but Pellew could see the evidence of tears upon his cheeks. A bottle of dark rum stood near empty beside the bed. Pellew frowned. He had never known Hornblower to drink away his troubles, but the rum explained his disregard for the hour at least.

“Would you care to sit, sir?” Hornblower looked up suddenly, slurring but perfectly courteous, almost deliberately so as though in a mockery of form.

Pellew cleared his throat. Hornblower’s large eyes were unnervingly bright, staring at him though not really seeing, uncaring that his hair was tousled and that his nightshirt slipped from one shoulder. For the first time, Pellew noted the pile he had made of his uniform on the floor, as though he had thrown it off in haste or in a fit of disdain. Such carelessness toward an emblem of duty was so very unlike him that Pellew suffered a twinge of unexpected fear. Hornblower was normally so neat in his appearance, loving personal tidiness like a cat, and would have ordinarily been shamed to be caught in disarray by his captain. It was as though Hornblower had retracted his reverence and would have him know that he remained in the world and in the Service against his will.

He could not allow Hornblower to go on like this, Pellew told himself, sitting down on the bed behind him. War was a cruel and arbitrary thing. The boy would meet new comrades and he would see them die. Duty mattered above all else and Kennedy had done his duty, both on Renown‘s deck and in the courtroom today. Great deeds in His Majesty’s Service on Hornblower’s part would ensure that Kennedy had not been ruined in vain. Hornblower had to understand this.

But Hornblower sat silent, staring down stubbornly at his own hands as though sensing Pellew’s thoughts and refuting the argument though he could not muster the energy to say so. He was angry, distant, and Pellew realized to his dread that he no longer mattered to him. The thought possessed Pellew with a subtle panic and as the silence stretched he began to forget himself.

His eyes trailed over the bare curve of Hornblower’s shoulder. His skin was smooth, soft with youth and Pellew did not like to admit that he had fancied touching the boy more than once. Indeed, up from those early days aboard the Indie the desire had tormented him. He had thought to bury that desire, but now it crawled along his skin like a fever. Hornblower had nearly hanged. Fear of seeing that proud and perfect body swing from the gallows had left Pellew in upheaval since the trial began. Dear God, he would never survive seeing his self-possessed Hornblower suffer such an indignity. Such a thing would be worse than the loss of Hornblower’s life in itself.

Yet Hornblower remained very much alive and his indignity now could not be seen beyond these walls. He was . . . exposed, unraveled – in more ways than one. Pellew could see the lines of his body through the flimsy nightshirt. The pale linen clung to the curve of one thigh where Hornblower’s hand pressed down. Such perfect hands, long and fine. Pellew swallowed hard, an uncomfortable heat stirring up at him, lingering madness from the panic of the last few days, no doubt. He fought for control over himself, struggling to imagine Hornblower safely hidden behind his uniform as Pellew had seen him many times. The thought of uniforms brought him back around to his purpose in coming.

“You’ll want to acquire yourself an epaulette, Mr. Hornblower. God knows we can’t have you mistaken for a lowly lieutenant after all your hard work in Santo Domingo.”

Pellew had meant to sound cheerful, to rouse Hornblower’s spirits with something that might remind him of the honors he had to look forward to. Young officers were ever enamored of the bullion and Pellew had never known a man who coveted it more than the one before him. He too had waited for the day when he might pin the shining gold upon Hornblower’s shoulder and smile down at him in pride. But now that the day had come, he felt like a weary father enticing a sick babe with a sweet.

A shadow passed over Hornblower’s face. He lowered his head even further. “I might have died there, sir, had Mr. Kennedy not come back for me.”

No mention of Mr. Bush; Pellew found that odd, but he had already heard the tale in the courtroom. “A valiant action. I would not have wished you blown to bits along with the rebels.” He would, however, wish satisfaction from Buckland for his stupidity. It might have been better all around had Mr. Bush been sent instead, given that Kennedy had proven useful at the trial.

“Valor deserves reward, sir.” Hornblower still would not look at him. “I fear I cannot walk the quarterdeck like a hero; I’m not that man. Far better if Mr. Kennedy had let them hang me.”

He was drunk. Pellew curled his fingers against the bed to resist the urge to shake the boy from his stupor. No doubt every man aboard Renown would have perished if not for his ingenuity.

“Come, Mr. Hornblower, only a few hours have passed.” Pellew dared to lay his hand upon the younger man’s shoulder, his fingers resting just above where the linen had slipped. He had never touched Hornblower’s bare skin before. The heat and softness of it sent an untoward sizzle through him, but Pellew forced himself to continue calmly. “You cannot allow this grief to blind you from your duty. Once you’re in your new uniform, you’ll –“

Shaking off his hand, Hornblower turned to him, suddenly steely and hot. “I have known him, sir.” His eyes held Pellew’s, watching the shock set in, but then his lashes fluttered and he amended himself. “Or should I say he has known me?”

Few words could be more reckless or damning. Pellew stared at the boy, aware that his office required him to haul him off to be disgraced beside his . . . friend. Not for a moment did Pellew consider it. Instead he felt tremendous unwilling relief, or vindication perhaps. He had never been a connoisseur of male flesh – indeed, his craving for Hornblower had appalled him – but now he wondered if the boy’s inclinations had not festered it somehow.

Pellew let out a breath, shuddering unwisely. His relief mounted as the situation began to make sense to him. He could remember Hornblower on his quarterdeck, staring long into Kennedy’s eyes as only a lover would. Pellew confessed to envying Kennedy then, and though he knew Hornblower bore considerable affection for that golden-haired creature he had never thought Hornblower, with all his precious honor, capable of the physical abomination. That assumption had obsessed Pellew with keeping his own unlawful attraction invisible, fearing it would cost him the admiration he held so dear.

But Hornblower had lost his beloved. He thought himself alone in the world without his daily companion. That made his wretched state all the more dangerous. Pellew realized that he was frightened for him and spoke out of that fear.

“No doubt your grief will remain with you a long time. But you must remember that there are others who hold you dear.”

This time, he laid both hands on Hornblower’s narrow shoulders, though he may as well have touched another body or a suit of armor for all the boy’s mental distance. They sat less than a foot apart. With Hornblower facing him, Pellew could smell the rum and the salt of his tears, like the sea salt he used to smell on him when Hornblower would stand at attention before his desk. But after a moment, Hornblower seemed to understand that his ungodly confession would go unpunished. Perhaps he was even disappointed. Yet his large eyes lingered on Pellew’s face like a wounded animal, hearing his words, and for the first time since the trial had begun Pellew thought he had the boy’s attention. It encouraged him enough to go on.

“Lovers are often parted. Yet it is possible to allay the grief with other things . . .”

His hands were moving over the boy’s shoulders. Pellew could not stop them, fascinated by the texture of Hornblower’s warm skin, the rhythm of his breathing, and his pulse. God in Heaven, what cruel monster would aspire to hang such a masterpiece as this body? His throat dried to look on him, with his rich curls and his shapely lips set in despondence. Pellew drew a breath, all the unholy longing he had shut away slowly creeping toward the surface. All at once he found himself a dissolute and petty man, wanting to compete with Kennedy’s love and show his the greater. What would Hornblower need have done to send him walking to his own damnation as Kennedy had? Smile at him“ Regard him with desire in his eyes. Shuddering inwardly, Pellew forced himself to continue.

“You have your new ship, your career, and those who . . . who admire you. Those who would sacrifice . . .”

Hornblower tensed, and then he lowered his head, a tremor passing through him as he failed to clamp down on whatever emotion welled up unexpectedly. A tear slipped down his smooth sharp cheek and then another. Hornblower’s seemliness stood no chance against the liquor and grief. The absence of it weakened Pellew as well, as though the boy’s propriety, and not reason or legality, had been the shield keeping his longing at bay all these years. Reason had little power over temptation, or fear.

It was the fear that whittled away at Pellew’s self-control, fear of what harm Hornblower would do unto himself in this state of despair. Perhaps if he instilled in him a sense of moral responsibility – even a half-hearted one – Hornblower might live rather than cause his mentor pain. Guilt might be enough to stay a self-slaughtering hand.

Clinging to that thought, Pellew drew Hornblower against his chest. The boy struggled, but drink and tears had left him weak and soon enough Pellew enfolded his tired, thin body securely in his arms. He thought only to hold him, but the warm, balmy weight of him became overpowering, as well as the smell of sweet rum and warm skin, and the quickened beating of his young heart as though it were anxious to overexert itself and expire. Hornblower did not say a word, limp in his arms and sniffling mindlessly, content to remain where he was only because he lacked the will to hold himself up.

Pellew closed his eyes, inhaling the drunken salty scent of him. It was then that Pellew truly forgot himself, forgot that the body against him was little more than a lieutenant under his command and a bereaved boy at that. His hands began sliding over Hornblower’s person as they would have his wife at home. He was so slender, but artistically so, all elegant lines. Pellew traced Hornblower’s spine and then down to the small of his back. An ache stirred in his lap, unbidden but unmistakable, and his hands obeyed it, one moving up and the other down. Pellew soon realized, to his own alarm, that he was gathering up the hem of Hornblower’s nightshirt.

There was no stopping the fever sweeping away his better judgment. His fingers ached for Hornblower’s flesh, to claw through the layers of grief and brand his own fears into the younger man’s body, frustrated that his turmoil had gone eclipsed and invisible due to Kennedy’s circumstances. At last he found flesh, the curve of Hornblower’s hip where the bone jutted and then the hard muscle of the top of his thigh – places that should have been secret from him. Pellew’s lids squeezed tighter, the ache in his body possessing him, pushing him toward the very devilish. He was undeniably aroused and practically quivering to have discovered Hornblower at last.

But there was yet more to discover, and like a scholar happening upon scrolls hidden for long centuries Pellew set about discovering. His free hand pushed Hornblower’s collar further down from his slim shoulder, baring a good portion of his lower back. Of all the wonders, the boy was marked there by faint scratches. Fingernails – Kennedy’s no doubt. Pellew’s belly fluttered with a mix of jealousy and enticement. He tried to imagine his taciturn Hornblower making fierce love to the exuberant Kennedy. By God, to know that fire in him . . . .

Hornblower turned in his arms, no longer quietly weeping, but leaning unsteadily toward the pillow as though wanting to lie down. That would be best, Pellew decided, taking the boy by the shoulders and easing him onto the bed. Burying his face in the pillow, Hornblower did not look at him, no doubt abashed of the fresh tears. As much as Pellew wanted to brush them away and assure him there was no shame just as he had wanted to in Muzillac years ago, he could concentrate on nothing other than Hornblower’s body. His nightshirt had ridden up, revealing his rounded backside and long legs, halfway parted where he lay almost on his belly. In his weakness, Pellew would only imagine that vulnerable pose as a half-hearted invitation, a silent plea to show to be shown that he could be as loved and wanted again as Kennedy had clearly loved and wanted him.

Pellew’s hands sought Hornblower’s flesh again, trailing up the silky back of one thigh, cupping a firm buttock, and then dipping down in the furrow created by his bent leg between hip and belly. He found a bed of thick curls and soft flesh, disinterested in the proceedings. Indeed, Hornblower submitted to his touch as though it were an examination. Damn it, the boy had almost hanged and Pellew had feared for him, not to mention taken pains to secure him a promotion. Why could Hornblower not be flattered and humbled as he would have been before? But Hornblower’s nightshirt had slipped low enough to reveal the marks on his back – Kennedy’s claim on that body even in death. Pellew gritted his teeth. How could a damaged prisoner of war compete with a captain who had sunk two ships-of-the-line?

He wanted to speak, to utter something that would turn Hornblower’s eyes upon him again, but words would not come and he felt as though he were caressing a corpse. His body thrummed for action and there Hornblower lay, begging to be brought to life again. It was a thing of madness that drew Pellew to stretch down over Hornblower’s body; the sight of the gallows had panicked him and he had not slept since the trial had begun. His young protégé was so still, unresisting while Pellew’s body was starved for movement. It happened against his will, but there it was. He was rocking against Hornblower’s body on the bed with only one layer of cloth between them.

His hand was still between Hornblower’s legs, as though he would lay a claim to counter Kennedy’s. But Pellew could not coerce pleasure from Hornblower in this state, only cradle the flaccid length of him in the humid juncture between Hornblower’s long thighs. It was no matter, the contact against Hornblower’s lower body was more than enough, more than a sane would dare, and Hornblower did not protest it.

It was over soon enough in any case, no matter that he was old and no stranger to passion. Pellew sat up heaving, his uniform crumpled, warmed by the heat of Hornblower’s flesh. He was sticky inside his breeches and required a bath, which meant he could not linger long. But there seemed little point in lingering when Hornblower simply lay there, unresponsive and unaware, as though asleep with his eyes open. Indeed, that was to be expected. Hornblower would not be well for some time and would require close looking after until he could be brought around. With Kennedy gone, Hornblower was his to care for now.

The thought filled him with enough confidence to clear his throat and speak. He felt commanding again, with his head cleared, and even justified in his longing given that the boy had no one else to turn to. It was a duty, lest Hornblower wither in despair and take his talent for command to the grave along with him.

“I trust you will be curious tomorrow as to how Retribution is faring. A new commander cannot neglect his ship.” He would have to see to improving Hornblower’s uniform himself, but that was hardly a bother; he would be proud to decorate him.

“Yes, sir.” Hornblower answered after a long pause, still not bothering to turn his head, but understanding that this was a gentle order for him to appear at the docks. His eyes closed a moment later and he said, “Might I be permitted to sleep now, sir?”

He was so formal, as though nothing intimate had happened in this room. Pellew could only take it as a hopeful sign. After all, a man of Hornblower’s dignity surely would have been outraged at such an abuse of his person. But he was weary and despondent, and it would not look well for Pellew to invite him to his own rooms in order to keep watch over him through the night. He would have to employ faith and leave Hornblower here.

“Very well.” Pellew stood up, his breeches close and uncomfortable. Indeed, he would have to bathe. “I’ll see you on the morrow.” He tried to say it cheerfully, but in the back of his mind he knew that Hornblower would not anticipate the meeting or his new ship as he might have in his humble yet ambitious youth.

Part II – Several Weeks later

The Earl of Cassilis was an unlikely guest at Edrington’s London manor. As a rule, Edrington preferred more genteel and refined company, but circumstances rendered such a visit necessary.

They sat in the drawing room around the roaring fire, he and Cassilis corner to one another in two tall-backed upholstered armchairs. The man’s wife and unmarried daughter occupied the chaise before the window. It was a cruel thing to have brought the girl; she need not know of her brother’s ruin if she could not see him again. Indeed, her quiet sobs into her handkerchief gave the room the haunting atmosphere of a funeral. The thought struck a painful chord. For the unfortunate Archie Kennedy no funerals could be held. Those who wept for him condoned mutiny and treachery.

Arabella Kennedy and her daughter Diane possessed a close resemblance to one another, dark-haired and petite, but Cassilis was a different beast altogether. The man had given Kennedy his red-gold hair, blue eyes, and sturdy build, but he was tall and gruff, almost overpowering. Even as a troubled boy, Kennedy had shown fierceness, yet he had always been congenial and well mannered like the women.

Strange to compare father and son now. Edrington had encountered both more than a few times over the years. The business of Parliament brought England’s aristocracy together each April and social affairs had brought Kennedy as well when leave permitted. He knew the son better than the father, of course, and he knew far more of the calamity in Kingston than what the Admiralty would have Cassilis and the public believe. At the moment, Edrington was desperate for Cassilis to lend him his ear on the matter. More than Kennedy’s reputation depended on it.

“The entire affair is suspicious,” he said, after having spent the better part of an hour delicately working the man around to the subject. A son’s disgrace was a painful subject for any father, but Cassilis knew that he and Kennedy were not strangers, nor were he and Commodore Pellew who had presided over the tribunal. In light of those things Edrington hoped his views might be trusted. “I simply cannot believe your son’s conviction to be anything more than political maneuvering. There are rumors that Captain Sawyer was in fact mad.”

Cassilis slammed a great fist on the mahogany table between them. “Damn your ‘mad’! I cannot believe it anything more than stupidity. I’d damn the boy to Hell if the Devil didn’t have him already. If he was so close to escaping this world without suspicion you’d think he’d have the brains to keep silent. His own idiocy led him straight to the gallows.”

Edrington suppressed a chill. He did not like to think of that well-made body swinging in disgrace, but those were the whispers. The man clearly knew nothing of his son’s friendship with Hornblower, nor did he seem to know that it had not been Kennedy intended for the noose or that the entire debacle had been orchestrated by the bloodthirsty Captain Hammond, to whom the Commodore had curiously deferred. Indeed, the Admiralty had successfully distorted the affair to suit their needs. Yet it was best not to mention Hornblower; learning that Kennedy had given up everything for a commoner would only strengthen Cassilis’ conviction that Kennedy deserved what he got. It was best only to test him and see if the man could be brought around. Caution allowed for no more.

“Perhaps it was fever,” Edrington protested. “Or perhaps he was coerced in some way. You might appeal the verdict. I can hardly imagine –“

Cassilis cut him off with a growl. “That worthless little molly’s done me enough damage as it is! The worst I could do is let England think I condone him by engaging in petty bribery to clear his name. He’s lucky he’s been hanged, or else it’d be my hands around his throat.” He made a clenching motion to demonstrate, his mouth twisting with disgust. Then he rose from the chair. “I’ve no patience for this talk. Had I known you had this foolery in mind I wouldn’t have come. He’s no longer a son of mine. God only knows why I was saddled with him in the first place. If that will be all . . .?”

Looking up into that angry countenance, Edrington saw that it would indeed be all. So much for the likeliest source of assistance. He turned his eye upon the Countess and her daughter. The girl still wept, but Kennedy’s mother sat silent. She was a regal woman, in her deep-green silk and pearls, but did not dare protest of her husband – at least not here. Edrington frowned, not expecting that this meeting would be so futile. There was more to tell, of course, but given Cassilis’ threat he dared not risk it.

After the Earl and the two women had gone, Edrington remained before the fire awhile. He succumbed to a sense of sadness on Kennedy’s behalf, unable to imagine how Cassilis’ words might have stung the younger man’s ears had he been present to hear them. Kennedy had never been close to his father, Edrington knew that well enough, but to be condemned and cast out was quite another thing. There was always Hornblower to vouch for his innocence, but who knew when Hornblower would return to England.

Sighing, Edrington rose from his chair. The night had been long and tiresome. He’d had a glimmer of hope when Cassilis had accepted his invitation to dine, but now all seemed lost. A heavy heart weighed his steps as he mounted the stairs. He did not like failing in what he had set out to accomplish and more than that he found Kennedy deserving of better than the man’s contempt and outrage. The tears of the women were more appropriate, though Edrington considered himself a man well past tears.

Once upstairs, He stopped before a closed door in the middle of the hall, hesitating for a long moment among the paintings and tapestries adorning the second floor of his house. Perhaps he should have retired to his own bedchamber to read for a time, but he knew that he would not rest soundly until he had peeked inside that room at least once tonight.

He did not bother to knock, but pushed open the door as quietly as he could and slipped inside. Only the candle by the bed gave light, enough to outline the form beneath the pale coverlet. That figure tossed miserably in his sleep, his hair rendered copper by the tawny light and his face a mask of gilt and shadows. The flush of fever lay over his skin, his features pinched with discomfort.

Edrington did not dare wake him, only stood for a moment over the bed. Kennedy made a tragic image, ill in his sleep with no career or family to wake to now that his father had made himself clear. For the past few days he had done little more than sleep, succumbing to another bout of illness. He had almost perished on the voyage home, Kennedy had told him on his first night here, and even now Edrington feared for him, unable to resist brushing the loose hair from his shoulder.

Sandy lids fluttered. Edrington immediately snatched his hand away. It would not be wise not to wake Kennedy now and or to be caught standing over the bed like a fool. The bedside vigil should have been left for his mother and sister, but their absence could not be helped now. Sleep was the thing for Kennedy in any case. With that thought Edrington retreated from the room.

**

Inactivity reigned over the next few days. Edrington entertained no visitors and Kennedy remained under the doctor’s care. Seeking attention for an undead mutineer was no small risk, but who would suspect that the Earl of Edrington would harbor Archie Kennedy? Who would suspect that Kennedy was even alive for that matter? In any case, he had told the doctor that Kennedy was simply a man in his service injured in an accident; a more elaborate tale would only attract the attention of those given to gossip. Rumors of a mysterious wounded man in his house were the last thing Edrington wanted.

He sat in his study now where the late afternoon sunlight poured in through the half-open draperies. As a King’s officer, he spent little time at home. While Kennedy and Hornblower had braved the sea aboard Renown he had toiled in Egypt where that troublesome Bonaparte had sought to expand French domain. Thank God for the might of Britain. With his fleet destroyed and his army crushed in suitably humiliating defeat, Bonaparte was not likely to trouble the world again anytime soon, and after playing a small part in that defeat Edrington felt rather entitled to the langerous hours at home.

The books upon his shelves had long lain neglected. In his youth he had been fonder of reading, but these days the chaos of the battlefield dominated so much of his memory that his taste for adventure and drama had dulled, having known it firsthand. He wondered if the same would be true for his young friend now. Surely no fiction could outdo all that Kennedy had endured over the past few weeks. Edrington almost pitied Hornblower for the day he learned that victories and promotion held little fascination when compared to a man who had been whisked away near dead under the very noses of his enemies only to arrive home relatively safe and sound.

Kennedy’s escape from Kingston was only the beginning of the tale, of course. Edrington leaned back in his chair with a long sigh. The death of one of Nelson’s own was no small matter with those who kept up with news of the war; there would always be men willing to hand Kennedy over to the Admiralty for a reward. Kennedy’s life would be one of constant danger and fear; he could not hide in the house forever. With even his own father unwilling to help him, Kennedy could not possibly have much of a future. The poor fool had made an unfortunate choice in Kingston. Edrington wondered if Kennedy would ever come to regret it.

“My lord?”

The quiet voice prompted Edrington to look up from his desk. He turned to find the very man occupying his thoughts standing in the doorway.

Frail did not begin to describe Lieutenant Kennedy of late. God only knew how he had made it from Portsmouth to London in his state, but Kennedy had boasted of a talent for orchestrating escapes, eclipsed only by an unfortunate talent for getting recaptured. He had made it all the way to Drury Lane, where Edrington had chanced to meet him one night. There had been no opportunity to talk then, only to see that Kennedy was in dire need of aid. What else could he do but take him home? Actors and actresses hardly counted for protectors, though one of them had been clever enough to stuff her fugitive friend in a dress and wig as a means of disguise.

Kennedy appeared in better health now, but that hardly comforted. He looked much as Edrington imagined he had stumbling to testify at that ridiculous trial. A heated flush still touched his cheeks though the air was cool – not yet spring – beneath his gold waves of hair. He swayed in the doorway, bracing a hand against the wood for balance, his sturdy body visibly thinner beneath the billowing shirt.

“By God,” Edrington glared at him. “Get to bed this instant!” The danger of bleeding to death had long passed, but in his weakened condition a chill would do him no favors. In any case, he appeared dizzy. He must have climbed out of bed in a hurry, perhaps in a fit of frustration.

Kennedy ignored him – a persistent habit of his, Edrington was beginning to notice – dragging his feeble body into the room, bare feet padding softly on the rug; he had not even bothered with stockings. He bore the look of a determined child too stubborn to see the importance of rest, or a besotted martyr, for what use was his body away from Hornblower’s side? Edrington made no effort to conceal his wry smile.

“I wondered if you had any news.” Kennedy still spoke quietly, his blue eyes overlarge and hopeful in his gaunt face. “Or am I to assume they’ll be nothing for me between now and the day they find me and hang me.”

Edrington shook his head. Kennedy was certainly no child, but a man keenly aware of the danger he was in. Yet the younger man’s bitter humor vaguely alarmed him. He had known men who had lost their careers to wounds to slip easily into melancholy cut off from the vigor of their usual lives. Severance from one’s own family and identity could only be worse. Kennedy might think to put on a gallant face for those who tended him, but Edrington had seen him toss restlessly in his sleep. Once he had even called Hornblower’s name.

“None you’d care to hear,” Edrington replied tightly. He glanced down at his desk again where he had been attempting to write his brother. Kennedy had a brother – Edrington had fought with him in Egypt – but Robert was very much his father’s son and contacting him could be dangerous.

The hope had left Kennedy’s eyes by the time Edrington looked up again. His features seemed to have sunken, for all he did not mince words. “I heard you met with my father.” He dragged himself further into the room, stopping beside the desk.

Edrington paused, silently cursing whatever servant had let slip that Cassilis had been in the house. But there was no sense in concealing the truth. Kennedy would have to learn it sooner or later and that steady gaze demanded Edrington be straight with him. Kennedy was no weakling to be coddled with false assurances.

“A few days ago, in fact.”

Kennedy nodded, his quick mind making sense of the fact that no member of his family had visited him since. “I take it the old Earl didn’t find it in his heart to don mourning garb. I didn’t expect he would.”

He might have thought to sound cavalier, but Edrington heard the catch in his voice. Kennedy may have calculated the consequences of his false confession as far as his honor was concerned, but Edrington doubted that in the throes of suffering and self-sacrifice he had spared a single thought for how his father might receive the news. But nothing could change what Kennedy had done and, though he may not be the sort to be pacified with falsities, it would be cruel not to salve the wound of his father’s abandonment with a reasonable bit of hope.

“I dared not tell Cassilis the truth. For the time being he only sees the shame you’ve brought him, though he might willing to change his mind if your innocence can be proven.”

Kennedy snorted. “I wouldn’t depend on it. I don’t think he’s yet forgiven me for surviving prison. He was never fond of me. The girls he can at least marry off.” He made a face. “But I’m sure they won’t miss me either.”

Again, he seemed to want to feign easy acceptance, but his eyes hid nothing, deep blue and unnervingly tragic. It would be unfair not to tell him the truth. “Your mother and sister wept for you, though I fear it unsafe for you to reach them, at least for now.”

This news could not be borne so easily. Kennedy lowered his head and swept his tongue over his shapely lips. Cassilis’s scorn might be abided, but Edrington could see that the women were dear to him; their tears pained “I may as well be a ghost.” He shook his head. “They should not have troubled themselves. None of you should have,” Kennedy added more sharply, the tired, blue gaze meeting his.

Edrington narrowed his eyes; he had scant patience for ingratitude and even less for dramatics. Kennedy should know that his presence here was no trouble, and more practically that he was safe for now; few would spare a thought for Lieutenant Kennedy away from Hornblower. A terrible shame, really.

Ingratitude or no, Kennedy could not be permitted to stand there bereft and anguished on unsteady feet. “Sit down.” Edrington caught the younger man’s arm, drawing him toward the desk. Kennedy jerked dizzily, but managed to brace his free hand against the wood in order to perch on the edge of the desk. For a moment, Edrington held onto his arm. Kennedy’s skin was warm, he could feel it through the thin linen shirt. Their eyes met and Edrington found himself wondering what manner of heartless beast could bring himself to shoot such a beautiful creature. Kennedy looked away, as though sensing the thought and embarrassed by it, far too modest in his own way. He turned his attention to the tall shelves lining the walls.

“You have a great many books. I haven’t read a new book in months. Nowhere to procure them on the high seas, you understand?” Judging by the twist of his mouth, one might have thought Kennedy harbored nothing but distaste for the adventurous life, but Edrington knew better.

“By all means, amuse yourself.” Edrington waved a hand. Books might well occupy Kennedy’s mind until something better could be arranged for him. Until . . . .

Seeming to read Edrington’s mind, Kennedy’s attention drifted from the shelves, turning back to him. He leaned forward on the desk, his shirt gaping to reveal a great deal of his broad chest. Kennedy may have been thin with illness but his body remained a pleasing sight. This was hardly the time for temptation. Edrington cleared his throat, snapping his gaze up to Kennedy’s face, more irked than he should have been by Kennedy’s next question.

“You’ve no news of Mr. Hornblower, then? He must have made it from the West Indies by now.”

Edrington frowned both at the name and at Kennedy’s impatience. Considering the uncertain state of his existence the younger man would do well to think on more important matters than reunions that may never be possible.

“I know not.” He tried to say it gently, but in truth he did not like the fact that Hornblower occupied so much of Kennedy’s thoughts, nor did he like the way Kennedy’s features fell in dissappointment at his words. Hornblower was a fine enough man, but hardly the only war hero in this world or the only friend Kennedy had left. It was unreasonably insulting not to be thought as dazzling. Edrington felt suddenly anxious to divert Kennedy from Hornblower altogether. “However, if you are well enough to be so persistent, then I presume you are well enough to begin showing yourself at dinner.”

The request felt bold. Edrington did not know why; he was not a shy man nor could he allow Kennedy to lie in bed and pine for Hornblower indefinitely. Bold or no, his request was answered with a nod, by which Edrington was well pleased. .

**

The following evening brought Kennedy to his table. He came with a heavy heart, his features grim and his shoulders sagging, but he ate, talking absently between mouthfuls like an aged widow who had lacked for company for a long time.

Edrington watched with faint amusement as the younger man vigorously scraped up his meat and vegetables, only scarcely conscious of good manners. It was as though Kennedy grew hungrier with each morsel, for all the melancholy dispassion his expression would claim. His appetite was encouraging, the only trace of enthusiasm Edrington had seen from him since his arrival.

“My compliments to your chef,” Kennedy said, setting his wine cup down. The fine port put the most brilliant flush into his cheeks, brightening those sad eyes against Kennedy’s will. He sat aglow in the candlelight, painted in such lovely colors. “I’m afraid I haven’t had a decent meal in months.” Again, Kennedy took up his cup, his smooth throat working to swallow another long draught.

Setting down his own glass, Edrington turned up his mouth in a smirk. “That isn’t all you seem to have lacked for.” If a little wine could bring Kennedy alight, then Edrington could not help but wonder what else might be done for him.

His jest only earned him a frown, followed by a wistful glance down at Kennedy’s plate.

“Returning from prison was worse. After two years of naught but gruel and stale bread I feared I’d lost my sense of taste. We had some time ashore in Plymouth before the Indie set sail. I hadn’t a shilling to my name, but Horatio stuffed me with meat and vegetables day-in and day-out. He spoiled me so much I began to fear that I might turn down my nose at beef and biscuit once we were at sea again.”

Kennedy’s blue eyes sparkled with the memory, not the false sparkle the wine had put there, but something richer, almost dreamy. It faded when he blinked and returned to the present, succumbing to the realization that those days were long gone now. Sadness enveloped him all over again and he wore it like fine velvet. It was almost cruel the way tragedy flattered him. No doubt tears would adorn him like diamonds.

All the same, Edrington wrestled with his own irritation. Here his cook had prepared the finest dishes and yet Kennedy could only pine for long ago meals prepared in seedy inns and bought on a mere lieutenant’s pay. Edrington took another drink of his wine, eager to steer Kennedy’s attention away from the past.

“I fear men of our birth were not made for beef and biscuit. I trust you will not find my house wanting.”

“No. No, of course not.” It sounded forced, said out of form. But as long as the place lacked Hornblower Edrington’s manor may as well have been a dungeon. Edrington scowled.

“You’re very cold in your way, Mr. Kennedy.”

A fine gilded brow arched in surprise.  “My lord . . . ?”

Edrington waved a hand. Pride would not allow him to elaborate on the offense Kennedy’s preoccupation had given, if it could be called an offense. “I only jest with you.”  He supposed he had never expected that Kennedy’s natural longing for his friend’s company would leave him feeling lacking somehow. But Kennedy could not be blamed for that.

They lapsed into a brief silence as the servants entered with dessert. Kennedy waved away an attempt to refill his wine glass, his expression gloomy again as his thoughts seemed to run far away from Edrington’s remark of a moment ago. Very cold indeed to thoughtlessly deem any man other than Hornblower unworthy of his attention. Clearing his throat, Edrington sought to distract him once more.

“I trust you care for trifle.” He tapped his fork on his plate in constrained irritation.

Kennedy looked at the wine-soaked sponge cake before them as though seeing it for the first time. He nodded in a semblance of eagerness, leaning forward to help himself to a portion. Edrington could not help but admire his broad shoulders and broad hands as he moved, as well as the almost delicate manner with which Kennedy brought the first bite of cake to his mouth. He found himself wondering what manner of lover Kennedy was. His mouth appeared soft, pink from the wine, and when his tongue swept out to swipe a smear of custard from his lower lip Edrington felt a sizzle through his body.

“Can’t remember when I last had trifle,” Kennedy was saying, almost childlike in the way he savored the sweet taste of the stuff. Indeed, sweets were no doubt heaven to him after being ill for so long. “Mother always –“ Kennedy paused, lowering his head. His gilded lashes fluttered, but after a moment he shook off whatever emotion had come over him. “Well I suppose it doesn’t matter. Forgive me.”

He scraped up the rest of his dessert in silence, and no wonder when his present circumstances tinged every happy memory with pain. Poor creature, Edrington shook his head. There was steel beneath Kennedy’s gilded, pretty exterior, he had seen it long ago, but ruined health never did a man’s state of mind any favors.

“Have you given any thought to the future?” Edrington attempted to change the subject. In truth, he had scant idea what could be done with Kennedy. A more permanent false identity would be in order and such plans would be a better preoccupation for him than the past.

Indignation flitted briefly across Kennedy’s face, like a wife asked at her husband’s funeral when she planned to remarry, but he let it pass with a sigh. “No, I . . . I suppose I haven’t thought on it.” He shook his head with a self-depreciating smile. “It seems so futile a venture.”

Indeed, creating a new life and identify for himself would hardly be easy work, but the subject could not go ignored for long. Yet Edrington saw that this was no night for such talk. Kennedy first required pleasant distractions from the ills of mind and body

“Perhaps you would care for brandy and the fire.”

Kennedy grinned ruefully, and though his cheeks were still aflame from the wine he must have been cold. He took the chair nearest the fire when they entered the drawing room, slouching as though tired, but strangely elegant in the way he draped himself against the dark velvet. Edrington smiled faintly, admiring the play of firelight in Kennedy’s red-gold hair.

Brandy was brought. Kennedy took his glass, sniffling delicately at the stuff before swallowing a mouthful. It must have burned; the color rose in Kennedy’s cheeks and he immediately leaned forward in a fit of coughing.

Edrington watched him from the chair Cassilis had occupied days ago, leaning forward as well to put a hand on Kennedy’s arm. “Are you quite all right?” The younger man’s face flared scarlet like a boy who had never sampled brandy before, or one so used to it he had forgotten to be careful on account of his current health. Kennedy’s small nose even glistened with a drop of sweat.

Shaking his head, Kennedy coughed weakly once more and then chuckled at himself.  “A bit strong when you haven’t had it in a while,” he said, leaning back in his chair again, out of breath.

It was a silly thing, but the sight of Kennedy flushed and gasping suddenly seemed too tempting to bear. Edrington longed to put his hands on him and soak up the heat radiating from his body, wanting to feel Kennedy’s heart pound with the fiery rush of the brandy, exquisite and alive. Yet he restrained himself, raising a cool brow over the rim of his own snifter at Kennedy’s endearing if not pathetic antics in his unwell state.

“They say spirits are a cure for sorrows,” Edrington told Kennedy pointedly, pleased when the younger man took another slower swallow. If only he would accept comfort and distraction as easily.

Kennedy only snorted in his usual cynical manner. “Best bring me a pint, then.”

Edrington frowned, seeing that firmness was in order if Kennedy would not shake off this gloom on his own.  “You’re alive. That is well.” Many had perished of lesser wounds than the one Kennedy had received on Renown‘s deck. It was high time Kennedy showed gratitude for that. As long as a man had his life he had something.

His companion did not agree, heaving a sigh and languishing there in the firelight in true dramatic fashion. “’There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.’”

Far too much morbidity colored that quote for Edrington’s liking. There was nothing so dangerous as a man who did not value his own life, and nothing so tragic as when that man happened to be the beautiful and brave creature beside him. Edrington half wanted to enfold Kennedy in his arms and half wanted to shake sense into him.

 “All is not gloom, Mr. Kennedy. If you would only see it.” He was aware of the openness in his own voice, the slight pleading, but was not shamed by it. Kennedy had lived undervalued for too long; he must come to know that he was admired and that there were those who would be honored to touch his fine gold hair and bring a smile to his lips.

But Kennedy’s thoughts ran back to Hornblower. He wet his lips uncomfortably as though wishing to contain those thoughts. But perhaps the liquor had worn on his reserve; looking over at Edrington with his pained blue eyes, Kennedy spoke freely.

“I think on him, my lord. It angers me that he’s too busy carrying on without me to know I’m still alive. I know it isn’t rational, but –”

Edrington’s hand returned to Kennedy’s arm, attempting to stop this mournfulness in its tracks before the younger man revealed more than he might ordinarily wish to. “The sensible thing would be to think of carrying on as well.”

Kennedy blinked at his stern tone, but went on. “You don’t think I’ll ever seen him again.” It was not a question; he managed to sound both accusatory and crestfallen at once.

“I am no predictor of the future,” Edrington replied more gently, “nor am I a fool.”  His fingers began moving over Kennedy’s arm, stroking gently through the layers of his coat and shirt. The touch brought Kennedy’s eyes to his, bright and intent. Savoring that small triumph, Edrington made himself speak coaxingly so that Kennedy might read his intentions through his words. “Only a fool would allow you to waste the life you have.”

Kennedy looked away and for the first time Edrington glimpsed shame in his expression, not for the fact that they were touching, but for the next thought to make its way to his tongue. “I cannot bear the thought of him trying to live without me.”

The fraught statement was as honest as a man could make in Kennedy’s circumstances.  There was courage in honestly and openness, even if Kennedy could only think to be ashamed of what he might perceive as selfishness. Yet who could blame him for such thoughts? The loneliness of his new existence was no doubt harrowing. But he was not alone. That was the very fact Edrington wished him to understand. His sanity might depend upon indulging in a bit of selfishness and now was as good a time as any to begin.

Taking his fingers from Kennedy’s arm, Edrington sank down to hands and knees, sliding over to Kennedy’s chair in a manner calculated to make the younger man’s eyes widen. Kennedy’s soft pink lips even parted with a quick breath when Edrington knelt on the floor before him and placed a hand on his knee.

“Then live without him, for tonight at least,” Edrington urged softly, circling a finger over Kennedy’s skin through his trousers.

“My lord?”

His companion tensed, yet heat brightened his gaze above his soft flushed cheeks. No doubt it had been a long time since Kennedy had been touched. He would be an easy conquest and God knew Kennedy needed the pleasure. But Kennedy could only stare at him, doubtlessly unnerved by the prospect of such advances in a drawing room. There was hardly cause for such worry; they would not be disturbed.

Edrington shook his head. “There’s no need to call me that.” Kennedy might pretend to be scandalized by such advances at all, but Edrington knew better; he could see that Kennedy longed for more than Hornblower’s company. He wished Kennedy to know that he knew so that any worries on that account could be brushed aside.

Kennedy nodded and Edrington kept his hand where it rested. For the moment, he could only contemplate laying siege to him. He did not know how Hornblower had done it or what avenues led to Kennedy’s heart or to his bed. Men were strange creatures. Hornblower might have won him with a single quality or wooed him in a dozen ways. Kennedy’s openness tonight had revealed a directness in his nature. Perhaps plain speech was the best approach.

“Your devotion is noble, even if you’ve sacrificed too much.” Staring boldly into those bright blue eyes, Edrington let his hand creep a trifle higher up Kennedy’s leg. “But for all that I hope he was a good lay.”

The look on Kennedy’s face told him everything, his expression one of pure entrapment, as though he would both fervently say yes and deny any such assumption concerning the two of them all at once. Edrington did not grant him the chance to do either.

“Mr. Hornblower may carry on with his career and go on to fight the war. Will you wither here and wait like Penelope, keeping your thighs crossed for 20 years?” His hand slid purposely between Kennedy’s strong legs. “I would say you are far too beautiful to belong only to one man.”

Kennedy’s eyes went round. For a moment Edrington spied a glint of wariness in them, as though Kennedy could not decide whether he was predator or admirer. Deciding the latter, he favored Edrington with a tight smile. “You flatter me.”

“I speak only the truth.” Edrington’s fingertips ventured higher and higher along the hard muscle of Kennedy’s inner thigh, sneaking up to where he could feel the heat of him, holding Kennedy’s hot blue eyes all the while. “Mr. Hornblower isn’t the only man who could please you.” He cupped Kennedy intimately, giving a gentle yet promissory squeeze that drew another quick breath from that small, flushed mouth. The sight proved stirring, yet it was not quite enough; if only he could make Kennedy cry out, writhe under him, and forget Hornblower altogether. His fingers moved determinedly with the thought, teasing Kennedy gently as he continued to speak. “You’ve given him everything already and you’ve lived in his shadow long enough. Must he hold dominion over your body when he’s not here to claim it?”

Kennedy twisted under his touch, half hard and breathing quickly, the flush in his cheeks deepened to something rich and alluring. His lips hung open, sweet and pink, and he must have found it difficult to speak with desire clouding his mind. “He would never think of it like that,” he managed and then arched his head back with a hungry little sound when Edrington’s fingers tightened. There was no need to speak, only to forget Hornblower long enough to give into that hunger and the pleasure at hand.

“Shh. I see your mind.” He pushed Kennedy’s soft hair out of his face with his free hand, tracing the curve of one strong shoulder. “There’s no need to play the martyr here. We are all creatures of self-indulgent passion and you must not forget that your separation from Hornblower came of nothing more than his own folly. Had he cared for your body as a proper friend . . . ”

Kennedy tensed, anger flashing in his eyes through the smoky arousal. “It wasn’t like –“ He swallowed, too honest a man to placate himself with excuses. He looked suddenly overwrought, his usual fortitude worn down by illness and the liquor. Clumsily, he pushed Edrington’s hand away. “Your pardon, my lord.” Kennedy rose from the chair, teetering slightly in his haste to retreat before emotion got the better of him.

Edrington stared after him, his own body afire and eager. He had not anticipated refusal once he put his hands on the man, but clearly he had tread upon a tender subject and an infuriating truth; Unwittingly or no, Hornblower had abandoned Kennedy in failing to take part in the funerary duties. It could not be denied. Edrington wondered if, in Kennedy’s heart, the failure could be forgiven. But that was for Kennedy to decide; only a fool would approach that subject again. For the moment no other course of action remained but to retire to bed.

**

After washing and changing into his nightclothes, Edrington found himself restless beneath the blankets, his mind wracked by the image of Kennedy flushed-faced and golden and his skin itching to press that sturdy body against his own. He had been curiously attracted to Kennedy’s blend of vulnerability and courage since he had seen him dart across that bridge in Muzillac, but now his longing for Kennedy had mounted to a crawling frustration. Having his advances refused only made Edrington want him all the more, in his wounded pride. What could Hornblower possibly offer Kennedy that he could not?

A knock sounded on his bedchamber door, but the interloper did not require permission before entering; Edrington should have guessed who stood outside by that small act of impenitence alone. The door creaked open, revealing Kennedy in his nightshirt, the gleam in his eyes visible even by the light of the single candle beside the bed. That look both enticed Edrington and unnerved him.

Kennedy said nothing, only made his way forward, mounting the steps to the bed and climbing inside the half-open curtains. He rose up on all fours on the pale damask, his eyes wild, a man angry and in upheaval, both a lion and an angel at once as he crawled up to Edrington on the bed.

For a moment Edrington felt a curious helplessness, lying on his back while this gilded creature advanced on him with predatory eyes. The nearly transparent cloth of Kennedy’s nightshirt hid nothing of his body. Edrington’s eyes covetously traced every line and curve, from those powerful thighs, to his broad chest and shoulders, to the jutting length of his straining prick tenting the snowy cloth. That explained matters well enough; Kennedy had no doubt lain in bed in a comparable state of frustration and failed to find satisfaction from his own hand, craving deeper pleasure. Pleased with his success, Edrington smirked up at him and then reached to seize Kennedy by the hips, eager to get his hands upon that round golden rump, roll him over, and plunge into him to give him what he needed.

But Kennedy leaned back on his heels, his thighs splayed over Edrington’s body. Shaking his head, Kennedy gathered his own nightshirt up and then pulled the covers down to reveal Edrington’s own aching hardness. Kennedy did not speak, his eyes burning with impatience, and there was nothing else for Edrington to do but twist to reach the table beside the bed and proffer a jar of hand cream.

He let out a sharp breath despite himself when Kennedy touched him with the stuff – he was no boy to jump at a first intimate caress, but Kennedy’s fingers were hot and steady, applying the most delicious pressure without trying. The small torment was short-lived, however, Kennedy took his fingers away and then climbed onto him without a word, breathing fast above him.

“Dear God!” Edrington cried out at once, overcome with a spasm of pleasure as Kennedy’s heat closed around him, far too snug and exquisite for Hornblower to have used him often. Letting out a sharp breath, Kennedy shuddered as well, his hands clawing into the bedclothes for leverage as he began to thrust down onto Edrington’s body.

His nightshirt had ridden up, tangled about his waist, allowing Edrington to feast his eyes upon Kennedy’s strong, spread thighs and his hard, flushed prick pointing proudly upwards. Kennedy was beautiful, his head thrown back, his body fluid as he rode Edrington like some Greek god of eroticism, a virile Priapus with Eros’ beauty. Edrington could not resist shoving his hands under Kennedy’s nightshirt and savoring the flex of his muscles and the arch of his back.

Hungry to touch more, his hands moved down, cupping Kennedy’s cool, sweat-dampened backside. He squeezed those firm globes of flesh before dipping one hand between Kennedy’s legs, fondling and stroking him while Kennedy ground over him with as much determination as his weakened body would permit.
.
The climax hit them quickly. Indeed, Kennedy had raced toward it. Kennedy shook visibly, head falling back on his neck as far as it would go as his body spilled hot streams of seed onto Edrington’s belly. The sight was enough to throw Edrington over the edge as well, along with the sheer snugness of Kennedy around him. Quivering, he emptied himself into Kennedy’s body and then sank back gasping onto the pillows.

The hands gripping the bedclothes lost their strength. Kennedy collapsed beside him, flushed, tousled, and exhausted. After the cloud of lust lifted, Edrington looked over at him in concern. The younger man was still ill and more than a little drunk. The fierce wanton of a moment ago suddenly seemed fragile, gold hair falling across his brow in graceful wisps, his small lips parted, heaving for breath.

“You’ve overtired yourself,” Edrington half scolded, half declared in alarm  “Come here.”

For a moment, Kennedy did not move, but eventually he dragged himself in a sitting position, resting his forehead in one hand as though fearing he would faint or be sick. “I’m fine,” he said hoarsely after another moment, still breathing hard. Then, to Edrington’s surprise, he abruptly scrambled off the mattress and stood up. “I’d better go to bed.”

It was an empty thing to say after what they had just done, but Edrington let it pass for a goodnight, allowing the other man to trudge out of the room without another word and close the door behind him. His body still tingled after Kennedy had gone, sticky with sweat and the drying wetness upon his belly. Edrington supposed he was surprised by the furiousness of their coupling; he had imagined Kennedy as a much gentler lover and he had imagined doing such things to the younger man as to make him forget his own name. But perhaps the anger and pain must be worn away before Kennedy would surrender himself.
 

Part III

After weeks at sea, the ground rolled sickeningly beneath Horatio’s feet. He felt as though he had drunk a gallon of strong whiskey, dangerously close to losing his breakfast. It was not the first time he had been in port since leaving Kingston – he had been assigned duty along the coast three weeks before – but his last visit had been too brief to be as miserable as this one.

Fog hung over the harbor, turning the water a gray as dreary as the sky. Horatio supposed he should be glad that it was not raining, but he was in no mood to be thankful for small mercies. The Port Admiral had kept him waiting three hours this morning and these fools scurrying from wharf to wharf showed precious little respect for an epaulette, dawdling in his way until Horatio could only wish the sky to open up and soak the lot of them.

But he would be at sea again soon enough. No doubt Pellew had reserved a choice mission for him, preferably leagues away from this abysmal island. There was nothing in England for him; home was his tiny cabin aboard Retribution. As he made his way toward the jollyboat Horatio pondered where he might sail next. The Mediterranean seemed appealing, even if only on a cruise from Minorca. It did not matter; so long as he could evade the cold and have the rolling sea beneath his feet again. So close to these shores he only felt anxious and purposeless.

Pellew – Admiral Pellew, for he was an Admiral now – would resent letting him go. Horatio frowned, his skin suddenly itching with a dozen feelings he could not name. He had not seen Pellew since leaving Jamaica and had been surprised to learn that his former captain commanded a flagship here in the harbor. Horatio had thought Pellew would remain in the West Indies a while longer, but here he was. The Port Admiral had even transferred him to Pellew’s squadron, upon the Admiral’s request no doubt.

Lowering himself into the boat, Horatio trained his eye upon the 74-gun flagship Tiberius. Perhaps it was only due to the name, but Horatio found himself reminded of his first day at sea when he had been assigned to Justinian. His gaze drifted to Tiberius’ gangway, suffering a pang in his heart out of the foolish disappointment of finding the midshipman of the watch unfamiliar to him this time. Drawing a breath, Horatio attempted to steel himself in the presence of the men rowing the boat. Sentiment would not avail him any longer.

An implacable dread tightened in his chest as they approached the Admiral’s ship. The prospect of facing Pellew had unnerved him before over the years, fearing a dressing down or worse, but the unease inside him now was far more intense. He could not help but stare into the water and wish for an accident, perhaps for the boat to overturn and drown him. That wish was cowardly, and with any luck he would be out of port on the morrow. Perhaps he should even feel guilt for his wish; Pellew professed to care for him, that was more than could be said for any living man these days save for perhaps Matthews or Styles, but due to the division of rank they could hardly be counted.

As he climbed aboard Tiberius, Horatio dearly wished that it would rain, not on the clumsy oafs in the harbor but on him, so that he might be too cold and drenched to give attention to the thoughts tumbling through his mind. He turned and glanced again at the gray water, thinking how quick a thing it would be to jump in and let himself sink to the bottom. The weight of his own heart would likely drag him down in an instant. But no doubt one of these fools lined up on Tiberius’ deck would only jump in after him. Pellew would order it, and then every man watching would only gossip as to why a newly promoted commander would be so desperate as to throw himself into the sea. The thought of meeting their eyes after sickened him.

Damned unsporting of the Everlasting to fix his canon against self-slaughter.

Horatio blinked. Where had those words come from? No, he knew. Clayton. But why should he think of that? There was only one reason; his grasp of sanity was slipping.

“Your pardon, Captain, but have you dropped something?”

For a moment Horatio did not understand who spoke, but he blinked again to see that one of the ship’s corporals had stepped up beside him where his attention was still fixed on the water. Hastily, Horatio turned and shook his head, attempting to muster his dignity. He was beginning to think that he might as well write his sorrows on a slate and hang it about his neck for all to see, if they were so apparent.

“No,” he answered curtly, adjusting his hat, and then he glanced in the direction of the quarterdeck, eager to be away now that the corporal had noted something amiss with him. “I’ll report to the Admiral at once.”

In truth, Horatio was surprised that Pellew had not come on deck to greet him, but that was just as well; it allowed him time to prepare himself. What was more, the last thing he wanted was for anyone to notice Pellew’s pronounced fondness for him. It simply would not do for a new commander to be sniggered at. God knew he had already heard a few whispers in regards to Pellew’s fervent praise in the courtroom back in Kingston.

A chill seized him as the Marine guarding the great cabin door ushered him in. Too soon, Horatio’s eyes found Pellew seated behind the desk. Pushing his paperwork aside, Pellew folded his hands and looked up at him. The warmth in his dark eyes left Horatio colder by contrast.

“I hear you’ve captured the Hotspur, a notable feat.”

Horatio nodded, relieved to speak only of duty for the moment. “Off the coast of Ireland, sir. It was the only action we saw.” The lack of action had been a dissappointment; he had half-hoped to encounter a gunner or sharpshooter skilled enough to put him out of his misery.

Pellew had no inkling of the extent of his melancholy, of course. He only leaned closer, pride gleaming in his eyes. “Still, it’s commendable that you did not come back into port empty-handed.”

The insistent admiration unnerved him; Horatio almost wished he had lost his own ship instead so that he might no longer have to endure the burden of Pellew’s regard. Better had he stayed under Admiral Thomas’ command, who had hardly seemed impressed by his exploits in the West Indies when Horatio had returned to England three weeks ago.

“Yes, sir,” he forced himself to answer after a pause, seeing that Pellew expected him to agree.

Pellew’s cheer faded in the next moment, though not due to the grimness of Horatio’s tone. The Admiral glanced down at a paper on his desk and cleared his throat. “Despite this glowing achievement, I fear I must reward you with unpleasant news.”

A glimmer of hope stirred inside Horatio’s chest. Surely “unpleasant” would carry a different meaning for Pellew than it would for him. Perhaps the Port Admiral had been mistaken and he was to be transferred to another squadron after all. Pellew would certainly consider that unpleasant, particularly if he were to be sent far from England.

“Unpleasant, sir?”

Nodding, Pellew’s mouth twisted distastefully. “I have just received word that peace has been signed with France. The Navy no longer has need for new commanders. Your promotion cannot be confirmed and you will be reduced to a lieutenant on half-pay.” He slapped a hand down on his papers to show what he thought of the news. “What is more, you will be required to return any wages paid you as a commander.”

Horatio’s chest tightened. How was he to afford that? Half pay as a lieutenant could scarcely provide him with the necessities, let alone money to repay a debt. Finances were not the worst of this bleak news, however. He would have to remain in England, in Portsmouth since he had nowhere else to go. His eyes met Pellew’s across the desk and suddenly he felt trapped.

To Horatio’s dismay, Pellew took note of his unhappiness this time. He rose from his chair, stepping toward, and all at once Horatio shrank back inside himself though he did not move an inch. “Dear boy . . .” Pellew’s took him by the shoulders, his hands like stones, heavy and oppressive, a weight to be shaken off. “There’s hardly need to despair. Old Boney cannot be trusted to behave himself for long and there is a chance an admiral might arrange something for a favorite officer.”

Horatio said nothing, wanting only to retreat from the cabin and this ship altogether. His silence was only mistaken for devastation, however; he found himself enfolded in Pellew’s arms in the next moment, his thin body crushed against the pudgy older man’s while a large hand covetously patted his hair.

For long moments Horatio lay in the prison of that embrace. His stomach begin to turn with the faint swaying of the ship beneath his feet and he became aware of the most unsettlingly intimate things – the push of Pellew’s chest against his own, the heat of the man’s breath against his neck, and the smell of him – sea salt, wool, and Madeira. Horatio recoiled inside, yet there was nowhere to go.

Then he grew aware of something else, a distinct hardness against his thigh. Horatio bit his lip, wondering when Pellew had become so base and how matters had changed between them. The man had been something of a father and mentor before, but now .  . . . Horatio wondered if he had caused this degeneration somehow, if his own nature had not somehow polluted Pellew.

Pellew’s hand moved absently down his back. It was too much to bear, the feeling of being confined and powerless in the man’s embrace. Horatio felt almost ill with the touch, not wanting his body to be known intimately at all, but to hide it beneath the layers of uniform.

Drawing back, Horatio shook his head. “Someone might see, sir.” Who, he did not know, but he would rather open his wrists with his shoe buckles than go to the noose as an Admiral’s boy.

He could feel the breath Pellew drew in to regain command of himself – the man’s body quivered with it – but after a moment, the arms trapping Horatio loosened and Pellew stepped away, clearing his throat.

“Indeed.” Desire had roughened Pellew’s voice and a tinge of scarlet flared in his cheeks. Horatio wondered if the man was embarrassed, if that desire had come unexpectedly.  It did not matter; Pellew made a poor Admiral for giving into it. “I fear it has been .  . . too long since our last meeting, Mr. Hornblower,” the man went on to confess. “But if any good has come of the Peace it is that you and I will not be parted.”

Horatio made an effort to conceal his discomfort. He did not wish to be burdened by the obligation of an acquaintance, but would rather be left in solitude. Pellew would not allow that, of course. “I regret it may not be acceptable for an admiral to meet socially with a mere lieutenant,” Horatio said instead.

But Pellew did not seem to care for matters of decorum and reputation, shaking his head dismissively. “A man cannot have every aspect of his life governed by gossiping old buffoons. But speaking of ‘socially’ I believe I have a letter for you.” He retreated back to his desk, putting a comforting few feet between them. Horatio breathed a sigh of relief and then frowned when Pellew placed the letter into his hands. He stared at it for a long moment.

“It’s from the Baroness Ward,” he foolishly announced. The name would mean nothing to Pellew. It meant something to him, however, and all at once a dozen emotions swirled around his heart.

Pellew watched him; Horatio could feel the Admiral’s eyes as he opened the letter, yet for all their intensity they did not seem to see the turmoil washing over him. Considering the change in Pellew of late, Horatio guessed that the man would choose not to see it.

“I was not aware that you had lady friends of such high rank, Mr. Hornblower,” the Admiral resorting to teasing instead. “I fear I shall become jealous. Is she pretty?”

Horatio’s mouth tightened, angry that Pellew could ask such an irrelevant question. More than that, the possessiveness behind it unsettled him. “She’s . . .” He stopped, unable to bear saying the name aloud, not here where it would not stir a single emotion in the Admiral’s heart.

She was Archie’s sister. Archie . . . Horatio’s fingers tightened on the paper despite himself. Such sentimentality was foolish, however; Archie had not touched it. Horatio forced himself to read the words instead, his frown deepening as he did so. One paragraph in particular troubled him.

We were devastated to learn of the news from the West Indies and never thought to find the most detestable brand of man in our own family. I know not what to think.  My father has been out of sorts, though the Earl of Edrington has attempted to keep him hopeful. With such bleak news we are all in need of hope. We do not expect you to provide it, but it is our wish that you not forget us.

The words were veiled, but Horatio read into them well enough. She must have written on behalf of the women of the family, married and therefore no longer under her father’s control. Hope could only mean that they awaited proof of Archie’s innocence, as Edrington had perhaps suggested. In any case, the Baroness clearly wished him to come to London.

Folding the letter into the pocket of his coat, Horatio sighed. He had wished for an escape, but not one such as this. “I met her before my transfer to Renown,” he said briskly, not wishing to discuss the matter any further.

Pellew seemed keen to drop the subject as well. “I don’t expect you have any dinner plans for the night. What, with the loss of your ship and your promotion you must be in need of cheering up.”

Horatio blinked. Here he had been thinking on . . . . No, he did not think he could be cheered up. Such a possibility offended him. But Pellew would not accept refusal and with any luck other officers would be present. Perhaps afterward Horatio might seek out a game of whist to win. God knows he needed the money. But even losing a game would be preferable to dwelling on the Baroness’ letter.

“Of course, sir,” he agreed after a pause, hoping Pellew would not make too much of his reticence

He was relieved when Pellew dismissed him a moment later. The open air on deck did not feel half so close as that of the Admiral’s cabin and Horatio was at last able to shake off the feel of Pellew’s hands on his body. As he stepped down into the jollyboat, Horatio prayed again that other officers would be present at dinner tonight, but even that did not occupy his mind so much as the letter heavy against his breast.

**

The jostling of the coach did nothing for Horatio’s tender stomach. He sat huddled in the corner as if to hide himself though there was no one to see. It was dark – he had drawn the curtain to keep out the rain – too dark to read the letter in his hands. Yet he clutched it nonetheless; it had, after all, provided him with a reason to leave Portsmouth.

Pellew had not invited any other officers to dinner. He had, it seemed, arranged for the two of them to dine in private. Horatio had found no opportunity for card playing later that evening either; the Admiral had other plans for him.

A queasy wave rushed through Horatio’s body, weakening him. He had washed afterward, occupying Retribution’s sleeping cabin for the last time. For a long while he had frantically scrubbed the evidence from his skin, his body stiff and sweaty from being on hands and knees on Pellew’s bunk. Thank God Pellew had not wished to enter him, only to strip his clothes away and thrust between his thighs in the Greek fashion.

Horatio squeezed his eyes shut, his insides twisting with the memory of being naked under the Admiral’s hands. He drew his cloak together; he had not wanted to be touched. Even now he could not bear how vulnerable and exposed he had felt and how abominably indecent Pellew’s grunting and heaving had been. How could the division of rank, held so sacred in the Navy, vanish as quickly as a few layers of clothing?

That night Horatio had found himself unable to sleep. The Baroness’ letter had beckoned him and in the candlelight he had read and re-read it. He knew it had been cowardly of him to put it aside even for half a day, but he had no more wish to reopen the wound dealt him in Kingston than he did to share another man’s bed. Yet he could not call himself honorable and ignore her plea

A visit to London might even serve his purposes. If the Earl of Cassilis was as outraged over his son’s dishonor as Horatio had conjectured then the man might be prepared to heap the blame upon him instead to let the family save face. Horatio might hang for it in the end, but he would do so without a qualm. Indeed, had he his wits about him Kingston he would have done so then. God knew it would have spared him these weeks of misery.

He would not go to Cassilis directly, of course, or to the Baroness for that matter; he did not have it in him to abide the tears and grief a woman might display. Better to go to Edrington who had no doubt kept a cool and detached perspective on the matter. At the very least the earl might tell him what to expect from the family. More than that, Horatio supposed it would have meant something to Archie that Edrington knew the truth of his innocence for certain, rather than merely suspecting it.

Archie . . . . Horatio did not like what that name did to him, flinging images to the front of his mind to contrast those of what had happened in Pellew’s bed. That was not the worst of it; his whole heart seized with that name. Sighing, Horatio tugged his cloak even tighter, huddling deeper into his corner of the carriage. He had a feeling that he would be sick before reaching Edrington’s estate.

Part IV:

The storm must have woken him. Archie’s ears were suddenly filled with the slap of the rain against the window and the howling of the wind through the trees outside. He groaned miserably; his dreams had been filled with the rush of the waves and the bellowing of orders aboard ship, sounds he would likely never hear again.

It had been this way for weeks now. If he did not dream of the sea, then he dreamed of Horatio or his family. Waking had become a heartbreak in itself, severing him from those things he longed for. One might have thought he would have grown used to his new existence by now, but the emptiness and isolation seemed to wear him down a little more each day. He wondered how long until he gave in and remained in Edrington’s bed simply for a warm body to curl up to.

But his welcome there might only be a temporary thing. The Earl had ventured out last night to a ball in the city, leaving Archie to wonder what sort of amusements might be found there and if the man possessed a wandering eye. He hardly expected the Earl to remain faithful – he did not wish for the man’s devotion – but Archie could not believe himself anything more than a pet at the mercy of the Earl’s kindness. A pet was easily cast aside when a better find presented itself.

He had considered leaving – Edrington did not deserve to be put at risk for harboring a mutineer – but Archie doubted he would make it very far in his state. He felt sluggish, as though wading through a fog, and even though several blankets had been piled over him he could not shake off the chill in his bones. But even in good health, where would he go? He had no life ahead of him, alone and without a family. Edrington might think his bleak outlook on the future nothing more than pitiful despondence, but Archie viewed it as practical truth. The surgeon in Kingston had made a miserable mistake in sparing his life.

Archie burrowed deeper into the bedclothes. He had fallen into the habit of sleeping late, small wonder considering that his current life consisted of nothing worthwhile to draw him out of bed. Aboard ship, his duties and the rotation of the watch hardly left room for boredom, but with naught to do but read and mull around the house Archie often found himself crawling into bed early to end the day sooner. It was not as though he spent the time idly lying awake; for the past few weeks his body had begged constantly for sleep, even when his head ached from lying down.

He forced himself to open his eyes now, if only to guess at the hour. It was not dark out; that was all he needed to know, yet no sunlight streamed in due to the storm. The room relied upon the fire for light, blazing in the hearth opposite the bed. For a moment, Archie stared into it, letting his head clear of its drowsy haze. When it did, he became aware of something changed in the room.

He was not alone.

Archie’s eyes flicked about. A chair had been drawn up beside the bed and in it sat a figure he had never expected to find again. His heart sped instantly, yet he blinked, not quite trusting what he saw. It could only be the remnant of a dream; he was not yet awake. The scene seemed too familiar, with the firelight and the chair; his memory was deceiving him, confusing itself with the present. During the weeks of illness he had often wished for Horatio to sit beside him as he had in prison years ago.

But the figure by his bed was no figment of his imagination. Archie could feel the weight of Horatio’s deep dark eyes, fixed upon him with the same brooding dread as he had shown in the infirmary in Kingston. By the wet marks on his cheeks Archie could tell that he had been crying.

Suddenly giddy, Archie found himself grinning. There was no need for tears. Everything was all right now. He sat up, his head spinning with elation. It was as though a cage door had opened, ending the terrible isolation. He could not keep from clutching the blankets in his excitement.

“Horatio!” It came out as a squeak.

Horatio did not answer right away, only stared at him in what Archie recognized as confusion. Archie frowned; surely they had not been apart so long that Horatio no longer knew what to say to him. They had been apart for two years by the time Horatio had found him in Spain and Horatio had come to his side without reservation then. But he need not say anything at all, only come close and burn the oppressive loneliness away with his warmth.

Yet Horatio did not move, and in the pause that fallowed Archie became aware of certain things. Horatio still wore his uniform; he had remained in the Navy. Archie’s heart sank with the realization though it should not have; what else was Horatio to do with his life? But he did not look well. Dark circles lined his eyes and his cheeks bore the faint shadow of a beard. His uniform was even wrinkled. That was odd; Horatio was usually fastidious as a cat when it came to his appearance.

The silence stretched on. Horatio’s expression turned from confusion to dismay. Dismayed as well, Archie let go the blankets. Throughout the past weeks he had spent many an idle hour weaving fantasies of a reunion. He had imagined it as a frantic thing, full of joy and relief, nothing at all like the numb silence now. But Archie told himself that he must be patient, that Horatio would naturally wrestle a long while with disbelief and whatever guilt he could invent. Still, it tore at Archie to look at him and see not a spark of happiness.

Archie turned his mind to the necessary questions instead, unable to stand the silence any longer. “How long have you been here?” He wanted to ask how Horatio had even come to be here – Edrington had not mentioned any attempt to contact him – and why Horatio had not woken him the very instant he had come into the room. At the very least, he might have crawled into the bed beside him.

“An hour,” Horatio spoke at last, rubbing at his eyes. He seemed aware that Archie had noticed the wrinkled state of his clothes, smoothing his coat with a frown. “Your sister sent a letter. I believe she wished me to come to London. Since Edrington was mentioned I thought it best to come here first. I had no idea you were . . .” He trailed off with a gesture toward the bed.

Alive, he meant. Archie smiled; he was indeed alive. Perhaps it was selfish of him, but he felt a swell of relief that Horatio had come on his behalf, though he had never expected a member of his family to contact his friend. “I’d no idea Katherine was in London. She doesn’t know.”

Horatio nodded. “Edrington informed me.” His voice came shadowy, monotone and detached. Archie began to realize that Horatio had no intention of getting up from the chair to embrace him. That dispassion stung, as much as Archie tried to tell himself that Horatio was likely only stunned. But perhaps Horatio might come around if he kept talking.

“I didn’t expect you would sail back on Renown.” He had feared Horatio would be transferred in Kingston and sent God only knew where – not that Archie could have ever sought him out on his own without putting Horatio in danger. .

His friend’s full mouth tightened, as though there were something he wished to say but could not. He only looked down at his hands and then changed the subject. ““How is it that you came to England, Archie?”

Feeling a fool, Archie shook his head at himself. No wonder Horatio was so preoccupied. He was a creature of logic and Archie’s survival would seem impossible given that he had been bleeding and unconscious when Horatio had last seen him. They had said goodbye, or at least Archie had told Horatio to say goodbye. Horatio had not quite been able to say it.

Archie frowned. He did not like to remember what had happened after. It had all seemed like the worst part of a nightmare – the surgery, the painful infections that followed, and the tedious voyage devoid of a familiar face. But Horatio had asked, and so Archie sighed, folding his arms around his knees.

“It was strange the way it happened. I still don’t know everything, but this surgeon came into the infirmary with a mind to experiment. Bullet wounds, you see? They’re a Naval surgeon’s bane. When Clive took me away –“

He stopped when Horatio lowered his head, his features grim and pained. Unable to bear it, Archie reached out and patted his knee. “No, it’s all right. You couldn’t have known.” He had been whisked away before anyone could inform Horatio that he was alive. Not even Clive had known for certain.

“Don’t absolve me,” Horatio commanded, almost cross. Archie stared at him as if he had said, “Don’t touch me” instead, wounded by his harsh tone. Taking his hand away, he continued with his story.

“They figured I was as good as dead anyway, so this man removed the bullet in a new fashion he’d been anxious to try. It happened that I survived the surgery. He was a religious man, I’m told, and thought it had to be God’s will. He went to his ship and told the captain. It turns out the captain had a particular dislike for Sawyer and took pleasure in hiding the man he thinks pushed him into the hold.”

Captain Benedict, Archie smiled ruefully at the memory of him, a strange but altogether decent man. He had passed Archie off as a cousin while the surgeon, Dr. Myers, recorded every detail of the progress of his wound with the utmost glee. Myers had even quipped that hanging for aiding a mutineer would be worth the advance in medical science.

“He took you to England?” Horatio prompted. Archie could not help but notice how much more comfortable he sounded now that Archie had removed his hand. Attempting to pay that reticence no mind, he nodded.

“Portsmouth. I made it to London on my own, though I wasn’t well at the time.” He had left the ship without a shilling to his name, unable to even buy himself a meal, much less a coach ride. His friends at the theatre had not been able to provide with much either. “I met Edrington at Drury Lane. He took me home.”

“Well thank God for that.” Horatio said it in that same emotionless tone.

Archie stared back at him, meeting those dispassionate dark eyes. “I’m not so sure,” he said quietly. He had always imagined that Horatio would be overjoyed to find him again, yet Horatio appeared everything but. Archie told himself not to be so proud as to wait for Horatio to come to him first; perhaps Horatio only needed encouragement. He knelt forward on the bed, holding out his hand. “Horatio, come here. I’ve missed you. I’ve dreamed of you every night.”

The words had an impact at least; Horatio bit his lip, as though pained. But he did not move, only reached to accept Archie’s hand, his fingers cold and tense. For the moment, that did not matter; it was enough to touch him after so long. They stayed like that, facing each other in silence until Horatio could not seem to bear it any longer. Dropping his gaze, he released Archie’s hand and cleared his throat, once again more comfortable with distance.

“How are you feeling now?”

For a moment, Archie could not think of an answer. What was he to say when his own lover would not even come and put his arms around him? Horatio scarcely seemed able to meet his eyes. Yet Archie tried to sound hopeful. “Much better. Aren’t you? You don’t look well.” He wanted to shave Horatio’s cheek, wash him, and dress him in crisply pressed clothes.

Horatio blinked, as though mortified that Archie had noticed. He brushed his coat again and gave a forced nod. “Yes. Yes, of course I’m well, Archie. It’s merely the shock. I never –“ He made another empty gesture when he could not seem to find the words.

“It’s all right,” Archie shook his head, sitting back and folding his arms around his knees again. There was simply no way to say that this reunion was nothing like what he had wanted and that his heart had sunken into the pit of his stomach. Out of fairness, he had to give Horatio time.

“It’s almost noon, Archie,” Horatio said after a moment. “Why don’t you get out of bed?”

It was such a harmless thing to say, but Archie could not help but feel as though he had been kicked in the chest. Horatio did not even wish for them to remain here in private. Turning away from him, Archie frowned down at his hands. Far from bringing an end to the lonely nightmare after Kingston, this bland reunion now seemed yet another facet of it.

**

Horatio joined him and Edrington at dinner. The shadows had not faded from under his eyes, giving them an unnaturally enormous appearance in the candlelight. He seemed to have lost weight, his sharp cheekbones protruding even more than usual. Archie frowned to see it; he had always feared Horatio might wither away in one form of self-negligence or another with no one to look after him. He could remember teasing Horatio that though he was a godsend in battle he should never be allowed out by himself.

He spoke little, but stared down at his plate instead, seeming to have more interest in stirring his food around than imgesting it. Archie clenched his teeth, the light scraping of Horatio’s fork putting him more on edge than he was already. He had not spoken much either; with Edrington present and Horatio withdrawn Archie found he knew not what to say. The lack for words between them gnawed like a wound in itself. After everything, they should have so much to say.

Any other time, Archie would have wished for him and Horatio to be alone – Horatio’s reserve had never held up long in private – but after this morning Archie was not certain he could stomach any more aloofness from his lover. Horatio had seemed in a hurry to be away from him even, retiring to his rooms for the afternoon, apparently having accepted an invitation from Edrington to stay the night. He had not come out until dinner, clearly preferring to rest alone rather than remain with the lover he had through dead for the past three months. What man could claim love and do such a thing?

Archie attempted to confine his attention to the meal, though he had as little appetite as Horatio. Only Edrington appeared to care for the food before him, but even his enjoyment seemed soured by Horatio’s silence and the manner in which he picked at his food. Perhaps he dreaded that Horatio might suspect something between the two of them. Archie wondered if Edrington feared Horatio in any way.

“Is something the matter, Mr. Hornblower?” The Earl set his fork down. “You may be a devoted officer but I trust you are not actually missing ship’s faire.”

A smirk touched the Earl’s lips after he said it. All at once Archie felt uneasy, glancing from one man to the other. He could not help but sense the insult behind Edrington’s words, accusing Horatio of being too common to appreciate a fine meal. It was oddly humiliating to be the cause of such snide competitiveness. Archie looked down at his plate, a knot in his middle.

Clearly unaware of Edrington’s motivations, Horatio scraped up a large amount of peas with his fork, thinking he had been called out for rudeness. “No, no of course not. It’s all very fine.” He made an effort to vigorously take in two or three mouthfuls, but Archie could see by the creases in his brow that he was cringing inside with the effort.

Concern dulled Archie’s uneasiness for the moment. He could not overlook the purple circles beneath Horatio’s eyes and his overall diminished appearance. “Are you ill?”

Horatio blinked, as though startled that Archie had even spoken at all. What did he think he was looking at across the table? A corpse? Those rich dark eyes caught his briefly before darting away. He seemed . . . frightened, as if he would shrink back behind some invisible barrier where he could not be seen.

“Not as such,” he finally replied. “I suppose it’s odd to be ashore.”

A wave of hurt swelled inside Archie’s chest, as though Horatio had said “inconvenient” instead. Would he rather return to sea for the comfort of his belly? Biting his tongue against asking as much, Archie took a long sip of his wine. Perhaps he was being childish and overly sentimental reading too much into a few simple words.

Edrington’s dark eyes drifted from him to Horatio, and with the cool arch of his brow Archie knew the Earl had gleaned everything. That shamed Archie too, that a matter of possession was being considered. Horatio had never regarded him in terms of ownership, but all at once their passionless reunion seemed all the more devastating. They should have been smiling at one another, pained to sit so far apart as across the table, a clear signal to Edrington that he could no longer expect Archie to share his head. Now Archie could only think of how Edrington had chided him for giving up too much in Kingston and his own claim that it had been worth it, that Horatio would have done the same for him. He could not help but feel a fool; Horatio put forward no proof of that love now. Their lives had always depended on discretion in regards to their attachment to one another, of course, but Horatio was hardly regarding him as anything more than a polite acquaintance at the moment.

Whatever Edrington deduced, he showed no hint of smugness this time when he spoke again. “Well, with peace declared you’ll have no choice but to grow used to it. If it lasts, that is.”

Horatio’s mouth tightened. “Admiral Pellew speculates to the contrary. However, I was disappointed not to be given a ship upon my return from Ireland.”

He spoke with the first hint of real conviction Archie had heard from him since his arrival. Was that what he had become? A parrot repeating the Admiral’s opinions as though he were still a midshipman who had not yet seen Pellew’s ineptitude during the court-martial in Kingston? For whatever it was worth, Pellew was likely right. If Archie had learned anything of the French from his time in prison, then he knew that the Peace would not hold. No doubt Horatio would find that all to the better, the sooner he could return to sea. Archie took another long draught of his wine, welcoming the slight dizziness to dull the other things twisting him up inside.

Looking up from his own cup, Edrington rolled his eyes disdainfully at the Irish in general. “Whatever were you doing there?”

A frozen look came over Horatio’s features. He dipped his chin, suddenly finding duty not so easy to speak of. For a moment, Archie feared Horatio had been sent on a mission beneath his honor, as a spy or something of the like – Edrington had mentioned rumors of trouble stirring up in Ireland. He feared that after the court-martial the Admiralty had found Horatio useful yet troublesome, just the sort of man to be sent on a necessary suicide mission, as Buckland had attempted to do. But the fear was forgotten when Horatio cleared his throat and found his tongue.

“Forgive me, I’ve neglected to mention. I was promoted in Kingston and given command of Retribution – the Gaditana, Archie. Surely you remember.”

Archie nearly dropped his fork, feeling as though he had been shot all over again. How convenient for Horatio to mention this now. He had expected Horatio to be promoted in time, but not in Kingston, so soon after . . . . Archie fought to swallow down the hurt. Horatio must not have grieved for him at all to have commanded a ship so quickly. The fact that the honor had not gone to Bush proved that Pellew had arranged it. Perhaps Horatio had even convinced himself that Archie was guilty and therefore not worth mourning. That would explain his distance now. What honorable officer would want to share a table with a mutineer?

There was nothing Archie could say about it here; no doubt he could not have found the words even if he had wanted to. What good would they do in any case? Horatio had already made his choices. Archie only saw Horatio awaiting a response and managed a slight nod. “Of course. My congratulations.” It came out thin and hollow.

Horatio ducked his head once more. At least he was not so inattentive as to miss the lack of enthusiasm in Archie’s words. “Yes. Thank you,” he muttered stiffly, and then went on to explain in an easier manner.  “We managed to recapture the Hotspur. God only knows what the French are up to sending a ship to Ireland. In any case, the Peace was signed before my promotion could be confirmed. I regret that I am a mere lieutenant again, and on half-pay at that.”

Edrington shook his head. “Half pay, what a pity.” The snideness had returned to his tone. “That can’t be more than fifty pounds a year. Not even enough to keep so much as a housemaid.”

“Indeed,” Horatio managed, color in his cheeks.

Archie cringed into his wine, though he wondered if a perverse part of him should have been amused. Horatio could be as sensitive about money and status as a woman her looks. No doubt it shamed him enough already to sit at an earl’s table when he could scarcely afford a meal without Edrington calling him on it. Yet it still angered Archie to see Horatio purposely humiliated, particularly in the spirit of competition. Edrington need not think half pay could make Horatio any less desirable to him. It was Horatio’s honor he had prized, as well as his gentle, giving nature

“It’s more than I have,” Archie said quietly.

To his embarrassment, Edrington reached over and patted his arm as though he were a woman to be soothed. “We shall have to remedy that,” he smiled and then turned back to Horatio. “All the same, I take it you’re in no hurry to return to Portsmouth then, Mr. Hornblower.”

Horatio’s eyes narrowed, clearly displeased with Edrington’s familiarity. All at once Archie could not bear to look at him, no matter how reassuring a small spark of jealously from Horatio should have been. He could not bear to be treated like a whore by another man in front of his own lover. Color touched Archie’s cheeks; he would have slinked from the table at that moment if he could have.

“I . . . I suppose I may be,” Horatio finally said. “Admiral Pellew claims it might yet be possible to arrange something for me.”

So he was Pellew’s disciple now? The man had always been Horatio’s idol, but Archie had never felt betrayed by that before. Now it seemed as though Horatio had forgotten who had saved him in Kingston, more grateful for what strings Pellew might pull for him than for his very life. Archie swallowed down a long mouthful of wine, though he knew it would take something stronger to wash away all that had swelled up inside him.

He was unaware that Horatio had been watching him.

“I think you’ve had enough to drink, Archie,” he said in the next moment. “Eat some more.”

The familiar fussing came too late to reassure him. First he had been treated like a kept woman and now a child. “I don’t think I can,” Archie muttered, but put his glass down and said nothing for the rest of the meal. The wine would only make him ill anyway and he was already ill enough.

**

Archie retired to his bedchamber after more talk of the Peace and the Irish troubles that he had no head for. It was too early to sleep, but he felt too crushed and wracked inside to face anyone else in the house. Worse, he feared Edrington might take notice of his sinking mood and attempt to offer comfort.

He felt numb inside, disconnected, and Horatio’s promotion had everything to do with it; Horatio had moved forward with his life while he had been stuck in a secret, isolated existence. Archie felt more ghostlike than ever now, hearing of the events of the world and watching others carry on while he hid, struggling with interminable boredom and hopelessness. He could scarcely even grasp the oppressive sense of abandonment, of insignificance even to the man who had claimed to love him. It was too great a severance, and one Archie wondered how long he could bear.

Setting down the Marlowe that had failed to captivate him, Archie tugged the blanket closer around him. The chaise was not as comfortable as the bed, but it was near the fire and despite the wine in him the chill had not left his bones. He was tired of being cold and miserable, and more importantly Archie was tired of being tired.

A knock sounded on the door. Archie half-heartedly called his permission to enter, in no mood for servants or Edrington’s consolation – the man had humiliated him enough at dinner. The door opened and all at once Archie found himself awash with both pain and relief to see Horatio step into the room, his demeanor grim and tentative.

He closed the door behind him, stirring a flutter of hope inside Archie’s chest at the desire to speak in private. Those large eyes did not stray from him now, taking in Archie’s reclined position on the chaise with the blanket.

“Do you need a doctor?”

Honest concern touched those words, mirroring the worry in Horatio’s dark eyes as he peered at Archie halfway from the door. The old solicitousness should have reassured him, one of the only signs of the Horatio he had known, but Archie could only think of how pitiful he must have looked huddling with a blanket. The last thing he wanted was for Horatio to pity him.

“No,” he shook his head, dragging himself into a sitting position in one corner of the chaise. He wanted to say more, that what he needed was for this mess to have never happened, but Archie found himself too proud at the moment to prattle wistfully like a fool; he had already appeared pathetic enough.

Horatio did not seem willing to take his answer at face value, and to Archie’s surprise he ventured forward on his own, sitting down on the chaise beside him. “You need to eat. You still look gaunt.” He was all warm concern, nothing at all like the distant creature at the table. “Is there pain?”

Archie frowned. Horatio referred to the physical, of course, obviously not troubling himself to consider how news of his promotion had affected him. He was a coward even, to announce it at the table where form might spare him an honest response. “At times, yes,” was all Archie said, in no mood to elaborate. If Horatio no longer wished to be so intimate as to share the details of his career after Kingston, then it would not be fitting for Archie to impart his troubles either. Turning away to hide the pain in his face, Archie drew in a breath; he was alone in the world now and he could not bear it.

“It must have been a monstrous surgery,” Horatio went on, “although I have every confidence that you endured it with model bravery.”

The words nettled. Archie was in no mood for hollow praise. Horatio well knew how he felt about duty and empty words; he could parrot his precious Admiral’s platitudes to his men instead. “There’s no bravery needed in having laudanum shoved down your throat,” Archie retorted without bothering to look up.

“Archie . . .”

The soft caress of his own name was too much, too familiar. Disarmed, Archie turned to look at Horatio despite himself, a lump in his throat. Horatio’s eyes were fixed on him, confused and childlike, unraveling the tangle of emotion inside Archie for a moment. Perhaps Horatio was trying – he had come here on his own, after all. Perhaps he was only too naïve and inept to understand the consequences of his words and actions – or worse, too humble.

“It wasn’t pleasant, I’ll tell you that. I spent half the voyage home wondering why that man even bothered.” Archie shook off the memory and perhaps a little of his pride with it. “Then I thought of you and found a little hope.”

It was nothing but the truth. He had known all the risks of their reunion, to Horatio especially, but the hope of seeing him again had been the only bright thing to cling to during these weeks of bleakness. He had imagined holding him on that cold, lonely ship and here in this room he had imagined having him, passionately and without restraint.

Yet the words fell upon deaf ears, or an overly hardened heart. Horatio only bowed his head as though burdened, averting his eyes.

“What will you do now?” He ventured quietly after a moment.

Archie’s heart sank, crushed all over again that Horatio had said “you” and not ‘we”. He was alone; Horatio had taken what Archie had given him in Kingston and had carried on with his career with no intention of looking back, regardless of the circumstances Archie was left in. Archie would never wish Horatio to feel responsible for his confession and disgrace in Kingston, nor did he wish him to abandon his career out of obligation, but he had expected Horatio to try, to regret what had been sacrificed at least. So much for that; clearly Horatio viewed Archie’s predicament as a problem all his own. If that were so, then there was a simple enough way to resolve it.

“I won’t command one of His Majesty’s ships, that’s for certain,” he muttered. “Not that I ever wanted to.” Perhaps he had once, as a green midshipman, but he had been given too foul a taste of the Navy’s sins to put much store in the Admiralty’s favor.  Kingston had apparently failed to teach Horatio the same lesson. Archie had, however, hoped to be Horatio’s first lieutenant someday. That dream was gone along with everything else. Horatio would choose another and would perhaps grow to love him if the man was devoted enough.

It was Horatio’s turn to sigh. He studied his hands for another moment and then looked up at Archie with a strangely open expression. “It was strange,” he said somberly, “but I mourned giving up Retribution. We captured it together. It was as though I had lost my last tie to you.”

A heady feeling raced through Archie’s body to know he had not been purposely erased from Horatio’s memory after all. He reached out and laid his hand over his friend’s before he could think better of it. “Don’t mourn for timber when I’m here in the flesh.” His fingers caressed the back of Horatio’s hand by habit, for a moment feeling as though all their other troubles could be sorted out if only Horatio would come closer, allow Archie to wrap his arms around him and remind him if what they’d had and that he could have it back again.

Horatio’s eyes said he wanted that, though he sat still as a stone under Archie’s touch, tense and afraid  “I know,” he choked out roughly, suddenly sounding so anguished that Archie could not resist tangling a hand in his hair and pulling Horatio toward him.

Their lips scarcely had the chance to touch before Horatio yanked himself away. He blinked rapidly, apparently panicked by the idea of physical contact, as though they had not carried on a physical affair for seven years. He cleared his throat, faltering for words. “I can’t allow you to . . . It wouldn’t be right.” Drawing away even further, Horatio got to his feet, brushing invisible dust from his clothes almost fitfully.

Archie stared at him, feeling raw inside, cut to the quick. They had refused one another before, but only gently, and they had both finally agreed there was nothing wrong with what they had. But now . . .  Archie swallowed hard. “What do you mean?” he asked stupidly, his voice faltering.

Horatio’s mouth worked for words, but for a moment nothing came out. He shrank back even further, as though to draw a line between them he would not have crossed. “I . . . I can’t explain,” he stammered, one hand flapping frantically. “I’m sorry. I’ve . . . . I won’t stay long.” He made a clumsy parody of a bow to excuse himself and then hurried from the room.

Everything fell silent after Horatio left. Archie sat on the chaise in disbelief. Horatio did not want him anymore. He had only come to ask after his health out of politeness and then had been frightened away by his advances. It was as though the roof had come crashing down, leaving Archie broken and paralyzed inside. He truly had nothing now, not even the warm intimacy he had missed so much. Edrington had been right all along; Horatio had carried on, concerned with only his career and the war, wedded to ambition. He had been right all along; the surgeon in Kingston never should have bothered.

**

He felt more than half dead when he crawled into bed that night, and when another knock sounded on the door he knew it was not Horatio. Archie closed his eyes, shying away from the shaft of light sweeping over the bed as the door opened. Perhaps if he pretended to be asleep he would be left alone. But Archie knew that was a vain hope when he heard the soft footsteps that he recognized as the Earl’s.

“Whatever is the matter?” Edrington ventured as though he did not know. Surely he would not have come here had he feared his presence an interruption. “You’ve hidden yourself all evening.”

Shifting onto his back, Archie grimaced as Edrington approached the bed. The Earl wore only his nightshirt, his brassy hair streaming loosely down his back over the nearly transparent cloth. He was elegant and far from unattractive, hardly the worst visitor one could have in the night, yet Archie felt only apprehension knowing what Edrington had come for.

“Nothing,” Archie muttered, angry that Edrington would even bother to ask out of the pretence of caring. No doubt the man did not care a whit for how Horatio had crushed him, after all Horatio’s disinterest only suited his purposes. Edrington was likely pleased that his new claim had gone unchallenged and that he could have his pet until he grew tired of him.

Archie said nothing as Edrington drew the covers back and climbed into the bed. He let the Earl run a hand through his hair where he sat up beside Archie against the pillows. In a way, it was comforting to be touched, yet at the same time Archie’s body resisted the closeness. He wanted to be left alone; he no longer wished to be inside his own body, much less near to someone else’s.

Edrington seemed unnerved by his silence, twirling one long loose strand of Archie’s hair around his finger and then letting go with a sigh. “What did you expect?” He gave up pretending not to know Archie’s mind. “I never thought you to be naïve.”

Folding his arms outside the blankets, Archie looked away, the pain swelling fresh inside him all over again. He had spent the past hours reminding himself that naught but the inevitable had happened, but that had only made matters more difficult to bear. “I never expected to live to see any of it,” he answered. Giving up your good name to save your dearest friend’s life was one thing, but watching him take it and thoughtlessly reap rewards from your misery was quite another. “I suppose I had expected loyalty.” He had expected to matter, and that once Horatio found him alive he would not be able to turn away.

The Earl’s arm settled around his shoulders, his free hand stroking over Archie’s chest in slow circles. “Perhaps you’ve misjudged him. It happens to the best of us.” Edrington spoke absently, pitying but not really caring, more interested in fondling him than easing the pain.

Archie bit his lip, the very notion that Horatio had only feigned his affection tearing and horrible. He refused to believe it; Horatio had simply allowed the Navy to destroy all that was good in him. Archie shook his head. “I thought I had made that mistake before, when he turned up in Spain with his promotion and his ship. But I crawled on the floor while he walked on water and he had more faith in me than I in him. In the end, I only hated myself for despising him. But now . . . .”

Now things were different. Horatio had refused to leave him then, no matter what it had cost him in discipline among his men or how bitterly Archie had attempted to push him away, but now Horatio could not seem to leave him fast enough.

“Shh.” Edrington slid down beside him, circling an arm around Archie’s waist and pressing flush against his back. “We’ll find something to do with you. Perhaps darken your hair and make you a clerk of mine. You’d like the Army.”

Archie snorted to show just much he would like being a high officer’s whore. But Edrington did not seem to require an answer; he leaned down to kiss Archie’s shoulder, sneaking a hand under his nightshirt and trailing his fingers up one thigh. Archie let him, breathing a little faster as Edrington stroked him, unable to keep from responding to the touch. His body still seemed to crave pleasure at least, even if his mind stayed numb to it.

But as soon as the pressure built between his legs Archie was keen to be rid of it. He supposed he could have climbed on top of the Earl and put an end to things that way, but he lacked the energy. Instead, he lay still as Edrington mouthed along his shoulder, hard against Archie’s thigh as he feasted on his skin. Archie kept his head turned away on the pillow so that Edrington could not reach to kiss him on the mouth. The idea of kissing a man strangely revolted him. The invasiveness of Edrington folding his leg up against his chest and fiddling with hand cream behind him bothered him far less.

It did not exactly hurt when Edrington pushed into him, but Archie bit his lip all the same, mentally resisting. He supposed it felt good when Edrington began moving within him; his body tingled, though Archie remained indifferent to the warm sensations. In truth, it felt like an intrusion, a violation; he felt invisible, nothing more than an empty space to use while the rest of him hurt and hurt. Simpson had made him feel that way years ago, and all at once Archie began to understand that the man’s disregard had been worse than his cruelty. That disregard seemed no less present now, in its own way.

With Horatio it had been different. Horatio had never been overly fond of buggering him, but when he had there had always been union, not invisibility. In the early days, when surrendering his body had been nerve-wracking at best, poor, shy Horatio had made every effort to be gentle and careful. Now, there was only the rasping and thrusting, the scent of skin, and the darkness as Archie lay on his side, his leg aching from its bent position and his body seeming unclean with the slick length of Edrington inside him. But perhaps Archie’s lack of enthusiasm was not even Edrington’s fault; perhaps intimacy had been ruined for him long ago and only trust in Horatio had made it good again. How wonderful to find himself bereft of even such a basic thing as pleasure. He grimaced into the pillow.

Edrington’s movements grew more erratic, his hips bucking and his hand tightening under Archie’s thigh. Archie bit harder into his lip, nowhere near to climax but not wishing to draw this out any longer than necessary. Plunging a hand down beneath the blankets, he took hold of himself, stroking absently, finding his own touch somewhat pleasurable at least, enough to close his eyes and twist a little on the mattress.

It must have been enough to throw Edrington over the edge; The man shuddered, digging his nails into the tender skin of Archie’s thigh and burning him where he slammed into him once and then again, breathing hard and whispering only half coherent praise in Archie’s ear.

The covetous, broken murmurs prevented Archie from hearing the knock at the door, but when he heard the creaking of the wood, followed by a clumsy, “Archie . . .” his heart nearly stilled in his chest.

It was too late to stop the Earl from spending. An eternity seemed to pass before the man’s hand left Archie’s thigh and the flesh inside him pulled away from his body. The bed shifted as Edrington sat up, sending a sick wave through Archie’s belly.

“Mr. Hornblower . . .”

Archie held his breath, though no answer came. He did not know why he expected one. The sharp silence hanging over the bed cut into him more and more as it stretched. Archie held himself perfectly still, his eyes squeezed shut and his face buried in the pillow, paralyzed. But nothing happened. There came only the sound of retreating footsteps and then the door slamming shut.

A moment later, Archie’s lungs forced him to let out his breath. His heart hammered almost painfully inside his chest and his skin crawled, awash with a sticky, clammy heat. The humiliation was the worst of it, that Horatio had seen him submit to another man, and even worse still, Archie knew that deep down it must have pleased Edrington for Horatio to have beheld his conquest.

Burrowing deeper under the blankets, Archie bit hard into his lip. A part of him wondered what Horatio had come back to say, but he supposed that was all moot now. Horatio would no doubt leave without looking back and Archie had Edrington to thank for it. None but an aristocratic fool confident of his own servants would forget to lock the door.

The Earl’s gaze rested upon him now, though Archie did not have it in him to face what burned out from it. Edrington must have known, sitting there looking down on him; he laid a hand on Archie’s shoulder, attempting to turn him around. “Come here . . .”

Shaking his head, Archie rolled away from him, resisting the very idea of being touched. “Leave me alone,” he snapped, retreating to a cool corner of the bed away from the balmy spot they had made.

A long sigh was all Archie received for answer. Edrington threw the bedclothes back, sending a welcome draft of cold air over Archie’s body as he climbed out of bed. No doubt the man was exasperated – who wanted an uncooperative and ungrateful pet? Perhaps the Earl would even rescind his protection and ask him to leave tomorrow. The thought came numbly; there was nothing for him here anyway.

The door soon closed a second time and afterward Archie expected to pass the rest of the night in silence, left alone by both Horatio and the Earl while they reflected upon their respective states of possession, neither bothering to see what tore at him or what had turned his hopes to dust. No, his hell was a private one, just as it had been aboard Justinian and in Spain. Guilt and pity was all anyone had ever offered him for it.

He did not expect to hear voices in the hall, but his gloomy thoughts were intruded upon by the clear sounds of an argument. Horatio had not gone back to his room; Archie could hear him outside the door, seething, frantic, and angry.

“How could you?” he demanded. “I had thought you to possess some honor at least.”

There was no doubt as to whom Horatio upbraided. But Edrington remained perfectly cool in the face of his outrage, though it could only be smugness allowing him to do so. After all, what could make his conquest more complete than the jealousy of his new pet’s former lover?

“Whatever do you mean?”

The calm question only seemed to further fuel Horatio’s ire. His voice even shook. “You know damned well what I mean. How could you even think to put your hands on him?”

Archie froze, his blood heating with anger. Did Horatio think to discard and own him at the same time? If he did not want him then what business of it was of his who laid their hands upon his body? Or had Horatio become infused with a new righteousness, thinking that because he had changed his mind in regards to their affair then he must save Archie from committing that deviance as well? Archie ground his teeth. Horatio had no right to meddle; Archie would find himself scores of male lovers if he wished to.

“I hardly see you displaying any interest.” Edrington echoed his thought aloud. It was a thought Archie wanted flung in Horatio’s face, yet at the same time it rankled to be spoken of as nothing more than an object cast aside, not a friend or comrade-in-arms. The shame of it burned until Archie’s cool spot on the mattress grew sickeningly hot. He threw the blankets off, but did not move on the bed. The other side would only smell of Edrington and he did not care to be reminded.

Yet Archie waited for Horatio to deny what Edrington had said. His hopes shattered when Horatio did not, merely brushing off the words instead. “That isn’t the point,” he snapped. “You’ve forced yourself on him. He turned to you and you’ve repaid his trust with your base attentions!”

The sickness in Archie’s gut intensified. Did Horatio think him so weak as to find himself a victim all over again?  That cut deeper than anything else, that even Horatio thought him so pathetically devoted that Archie could not seek out another lover by choice. Perhaps it was true; he was no more than a plaything here, after all, and had not solicited Edrington’s affections. Yet the rage in Horatio’s words hardly matched his dispassion of earlier, almost as though something else were at work here.

“He’s come to me of his own free will,” Edrington insisted, seeming to find it difficult to maintain his level tone now. Archie shook his head on the pillow. Who could blame him when such a charge could see them both hanged, though there was no one in this part of the house to overhear. A pity; Archie did not think he would have minded the noose so much at this moment.

Horatio dismissed these words as well, continuing to rave. “He had no power to refuse, and in his state do you expect him to know better? He doesn’t know what he wants and you’re no more than a lecherous animal for not seeing it!”

The shout rang in Archie’s ears. He longed to shout back that he knew all too well what he wanted. He wanted his family, Horatio, and all the trappings of his old life, and if he could not have those things then he wanted a pistol to shut the argument out. But Archie did not say a word, unable to bear leaving the room and showing his face to either man with the humiliation inside him.

“You’re mad.” It was Edrington’s turn to be dismissive, not to mention firm, as though chastening one of his men on the field, beating them down with his self-possession. “I suggest you calm yourself. Goodnight, Mr. Hornblower.”

By the silence that followed, Archie guessed that the Earl had stormed off.

This time, Archie was not foolish enough to hope that Horatio would come to him out of stubborn determination to learn the truth, nor was he so devoid of pride or honesty as to step out into the hall and play the victim of Edrington’s lust, no matter how easy it would have been to earn Horatio’s fussing and concern then. God only knew what had made Horatio rave as he had; Archie had come to the conclusion that he did not know Horatio at all anymore.

No, this time Archie was glad when Horatio kept his distance. He even wished that Horatio would leave the house right then. There were easy enough ways to solve matters once he was gone.

Part V:

Horatio had not slept at all, but had spent the night wrestling with both his conscience and his sanity. The former remained the more intact of the two, playing havoc with his mind throughout the long, idle hours of lying awake in the darkness.

The events of the past day had run together like a fever dream. He had almost given up trusting his own eyes. It was as though he had stepped off that carriage yesterday morning and walked straight into a hell swarming with all the demons of his conscience. Indeed, nothing here seemed logical or comprehensible at all, leaving him completely cut off from the bounds of the reality he knew.

At one point during the homeward voyage Horatio had forced himself to sort out his life, dividing it into before and after. The former consisted of naïve aspirations and memories of warmth while the latter was a dreary, miserable, and lonely limbo that could not end soon enough. Now he had stumbled into an in between, unraveling all his feeble attempts to accept what had happened in Kingston and throwing him into upheaval all over again.

His head had cleared somewhat by the time the morning light bled through the draperies. He could at least grasp the basic fact that Archie was alive. He had tried to comprehend as much yesterday, sitting in silence and working out the logic of the story Archie had told him of leaving Kingston. But when Horatio had watched him across the dinner table, he could see that awful, final image of Archie bloody and unconscious in the infirmary. The man in this house who looked and spoke so much like Archie may as well have been merely a specter to haunt him, a creature Horatio had only been able to clumsily respond to.

A part of him was almost willing to believe that Edrington had tricked him somehow, perhaps passing off a twin brother of Archie’s that Horatio had never met. He was shamed to admit that he almost wanted to believe such a thing; it would mean that he was not the failure Archie’s presence here had proven him to be and that he would not have to give up the one comfort of his own wretched life – that Archie would never see or know what had become of Horatio Hornblower after Kingston.

That was selfish, not to mention cowardly. But it would hardly be the first time that he had been cowardly of late. As for selfishness, the consequences of his own blindness in Kingston had been presented to him painfully enough yesterday. But for all he may lack courage and be a witless fool, he had his conscience still, at least where Archie was concerned. Conscience led him to climb out of bed and wash and dress with a sound mind, resolved to do the only honorable thing he could now.

The Earl had closed the door to his study, obviously not wishing to be disturbed, yet Horatio knocked firmly nonetheless, in no mood to put off what he had come to say any longer. An entire sleepless night was long enough.

“Come,” Edrington called. Horatio only hesitated a moment, his palm already hot with nervousness where he grasped the handle of the door.

Edrington sat at his desk with a quill in hand, scratching away at a letter, but when he looked up Horatio found himself blinking, anger and jealousy twisting inside him as the scene from last night played out in his mind all over again. He saw Archie with his pretty head on the pillow, Edrington’s body curled around him, moving in him under the blankets. Horatio dropped his gaze to the floor, clenching his jaw until he suppressed the storm inside him. He had no right to jealousy. And as for his outburst in the hall afterward . . . Horatio’s stomach knotted to remember it.

Clearing his throat, Horatio looked up again, reminding himself of why he was here. He drew a letter from inside his coat and laid it upon the Earl’s desk.

“I’ve written to the Baroness,” he announced, attempting to present himself courteously in the hopes of reclaiming his dignity after the previous night. “This letter details the events aboard Renown as well as my endorsement of Archie’s innocence. My hope is that she’ll present it to her father. I trust you’ll see that she receives it.”

It was the only sensible thing he could do. He had spent more than two hours writing the thing, emphasizing whenever he could that Archie had conducted himself with courage throughout the debacle. Doing so had seemed of capital importance after Edrington had explained Cassilis’ resentment toward his son upon Horatio’s arrival yesterday.

Yet Edrington took up the letter as though that conversation had never taken place, arching his brow in what Horatio took for suspicion. But perhaps after the accusations Horatio had flung at him last night mistrust was only natural. Perhaps he feared something else was in the letter.

“You don’t intend to deliver it yourself?”

Swallowing hard, Horatio lowered his eyes again, the direct question cutting through the dignity and decisiveness he had worked all morning to muster. All the harrowing emotions of yesterday rioted up in him again, threatening to pull him apart, but Horatio forced them to be silent, attempting to show a resolute face.

“I believe it would be best for me to return to sea.”

Edrington’s eyes widened, but Horatio shook his head to forestall any protest. He had spent a long time reaching that decision, finding it best to carry it out while the reality of Archie’s survival had not yet truly set in, before the old affection overcame him again and the second severance destroyed him.

Leaving was the best he could do for Archie. He had fully expected to be regarded with anger and bitterness when Archie had found him in his room yesterday. After all, he had abandoned Archie in Kingston. Nothing more than his own negligence in failing to care for the body as a loyal friend should have had wrought his failure to see that Archie had been alive still. He remembered wanting to touch his still, golden body and sitting there afraid, afraid he might leave the infirmary weeping and invite the pity of others through such a display of grief. To think of what might have been avoided for a few tears.

Yet Archie had apparently forgiven him. It had wracked Horatio’s heart to see Archie look upon him with tenderness still, all too willing to take Horatio into his arms as though the past three months had never happened. He would rather die than tell Archie the whole truth of what had passed during that time. There was no need to; failing Archie in Kingston was betrayal enough. After Archie had given up everything else for him it would be monstrously unconscionable to take further advantage and accept undeserved forgiveness as well.

Edrington was still staring at him in the way Horatio had imagined Pellew would if he were ever to resign his commission. “Mr. Kennedy won’t be pleased, to say the least.”

Horatio nodded, his heart heavy with the prospect of wounding Archie. But he had thought hard on the matter. Archie simply undervalued himself to far too grave a degree. After everything, the best Horatio could manage for him now was to walk away and leave him to place for himself in the aristocratic life he had been born to. The bleak life that Horatio would face without him would be nothing more than a fair sacrifice in turn.

“No doubt he’ll thank me in the end.” Horatio muttered, unsure whether or not the Earl would understand. But it was worth every effort if the man would stop staring at him as though he were mad. “What happened to us in Kingston was senseless at best. I’ve every confidence you’ll bring Cassilis around to the truth.” He certainly could be of no help in that regard by virtue of his being penniless and without influence.

Setting the letter back on the desk, Edrington shook his head, uninterested in the matter of Kingston for the moment. “I never imagined you’d give him up so easily.”

The words burned, far too direct for Horatio’s liking. His fingers curled into his palms where his hands hung at his sides. He clenched his teeth to fight what roiled up inside him. He was not giving Archie up; he was . . . .

His throat tightened as he looked over at Edrington from across the desk. There was no way to explain. Once, he had been naïve enough to think that only he could keep Archie safe, wishing at times that Archie were a woman like Mariette so that he need not conceal his desire to protect and guard him out of deference for Archie’s pride. But now he saw that he been proven painfully wrong and that an honorable man would leave him to one who could. Indeed, he should not feel jealous or angry that Archie had invited Edrington to his bed, but should be glad that Archie had found a well-connected lover who could do more for him than he ever had.

Clinging to that thought, Horatio forced himself to meet Edrington’s eyes. Horatio had never thought to look upon another lover of Archie’s with anything resembling civility, but what seethed in him now was nothing more than selfish possession, something a child might feel. Yet how strange that this was a decision Pellew might have approved of while Edrington stood there and stared at him as though he had lost his wits. Whatever the case, Horatio drew a breath and spoke.

“I . . . I offer my apologies for the insult I’ve given last night.” The words came out choked. The outburst had come from nothing more than his own tormented mind. No matter how much it had cleaved to think on Archie allowing another to have him, Horatio had forced himself to face the fact that Archie had not been struggling or protesting. Archie was not a solitary creature like him; he thrived on affection and pleasure. Of course he would find someone else to lie with. “However . . .” Horatio hesitated a moment, his nails starting to dig into his palms. He did not wan to say any of this. “I might remind you to take care with him.“

The last bit was too much, thinking of the intimate things he knew of Archie, the secrets that had made their bond seem so precious. He could not bear leaving another to learn them. Archie belonged to him. Horatio swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, relieved when Edrington spoke again, granting him an escape.

“That’s all you have to say for yourself?” He sounded almost exasperated.

Horatio shook his head, though it was all he had to say here. His apology for last night at least seemed to be accepted, as well as his letter. “I’ll say goodbye, if you’ll pardon me.”

He did not wait to be stopped or called a fool aloud, but quit the room with a small bow, drawing a long breath once he stood alone in the hall. His eyes stung. He could only imagine the miserable life ahead of him and mourn the life he could not return to. What had happened to the days aboard the Indie when he had dreamed of his own ship with Archie as his First? Now Horatio could only hope that his statements in that letter saw Archie acquitted and given a command, even if Horatio Hornblower had to hang in his place. That would be the best for both of them.

But there was no sense in stalling; he had already made up his mind. Attempting to steel himself yet again Horatio fought down the pain and made his way toward Archie’s room. Archie was likely not even awake yet; he needed sleep. Horatio made an effort to be as quiet as he could opening the door and stepping inside.

He stopped three steps inside the room, his eyes traveling to the unmade bed still rumpled from last night. Archie was not there. It was another moment before Horatio found him on the window seat, staring out of the open draperies where his room overlooked the front of the house, his broad silhouette outlined by the blue-gray light. Archie did not turn at the sound of the door, did not seem aware of it. His hand moved; a distinct clicking sound reached Horatio’s ears just before his eyes caught the dark glint of the pistol Archie raised to his mouth.

His finger was on the trigger. Horatio needed only to see it for the panic to set in. A chill washed over him, his heart speeding as he rushed across the room.

“Archie, what you are doing?” His own voice rang shrill in his ears, but he paid no mind to it. “Archie!”

He caught Archie’s hair in one fist, yanking his head back away from the muzzle and knocking the pistol from Archie’s grasp with the other hand, too panicked to think on what a stupid move that was. The thing went off, the blast deafening to Horatio’s ears. He covered Archie’s head with both hands by instinct, dragging him backward almost off the window seat.

The pistol took only a second to fire, yet an eternity seemed to pass before the noise faded. When it did, Horatio wrenched Archie around to face him, his palms sweaty and his heart thudding fast. His eyes saw nothing but the trickle of red down Archie’s lip.

Blood.

He went cold inside, his skin tingling with fear. It was like waking up from a bad dream and finding himself with Archie wounded on Renown‘s deck all over again, only this time he had to stop the worst from happening. His hands descended upon Archie’s body, opening his coat, slipping under his waistcoat. Nothing. No sign of a wound. Horatio ran a hand through Archie’s hair; no trace of blood there either.

A moment later Horatio made sense of what had happened. The pistol had fired in the opposite direction, shooting into the mattress instead. Archie had only bitten his lip. Logic failed to quiet Horatio’s fright, however; he had already watched Archie die once. The remembered grief burned afresh now, buried these three months. He whirled angrily at the sound of footsteps in the doorway, facing Edrington as he hastened into the room.

“What’s happened?” the Earl demanded, starting toward Archie. Horatio blocked the man’s path by instinct, not wanting Edrington to touch him.

“Damn it, leave him to me,” Horatio snapped, staring hard into the Earl’s face. He could not help but blame on him for what had almost happened. The man had been with Archie last night; he should have guessed Archie’s mind. Another moment and . . . . Horatio’s chest seized at the thought of finding Archie with his pretty head half blown off.

Edrington regarded him with eyes that were equally accusing, but he relented, turning from the room. Horatio let out his breath once the door closed behind him, releasing his grip on Archie and pacing back and forth in front of him.

“What did you think you were doing?” He flung a hand toward the pistol. The answer was obvious; this was nothing like Archie’s starvation attempt in Spain. This time he had fully intended to take his own life, and quickly. Damn it. What fool had let him near a weapon?

Archie only shook his head, a wild look in his eyes as he slumped tiredly where he sat, wiping the blood from his lips with the back of his hand. “What’s it to you? I was waiting for you to go.”

Horatio stared at him. How could Archie talk like this? “I can’t go now.” It came out as a growl. Horatio should not even have had to say it; Archie should know that his death would devastate him, that it had devastated him, so much that he had scarcely been able to believe that Archie was even here in the flesh. How could be so cruel as to subject him to that pain again?

But Archie only turned his back to him, staring outside at the path leading to the front gate as though a coach waited there to take Horatio away. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Horatio did not need to look at him to see the scowl on his face. He took a step closer, his heart still beating fast. Yet Horatio made an effort to speak gently, hoping that would calm Archie enough to be reasoned with.

“Archie. I can’t leave you like this.”

The words only earned him a snort and a slow shake of Archie’s head. “Spare me your guilt, Horatio. I’d rather you go on and do what you want.”

What he wanted? Horatio’s mouth firmed. Did Archie think he looked forward to returning to his lonely life at sea and waiting far too long for his enemies to blow him to bits? If given the choice, he would rather have hanged in Kingston.

“This isn’t about what I-“

Archie cut him off, turning back around just far enough for his blue gaze to burn into Horatio’s skin. Horatio swallowed hard; he was used to Archie looking upon him with affection, not resentment. “Off the coast of Ireland capturing ships, were you? Toeing the line, doing your duty. Well that’s good. You don’t need a mutineer friend and our old deviant ways putting you in danger of a scandal.”

Horatio froze, offended to the core. Archie had every right to be angry with him for his negligence in Kingston, but to act as though he had foresworn his affection for the sake of collusion in his own heart. After seven years of intimacy Archie should know better.

“How could you think I would choose this on my own. You don’t understand.”

“There’s nothing else to think when you’re so quick to return to sea in peacetime without a ship and can’t come near me.” Archie looked away as he said it, dabbing at the last few drops of blood on his lips.

It was then that Horatio realized the wound he had dealt. He felt sick inside, sinking down onto the window seat beside him. If Archie had succeeded in firing that pistol then only he would have been to blame. How could he have been so daft as to make Archie feel unwanted and abandoned? After Archie’s father had disowned him it was only natural that he would be fragile – any man would be. The last thing a fragile man needed was further cause for despair. Horatio stared down at his hands for a long moment; they had ached to touch Archie yesterday, to clutch him and reassure himself that he was indeed alive, but . . . .

But he was alive and he deserved to know the truth. Cravenly concealing it and turning away in shame had already brought them close enough to the unthinkable already that revealing the truth could not do any worse damage. Horatio’s mouth worked for a moment, searching for the awful words.

“You don’t understand,” he said again. “I’ve . . . what I’ve done . . . “ He spread his hands feebly; the truth did not want to come out, but it had to. “Admiral Pellew, I’ve . . . submitted to him. How can I come to you after that?”

Horatio did not know what response he had expected, but the disgusted wrinkling of Archie’s features sank his heart all over again, as well as the way Archie averted his eyes to the window once more, as if he could not stand to look at him. Horatio lowered his own eyes, the wound gaining sting as the silence stretched. He had feared this.

“Found someone better, did you?” Archie finally said, his voice quiet yet hard. “Well he has more to give you than I do now, doesn’t he? I don’t doubt you’re anxious to return to him in particular.”

Horatio stared blankly for a moment. Archie must not have understood. He tried again for the right words. “It wasn’t like that at all. He –“

“He almost got you hanged, from what Clive said,” Archie broke in before he could finish, his eyes bright. He did not raise his voice. He did not have to; his words were cutting enough. “But that doesn’t matter does it? You don’t have to care anymore now that you’re so well-favored.“

“He –“ Damn it, why would Archie not listen? Whether it mattered or not was not the point. But Archie looked more than half-crazed with his livid eyes. “It’s more like a penance!” Horatio snapped, curling his fingers into the window seat, wanting to break something.

Archie’s lids fluttered, and for a moment Horatio thought he had got through to him, but only for Archie to twist his mouth and shake his head. “It didn’t seem that way when you couldn’t stop parroting him last night at dinner.”

Damn him. Horatio bounded to his feet. That was well over the line, but what else could be expected of a man who had put a pistol to his head. “Do you think me so disloyal as to seek the bed of the man who had a hand in your disgrace? He forced himself on me!”

His own rough shout surprised him, angrier than he realized. There was no way to take it back – that was the frightening part. All at once Horatio felt ripped open, faced with the ugliness he had not wanted to see. He wanted to amend himself, to say that “forced” was far too strong a word and that he had not meant to imply that Admiral Pellew was some sort of . . . . But the ugliness would not be hidden any longer. Horatio knew Pellew had come to him the night of Archie’s death; he had little memory of what had happened, only that Pellew’s hands had been upon his body and that he had not asked them to be. For a long time Horatio had told himself that it had all been his doing – he had allowed it, he had not fought – but he was tired of hiding from the filthiness of it, the sense of violation that he could never begin to explain.

Archie remained silent for a long time, staring at nothing, as though shaken by the words too but unsure of what to say. In the end, it was as though Horatio had not said them at all.

“Are you certain you weren’t flattered? Your long-time idol, a man who sunk two ships of the line . . .”

For the first time since he could remember, Horatio wrestled with the urge to hit him. But he only stood there, shocked. “Damn it. I never said anything like that to you about Simpson!”

He should have known that saying that name would end the conversation, but it was too late. Archie gave him a hard, stunned look and then turned away.

Not knowing what else to do, Horatio bent and retrieved the pistol from the floor, half wondering if he were not the one who should fire it into his skull. He dared not flee the room as he wanted to for fear of what Archie might do to himself once he turned his back, but he could not bear the silence either.

He ended up sinking down on the bed, sitting with his hands in his lap wracked by Archie’s words. True, he had made a mess of his life since Archie’s death, but he had never expected to be held accountable for those mistakes. It seemed almost unfair; he simply had lacked the wherewithal to think through anything that had happened these past three months. The resistance had died in him; he had simply complied with all that was asked of him – the Navy, Pellew – with no particular passions of his own. There had seemed no use in doing otherwise, and no one had cared.

But now Archie was here and all Horatio’s follies had been laid out, examined, and given meaning in Archie’s mind, all those numb, grief-stricken actions that Horatio had never thought mattered. What was he to do now?

**

A long while passed before Archie moved from the window seat. He finally grew hungry enough to poke his head out and ask one of the servants to send up soup and bread – the best his belly could manage at the moment. Edrington stopped him before he could duck back inside, giving him a long pitying look and then a letter for Horatio from Admiral Pellew. No doubt the Earl would have a great deal to say on other matters later.

Archie took the letter, wanting nothing more than to tear it to shreds before Horatio could see it. But he did not do so, only left it discarded on the table while he sat in the armchair forcing himself to swallow the small meal that had been prepared for him. He did not really want it, no matter how his stomach rumbled; eating was only something to do, something to take his mind off everything else for a few moments.

Clearly Horatio had not slept the previous night either; he lay slumped over on the bed now, after hours of facing away from each other in silence. Archie considered waking him, but he had nothing to say. Better if Horatio had returned to his own room.

 Still, Archie raged inside when he looked at him. Admiral Pellew . . . . After Horatio’s scene in the hall last night and his unkempt state earlier, there had to be some truth to what Horatio had said, as unbelievable as it was. But no doubt earning Horatio’s coercion had been an easy thing; he was naïve, his grasp of the world simple at best – a misguided sense of duty to his superiors would have done it.

Archie’s fingers were busy opening the letter before he thought better of it. He ground his teeth as he read it, his fingers curling tight into the page at the overly affectionate tone of the words. Pellew had been called to London and wished to meet with Horatio tomorrow evening, thinking he might be able to confirm Horatio’s promotion to commander after all and offer him the Hotspur. The thinly veiled talk of missing him and longing to see again left no doubt as to what Pellew expected in return. What was more, Horatio would give it.

Tossing the letter down, Archie got up from the chair, making his way over to the bed beside Horatio though he did not really know why. His hand found Horatio’s shoulder with a mind to shake him awake, but he froze when Horatio twitched in his sleep, his body tensing, resisting the touch. Archie took his hand away, feeling even sicker. He looked over at Pellew’s letter across the room, raging to write back that he did not want Horatio to see him tomorrow or to take his ship. But he could not make that choice; he could only sit there stewing in something between violence, devastation, and jealousy. It was unbearable, even more so than waking and sleeping in this room everyday without hope of anything different.

With that thought Archie knew that whatever he did next would be half mad and that he would have to do it before Horatio woke and stopped him.  They were not at sea anymore; there were no guns to fire or Frog blood to spill to quench the anger.

Part VI:

Horatio woke the next morning feeling as though a bayonet were being driven into his skull. He had taken no supper, but had returned to his own room after a servant had informed him that Archie had gone to Edrington. The prospect had gutted him with jealousy at first, but after a time Horatio had grudgingly convinced himself to be relieved that Archie had not been left alone in his volatile state. This was hardly a time for selfish inclinations.

He managed breakfast and a walk outside, but was in far too gloomy a mood to appreciate the clear sky overhead even after days of dreary weather. His heart certainly remained too heavy after what had happened yesterday to appreciate the beauty of the Earl’s gardens; Horatio ended up sinking down onto a stone bench beneath an arbor, so lost in his own thoughts that his surroundings grew invisible.

The sense of resolve that he had forced himself to adopt the previous morning had come undone, leaving him as wracked with dread and anxiety as when Archie had first been wounded, desperate for encouraging signs yet ultimately fearing the worst.

Something had to be done for Archie. Horatio allowed himself the hope that Archie would eventually come to his senses, see that he had been rash in attempting to take his own life, and with any luck feel a fool; Archie always had hated a fuss being made over him. At the very least Archie should allow him the chance to explain himself. But that hope may well have been in vain when Horatio was uncertain whether he would be welcome in the house for long; he could not impose, though he could not leave Archie in such a dangerous mindset either.

Nonetheless, Horatio attempted to work out what he might say if given the chance, but to little avail. Archie’s words had cut too deeply to try and refute; there was simply no end to the things they may have implied.

“Mr. Hornblower.”

Horatio was almost grateful for the interruption before his thoughts took an even bleaker turn. He looked up to see Edrington approaching, and despite the resentment curling inside Horatio’s belly, circumstances forced him to be more relieved to see the man than anything. Perhaps it helped that Edrington did not come to him with the smug face of a man who had stolen another man’s lover. Instead, he moved forward with a reasonably solemn demeanor befitting the situation, his stride brisk and businesslike.

“My lord?”

Edrington did not waste time with pleasantries, intelligent enough perhaps to understand and accept the rivalry between them, which was just as well for the moment. “I’ve had your letter delivered,” he informed, stopping before the bench. “I’ll say that I remain optimistic.”

“It was well-received, then?”

The Earl shook his head. “We can’t know. The Baroness is away.”

Disappointment sank Horatio’s heart. Perhaps it was foolish, but he had counted upon swift action on the Baroness’ part for Archie’s sake – if Archie despised him so much then no doubt he wished his “gift” rescinded. Yet given that everything else had gone to hell in the past few days Horatio supposed luck would have it that the Baroness would choose this time to be out. Perhaps he was even to blame for their failure this morning. He might have gone to her first had he not been a coward afraid of facing a painful subject. Archie would never have thought the things he had if he had seen that Horatio had come to London in hopes of clearing his name. Horatio frowned; he had made a mess of everything.

Yet here he was faced with a man on far more intimate terms with Archie of late than he, a fact that would never grow any less infuriating. Edrington’s very presence both unsettled and humiliated him, reminding Horatio all over again of that gnawing sense of failure on Archie’s part. He could scarcely bear to look at the Earl’s hands without seething over the thought of them upon Archie’s body; the very idea only weighed Horatio down with a sense of inadequacy and insignificance. He and Edrington had nothing to say to one another apart from the business at hand, damn what conversation might be polite, and in all honesty worry over Archie’s good name was not foremost in his thoughts as it had been yesterday, not when he had feared for Archie’s very life all night.

“How is he?” Horatio asked after a moment, no matter how it hurt his pride to do so. Damn it, he was used to men asking after Archie through him. But if he had lost Archie’s confidence he had only his own neglect and stupidity to blame. A gentleman accepted what he deserved.

Edrington straightened, his expression hardening. “I assumed he’s been with you.”

Horatio blinked. “No . . .. Oh God.” His chest tightened. He got to his feet. He had not seen Archie since yesterday afternoon. God only knew what could have happened between then and now. In his mind he saw Archie sitting by the window again, the pistol in his hand. A chill spread through him and Horatio started toward the house, but Edrington caught his sleeve.

“There’s no reason to panic.”

Horatio wrenched his arm free. Was the man daft? “Damn it. He put a pistol to his head!”

Yet Horatio remained where he was, fearful of what he might find in the house. He tried to calm himself, drawing a deep breath, wondering if perhaps Edrington had only lost track of Archie for a few hours or had set the servants to keep watch over him. Edrington was not a fool.

“There’s something I came to ask you,” Edrington went on when he seemed satisfied that Horatio was willing to listen. “Do you suppose Admiral Pellew would vouch for our friend’s innocence? The word of an Admiral would be a weighty endorsement.”

Mention of that name besieged Horatio with a different set of anxieties altogether. He could never approach the subject with Pellew. After what had happened in the Admiral’s cabin Horatio was not sure he could even bear returning to Portsmouth, though he would have no where else to go. He had tried to approach the matter of Archie’s innocence once, the night Archie had died, but that had only led to . . . Pellew simply had no interest in his grief or his moral compunctions. The Admiral believed him guilty and yet had been content to let Archie take the fall. The nature of politics, Horatio supposed. Perhaps one day he would succumb to it too.

“I suppose you could ask him.” He was aware of how hollow it sounded. His mind had already turned back to the more important matter of finding Archie. He might have hastened away right then had Edrington not have pressed the matter.

“You’re to see him tonight.”

Horatio went cold all over again, his skin beginning to crawl with the sense of being encroached upon and trapped. Pellew was supposed to be in Portsmouth, not here. Horatio recoiled inside at the thought of seeing anyone who would make demands on him, particularly such demands as Pellew’s of late. He felt the childish urge to flee.

“What?” was all Horatio could stupidly say. How could he meet Pellew with Archie’s words fresh in his mind? Archie had made his very acquaintance with the man seem like betrayal.

“The letter he sent for you.” Edrington was growing exasperated. “I gave it to Mr. Kennedy to give to you. Mr. Kennedy informed me of the Admiral’s wish to meet you this evening in London.”

Damn. Horatio’s head spun, dread swarming inside him. How could this happen? Matters hardly seemed able to grow worse as it was.  “I received no . . . Damn it.”

Giving up, he sped in the direction of the house, rushing up the stairs into Archie’s room. It took a moment to search beneath the books scattered about, but sure enough Horatio found a folded letter, slightly crumpled as though it had been read several times.

“God damn him,’ Horatio swore as he read the note, unsure of whether he meant Archie or Pellew. He cringed at the fond tone of the words, dreading to imagine what effect they might have had upon Archie yesterday. At the very least they would have served to confirm all Archie’s mad suspicions. God damn it. How could Edrington have given this to him?

The Earl had followed him into the house. Horatio wrenched around to face him as he made his way into the room. “When did you last see him?” He could not help but shout it, but if there was anger then Horatio could only rightfully direct it at himself. He should have gone to find Archie last night instead of assuming . . . He should not have been so caught up in the wounds of their argument yesterday. Bitterness could wring the worst from Archie’s mouth at times.

Edrington looked him over, but made no effort to try and calm him this time. “Yesterday evening. He claimed he needed air. He seemed in such good spirits at last that I took his desire to be outdoors as a good sign. I assumed you’d managed to cheer him.”

“No.” Horatio shook his head. “It wasn’t like that.” He sank down onto the bed, dropping his forehead against his palm. “Oh God . . .”

He felt sick with the things he feared – a body lying alone in a field at the edge of the property, or even . . . . Horatio gritted his teeth, unable to bear the possibilities. The panic was even worse than when he had found Archie’s hospital bed empty in Kingston, knowing he had to stop the calamity that had been set in motion. He had only to outrace a wounded man to the courtroom room then, and he had failed. How was he to prevent another tragedy now if he did not even know where Archie was?

**

Admiral Pellew moved briskly toward the Swan. The rain had started up again, only lightly at present, and he would be damned before he got himself soaked dawdling out in the street. What was more, it was nearly 8 O’clock; Hornblower was a punctual creature and it would hardly be kind to keep the lad waiting.

Thank God he had pleasant news to bring the boy this time; the loss of his first ship and new rank had been hard on Hornblower, so much so that he had left Portsmouth in a sulk, perhaps thinking his lady friend would cheer him. There was hardly need for sulking now, however, not with Hornblower’s promotion secured and the Hotspur ready for him to command. Indeed, after a few hours of maneuvering in Whitehall Pellew had even managed to delegate a high-risk mission to his protégé, involving the conveyance of a French major to Brest. There was nothing like advancement and the prospect of danger to heat a young man’s blood. Hornblower might even find himself in high spirits tonight.

Pellew did his best to contain his pleasure, so eager to impart the day’s triumph that he might have skipped along were he not a man of dignity. He had been delayed as it was, embroiled in a card game with Captain Hammond and two other captains who also had business in London. Hammond sought a posting for his young nephew while the other two had come for themselves. Pellew took a little pride in the fact that he had been summoned, unlike these others who had come like pilgrims trying their luck in Whitehall. That pride extended to Hornblower as well; the boy was lucky to have escaped the drudgery of the half-pay lists. An officer of such genius certainly required all opportunity for recognition, peace or no. Pellew took even more pride in orchestrating the particulars of such an officer’s career.

The street was growing wetter and less crowded, though he could still hear the noise surrounding one of the taverns as well as footsteps behind him. Pellew paid neither of those things any mind, caught entirely off guard by a strong hand clamping over his mouth and the cold muzzle of a pistol pressing against his temple.

He could not move, and before Pellew could think to act in his own defense he found himself pushed around a corner, into the alley that ran behind another inn. Yet even temporality immobile Pellew did not panic. He had encountered footpads before and would frighten away whatever bastard had ahold of him soon enough.

His attacker seemed to read the thought, shoving him angrily against the brick wall at his back and turning to face him. “Not who you were expecting to meet with this evening, is it?”

The voice seemed familiar, silvery and cultured, demanding now. Pellew blinked, able to see little else in the darkness of the alley save for the broad outline of a fair-haired man and the glint of the pistol less than a foot from his face. He swallowed hard, the blond hair and the voice triggering his memory. Yet his eyes and ears could only be deceiving him, recognizing the figure before him as a dead man. He must be mistaken.

His bafflement seemed to please his assailant; Pellew thought he saw the other man’s cheeks curve into a grin in the darkness. “Can’t believe it, can you? Or perhaps you’re afraid I’m a vengeful spirit. God knows you’ve done something to earn my wrath of late, haven’t you?”

Pellew fought to collect his wits, wanting to insist that he had not the faintest idea of what the man was on about. He wanted to demand how in hell Kennedy had survived that bullet and made it to London. But this was a time for quick thinking, not lengthy stories or shock. He was being threatened for God’s sake. Better to accept that Kennedy was here and work out the rest later.

“A spirit wouldn’t require a pistol.” Pellew convinced himself that if he answered firmly and showed no sign of fear Kennedy – however he had come here – would soon back down. He had been the younger man’s captain for years, after all, and despite whatever burst of courage had enabled Kennedy to accost him in this fashion it was only natural for the young fool to harbor some fear of him.

But Kennedy’s nerve did not fail him yet; he stared Pellew straight in the eye, a boldness about him that Pellew found disconcerting at best. He would have thought the man drunk were he not close enough to have smelled any liquor on him. In his memory, Kennedy had been nothing more than a shadow at Hornblower’s side, not this aggressive creature. Perhaps he had suffered a fever due to his wound; fever could change a man.

“And so a spirit wouldn’t,” Kennedy agreed, cocking his head with a shameless insolence a mere lieutenant should never dare show an Admiral. “The world can’t be rid of me, it seems. I’ll wager you find that disappointing.”

The shock of being faced with Kennedy at all had begun to fade, leaving Pellew’s head clear enough to understand the very personal nature of this assault. Damn it, when a gentleman had a grievance he settled it with a duel, not a pistol in an alley. A well-bred man such as Kennedy should know that.

“Death is not a cause for celebration, sir,” Pellew snapped. He would not have his honor contested in this ruffian manner. Yet he became aware of the lack of conviction in his words. If nothing else, Hornblower’s excessive attachment to Kennedy had made matters in Kingston difficult, not to mention the worrying fact that Kennedy had made a sodomite of the boy, perhaps influencing Pellew’s own affections for the worst. All in all, Kennedy was certainly not a positive influence, and as lamentable as a man’s disgrace was Pellew had to admit that Hornblower was easily prodded toward what was best without youthful affection distracting him from his duty. Hornblower’s grief proved equally unproductive, of course, but that would fade in time.

Kennedy’s gaze had not left his face, nor had he lowered his weapon. “I think mine was for you. You’ve always been jealous, haven’t you? Every time he stopped to look at me on deck you pretended I wasn’t there, and you couldn’t keep your hands off him, could you, now that he’s firmly under your control?”

Pellew glanced around despite himself, appalled by the unmistakable plainness of Kennedy’s words. Only belatedly did it occur to him to be shocked that Kennedy knew. The situation began piecing itself together; Kennedy must have written Hornblower the letter that had sent him running to London days ago; there was no other explanation for the boy’s abrupt leave-taking. Who could be surprised if the two men had shared confidences in regards to what had passed during their separation, even those of the nature Kennedy detailed?

Fear crept inside Pellew for the first time tonight, not of Kennedy, but of how Hornblower might receive news of his promotion now that he had his lover back again. Honor had an equal chance of pushing Hornblower toward duty as it did personal loyalty, but Pellew grudgingly supposed that only time would tell on that account. The important thing now was to keep Kennedy quiet.

“This is a serious accusation, Mr. Kennedy,” he growled, furious that this *boy* would endanger him this way. If these words were overheard . . .  “I’d advise you to show more respect for –“

“For whom?” Kennedy raised his pistol even higher, cutting Pellew off. The crazed light in his eyes seemed to intensify, glinting like the edge of a sword. “The highest-ranking officer on that tribunal who sat there and let Hammond have his way? Horatio almost hanged while you did nothing and yet when he was set free you were the first to want to bask in the glory of being attached to him, weren’t you? I bet you even think he should be grateful to you.”

Of course Hornblower should be grateful. He had managed to secure the boy a ship, that was more than half of England’s commissioned officers could hope for while the Peace lasted.

“Mr. Kennedy –“

There was no use in it. Kennedy had only grown angrier, making plain that Pellew was faced with more than a jealous lover, but a man who had seen both his friends and himself politically wronged. Either affront could make a man dangerous.

“Or do you mean respect for a lecher?” Kennedy pressed on, so incensed his voice started to shake. “He says you forced yourself on him. I know enough about that sort of thing to know he isn’t lying.”

Kennedy may as well have shot him. Pellew staggered though he stood stock still against the brick at his back. He wanted to insist that Kennedy was lying, that Hornblower would never make such an accusation of him. But the livid anger in Kennedy’s eyes proved otherwise and all Pellew could do was grow angrier in return.

“He’s been so out of sorts these past months he wouldn’t know the difference. If it had been up to him he would have rotted away in grief.”

For a moment, Kennedy was silent, breathing hard through his nose and biting his lip as though fighting for control over himself. “How noble of you,” was all he could say, the words tight and quivering like a string ready to snap. “Sacrificing his trust in you in the process must have been worth it.”

Pellew gritted his teeth at the boy’s acid mockery, wishing he could get his hands around Kennedy’s throat and shake sense into him. The fool did not understand. Hornblower had a career to think of. Allowing him to slip so deep into mourning that he neglected that career and those who might further it would be a far greater travesty than Kennedy’s disgrace in Kingston. The most profitable thing for Hornblower now was to put aside the idealistic ways of a child and concentrate on a successful future for himself. Kennedy only encouraged youthful affection, the blindness of love, whereas Pellew’s own offerings to Hornblower were far more concrete in terms of worldly advancement. Hornblower might be reluctant now, but in time Pellew was confident he would come to love him out of gratitude like the beautiful Greek boys to their mentors. If Kennedy cared for Hornblower, he would leave him to that life instead of standing here waving a pistol like a madman and endangering them all.

“Damn it, he never protested,” Pellew barked back. Hornblower had been shy and nervous, but that was simply his nature. No doubt the boy behaved no differently for Kennedy.

Kennedy shook his head. In the faint light Pellew could see his mouth twisting. The pistol trembled, Kennedy gripped it so tightly, and if Pellew had doubted whether Kennedy possessed the nerve to fire it before he now feared being shot by accident with the younger man’s hand not steady enough to hold the thing.

“Did you honestly think he would?” Kennedy seemed perilously close to shouting, everything about him strained. “Horatio used to think the world of you and if he does still I can’t imagine why. But it suits you well to have him under your command, doesn’t it? His achievements reflect upon you and his body is yours when you want it. As his superior officer he’d never resist you, and yet you risk the very career you think to nurture – not to mention his life – for your own covetous perversion. I hear you’ve got him a ship. Perhaps you even think he owes you for it.”

How dare he! Pellew’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Kennedy was a hypocrite to say the least, having no doubt risked Hornblower’s life and career countless times for his own abominable hunger. He and Hornblower were both naïve fools if they believed love worth that risk. Pellew had far greater ability to protect Hornblower from the noose than Kennedy. No admiral had ever hanged for sodomy.

“Mr. Kennedy, you seem to be out of your mind. Once again, I advise you to –“

The click of Kennedy cocking his weapon stopped him short. The younger man advanced on him, driving the hard length of the pistol into his cheek, pinning him tighter against the wall. “It seems I have a pistol to your head with nothing to lose. You might bear in mind what I advise.”

The damnable fool pressed so close that Pellew could feel his rapid breath on his mouth, the weight of his strong body though they scarcely touched, and the rage in him. He was mad. More alarming than that, Kennedy was right; he had been branded a mutineer, his honor cheerfully slaughtered by that tribunal. There was nothing to stop Kennedy from shooting him, Pellew’s rank least of all. Pellew even began to believe that Kennedy would do it without a qualm. A catamite aboard his first ship, a former prisoner of war, a scapegoat, and now a jealous and avenging lover . . . . No man carrying ten years of pain inside him could be trusted in anger, and would not an admiral be a worthy target considering all he had suffered? The Navy had ruined his life. Kennedy had it in him; he had been bold in that Kingston courtroom, staring up at Pellew with clear bright eyes as he had made his false confession. Nothing short of devotion had led him to do it. A man who would die for you would kill for you.

“You’ve forced yourself upon an unwilling man under your command who happens to be dear to me,” Kennedy raved on. Pellew almost thought he could feel the fast beating of his heart and the boiling anger through his veins. “You might never have thought to pay for it, but here I am. You should have slaked your lust elsewhere instead of laying hand on him.”

Pellew tried to shake his head, a part of him still wanting to believe that Kennedy was bluffing. But the press of the muzzle had begun to hurt and Kennedy had spoken too loudly. If another officer should overhear and Hornblower should be pressed to confirm or deny these accusations . . . .

Desperate, Pellew groped for leverage in the darkness, determined to free himself and get away from here even if he had to shoot Kennedy in the process. His hand found Kennedy’s shoulder just as his ears caught the sound of someone rounding the corner and running toward them.

“Damn it. God damn it, what are you doing?” It was Hornblower, on his way to meet him at the Swan no doubt. Pellew let out a relieved breath when his dear boy grabbed Kennedy from behind, yanking him backward, continuing to growl through clenched teeth. At least he possessed enough sense to keep his voice down, unlike this other lunatic. “Get your hands off him. Damn it, Archie, come here. Are you out of your mind?”

When the pistol had moved away from his head Pellew could only think to feel vindicated, convinced that Hornblower’s angry intervention had proven Kennedy a liar after all. Hornblower would no sooner make such accusations against his former captain than he would allow him to be so basely assaulted by this madman. With any luck Hornblower would set Kennedy straight here and now.

But Hornblower did no such thing, and when he fretfully dusted Kennedy’s shoulder where Pellew’s hand had been Pellew realized that Hornblower’s demand had been directed at him and that the boy meant to protect Kennedy. Indignation filled him, along with a twisting sense of betrayal. Hornblower had no other words for him, too busy panicking over Kennedy.

“Come on, damn it. We’ve got to get you out of here before someone sees you.” He locked an arm in his friend’s, steering him around, without a protest from Kennedy. “Keep your head down,” Hornblower snapped after a moment, starting to drag him out of the alley in the opposite direction he had come.

Pellew was left standing there admittedly unsettled by what had happened. Worse, he felt shamefully cast aside, that same frustration brewing in him as all those times when Hornblower had lost himself in Kennedy’s gaze on the deck of his ship. His maneuverings in Whitehall now seemed worthless; Pellew severely doubted that Hornblower would meet him for supper later that night.

**

Horatio did not let go of Archie’s shoulders even after he had shoved him into a coach and urged the driver to hurry.

“What in God’s name is the matter with you?” He shook Archie fiercely, uncaring whether he hurt him or not. “Are you out of your mind? Captain Hammond was about. If he had recognized you . . .”

He could not finish. His heart pounded so rapidly that he almost felt dizzy. Nothing short of terror had seized him to hear Archie’s voice coming from that alley. First the attempt on his life two days ago and now this; Archie must be determined to drive him mad – either that or he had lost his sanity. How could he be so stupid as to parade himself out in the city? Damn it, the idea of him being caught and hanged was even worse than the thought of him blowing his own head off.

Archie only sat there staring down at his clenched hands, biting his lip white, still caught in whatever fit of insanity had driven him to finding Pellew. That only deepened Horatio’s anger, wanting to snap Archie out of his lunacy and exact a promise that he would never do anything so suicidally stupid again.  His fingers tightened, clawing through layers of clothing as he shook Archie harder.

“Damn it, listen to me.” Had Archie’s walk to the courtroom in Kingston not done enough damage? Did he care nothing for his own life? Why would Archie not answer him? “Archie –“

His friend would not look at him, biting deeper into his lip until his face wrinkled. A moment later he seemed to give up trying to fight down whatever emotion had risen up in him and choked out, “Don’t go with him.”

Horatio let out his breath. He had been prepared for shouts, not those few words in that small, broken voice. Archie looked up after he said them, his expression pained and pleading, utterly killing. Horatio swallowed hard, all at once feeling cruel for hollering, concerned he might have hurt Archie shaking him so roughly.

His grip loosened and somehow he had Archie against his shoulder. He tried to push away, but Horatio pressed a hand firmly to his back, keeping him where he was, and in the next moment Archie’s fingers curled into back of Horatio’s coat, clinging like a cat.

He shook when Horatio’s arms came up to support him against the jostling of the coach. His body was rigid under Horatio’s hands, his heart beating rapidly too. He was seething, gripping Horatio’s coat as though he wanted nothing more than to break something.

“Shh,” Horatio told him, smoothing his hair with one hand. He had a thought for Pellew, but could grasp nothing more than the fact that he had found Archie alive. Archie let out a breath after a moment, sinking heavily against Horatio’s chest. Horatio could only think of the last time he had held him, of the blood that had soaked the layers of cloth between them. His arms tightened. “I came looking for you,” he muttered against Archie’s hair. “I thought . . . ”

After searching everywhere else, the idea that Archie had gone to Pellew in his place had seemed the only likely possibility, though Horatio had never dreamed Archie would be so foolish as to make a spectacle in the street. Worse, Horatio had feared not finding him at all. But now that he had . . . .

Archie made a muffled sound into his shoulder, and only when he shook again did Horatio realize that he was sobbing quietly, his ire crumbling into something else, the pain of these past months perhaps. The sheer frustration in him wrenched Horatio’s heart. After everything – Renown, Kingston, and Archie’s awful wound, Horatio supposed it was high time one of them wept. God knew he had had been too dead inside for tears. Even so, Horatio’s eyes strung to see Archie in such upheaval, knowing that he was to blame for so much of it. He could have sobbed too, but Horatio fought down the urge, petting Archie’s hair and murmuring to him.

“It’s all right. I’ve got you. There, there. It’s all right.”

“No it’s not.” Archie sniffled against his shoulder, suddenly seeming too weary to lift his own head.

Horatio rubbed a hand over his back. Yes it was, for the moment at least. Archie was alive. The sheer conviction of that fact swept over him for the first time now that Archie’s warm body lay against him where Horatio could feel the thud of his heart and rise and fall of his breath, nothing like a ghost. Archie was thinner than he used to be and he no longer smelled of the sea, but he was here and Horatio allowed himself to cling to him, thinking of all the times Archie had terrified him – in Spain, in Kingston, in Edrington’s house, and now here – wondering if he could bring himself to let Archie out of his sight again for fear of what might happen. Horatio’s heart still beat fast, but only out of stark relief. After the frights of the past few days and the dreadful numbness since he had left Archie in Kingston Horatio could feel nothing else.

Archie stayed silent, sniffling occasionally into Horatio’s coat. When he did not eventually draw way to the other corner of the carriage out of embarrassment for weeping as he might have done it became clear that he huddled against Horatio for warmth as much as anything. Archie wore no cloak or hat, only a suit of clothes someone must have procured for him. That in itself was foolish – it was cold out and Archie had been ill – but Horatio did not wish to distress him any further by shouting at him again. The best he could do for the time being was look after Archie without saying so.

“It’s bound to rain again.” Horatio ventured after a few moments of silence. “We need supper in any case. Are you hungry?”

“Not really.” Archie answered quietly, his forehead still resting on Horatio’s shoulder.

Discouraged, Horatio frowned, fearing that perhaps Archie did not wish to be alone with him. But Horatio was not ready to return to Edrington’s just yet. He wanted to explain himself and he wanted to be sure that Archie was all right. More than that, he simply wanted Archie to himself for a little while, even in silence. They had been three months apart for God’s sake.

“Well you must be thirsty,” Horatio tried again, this time earning neither a yes nor a no. But an answer was not required yet. They would have to be well away from any officers’ den before it would be safe enough to venture out of the coach.

**

They found an inn in a more remote part of the city an hour later, after the rain had begun pouring down and Archie had grown cold enough without a cloak not to argue Horatio’s suggestion that it would be best to keep out of the weather.

He only had enough money for one room, the cowardly part of him finding the prospect of sharing a bed with Archie nerve-wracking while matters remained strained between them; he would have nowhere to retreat. Archie was so quiet that Horatio assumed his friend felt the same. That stung; Horatio could recall a time when they had both been thrilled to have such a logical excuse as their finances to spend the night in the same bed. But Horatio shook off those memories, doubting that they would end up in each other’s arms tonight. Instead, he did what he could for Archie now, ordering hot baths and meals for them both.

Archie ate, thank God. He even seemed hungry, but better than that he seemed to liven up a bit, watching the others around them with sad though intrigued eyes as though he had never been in an inn before. At first Horatio feared that Archie only pretended distraction to avoid conversation, but his interest seemed so innocent that Horatio decided that was not the case.

He had turned his own attention to the window, fearful that someone connected with the Navy might stumble in and recognize Archie. The place was not crowded, but the evening’s patrons were still trickling in.

“Feeling better?” Horatio turned back around after a moment. He had already finished his own meal, though his ale remained untouched. The stuff smelled strong; it would be best not to have anything that might dull his wits should they need to act quickly for Archie’s sake.

Archie nodded, albeit half-heartedly, reaching for his ale. “It’s good to be out in the world again. I felt like I was back in that pit in Spain, shut away while everything went on around me and I couldn’t claw my way out.”

Horatio frowned. The seclusion must have indeed been hell for Archie; he had an adventurous and vivacious spirit that craved action and excitement, not to be shut away like a leper or a prisoner.

“I would have traded places with you,” Horatio told him, suddenly aware of how much he had missed having Archie around to speak his mind to. “It was more than I could bear putting on a sanguine face for the men each morning. I would have preferred a prison cell or a room to hide in.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Archie shook his head after drinking again from his mug. Then he changed the subject. “I have to tell you, I did see Captain Hammond.”

“The important thing is whether or not he saw you.”

The scolding in Horatio’s words had no effect, not that Horatio expected it would; Archie never regretted any of the mad things he did. “I saw him stop to meet two men in the street. They stepped aside to talk and didn’t seem like they wanted to be overheard. I couldn’t hear all of what they said, but it was something to do with the upheaval in Ireland. I’ve always thought Hammond strange, but –”

Horatio shook his head, hardly wishing to be reminded of Hammond or the world’s troubles at the moment; he had enough on his mind as it was. “He’s Irish. It’s only natural that he would take an interest.”

“I suppose so,” Archie shrugged, seeming not to care either way, as though he had only brought the subject up for lack of any other conversation.

They fell silent after that. Horatio tried not to be nettled by it; considering Archie’s disheartened state it was only natural that he would not feel up to talking, and perhaps he was a little ashamed of his distress in the carriage. There were things Horatio wanted to say, but they were not suited for the main room of an inn, and so he went back to watching the window while Archie drank the last of his ale.

A tall man caught Horatio’s eye, another Navy lieutenant who likely wanted out of the storm. The man may well have been harmless, but Horatio grew wary just the same. He turned to Archie quickly.

“I think you should get upstairs. They’ll soon have the bath ready in any case.”

He regretted urging Archie away after he had professed pleasure at being out again, but discretion was necessary. The entire Navy had no doubt heard of Archie’s “crime” aboard Renown and the two of them had run across so many fellow officers over the years that there was no telling who could put a face to a name even after only a single meeting. Any officer would account it his duty to see a mutineer duly punished, if he did not know the man was innocent. Even he might have done the same, though the thought of personally sending a man to the noose left Horatio ill inside.

Archie did not argue, but rose from the table and made his way up to their room without a word. Horatio watched until Archie reached the top of the stairs and turned out of sight, resisting the urge to follow after him. Archie likely did not want that right now; probably he wanted to bathe alone, and it would be best if Horatio kept watch down here with another officer about.

The man ended up passing the inn altogether and climbing into a coach, but even then Horatio did not leave the table. He sat nursing his ale for as long as he could, all the while reminding himself that eventually he would have to go upstairs. He knew what he wanted to happen there, but that only worsened his anxiety. A part of him found it safer to remain at a distance, for fear of facing the same devastation in Kingston all over again. But the familiar feel of Archie resting against him in the carriage had awakened a longing that would not be denied, not for pleasure but for human closeness, the sort he could only ever find with Archie.

If he would seek that, then he would have to win it on his own. Archie would not carry the burden for him now as he had in their youth, taking pity on Horatio’s shyness and ineptitude when it came to exposing his heart. Horatio still felt undeserving of any kindness from Archie and he reminded himself that Archie could be as yielding as he was stubborn; he did not want to take advantage of that. But understanding was not a wicked thing to want, for Archie to know he had not meant to cause him grief. He would never ask or expect Archie to forgive him.

Archie already lay in bed by the time Horatio retired to their room. He had left the candle burning beside him and looked to be asleep, but Horatio did not move closer to check for himself. Instead, he stripped off his clothes and lowered himself into the still-warm water, scrubbing quietly before it was time for him to climb into bed as well.

The air was too chilly for stalling. Horatio did not even bother neatly folding his uniform, but drew a breath and slid naked under the blankets. The bed was so narrow that he could not help but sense the warmth of Archie’s body inches from his own. It beckoned him, but Horatio kept still, wrestling with his own oppressive guilt. He still had not worked out all that he wanted to say, only lay on his back listening to the rain, tangled up inside and frustrated, knowing that Archie was not asleep after all.

The quiet seclusion of the room both comforted and pained him, reminiscent of all those shore leaves when the prospect of a locked door and a warm bed had sent them diving for one another in wordless hunger and relief. Here, Horatio felt the tension between them more acutely; Edrington’s house had been a place for discretion and form, but never in their former lives would they have taken a chance at privacy for granted as they did now.

All at once the conflict between them began to seem ridiculous, as did Horatio’s own sense of finality where the two of them were concerned. He had been wrong to leave Archie in Kingston and to allow the man who had remorselessly destroyed Archie’s honor to take gratification from his body, but he loved Archie and ached to see him suffer, knowing that he could offer more than a meal and warm bath to comfort him. It was not wrong to want to heal Archie, if that was all he had to give.

Horatio reached out, despite how frightening it was, like passing his hand through fire. He took hold of Archie’s hand beneath the bedclothes. It was warm and pliant, and for the moment that was all that mattered as Horatio tugged it out from the covers and pressed a kiss to the back of it. He held his breath, tingling inside with nervousness as though he were committing a theft, feeling like Prometheus prepared to steal fire. But nothing catastrophic happened, no punishment for sneaking what he did not deserve; Archie’s lids fluttered, yet he did not snatch his hand away.

Letting out a breath, Horatio indulged himself, kissing over Archie’s palm and down the tender inside of his wrist, reassured and perhaps aroused by the beat of his pulse. Archie said nothing, but Horatio did not expect him to speak; he had offered himself once the first night at Edrington’s house and after being refused Archie would not do it again. It would not even be fair to want him to; Horatio could not expect Archie to throw himself at him simply because he had stopped being a coward.

“Warmer?” he asked gently, smiling down hopefully where he leaned over Archie close enough to put his arms around him.

Archie gave an unenthusiastic nod, his face worryingly expressionless in the candlelight, the spark of life he had shown downstairs faded away. Once again, Horatio regretted sending Archie from the table where he had been enjoying himself. Another ale and he might have been merry by now. He ceased his fondling of Archie’s hand.

“What’s the matter, Archie?”

“It’s nothing.” Archie buried face deeper into the pillow.

Horatio let go his hand entirely, all at once self-conscious and deflated. “You despise me.”

“That’s not it.” Archie’s tongue swept quickly across his lips, an old sign of nervousness. Horatio took him at his word. Archie only had a great deal on his mind. That in itself was worrisome, however, considering his actions of late, and far more pressing a matter than Horatio’s own longing.

“Archie . . .” He ran a hand along his warm, strong shoulder. “I want to know what’s wrong.”

Archie sat up. For a moment Horatio feared he had done so to escape his touch. He sat quiet for a long time, wrapping his arms around his knees, hunching forward and leaving Horatio to study the tense curve of his back. Horatio allowed his eyes to admire Archie’s smooth, bare skin as well as the colors of his hair in the firelight. He was still beautiful, muscular and soft all at once.

“It hardly seems worth it,” Archie said at last. “Everyday I ask myself why I’m still here. All I do is sit in the house wondering when Edrington will tire of me. And then where would I go that wouldn’t endanger anyone else?”

The name sparked the familiar jealousy, but Horatio fought it down, reaching out to close a hand over Archie’s shoulder. “Archie, please don’t –“ He was lucky to be alive. It almost seemed blasphemous to hear him speak dispassionately of so dear a gift as a second chance. Horatio would have thought that after surviving Kingston Archie would have found a new appreciation for life.

But Archie only shook his head, looking so painfully hopeless. “You couldn’t understand.”

“Archie . . .” Horatio began rubbing over his shoulders with both hands out of a compulsive need to touch him, realizing that Archie’s attempt on his life days ago had not been merely a foolish stunt, but that Archie truly had come to loathe his own existence and earnestly wished to be rid of it.

He had to make Archie see reason. He had done so before in Spain, late at night after coaxing food into him. Horatio tried to recall the things he had said to cut through Archie’s despair then – that Archie’s mother and sisters would miss him, that Archie might command a ship of his own someday. His heart sank; none of that would work now that Archie’s father had disowned him and his career lay in ruin.

A frightening question presented itself. Horatio began to wonder if it might have been better for Archie had he died. A man had nothing without his good name and Archie seemed to be suffering as much now as he had from that bullet. Panic filled him for even entertaining the thought; Horatio’s hands tightened, wanting to cling again and to tell Archie how he loved him. Could not that be enough of a reason to live? But Horatio knew that was childish. Archie needed something more concrete, something for himself.

“Give the prospect of an acquittal a chance. That verdict won’t stand up to logic.” The court-martial had been so stupid. Horatio finally admitted to himself how the principle of the situation had angered him. Investigating how a captain had lost command of his ship was well and good, but convicting innocent officers was unconscionable. What was more, the Admiralty had tainted Sawyer’s name by bringing his officers to trial. The mess grew more infuriating the more Horatio thought on it. He put it from his mind. “In the meantime . . .”

He stopped, ashamed that his childish thoughts had almost slipped out. But the unfinished words struck something in Archie; he glanced at Horatio over his shoulder, his blue eyes hopeful.

“What?”

Horatio swallowed, looking down where his hands rested upon Archie’s broad shoulders. Archie had not pulled away from his touch. He seemed a little less tense even, giving Horatio the courage to slide a hand down, wrapping an arm around Archie’s chest and gently turning him around.

“What?” Archie said again, more softly. Their eyes met. Archie’s lashes fluttered, and if Horatio did not know better he would have said that Archie appeared shy. He could feel the beat of Archie’s heart just under his hand, quickened with nervousness. Those blue eyes even lowered when Archie came to fully face him on the bed.

Strange, when Horatio was the one ever painfully aware of his own shyness. But he did not feel shy now. He felt determined, wildly desperate, as though he would have crawled a mile if that would have made Archie look upon him with eagerness again. But there were not miles between them, only a few inches, despite the fact that reaching out a hand to Archie felt as perilous as leaping off a cliff. It did not matter; Horatio could not have stopped himself.

His fingers brushed Archie’s soft cheek, caressing the hint of dark stubble there that Horatio found masculine and attractive. “Try, Archie. Don’t you think it makes a difference to me whether you live or not?”

Archie turned his head away, his face full of pain. For a moment Horatio feared he would weep again. “I’m not so sure.”

The words landed like a brick on Horatio’s chest. He felt a monster for having unwittingly planted such a pernicious seed of doubt since his arrival in London. Instinctively, he drew Archie closer. “I couldn’t bear losing you. Even when I thought –“

“You’ve borne it just fine.” Archie looked him in the eye this time, a hint of bitterness resurfacing.

“Archie.” It came out firm, affronted. How could Archie say that? As easily as he had said what he had the other day, Horatio supposed. Worse, Archie believed it. “Don’t you think I love you?” That earned him a frown. Horatio could see Archie thinking up a protest. He could not bear it. Archie did not know what the past three months had been like, what saying goodbye to him in Kingston had been like, scarcely able to comprehend that he was gone. Horatio swallowed hard. “When I thought you were dead in the infirmary, I sat by your bed for a long time. I imagined making love to your body and waking you from the dead that way.”

That fantasy had plagued him during the voyage home. He had become obsessed with the body, disturbed by the idea of leaving Archie behind where he could not care for him, irrationally convinced that he could have returned Archie to life if he had tried hard enough.

Archie blinked, his cheeks rounding with a grudging smile, dimly amused in his own way that Horatio would say such a thing. “Infection and all?”

Horatio could only smile at the hint of a challenge in Archie’s eyes. He cupped his pretty pale cheek, all the old affection swelling inside him. “Nothing could profane you.”

Those dear blue eyes widened and Horatio could only think to seize his chance, leaning forward and kissing Archie’s cheek. Archie let out a breath – a soft rush of warmth over Horatio’s skin – going still, neither resisting nor resenting. Horatio could only think to keep it that way, to beat down that bitterness each time it surfaced until it was gone. His hand slid to the back of Archie’s hair, kissing gently across his cheek as though in the midst of a tactical maneuver for which stealth was required. At last, he reached Archie’s mouth, kissing him thoroughly out of determination to prove so much, clutching at Archie’s back with his free hand.

He tasted just as Horatio remembered, igniting in his fearful, stoic body a hunger of many years’ standing. He wanted Archie now, not out of greed or possession or anything dishonorable; he wanted to be taken over, to surrender what he had locked away inside himself all these months, that thing that he could not give to Pellew. In his youth, he had admired everything that Pellew was, but of late he had come painfully to terms with everything Pellew was not. But that did not matter now.

Eventually, Horatio had to pull away in order to breathe. He studied Archie’s face, those blue eyes wide and bright with confusion, as though Archie did not know what to make of being kissed. Horatio frowned, remembering when Archie would wrap his arms around his neck and return his kisses with dizzying enthusiasm. He seemed as uncertain now as when he had first learned to feel passion again after Simpson, only this time it was Horatio who had caused him pain.

“Archie . . .” Horatio stroked a hand through his hair. Damn it why did Archie have to look so sad? They were here together, did that not count for something?

“I just wish none of this had ever happened,” Archie said quietly after a moment.

Horatio found himself kissing Archie again, his misgivings buried beneath a surge of protectiveness. His mind had begun to shut itself off, leaving only feeling and instinct. His mouth sought the delicate skin beneath Archie’s ear while he wrapped both arms around that broad, precious body, tugging Archie against his chest.

“Well damn it pretend it hasn’t,” Horatio muttered. “We’ll start over again and this time I’ll be damned if I leave you, Archie.” That was childish; there was no taking back what had happened, but at that moment Horatio would have given his own right hand for the chance. Archie did not find him so ridiculous, however; his arms slipped around Horatio’s neck and somehow Horatio ended up pressing him down onto his back, turning his head just so on the pillow. “I believe you were lying just like this.”

An urgent tangle of emotion tightened inside him to see Archie look just as he had when the light had gone out of his eyes. He remembered wanting to touch him, sitting there numb and still, chained by his own self-possession. Those chains were off now and this time Horatio did touch him, stroking soothingly over Archie’s wide shoulders and kissing the end of his small nose before crawling down to the foot of the bed, folding the blankets back as he went.

He did not have a particular purpose in mind, only took comfort in seeing Archie naked without blood or bandages. But his eyes fell on Archie’s square feet where his ankles were crossed. Archie had ticklish feet; Horatio remembered that from their wrestling games when they were younger, both of them cheating to win. He had discovered the fact in Spain while rubbing salve into Archie’s miserably cracked feet, earning a chuckle and then somehow his first ever kiss. Smiling, Horatio bent and rubbed his cheek against Archie’s foot without thinking, wrapping his long fingers around it, kissing and licking the sensitive skin under Archie’s toes like a playful puppy.

Archie twitched, and if Horatio raised his head then he knew he might catch a glimpse of something other than sadness in Archie’s face. But he did not do so yet, realizing that this was the only part of Archie’s body he had never adored with his mouth. Archie’s feet were strong and solid like the rest of him, feet that had marched across France, carried him into that courtroom despite the pain of his wound, and into that London alley where Archie had . . . . Horatio felt a surge of something he did not understand, frantic though not frightening. He pressed a kiss to Archie’s toes, perhaps simply humbled by the good fortune of having him here.

That ill-placed kiss earned him a laugh, and this time Horatio did look up. But he stopped before his gaze could reach Archie’s face, fixing on the red marks upon Archie’s side that his hand had covered before, one from the bullet and another from the surgery. Horatio swallowed uneasily; he had forgotten that there would be scars.

“My god, Archie . . .” He ran his finger along the line where the surgeon had cut into him. The whole idea become incomprehensively horrible, the pain and sickness, alone on a ship without a familiar face . . . . If only he had asked to help Clive to tend the body. He would have discovered the truth then and would have been there to wash the wound, sit beside Archie during the inevitable fevers, and support him with his own arms when Archie was ready to walk. Those who had done so did not know Archie as he did. What if they had not been patient enough or had failed to see the ways to make Archie do as he must in order to get better?

“Put the light out,” Archie was saying, made self-conscious by Horatio’s staring. The frown on his face broke Horatio’s heart.

“No, no. It’s not like that,” Horatio shook his head, crawling up and gathering Archie to him. He had not meant to make Archie feel ugly. Archie exhaled sharply to have the breath squeezed out of him, but Horatio smothered the little gasp with a hard kiss to that rose petal mouth. He wanted Archie, and with his longing laid bare he would never stand to be refused.

“You smell the same,” he murmured, burying his face in Archie’s warm, supple neck where the pulse beat strong. “And feel the same.” He bent his head to rub his cheek against the soft gold hair on Archie’s chest. “I wonder if you taste the same.”

Archie did not answer, breathing a little faster. Horatio did not give him the chance, dragging his mouth down Archie’s body. He latched onto a nipple, licking until Archie curved up toward him, though Archie did not grip his shoulders and groan encouragements as he might have done. Horatio tried not to let that matter, licking lower across his belly, tasting the salt of the skin there and then down in the furrow between hip and thigh. He did not mind Archie’s nervousness, or how still he lay; he did not want to reclaim what they’d had, but wanted to purposely forget it and discover Archie all over again. They had both been nervous the first time.

Only now Horatio had experience in his favor and confidence therefore. He took Archie firmly in hand, brushing his cheek and then his lips against the length of him, trying not to be hurt that Archie was only half hard. Horatio suckled him anyway, gently at first until he was fully aroused, and then determinedly, as though to draw all the despair and distress out of him like poison. Then he found himself doing it out of pride, wanting to be better than Archie’s pretty Earl might have been.

He soared inside at the first impatient twist of Archie’s body, followed by a strong hand gripping a handful of Horatio’s curls. “Horatio . . .” Archie finally called out as Horatio brought him off in deep shudders.

The room whispered with their ragged gasping afterward. Horatio looked up to see a pink flush in Archie’s cheeks. His hair was tousled and sweat shone on his forehead to match the glassy brightness in his eyes, those signs of passion like the shine of silver where the tarnish had been rubbed away.

Archie seemed content to lie there for a time while Horatio knelt and watched him. “Are you through positively identifying me?” he asked after a few moments.

Horatio grinned to finally get a quip from him, however half-hearted. “Never can be too sure.” He reached up and smoothed Archie’s hair.

Something more serious entered Archie’s eyes then. He studied Horatio’s face in silence for another moment and in that look Horatio could see Archie’s mind working, deciding whether to speak or not.

“Did you do that for Pellew?” The question was matter-of-fact and non-accusatory, yet Horatio felt accused, squirming inside with the subject. He had a mind to snap back with something about Edrington, but understood after a moment that Archie had asked out of more than simple jealousy.

“God no.”  The thought embarrassed him. Horatio wanted to demand that they speak of something else, ashamed that Archie knew, but he could not escape the way Archie peered at him so very soberly, asking him to uncover feelings he had buried too deeply to reach. Yet Horatio found himself trying, swallowing against the tightness in his throat.  “I don’t know why I let it happen, Archie. It may as well not have been my body. In my mind, I died with you.”

There, he had danced around the matter a little, though his words were no less sincere for it. He feared speaking ill of Pellew, as though one word would lead him to prison and trial all over again. As a flag officer, he owed Pellew respect, but inside . . .  Grief and the circumstances of Archie’s death had put an inevitable distance between them as it was.

There was something else too, worse in its own way. Horatio understood now what had humbled him earlier. He had heard Archie’s threat in that alley and had seen the shock in Pellew’s face. It was wrong to secretly delight in it and to be grateful; he could never confess to doing so aloud – it would pain him were Pellew to come to harm. Yet how could he not be grateful when Archie’s intervention meant he would never have to endure those unwanted attentions again? Archie had gone to protect him, another mad act like his walk to the courtroom in Kingston.

Perhaps it should have shamed him to have need of that protection. Archie would never have had to face Pellew if Horatio had possessed the courage to refuse Pellew from the first. What had happened? Archie used to think him brave and now Horatio wanted to crawl inside him for shelter. But that was far from the worst of it; the awkwardness that would exist between he and Pellew now was beyond wrenching. What would he say should Pellew approach the matter? Pellew would think him a coward for hiding behind another man. Horatio feared he would die of shame before looking the Admiral in the face again. It was too much to think about.

“And now?” Bless Archie for not pressing the matter of Pellew. This other question was easier to answer.

“I feel like all I’ve ever done is bring you to calamity. You never have what you deserve and I have nothing to offer you but a few words to your sister that may never bear fruit.”

Archie bit into his lip. Horatio supposed it hurt that he did not attempt to refute him. But Archie was too busy growing despondent again, shaking his head. “I doubt they will. You see, Horatio? I’ll only be safe outside of England and once the Peace is ended you’ll go to sea.”

“Archie, no . . . ” Horatio began to feel panicked, curling a hand into the sheets. He was not a fool; he knew where this was leading, that talk of death again and of Archie’s life not being worth the effort. Damn it, there were ways. He had already lost Archie by force; he would not give him up choice. “We’ll think of something. We’ll find lodgings together. Perhaps you can find work until we know your father’s mind.”

He stretched out beside Archie on the bed, frustrated with the fact that their grave circumstance had intruded upon their time here. His body thrummed with arousal and he wanted nothing more than to forget the entire mess. He was ready to reach for Archie when Archie spoke.

“Edrington considered hiding me in the Army. But I know what that would mean.”

This time Horatio did not fight the jealousy festering inside him, allowing himself to seethe at the prospect. “As do I,” he said firmly, not wishing to think on it.  “Archie, just . . . just leave this for the morning. Come here.”

Tugging Archie into his arms, Horatio rolled onto his back, pulling Archie on top of him, sighing at the familiar warm weight. He could remember all the times ashore when Archie would be too busy pawing at him for serious conversation and how, infected by that eagerness, his own attempts to detour him would never last long. It had almost been a game, his own passive way of deepening Archie’s excitement. But now Horatio found himself the forward one, reaching out and almost begging with his hands, rubbing fitfully over Archie’s back, his heels sliding up to cradle Archie’s body between his thighs. Horatio even ground up against him, not shy at all, but growing more frustratingly aroused by the moment, mad for union of some kind – no, of one kind. He wanted to be conquered by Archie’s old vitality, that thing he loved so well and hurt to see trampled yet again by bleak circumstance. Archie had suffered so much. Horatio could not allow this calamity to finally kill the joy in him; he would never bear the blackness thereafter.

Tangling both hands in Archie’s hair, Horatio pulled his head down, attacking his mouth with quick hard kisses until that lively pink flush crept into Archie’s cheeks again.

“Archie, enough of this. Take me,” Horatio cupped Archie’s face in both hands. “You’re alive. I want to feel it.”

Archie’s mouth set, a few inches from Horatio’s own. In the thrust of that stubborn square jaw and the slight narrowing of those blue eyes Horatio could read his thoughts. He wanted to refuse, to say that Horatio had not asked for that the first night at Edrington’s house and therefore had missed his chance. But something inside Archie relented and Horatio did not even care if it was smugness to see him beg. Archie flicked his tongue over the lips Horatio had reddened and peered down at him with that same serious look as before.

 “You’re certain you -?”

Wrestling with the embarrassment again, Horatio nodded. There was no need for concern on that account. “As damned certain as I am that I’m breathing.” Doubt still lingered in Archie’s face, and all at once Horatio wanted to confess that when he had arrived at Edrington’s house the prospect of intimacy had unnerved him, that was why he had shied away, he supposed. But not now. Yet he was too impatient to explain. “Lay claim to me, Archie, use my body – I don’t care – just . . .” He pushed Archie up onto all fours above him, sliding a hand down his belly and taking hold of him, stroking almost demandingly. “Just be one with me.”

It started out as something tentative and half-hearted. Horatio got some tallow from the candle to coat Archie’s flesh and then closed his eyes as Archie pushed into him, the penetration stinging just a little. Archie did not seem to want to take him, moving unenergetically instead of panting above him and rocking the bed as he used to. Biting into his lip, Horatio turned his face away, inexplicably humiliated by Archie’s disinterest. But eventually Horatio opened his eyes and saw that Archie only looked confused and perhaps worried.

Horatio gripped Archie’s shoulders, his need stronger than his pride. To hell with confusion and worry; he wanted release. God knew Archie needed that as much as he.

“Do it harder, Archie,” he ground out, fingers digging into Archie’s soft skin, shamelessly urging. “Do it until I ache in my sleep and can’t forget that you’re here. Oh God . . .”

His words drew a hot gasp and the most delicious movement. He kept talking, his demands growing bolder, fractured by his ragged breathing. His eyes held Archie’s and between them something burned. Horatio felt wonderfully invaded and crushed, given over to only the physical sensation, to that intensity building inside him and spreading outward. It could not hold; his body shook, coming off for the first time in months

**

Horatio woke to a hand caressing his chest. He felt sticky, hot, and when that hand drifted down between his thighs his body protested by reflex. He did not want this. Would it be mutiny or ingratitude to the refuse? Contempt toward a superior carried a heavy punishment, death even. If he were hanged then Archie’s sacrifice would be in vain.

But Pellew would not hang him. Pellew did not see how he resisted inside anymore than he saw the depth of his grief. Perhaps like his grief his resistance was something to be kicked aside in the name of duty. Was this his duty? He had never felt so mercenary in all his life. What had happened to the captain who used to praise and approve of him for saving lives and protecting his ship?

The touch stilled. Horatio opened his eyes, finding himself in a dark plain room with the rain beating down outside. Archie lay sprawled on his chest where he had collapsed after their coupling and Horatio let out a sigh of relief to realize that it had only been Archie caressing him awake, his head tucked between Horatio’s shoulder and neck, the hint of a soft sleepy smile on his lips in the moonlight.

Horatio wrapped both arms around him, subdued by a sense of peace. He kissed Archie’s forehead through his silky tousled hair, murmuring,  “First time I’ve wanted to wake in a long while.” He gave Archie’s brow another kiss, idly stroking the back of his neck with his fingertips.

“Me too,” Archie whispered back, drowsily curling a hand under Horatio’s jaw and leaning up to kiss him. Horatio shivered inside at the sweet warm tenderness of Archie’s mouth – the first kiss he had offered on his own tonight. It was like sinking into a warm bath or falling asleep after those hours of continuous watch, and all Horatio could do was cradle Archie’s head, his mouth opening and closing against Archie’s, accepting that lazy kiss and then asking for another and another.

Neither of them were fully awake – the troubled part of their minds remained asleep at least; perhaps that was better, leaving only room for uncomplicated longing and familiarity. Horatio sucked a little on Archie’s lower lip while Archie rubbed a nipple with one fingertip, curling so close at his side that nothing could have wedged its way between them. In that moment there was nothing that could not be said.

“I’m sorry, Archie.” Horatio covered his lover’s hand with his own. “I know this isn’t how you wanted it to be. I’ve made a mess for both of us.”

Archie shook his head. “I just wanted you to be happy to see me.”

“I know.” Horatio drew him closer. “I was. It was the same for me in Spain. When you turned away from me, I thought –“

Warm fingers found his cheek, silently apologizing for that all over again. “I suppose we’re even then,” Archie sighed after a moment, prepared to absolve him and leave it at that. Horatio could have let him – Archie’s vehemence had hurt, after all – but that would not be fair. Archie had already taken enough responsibility upon himself in Kingston.

“I fear not. You grow more blameless while my sins pile higher and higher.”

“Horatio . . .” Archie lifted his head, sounding fondly exasperated, but he did not seem to have the energy for whatever protest he was prepared to make. Instead, he sighed again, simply saying, “Forgive me for what I said to you the other day.”

Horatio nodded. Archie did not have to ask.

“And . . . and about Pellew,” Archie went on, wetting his lips. He alone understood what a tangled subject it was. “If –“

“Shh . . .” Horatio pressed his fingers to Archie’s mouth. “I don’t want to think about it.”

Little time remained before they would have to leave; the gray light of dawn already crept in through the window. Horatio wanted to preserve the peace they had found for as long as possible without their woes intruding.

He had begun to feel aroused again by the weight of Archie against him, his urge for consummation not quite satisfied. His mouth sought Archie’s, kissing him deep as he gathered him close and rolled him onto his back. Archie groaned when Horatio pressed down on top of him, his lips parting, letting Horatio’s tongue sink into his mouth. Horatio could not stop kissing him, sliding his mouth under Archie’s chin and then suckling at one side of his neck with increasing urgency. Archie’s arms wound tight around him, his body arching up with real passion, hard against Horatio’s belly. He cried out when Horatio licked at the hollow of his throat, rubbing his hands encouragingly over Horatio’s back.

“God that’s good.”

Horatio smiled, raising his head to rub his cheek against Archie’s, running a hand down his body, brushing a nipple and then the inside of his thigh. Archie was so sweet and pliant, so warm under him, nothing like that resentful creature days ago.

“Archie, I want you,” Horatio whispered, staring down at him and pleading silently not to be refused. “It’ll be good. I promise.” Archie only smiled, breathing hard under him in the stingy silver light, parting his strong pretty thighs. Yet Horatio supposed he meant more than being inside him, but rather the future in general. He wanted Archie’s trust again.

He got more of the tallow onto his hands, spreading it onto himself before kneeling between Archie’s legs and entering him. It was not like an invasion or penetration at all, but more like melting into him, melting together. He rocked into him slowly, letting the heat spread between them both until Archie cried out, trembling from head to foot.

“Horatio, just like that . . .” His fingers fluttered against the back of Horatio’s neck.

Horatio only leaned down to capture his mouth. Archie did not need to tell him when he had it right; he knew by the way he quivered. His hands slipped under Archie’s back, pulling him up so that Horatio slid against his chest in the friction. Archie held tight to his neck with both arms, hot under him as Horatio pressed his head into the pillow with hard kisses. He felt so wonderfully surrounded, clutched by Archie’s arms and legs, deeply buried in the heat of him, firmly anchored where he had been adrift before.

When the climax came they gripped each other hard enough to bruise, fingers straining to hold to sweating skin. Archie shuddered powerfully, his head tipped all the way back while Horatio buried his face in Archie’s exposed throat, clenching his teeth against the tide of pleasure.

Archie curled up against him afterward, unusually exhausted – a fact that Horatio put to his health of late. He sighed when Horatio closed his arms around him and kissed the top of his damp head, pressing his face against Horatio’s neck and squeezing his narrow chest with both arms, very much wanting to be kissed and held. Horatio frowned, wondering what the hell Edrington had done with him if Archie was so starved for affection now. How could he ever think to trust Archie to anyone else?

He reached down and touched a finger to that awful scar. Archie looked so drained that Horatio had begun to worry. “How’s this? Should we not have -?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” Archie shook his head dismissively. Horatio nodded; he had heard that one before, but he supposed the wound would be well-healed by now. He let his hands drift to Archie’s back instead, idly stroking the smooth balmy skin while he lay back against the pillow, lax and sated.

Archie curled up even closer if that were possible, hooking one leg across Horatio’s hip. Horatio realized that he would have him as a blanket for another few hours. Perhaps he should have urged Archie out of bed – they would have to return to Edrington’s – but Horatio felt indulgent. Archie could do with a bit of coddling and indulgence right now. He rubbed his back until Archie relaxed into sleep again, feeling only a little like a coward for not forcing himself to wonder what would happen once they left here.

**

Horatio had dozed off shortly after climbing into the coach. He’d had his coffee, but that hardly seemed to help. Archie watched Horatio where he lay huddled against the window. He appeared content, his features lax, so much so that Archie had no intention of disturbing him.

His own thoughts kept him from napping. The previous night had branded a pleasant warmth into his body, but the things that had been true yesterday in regards to the future were no less so now. Horatio might mean well with his promises and determination, but he had not yet learned that speaking words, however sweet, could not blind one to fact.

During the Peace they might be all right. Perhaps they could find lodgings together and Archie work somewhere. But Horatio would only be naturally glad when war broke out again, anxious to return to sea. He would come home, of course, but Archie would find him changed, a little more hardened each time, a little hungrier for a better command. All that was good in him would be slowly stamped out and their lives would move in very different directions. Perhaps it would be better to take up Edrington’s offer and say goodbye now. At least Archie could treasure last night for what it was and console himself with the fact that the parting would hurt Horatio as much as it would him.

Archie’s spirits sank with the thought. The easy intimacy they had shared hours ago seemed too much to give up. He looked down at himself, wrapped up in Horatio’s greatcoat, recalling how Horatio had drawn him close before draping the ill-fitting thing over his shoulders, wheedling softy that he could not bear for Archie to grow ill again. With a sad smile, Archie fingered the edge of it, wishing they had never had to leave that inn and return to Edrington’s where everything might once again be muddled. That did not even touch upon the matter of Pellew. No doubt the Admiral would be angry.

But their reprieve could not last forever. They soon found themselves in Edrington’s manor again, met by the Earl himself at the bottom of the great staircase, his demeanor none too pleased.

“Where were you?” he demanded, like an angry father, and for all they were grown men Archie and Horatio averted their eyes. Regardless of their misgivings over returning here it was not right to overlook the fact that Edrington must have worried.

Archie was ready to answer – apologize even – but Horatio stepped forward and spoke before he could. “I thought it best if Mr. Kennedy were kept out of the weather, my lord.”

Edrington rolled his eyes as though to say he could not be fooled, but said nothing aloud on the matter. Instead, he stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Captain Hammond paid me a visit. It seems he caught sight of the two of you. I claimed to know nothing, though he doubted me. He vowed to take his suspicions to the Admiralty. I expect another visit in due time.”

Archie went cold. He was aware of Horatio pressing close at his shoulder, frozen, and could only think of how he had tried to tell him about Hammond last night. Never had he expected that Hammond would know to come here, unless he had gleaned that information from Pellew.

But how the man had known was not important; the crisis was already upon them. Archie wet his lips, unsure of what to say. “I’ve endangered you,” was all that came out. For a moment he was unsure whom he had meant, Horatio or Edrington, but it was Edrington who answered.

“He appeared to have no knowledge that you were even here. It’s Mr. Hornblower he seemed convinced was hiding you.”

Archie’s heart slid down to the pit of his stomach. That was even worse. Who more eager to put a noose around Horatio’s neck than Captain Hammond? Horatio had been a fool to cart him around last night and he had been an even bigger fool to let him.

“You can’t remain in London, Archie,” Horatio was saying. At that moment Archie could not bear to look at him and see the selfless panic and concern in his eyes. He would not understand that he could very well be in as much danger. “We’ve got to get you out of here before they came back.”

“I suggest you be quick about it,” Edrington agreed, and for a moment Archie did not know what to make of his and Horatio’s joining forces. But the two of them were right; he could not stay here. Archie had no notion of where he might go, but he knew he could not afford to delay. He would not have either man endangered on his behalf.

“I’ll just be a moment,” he said, starting up the stairs. There was hardly time for frayed nerves; Archie could only think to gather what few things he had – what had been provided for him in the way of clothes and such.

But when he stood in the room that for the past month had been his home the fearful reality of the crisis at hand hit him. He had not been precisely happy here, yet there had been familiarity and certainty that each day would be like the next. Now his last vestige of stability had crumbled and Archie felt in pieces like the pile of clothing on the bed, unable to pick himself and put forth the effort of going into hiding in order to save a life that had become nothing but fruitless tedium.

“Are you ready?”

The sound of Horatio’s voice only served to compound the whole awful misery of what Archie had to do. For a moment he could not look up, a lump in his throat. But then Archie wondered why he bothered feeling sorry for himself. This was all his fault. If he’d had the wits God had given a brick he would have shot himself in a field instead of going after Pellew when it would likely do little good in the end anyway. Both Horatio and Edrington would have been better off. It was just like when he’d had that fit in the jollyboat years ago, nearly getting everyone killed because he had been too much of a dunce to deal sensibly with himself.

“Archie . . .”

The door closed. Archie knew they were alone. Looking down at the bed, he squeezed his eyes shut, his throat tightening. How could he say goodbye to Horatio now? He had done it in Kingston, but . . .  .

“Archie.” Horatio’s voice hardened when he did not answer. A hand came to rest gently on his back. “We don’t have much time.”

Archie made himself turn around, remembering that he still wore Horatio’s greatcoat. He could not very well leave here with it on. But he forgot the damned thing when he looked up. Horatio had exchanged his uniform for a suit of plain, borrowed clothes, a small bundle slung over his shoulder. Archie stared at him.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Horatio blinked, dipping his chin stubbornly. He did not like to be questioned, not when he was as rigid with determination as he was now. “Where’s the honor in turning my back on my dearest friend? Besides, I might well have as much need to hide as you.”

Was he mad? Horatio would hang if he were caught with him. “Pellew would protect you here. Tell them you’ve no idea where I’ve gone. Tell them you had every intention of dragging me to the noose. Horatio . . . ”

Horatio’s expression hardened by the word, but he did not shout, only stood there affronted, steeled by his precious pride and conscience. “I’ve already colluded in one lie, Archie,” he said with dreadful patience. When that failed to work, he swallowed hard and glanced down at his feet. His eyes were soft when he looked up again. “I’ve left you twice before. Don’t think for a minute that I’ll do it again. Now come on. We haven’t all day.”

Archie sighed. There was no time to argue, but he found himself no less desperate to keep Horatio safe and stop what might happen. He could not help but pat the pistol still tucked into his trousers. “In the end, I think we’d all be better served if I solved it all with this.”

He received an angry scowl. “For God’s sake will you give me that?” Horatio shoved a hand into his waistband, snatching the thing from him and tucking it into his own trousers. “You’ve already been shot once. Now let’s go.”

“Right.” Archie finished gathering his things and then glanced about the room again, a knot drawing tight inside his chest to look down at the bed and recall how Edrington had come to him there. He had never deceived the man – Edrington should have known he would turn back to Horatio the moment he appeared – but Archie felt . . . . He could not leave here without a word to him. “Give me a minute, Horatio. I’ve got to say goodbye.”

Horatio nodded, but by his tight-mouthed expression Archie could see that he did not like the idea of his going to Edrington. There was nothing to be done for that save for getting it over with and getting away from here. Archie had a more pressing matter on his mind, though finding a means of sending Horatio from danger would have to wait.

Edrington found him in the hall, ushering him into his bedchamber and shoving a purse full of coin into Archie’s hand before he could even think of a thing to say.  “You’ll need money,” the Earl said, looking down at him with what Archie forced himself to recognize was concern.

Archie swallowed, closing his hand around Edrington’s offering – a handsome sum of money. For a moment he was reluctant to meet the Earl’s eyes. They had slept together and he had been cold inside the entire time, closing himself off to whatever comfort might have been given and declaring it not good enough. Archie felt ashamed of that – a carnal affair should be passionate at least – but his own dependence on Edrington’s benevolence and intervention had only become clearer and clearer and all the more humiliating by the day. Perhaps he was as proud as Horatio in his own way, unable to bear that his body had been the only thing he had to offer in return. A pity things had not been different.

“You’ve been . . . kind.” Archie struggled on the word when he finally forced himself to look at the man, unsure of whether the word was the right one. He had always thought of kindness as a quality belonging singularly to Horatio, but Edrington had taken a risk upon himself bringing him here and Archie supposed gratitude was in order, if not for his life than for the fact that Edrington had cared for the injustice in Kingston.  That was a little more than a pet had right to expect.

They stared at one another for a long moment, the awkwardness of their strange affair and the fact that it was over bubbling up between them. If Edrington harbored any wounded feelings or wounded pride that he had been cast aside for Horatio in the end he showed no sign of it, only put his hands on Archie’s shoulders.

“I wish you the best of luck.”

Archie nodded, looking up at him and thinking of how they had never kissed and of how restrained they were now, as though Archie had not drunkenly fucked him that first time. Perhaps it would have been better had he not, but it was too late now to change it. Still, Archie found himself hoping that some sense of friendship might be salvaged.

“I’ll try to send word somehow,” he promised, though he feared the danger of doing such a thing. But he would have to if he would learn what his family had made of Horatio’s letter – if there was any hope.

“Rest assured I’ll look for it every day,” Edrington returned with a smirk and a hint of flirtation. Then he took his hands away. “You’d better be off.”

A small smile was all that Archie could leave him with, though it faded soon enough when he and Horatio left the house. Fear swarmed him inside over what might happen to the both of them, the chaos of it all. Yet Horatio seemed determined to put on a confident face and so Archie kept silent as they made their way to God only knew where.

Part VIII:

Horatio took no time at all to devise a plan to get them out of England. France would be the safest destination, they both agreed, though Horatio argued that it would be too dangerous to get a ship directly out of London where they might be recognized after the other evening. They headed southeast toward Dover instead and from there they would cross the Channel to Calais. With the Peace, the ports would not be so busy and there was a chance they could slip away before the Admiralty moved fast enough to search beyond London. Once in France, clandestine letters might be sent and they would be all right for a time.

The plan seemed logical enough, but Archie failed to absorb Horatio’s optimism. He worried over what they would do in France and how long the money would last, and worse if they would even make it. But he did his best to conceal his doubts from Horatio. The fact that he was a grown man perfectly capable of understanding the consequences of being caught together never soothed Archie; he felt as though he were taking advantage of Horatio’s conscience somehow, that Horatio had only come with him out his damnable sense of obligation.

They went on foot out of London, moving by night even and taking turns resting. But by the time they reached Northfleet Horatio thought a coach might be safe. That night, the rain started up again, leaving them no real choice but to seek a room. There were no posters or Marines about, no sign of a search.

Even so, they hurried upstairs after a proper meal, exhausted though they were less than a third of the way through their journey. Archie expected they would sink onto the bed and fall right asleep, but something changed in Horatio when he latched the door shut behind them. His single-minded efficiency of the past two days slid away and his eyes grew soft with relief, like in their days at sea together when he would come below cold and lonely after the long hours on watch.

He reached for Archie without any real warning save that look, cupping his cheek in one long hand and leaning down to kiss him. Archie held onto his narrow shoulders, his heart beating a trifle faster with the warmth of Horatio’s mouth. Physical contact had been the last thing on his mind since leaving Edrington’s and now he could sense that Horatio had yearned for it all along. Archie felt wonderfully connected for a moment, drawn out of his worries over the future and pleasantly focused in the present.

“What was that for?” Archie smiled faintly when they pulled apart, crossing over to the bed and unlacing his boots. His feet ached, along with the rest of his body. Not since the uprising aboard Renown had he exerted himself so much. He felt weak now by comparison.

Horatio flashed him that boyish grin that Archie had not seen in months. “I’ve missed you,” he said, his expression open and hopeful. It was rare for Horatio to stand there wearing his heart on his sleeve like that.

Shaking his head, Archie tugged off everything but his shirt, stretching out against the pillows. It was marvelous to lie upon something soft again after two days of snatching naps against walls, trees, and in that cramped coach. Horatio seemed to find the prospect of a bed inviting as well; he removed his own shoes and then his jacket and waistcoat before laying his long body beside Archie’s.

Without a word, Horatio rolled toward him, sliding a hand under Archie’s chin and kissing him again. The warm insistence of his full mouth felt wonderful - Horatio was irresistible when passionate - and Archie could have happily lain there and let Horatio do as he wished with him. But Horatio drew back after a moment, peering down at him with his endless calf eyes, large and consuming in the candlelight.

“You’ve been quiet lately. Are you all right?”

Archie frowned, certain that Horatio had no wish to be burdened with his troubles, not when he seemed more interested in kissing. But Archie was so tired of dragging himself along day by day, unable to see a reason to bother. He was also tired of having his woes brushed aside in the quest for pleasure as Edrington had done. Horatio would not do that.

“This running . . . “ He shifted to lay his head against Horatio’s shoulder, sighing when a warm arm came around him. “I feel like I’m bound to go mad, like I’ve been tumbling downhill with nothing solid to hold onto.”

“What about me?” Hurt touched the question. “You no longer trust me.”

Archie ran a soothing hand over Horatio’s chest. He had not meant it like that. Horatio’s persistence forced Archie to keep on; he would as soon have given up and considered the effort of saving himself futile considering his circumstances. But he could not be glad for Horatio’s presence. Should something happen to him . . . .

“It’s not that, I -“

“Archie . . .” Horatio’s arm tightened before he could finish. “Even if your father refuses to press for an acquittal, all isn’t lost. England isn’t the whole world. So long as you keep away any from British port there’s nothing to bar you from living as a free man. You can’t lose hope, Archie.”

What of the two of them, Archie wanted to ask, but the question felt silly. Without reinstatement their only chance of a life together would come from Horatio resigning his commission. He would never do that. Probably Horatio only meant to see him to safety, expecting that he would resign himself to the quiet life of marriage and a family while Horatio went back to England to have a glorious Naval career. After all, there was a ship awaiting his command in Portsmouth. Archie curled closer. Best not to ask these questions aloud. It would be like asking Clive all over again if the bullet was fatal.

“In any case there’s no need to worry,” Horatio went on, relaxed and unperturbed against him, idly winding his fingers in Archie’s queue. “You got us out of one mess in Kingston. I believe it’s my turn.”

He must have been exhausted to gloss over the danger so non-chalontly. Archie raised his head, turning to look down at him. “You’ve more to lose.” He had been dying in Kingston; the circumstances were not the same.

Horatio only shook his head, his big eyes filled with conviction. ‘It’s no more than we’ve risked to be together. It may be less even - there’s nothing in the Articles to guarantee they’d hang me. The punishment for what we’ve done is clear.”

How could he take such a gamble? If the Admiralty had been willing to hang innocent men in order to preserve Sawyer’s name then they would not show clemency to an officer who helped the man who had supposedly pushed their hero. But Horatio had only ever concerned himself with the letter of the law, not the corruption and motivations of those who wielded the power to enforce it.

“Haven’t you learned? The Admiralty isn’t in it for justice, only for covering up their own stupidity.” Archie watched Horatio’s face for a sign of protest. When he saw none, he went on. “There’s something else, too. Hammond - I think he’s up to something.”

Horatio had brushed him off when he had attempted to mention this before, and Archie had been content to let him, but after Hammond had actively sought them out at Edrington’s it would be foolish not to regard his meeting in the street with suspicion. The man was dangerous.

“Up to what, do you think?” Horatio’s brow furrowed at the mention of Hammond, and with good reason. Even Pellew apparently feared him.

“I . . . I didn’t hear very much . . .” Archie paused to remember. He had been intent on finding Pellew, shocked to see him parting ways with none other than Black Charlie Hammond. They had played a card game on perfectly affable terms, or so it had seemed. Archie’s blood had boiled then. How could Pellew take advantage of Horatio and then gamble cheerfully with the man who had wanted him hanged? Pellew was of superior rank; form would not permit him from refusing. The rage had been so strong that Archie had not even been able to summon the words to call Pellew out on it when he’d had him at the end of his pistol. Pellew had lingered a moment with his two other companions, and while Archie had waited Hammond had moved past to meet with his strange Irish friends. He had met Hammond’s eyes - caution had not concerned him then - but Archie doubted the captain had been able to put a name to his face until seeing him with Horatio. “He said something about a man named Wolfe,” Archie finished, “and a plan once they reached Brest.”

He waited for Horatio to weigh his words, watching his expression darken. “No chance the exchange could have been entirely innocent?”

Archie shook his head. “I caught Pellew’s name. Hammond must have repeated whatever information he’d gleaned from him. It’s troubled me.” He could not help but think that Hammond had feared he had imparted to Horatio what he had seen, expecting that Horatio would inform Pellew himself. That fear would explain why Hammond had wasted no time in seeking them out.

Horatio’s thoughts evidently traveled along the same path. He was quiet for a moment, his mouth set. “I saw an officer outside that inn a few nights ago. I wonder if Hammond had us followed.”

“He might have.” Archie’s chest tightened. Hammond would be all the more insistent on hanging if he wished something kept quiet and thus might pursue them all the more ruthlessly in that case. And if Hammond had spies to send to that inn then God knew where else the two of them had been sighted. Archie looked down at Horatio’s slender, innocent form on the bed, wanting to gather him up protectively.

But it was Horatio who slid his hands to Archie’s shoulders, stroking soothingly through his shirt. “There’s nothing we can do now,” he said quietly. “I’m sick to death of all this. I’m almost glad to go to France.”

Archie nodded. That little selfish wish to hide away together had lived inside them both since Spain, as childish and impossible as it had always been. It turned Horatio’s deep velvet eyes dreamy now and that look, coupled with the gnawing danger, drew Archie toward him in the need to forget their circumstances and take comfort in what they had now. Horatio’s arms encircled him invitingly, pulling Archie down onto his chest where Archie supported himself on his elbows and bent his head for a taste of Horatio’s ripe, cushiony mouth.

Horatio’s eyes closed, his lips yielding, preferring to kiss rather than talk. Archie indulged them both, a welcome spark of vigor shooting through him at the contact. But soon he drew back again, petting Horatio’s fine tanned cheek with his fingertips.

“Forgive me for being dreary of late.” He rubbed his face against Horatio’s long neck, pressing a kiss under his chin. Sometimes Archie worried for him; Horatio never spoke of anything but the future these days, almost as though he were afraid to look back. God knew what Horatio could bury inside him.

“As long as you’re here,” Horatio answered absently, running his hands down Archie’s back. Archie smiled; putting Hammond from his mind. Lying close to Horatio was all he wanted now, to feel his slender, hard body pinned beneath him and the gentle rise and fall of his breathing.

“Tired?” Archie’s fingers found the buttons of Horatio’s shirt, slowly slipping them free as he started to kiss down his throat. He tasted good, warm and familiar. Archie hoped that Horatio was as keen for affection as he had been when coming in.

Horatio tipped his head back, threading a hand in Archie’s hair. “I suppose I ache a little,” he admitted, and then groaned when Archie’s mouth reached his collarbone and flicked his tongue out over the smooth skin.

Poor Horatio. Archie tugged the shirt from his trousers and shoved both hands beneath the linen, rubbing fitfully over Horatio’s smooth chest while he kissed in the gap of his collar. Horatio had been made to stand on the quarterdeck, not trudge on foot in plain clothes. “I’ll rub your feet.” Archie looked up into Horatio’s slightly flushed face, grinning at the way his lips parted when Archie’s hands slid up to rub his nipples with his thumbs.

“You’re fine where you are.” Horatio’s breathing had quickened. Smiling, Archie leaned down and captured Horatio’s mouth again, this time pushing his tongue inside. His prick hardened at the slippery heat. He groaned when Horatio pressed him closer, unable to keep from rocking gently against Horatio’s hip to ease the ache. Horatio’s own hard flesh pressed into his belly, and just as impatiently Horatio wedged a hand between them to unbutton his own trousers.

Archie rolled aside to help him wriggle them off. Horatio’s shirt followed, and then Archie’s own. That was better; Horatio’s hands were all over him when Archie draped himself over his chest again. They caressed his back, his arse, and his thigh where Archie bent one leg across Horatio’s hip. All Archie could do was feast upon his mouth and slide his hands under Horatio’s back to bring him closer, both of them breathing hard.

“I wish we could do something we’ve never done before,” Horatio rasped when they broke apart to breathe, bright-eyed and flushed, both hands in Archie’s hair.

Archie grinned at him. “I fear we’ve done it all.” Even if they had not, he was happy just lying like this. Horatio seemed content as well, tugging Archie’s head down for another kiss and sliding his heels up so that Archie lay nestled between his thighs.

There was nothing else to do but rub against him - naked, erect, and beautiful as Horatio was, his prick throbbing right under Archie’s own. The lovely friction was not the inexperienced squirming of their youth, when climax came by accident and always too soon. This was patient and deliberate, a full-body caress kneading the silky pliant hardness beneath him while Horatio gripped the back of his head and made love to his mouth with open lips and his wet, hot tongue.

“That’s good, Archie,” he panted between kisses. Archie laughed - giggled was more like it. Taking pleasure this way felt so pure. He loved everything Horatio did to his body, but what they had had never been about possession or conquest; Horatio did not have to fuck him to enjoy it, unlike Edrington or Simpson - the only other men he had lain with. Archie relished that now, to be loved as a man and not a thing to thrust into and claim.

They came off rubbing vigorously, clutching and kissing, content to lie sticky and sweaty against one another afterward as they caught their breath. Horatio wore that unguarded, puppyish expression he always wore after coupling, and it was in the weakness of the moment that he brushed Archie’s cheek with his long fingers and murmured, “My dear.”

Archie simply sighed, his head pillowed on Horatio’s shoulder, remembering the times when they would sneak into one another’s hammock aboard the Indie and whisper together. Things had been peaceful then. They’d had so much hope. “I wish I’d never been shot so that I could have sailed home with you,” he heard himself say. That was how it was supposed to be - always together, no getting shot or dying, or even transfers to different ships on opposite sides of the world.

Horatio pressed his cheek against the top of Archie’s head. “You were to be my first lieutenant. We wanted a ship together.”

Indeed they had. Archie closed his sleepy eyes and tried to picture Horatio in a shiny gold epaulette standing on the quarterdeck of that little Spanish prize ship. He felt miserably hollow inside for having missing something so important, like a parent who had missed his child’s first steps.

“Who was it instead?”

“Someone Pellew appointed to me. It wasn’t the same.” From his curt tone Archie could tell that Horatio did not wish to speak of it. Leaving off, Archie settled against him for the night, tugging the covers up. They would both need their rest to continue on tomorrow.

They were almost asleep when a fist pounded on the door, angry and insistent. Archie sat up, all at once vexed, wondering what fool would trouble them so rudely at this time of the night.

“Just a minute,” he snapped, reaching for his shirt. Neither of them were in any condition to present themselves. But he froze when a rough answer came from the other side of the door.

“Marines! Hurry up!”

Archie’s heart nearly stopped. For a moment he could not move. He had no choice, he knew, and had no fears on his own account. But Horatio . . . He was lying there with his own seed spilled upon his belly for God’s sake. Archie could only think to throw his shirt at him, tugging on his own and scrubbing at his skin in what felt like slow motion. He had half a thought of leaping out the window, but the men inside would only storm in when they heard the noise.

“We must have been followed after all.” It took Archie a moment to stop grasping for a means of escape and understand that Horatio was preoccupied with the logistics. What did it matter now that the Marines were here? Why could not think of a plan to do something instead. But he was likely right; they had given false names to the innkeeper, after all. It seemed a nervous preoccupation in any case, something for Horatio to grasp at while he scrambled into his clothes, blinking nervously and visibly shaken. “It’s best if we cooperate,” he muttered after a moment, as though reading Archie’s mind.

Archie nodded grimly. For his part, he had nothing to lose, but if there was something he could do to help Horatio . . . .

That hope seemed futile when Archie opened the door. Four stone-faced Marines charged into the room with their muskets. All Archie could think of was the smell of sex in the air. That could be as damning as anything. What if the Marines decided to search them?

“Which of you’s Kennedy?” the Sergeant demanded, planting his stalwart shape squarely in front of them.

Horatio caught his eye, ready to do something noble and foolish. Archie stepped forward before he could speak. “I am.” He looked the red-coated sergeant in the eye, a part of him wondering if Pellew had anything to do with this - he had accused the Admiral of a serious crime and threatened his life, after all, getting rid of him would be the smartest thing for Pellew to do. But what did it matter? It would mean the noose all the same. Drawing an unsteady breath, Archie’s gaze flicked to Horatio again. “My friend here has nothing to do with this.”

The words came too late. Horatio was already leaning over his shoulder, bristling, at the same time saying, “Mr. Kennedy is innocent.”

The sour-faced sergeant looked for one to the other, wet from the rain and in no mood for protest. He scarcely batted an eye at either of their words. “I’ve orders to take both of you,” he growled, and then motioned his men forward.

The two of them were put in irons with few words. Archie tried to feel nothing as they were marched out, just as he had when taken into custody in the courtroom in Kingston, but it killed him to see Horatio with his hands bound at his side, attempting to hold himself with rigid dignity and cooperate like a gentlemen. Archie could not help but feel that all that effort was ill-placed, that it would have been better to fight and take their chances. The cost ahead seemed far too high

**

A fifth Marine had been sent ahead on horseback while the two of them had been shoved into a cart. The man was likely to reach to London more than a day before them considering the rain and mud their horses would have to slog through. Archie supposed that would grant Admiral Pellew a small chance to maneuver however he may to save the protégé he claimed to hold so dear. But the prospect was purely a theoretical one; Pellew had done little to help Horatio in Kingston despite Horatio’s trusting him with the truth and Archie expected no different when Horatio faced court-martial this time. The fact that, for his own part, Archie would likely hang before he saw the outcome failed to comfort him. He would never bear leaving Horatio to the mercy of the Admiralty.

Horatio sat silent for the time being, staring out through the cart’s barred rear door where the glow of dreary daylight had begun shining through. They had ridden through the night under the steady rain and all the while Horatio had scarcely uttered a word or looked in Archie’s direction. He had already argued with the sergeant, demanding they stop and remove his irons so that he might relieve himself by the side of the road. The man had snapped at him to keep quiet and that Horatio could either wait until he had permission or piss in his trousers. Horatio had protested, reminding him that it was his duty to see to his prisoners needs, but that had only earned Horatio the impatient threat of a gag.  Archie had cringed during the exchange from his corner of the cart. Horatio should know better than to antagonize his captors, and something about these seemed especially unsettling. This was not a ship where he could order the Marines about. Instead, their circumstances were closer to being in the hands of the French or Spanish all over again, only this time they had no hope of exchange.

Archie studied the road grimly with that thought in mind. He had never stopped contemplating escape when he had been a prisoner years ago – the prospect of escape had been his driving hope – and he could not help but do the same now, surveying his surroundings. They were already out of town rolling through an uninhabited stretch of land. Two of their captors did not look like much and the other two would be no trouble if Archie could free his hands to grab one of their weapons. Horatio still had his pistol. The trees and the dim light would offer cover for the two of them to run for it afterward.

But what then? Archie sighed, the chains heavy on his wrists. His escape attempts years ago had only ever got him shot at or punished and he would not risk seeing Horatio injured or killed. Horatio could devise a better plan than he, but he would never do it. He was too honorable to fight so dirty like a common criminal. No doubt he cooperated out of sheer pride, convinced of the Admiralty’s wisdom in seeing their innocence once they reached London. Such faith in the justice of his superiors was expected of a proper officer and gentlemen.

But perhaps Horatio’s compliance was all for the better – however misplaced - even if they both hanged. It was a grim thought, but Archie could never wish the isolation of a life in hiding upon Horatio. He thrived on recognition and command, and would no doubt rather die than lose the honor of his name. Half a life was not for him.

Still, Archie wished Horatio would speak to him. He was cold and with his hands bound he could not wrap his arms around himself. There was no hope of sleeping either, not with the cold rain blowing through the bars and the cart lurching every other minute until Archie was sure he had bruises under his clothes. A soft look or a reassuring word could go a long way to warm a man in a time like this. But Horatio sat there with his jaw clenched and his profile to him, wrapped up in his own thoughts. Archie wondered if he was as unnerved by the sergeant sitting beside him as he. The man two often glanced between the two of them with a scowl.

The cart halted when the rain let up and the sky grew a little brighter. After six hours of riding no doubt the horses would need rest. Archie glanced about; there were no houses in sight, nothing but trees and mud. If only he could get his chains off and . . . .

A stab of anticipation shot through him when one of the Marines opened the back of the cart. Archie’s first instinct was to leap out and run, but he kept still when the others scrambled down and aimed their muskets at the two of them. At the moment, he and Horatio did not stand a chance.

“It’s time we searched you,” the sergeant growled. He had a voice like two rocks scraping together. “One at time. You first,” he pointed his musket at Horatio, “since you asked to be let out so nicely. I’ll make you beg to piss next time.”

They did not wait for Horatio to climb down on his own as he no doubt would have. The nearest guard seized his elbow and yanked him forward with little warning. He might have fallen and broken something had he not caught the frame of the cart with his free hand. Even so, Archie could see that he was hurting when he stood up and let himself be led into the clearing. Archie grimaced; if only he could do something.

One of the men unlocked Horatio’s irons, but Horatio was not stupid enough to try and wrest the key from him. Instead, he stood with his hands at his sides, working his wrists while three of the Marines surrounded him, the fourth guarding Archie in the cart.

“All right, strip,” the sergeant ordered. “One thing at a time. If you help mutineers, you might help the French too. God knows what we’ll find on you.”

Horatio stiffened with indignation. “I certainly do not,” he huffed. “I’m merely helping a friend while an injustice can be appealed.”

Swallowing hard, Archie looked down, wishing that Horatio would keep quiet and that his own foolishness were not the cause of all this. He should never have let Horatio come with him. What might happen to him in London was bad enough, but Horatio was too used to being fawned over and would only make it worse for himself if he kept on this way. The sergeant was already losing patience with him.

“That’s enough of your mouth. Start with your coat.”

Without a word, Horatio unbuttoned his coat and handed it over. His waistcoat followed and then his shoes and stockings. Archie’s heart sank when Horatio handed over his pistol, but when he remembered what they had been doing before the Marines had found them Archie realized that was the least of their worries. A sick feeling swirled inside him when Horatio began removing his shirt and trousers. The men jeered, calling him pretty and slender like a girl. Archie felt even sicker when one of them circled around Horatio while he stood helpless and stark naked in the cold.

“What’s this?” He poked Horatio in the belly with his musket, where he’d had no chance to wash. “Havin’ a bit of fun before we caught you, eh?”

The others laughed. “Might be they were ‘avin’ it together,” another spoke up, sniggering. “No sign of a woman when we came, but they were up to somethin’ other than sleepin’, if you ask me.”

Archie bit his lip, his heart beginning to beat faster. He knew it had been obvious. If the Admiralty added that charge to the others then Horatio would hang for certain. To the Devil with Horatio’s honor; they should have run for it with the key when they’d had the chance. Sitting here, Archie felt powerless and queasy.

The sergeant looked up from where he had been busy rifling through Horatio’s clothing, taking his time while poor Horatio shivered in the cold. Gooseflesh covered his slender body though Horatio did his best to stand straight and not wrap his arms around himself. Archie wanted to draw him close, rub his back, and drape him in warm blankets until he smiled, but all he could do was watch while the sour bastard drew his task out, no doubt on purpose.

“No protests to that, eh?” the sergeant said when he was done. Archie hoped he would give Horatio his clothes back, but his chest tightened when the man advanced on his prisoner. He was taller than Horatio and much broader, and worse he seemed to enjoy using his stature as a means of intimidation. “Is that what you are? A buggering little molly? Let’s see how else you’ve been having your fun. Come on.”

Archie expected Horatio to resist and call them out for the curs they were. But the two men did not give him the chance. To Archie’s horror they yanked him around and pushed him forward over a tree stump. Archie looked away then, certain that Horatio would not like it if he watched while these whoresons put their hands on him and peered for no other reason than the sheer enjoyment of his humiliation.

That humiliation burned inside Archie’s gut as though it were his own, as though it were his arse they fondled in order to shame him. He should have known there was something perverse about that sergeant, something that reminded him of Simpson. The humiliation was a remembered one, but not only from Simpson. The French and Spanish guards would often taunt their prisoners while searching their persons. Shame was the first weapon of those who had power over your body. It pained Archie to see Horatio learn that now.

“Is that what the two of you were doing, eh?” the sergeant grunted. “Had your friend up your arse like this? Right here? Want this up there, too?”

The laughter of the others grated. Archie dug his nails into his palms, fearing the worst. The world hated nothing more than a catamite. Simpson had seemed to think that his fondness for the theatre gave him the right to brutalize him, considering its reputation. His sort deserved it, Simpson had often said. Why would these Marines think any different? Archie bit harder into his lip. He did not want to look, but he consoled himself by vowing that if these men dared hurt Horatio in that way he would kill them somehow.

“I knew what you were the minute I looked at you,” the sergeant grumbled on. Archie’s stomach knotted. Horatio still stood naked, his skin pink from the cold. The sergeant stood behind him, pressing the muzzle of his musket against Horatio’s arse, pushing him forward. “Didn’t you say you had to piss? Come on, you filthy bugger. Hurry up. You like it there, don’t you?”

It impossible to look at the man and not think of shooting him and the others who laughed while Horatio was probed forward in that degrading fashion. They told him he needed to clean himself and they spat on him, and all the while Archie sat there half wanting to heave up whatever was still in his stomach and half wanting to lunge at the lot of them. They would never have treated Horatio this way in uniform. Where was Admiral Pellew to have something shoved into his arse for taking advantage of one of his juniors? Archie clenched his hands so tightly his skin burned.

Eventually Horatio was ordered to put his clothes back on. He must have done so in a hurry, for he climbed into the cart a moment later, shivering with his hands bound again. Archie paid him the respect of not meeting his eyes while he settled on the opposite bench and did his best to pretend that the indignity had not happened. He would never speak of it, if that was what Horatio wanted.

The Marines stopped paying him mind. They turned to Archie now, aiming their weapons. “You,” the sergeant barked. “It’s your turn.”

Archie gritted his teeth. He had known they would call for him, but he had been too busy fearing for Horatio to worry about himself. He did not want to submit to these men or face their taunts and their jeers, but he had no choice other than to climb down and do as the Marines told him. He knew from experience that they would do it by force if he did not and that would only be worse.

Part IX:

They did not stop again until reaching Crayton at nightfall. The Marines dragged He and Horatio out of the cart, two for each of them to march them forward by the arms through heavy rain and into the town jail. The place was quiet outside save for a working girl attempting to wriggle away from a drunkard groping at her breast. Horatio looked at her with a frown. Archie knew what he was thinking; none of these men were gentleman enough to come to her defense. She was less than a woman in their eyes just as Horatio had been less than a man earlier.

The jail was almost as empty inside, save for the odd stinking drunk or thief. The two of them were taken to a cell with only a small cut-out in the door for air and no window or other opening through which they might escape. Even if there were one, they never would manage it with bound hands.

“There’s a fitting place for mutineers,” the weighty jail keeper muttered, unlocking the door and standing aside while the Marines shoved he and Horatio in.

Horatio stood up, indignant all over again out of his inexorable pride and inability to let slander stand. Or perhaps he was shaken by what had happened this morning and simply wanted to quarrel. “Neither of us are guilty, man, and if you remove these irons I shall give you my parole that I will not try and escape.”

The jail keeper walked away chuckling, but two Marines remained inside the cell with them. Archie sank down in the far corner, trying not to look at the sergeant whose jaw was set as though chewing rocks. If he looked too long at the man he would only end up doing something foolish. Instead, looped his arms around his knees, his skin crawling with the way the man focused his attention on Horatio. No doubt Horatio would pay for the insolence of expecting to be treated with the dignity of an officer.

“We’ve had enough of you,” the man scowled. “If you don’t hang as mutineers you’ll hang as something else, I bet, you little bugger.”

Archie drew his knees tighter against his chest. He wished the miserable bastard would leave off and that Horatio would not glare at the man as though he were a rating who could be threatened with death and the Articles. Yet there lay a degree of provocation in Horatio’s manner. Perhaps even Horatio saw a score to be settled with these men.

“You’ve no proof on that account that will stand in court.”

“Oh no?” The sergeant grabbed the front of Horatio’s coat. “Suppose I make some. Word is someone wants you hanged. I bet you’d like it, too. Something good and hard up that arse of yours. Turn around now.”

“You filthy –” Horatio advanced on him. Everything afterward happened too fast.

The sergeant swung a fist. Unprepared for it, Horatio fell back hard on the ground and for a moment Archie thought he meant to stay there. But he scrambled up on one knee, ready to lunge out of instinct, forgetting caution and everything else. A boot slammed into his side before he regained his feet. Horatio doubled over on the dirty ground. Archie winced with his groan of pain, wanting to drag him back. His attackers were too quick, however; the second Marine slammed his boot harder, forcing Horatio onto his back.

His features twisted and he pressed a hand to his ribs. Archie could see that he was hurt. He had a mind to crawl in front of him and try these men for himself. He was stronger than Horatio and filled with enough rage to fight. But Horatio was not so docile as to lie there. He scrambled up out of what must have been a blind need to lash out at something, catching the sergeant’s leg when he swung his boot to deliver another kick, knocking the man off balance and delivering a kick of his own from where he lay on the floor. The sergeant roared, furious now with Horatio’s retaliation, and Archie could not bear to watch when both Marines descended on him.

The sounds of the beating that followed were enough to turn Archie’s stomach. In the sickness and anger of it he could only think of when this had happened before.  Simpson’s inquisition. Archie had sat there with his nose in a book trying to shut it all out while Simpson had nearly beat Horatio to death. He had never forgiven himself for being glad at the time that it was not him enduring Simpson’s blows; Horatio would never have been so selfish and would have intervened. But Archie’s helplessness now was not a matter of cowardice or selfishness. Fighting back would only deepen their ire, and he would rather whore himself to all of them then hear those blows land on Horatio’s body with any more force.

“That ought to do you,” one of their captors finally ground out, both were breathing hard, evidently tired of their games. A musket cracked against Horatio’s temple and then the door creaked open and closed, the sounds followed by that of jostling keys and retreating boots.

Everything fell silent after the Marines had gone. Archie looked to Horatio at last, sprawled unconscious on his back upon the ground. His hair and clothes were a mess and blood trickled from his mouth where they had hit him. By tomorrow he would have bruises. How could Horatio bear to face a court-martial with bruises?

Crawling up to him, Archie smoothed a hand over his curls. His eyes stung and the stupid lines of a play were all that would leave his mouth.

“’What fool hath added water to the sea or brought a torch to bright burning Troy?’”  he murmured, running his hand along Horatio’s shoulder, careful not to touch any place that might hurt. He swallowed hard. The lines fit; after everything, seeing Horatio hurt seemed the final blow.

At least he was asleep. Archie dared not shake him awake, knowing well the pain of a beating and relieved that Horatio was free of it for the time being. He dared not gather him up into his lap either as he wanted to, fearing any solicitousness on his part would only attract further attention from the guards, or worse see them separated out of cruelty. Instead, Archie knelt there watching him, a lump in his throat. The fact that he was fairly certain now that Hammond was behind Horatio’s arrest failed to have any impact, even if it confirmed all Archie’s suspicions. What did that matter when trifling with Hammond only assured that Horatio would hang this time?

*

No one troubled or looked in on them after the Marines marched off. Archie supposed that with Horatio unconscious and no means for them to escape, their jailers had little reason to watch them closely. No doubt the two of them had been thrown into the same cell for that very convenience.

A steady stream of rainwater leaked down from the roof, but the constant, unnerving drip, drip failed to rouse Horatio. Inching away from the growing puddle, Archie leaned back against the wall, frowning worriedly down at his unconscious friend. If only he could free his hands to remove his coat and tuck it under Horatio’s head for a pillow – the chill of the cell had already cut so deeply into his bones that he may as well have been naked anyway. But without the irons off he could only pet Horatio’s hair every other moment in hopes of soothing him in his sleep.

The sound of voices and hurrying feet soon diverted Archie’s attention. Someone was entering the prison. Archie was prepared to dismiss the newcomer as yet another drunkard until his ears caught the voice of the Marine sergeant, suddenly courteous and careful.

“Yes, sir. They’re here, sir.”

A nervous tingle settled in Archie’s skin. Someone had come for them. Archie feared the worst, that he and Horatio might be handed over to even more sordid captors or that they would be taken separately, given that he was headed directly for the noose while Horatio would stand trial. Perhaps they would even hang him here and be done with it, if the Admiralty feared looking the fool for letting him slip away in Kingston. But no doubt the Admiralty was willing to look foolish if it meant staging the spectacle of punishing the man who had supposedly assaulted one of their heroes.

Biting his lip, Archie thought it better to listen to the men outside than to sit and ponder unpleasant scenarios that he could do nothing about.

“Well damn it, take me to them,” the newcomer snapped at the sergeant.

Archie blinked; the growl was unmistakable. Almost instantly, Archie found himself fighting down a mix of emotions – surprise, dread, anger, and underneath it all a cold relief that at least he knew who he would be facing. Pellew must have rode for the prison straightaway after that Marine had reached London to report their capture. In two or three hours he could have made the trip, riding fast – they were only thirteen miles out of London. Archie swallowed against an angry, sinking feeling. The fool, he could have used the time to maneuver around Hammond. But perhaps Pellew was more intent on hanging *him*. God knew he had good reason to.

Once again, Archie’s eye was drawn to Horatio sprawled on the dirty floor. His only fear of hanging now was leaving Horatio to face court-martial alone or whatever else lay in his future. Horatio needed looking after; look at the mess he had made for himself with Pellew.

But Archie knew he was a fool to even entertain the thought that Pellew would waste time with him here. In all probability he had come for Horatio, likely to take him back with him. Archie curled his hands tight at the very thought. It killed him to admit that he would rather see Horatio abused by the guards then under Pellew’s control again. He found himself wondering which Horatio preferred.

It was a sick thought. Archie reached out to wipe the blood from Horatio’s mouth as though in apology for thinking it; he would rather die than see Horatio hurt, in that way especially.  He began cleaning Horatio’s face more diligently, though Archie did not know why he bothered. Pellew should see the blood there and know what had happened to Horatio and why, lest he think of laying a hand on him again. But in his pride Horatio would no doubt rather die than have his humiliation exposed to Pellew and there was a part of Archie that could not stand to look at the blood.

“This way, sir,” the sergeant was saying, starting in the direction of their cell. Archie seethed inside at the way he seemed to be falling over himself for Pellew after treating Horatio as he had. Pellew was no better, taking advantage of one of his officers. Yet even if the sergeant knew it he would never vent disgust upon an Admiral. The Navy seemed to enjoy turning a blind eye to their predators. .

Pellew’s face appeared in the cutout of their cell a moment later, backlit by the lantern across from their door. A hard sense of calm settled over Archie as he found himself studying the man. Pellew had not aged well, with his ill-fitting wig and sagging face. He had never been particularly attractive due to a heavy brow and crooked nostrils, but Archie supposed there had been something alluring about him once, a sense of competent authority that he could respect. That quality was long gone; Pellew stood peering into the cell with a fretting face that reminded Archie of an old woman’s. All those feats in battle . . . Archie snorted, unable to keep from feeling a little smug that Horatio thought him the bravest man he knew instead of Pellew, and that when very sleepy Horatio would caress his cheek and call him beautiful. These were petty things, but they soothed an old gnawing jealousy that could not be helped.

But once the jail keeper began fumbling with the keys a sense of protectiveness stirred up in Archie much stronger than that smugness. He managed to wedge his bound hands under Horatio’s body and roll him up into his lap. Horatio’s head sank into the crook of his arm. Sweat still shone on his face. Archie patted his chest gently; God knew what injuries he had under his clothes. But whatever they were, they did not seem to impair his breathing or the steady rhythm of his heart.

The cell door swung open, sweeping tawny lantern light over Horatio’s face, granting Pellew ample opportunity to see him as he stepped inside. Archie looked down, wishing he could hide Horatio from his eyes, swollen lip and all, and not only because he knew Horatio would want him to guess what had happened. Tightening his arms possessively, Archie did not look up while he felt Pellew studying the two of them. He had no care what Pellew thought of him, wrinkled and unshaven. His old captain had never thought much of him anyway.

“Dear God,” Pellew finally lamented in a strained voice. “This all over again.”

Archie could not help but nod. He did not miss what the accusing pressure of Pellew’s eyes seemed to convey, that this never would have happened had Horatio returned to command the Hotspur. The Admiral was right on that account, and for his own part Archie knew he would have been dead by his own hand if left alone and miserable in London. There was no satisfaction that Horatio had chosen to stay with him instead of running back to Pellew. Looking down at Horatio’s hurt form Archie would have preferred that he had.

But these circumstances were not quite the same as those in Kingston. He had been dying. At least this time neither pain nor fever would cloud his ability to cherish what time he had left with Horatio. Archie wished Pellew would leave so as to not intrude on that time or amplify guilt that was already difficult enough to live with. Pellew would do better to redress his own mistakes.

“Do you intend to do something this time?” Archie did not care if the Admiral took offense at his impatience or disgust. How in good conscience could Pellew stand there fretting miles away from London while Hammond might at that very moment be working behind the scenes to ensure that the outcome of Horatio’s impending court-martial was already decided.

“Mr. Kennedy.” Pellew conveyed his own impatience and disgust. Worse, he had apparently read Archie’s mind. “I can hardly wave a wand and wash away a serious offense, sir. Hammond is a man of influence. No doubt he’ll have the Admiralty set on the worst punishment. The noose for such a fine man . . . God above! “ He buried his face despairingly in both hands.

Pellew’s distress failed to move Archie. He waited for the Admiral to lower his hands and then looked him in the eye. This was a time for action, if anything could be done, not lament.

“The Marine sergeant promises Horatio will hang for one crime or another, if you understand me.” Archie waited for Pellew to nod, and nod he did, his expression hardening to stone. “That would make you a hypocrite if you let them, wouldn’t it?” He continued to hold Pellew’s gaze; he had no reason to fear him.

For a moment Pellew stood silent, caught off guard it seemed. Perhaps he had dismissed their encounter in that alley days ago and discounted the unfinished nature of that conversation or perhaps he was honestly surprised to see the crime of sodomy factor into this mess. The news clearly displeased him; he scowled down at Archie harshly.

“You have little caution much less sense to get him into this mess, Mr. Kennedy. He was one of our most promising officers, and now . . .”

Archie straightened, warm with anger. Who was Pellew to chastise him? “Perhaps it was never about me,” he snapped. “Perhaps Horatio left London rather than face your attentions again. At least in my bed he was willing.” He intended the words to be cutting. Judging by Pellew’s wince, Archie reckoned that they were.

But in the next moment Pellew was back to scowling down at the two of them, his eyes upon Horatio lying comfortably in Archie’s lap. “I see,” he said stiffly, bristling with his own contempt and taking no pains to hide it. “You’ve saved him once from calamity only to drag him into it all over again. Highly commendable, Lieutenant.”

It was Archie’s turn to suffer a stab to his conscience, though he dared not let it show. In any case, quarrelling was useless. Clearly they were two men with the common goal to save Horatio if they could. Shaking his head, Archie forced himself to look up at the older man in earnest. An idea came to him, and if it would grant Horatio a chance then Archie would simply have to swallow his contempt and put it forward.

“Admiral Pellew,” he began as calmly as he could. “I’ve reason to believe that Captain Hammond is involved with the Irish. I heard him conspiring. He’s shared whatever mission you’ve arranged in Brest with his Irish friends. I don’t doubt they’ll be trouble.”

Pellew instantly fixed him with a look as though he were a junior officer who had overstepped his bounds concerning himself with the important affairs of the Admiralty and worse, suggesting that his superior officer had been outwitted. Evidently, Pellew had been outwitted, and Archie watched that possibility slowly take shape in Pellew’s mind, hardening his countenance.

“What is your point, Mr. Kennedy?” he demanded after a moment. Whether his impatience was due to doubting Archie’s word or simple embarrassment at his own blindness toward Hammond Archie could not tell.

All the same, Archie sighed. When had Pellew grown so obtuse? “I’ve provided you with valuable information. You might say it was Horatio who discovered the truth and came to you. One would think exposing a traitor to be a worth a pardon.”

The Admiral stared at him, this time with puzzlement rather than scorn. “You wouldn’t seek that for yourself? You’re more certain to swing, Mr. Kennedy.”

Shaking his head, Archie looked down at Horatio in his arms, uncaring whether Pellew saw the naked affection in his face. “I accept the noose if something worthwhile might be bought with my life.” Horatio was worth it. Archie smiled sadly at his soft cherubic curls and smooth skin. His expression had tensed, but he was still sweetly beautiful with his full mouth and thick lashes. More than that, he was too good to hang like a common thief. A man did not deserve to die simply because he had too much honor to abandon a friend to danger.

The sound of Pellew clearing his throat brought Archie to look up again. The Admiral wore a grim face once more. “A noble offer, Mr. Kennedy, however you overlook certain crucial facts. A third of the Navy is comprised of Irishmen. If the Admiralty were to come down hard upon a man like Hammond I shudder to imagine the trouble such an action would stir up.”

Archie stared at him in disbelief. So he was prepared to let the guilty go unpunished and yet do nothing for Horatio other than sigh and fret? Hammond could not be the only Irishman to command a ship and as far as Archie knew had never been held up as an icon. But the Navy’s arbitrary justice was not even the worst of it.

“You’d cover for the man who wants Horatio dead? It’s difficult to say what’s worse, that or standing by and letting him be charged with something you’re guilty of yourself.”

He may as well not have bothered, furious or no; Pellew only shook his head at him as though Archie were a naïve fool. “The Navy has every obligation to save face. Captain Sawyer was one of Nelson’s own. Hornblower’s as good as committed mutiny aiding you. The Navy sees it as her duty to punish such a thing to the fullest.”

“The Admiralty has already saved face in Kingston. Sawyer’s name has been preserved. You’re an Admiral, you have influence . . .” Archie’s hand clenched in Horatio’s coat. It was difficult to keep from shouting. “There’s nothing in the Articles to say Horatio must hang. I thought you were a politician now. If you were you’d see this mess is nothing but one cover-up piling on another and Hammond’s at the heart of it. I’ve no idea what he wanted in Kingston, but now his goal is easy to see. He wants dead the two men he believes knows the truth and you’re too much of a fool to see through him.”

He did not care if he had gone too far; he was angry. Pellew looked just as furious, his face flushed and his eyes tight, ready to pore out more excuses as to why he dared not cross Hammond. But Archie did not let him, desperate for Horatio’s sake. He looked straight into Pellew’s eyes and stared hard, grasping at whatever leverage he could.

“Don’t forget I know your dirty little secret. You give me your word that you’ll not let Horatio hang or I’ll scream from the gallows that you’re a sodomite and that I told you Hammond was a traitor and you did nothing.”

Pellew’s mouth fell open, outraged. He stood there clenching one fist. For a moment Archie thought the man meant to strike him for having the audacity to stoop to blackmail. But Pellew did not move; he must have known that Archie meant every word he said, realizing that he too had as much to lose as the two of them in this mess.

But Pellew did not give his word, or say anything at all for that matter. Instead he banged on the door and called for the guard to let him out. Archie watched him go, his heart slowly sinking after he had been certain for a bare, angry moment that the prospect of disgrace would change Pellew’s mind. He let out his breath when the door was slammed and locked again, swimming in a new sense of helplessness. His last hope for Horatio in London, as small as it had always been, was gone.

**

Archie had nothing to say to the round, balding man who came with supper not long after Pellew left. The man did not seem interested in speaking to him either, nor did he spare so much as a glance at the way Horatio lay in his arms. He simply set a tray down, unlocked their irons so that they might eat, and then went on his way.

Relieved to have his hands free, Archie spent a moment working one wrist and then the other before turning his attention to what the guard had brought. He seized the handle of one of the spoons and distastefully stirred around the dark soggy soup that was to pass for supper. Neither he nor Horatio had eaten since before their capture, but Archie’s stomach was still too knotted with anger to have much an appetite, and it did not help that the stuff only reminded him of the slop he had so deeply detested during his years in enemy hands.

He forget the soup altogether when Horatio shifted in his lap. Archie tightened his arms to prevent him from moving too much and hurting himself, watching worriedly as those big eyes blinked and then opened halfway, clearly pained even by the dim light.

“Horatio . . .?” Archie splayed a hand over his chest; Horatio’s breathing had grown slightly labored and his mouth was twisted. Archie frowned. “Do you want to sit up?”

Horatio shook his head, a hint of groggy affection entering his eyes. “I’d rather stay as I am.”

Archie nodded. He had no wish to let Horatio go. This would no doubt be their last time alone together and he would just as soon keep Horatio near the entire night. He wondered if Horatio wanted the same.

He did not ask. Horatio was already in enough pain without him dwelling on the gloom of their situation. It was best to keep cheerful and leave the misery for the morrow.

“They brought supper. I’ve had worse, I assure you.”

Horatio’s brow furrowed. “It might be preferable to hang on an empty stomach given the nature of those I’ll likely be facing.”

Archie’s heart sank with the reminder. So much for cheer and for the notion that Horatio still believed in the Admiralty’s integrity. Never in this lifetime had Archie expected to see Horatio lose that faith. It was almost painful; he had clung in a way to Horatio’s idealistic innocence, after his own had been savaged in Justinian’s dark storeroom and left to bleed under the averted eyes of his superiors. But Horatio would have a few days yet until facing court-martial, too long to go without eating. Perhaps he was only too hurt and tired now to expend the effort.

“Just eat.” Picking up one of the bowls, Archie brought a spoonful of soup to Horatio’s mouth. Horatio did not refuse it, but instead took it in clumsily past his swollen bottom lip. Smiling faintly at that little triumph, Archie offered another mouthful, recalling how patiently Horatio had fed him back in Spain. At least he had been granted the chance to return that favor before he died.

Horatio seemed content to be fed, looking up into Archie’s face like a docile child. He wore a tired, weighing look and after a moment said, “I thought I heard Admiral Pellew only moments ago.”

Archie paused in scooping up another spoonful of soup, angry all over again. He looked down at Horatio in his lap. A bruise was starting to form on his cheek and he lay sprawled as though it would hurt him to move. Telling him the truth of Pellew’s cowardly duplicity would only be another blow. How could the man just do nothing? Archie bit his lip and seethed. Horatio had looked up to him and worse, had believed that Pellew cared for him. What man could claim to care for you and then abandon you in your hour of need?

“He looked in on us,” Archie told him after a moment. “He didn’t have much to say.” Nothing that would do Horatio any good, anyway. “He’s gone now. I doubt he’ll be back.”

He half expected Horatio to be on some level disappointed, but Horatio only let out a relieved breath. Perhaps it was for the bruises he wished to hide or perhaps he was simply too tired for the added strain of an awkward encounter, given that Pellew knew Horatio had told Archie the truth. Whatever the case, Archie did not press the matter – he only grew angrier the more he thought on the man. Instead, he resumed the task of spooning Horatio his soup.

His own bowl had cooled by the time Archie picked it up. He ate the miserable-tasting stuff more to keep Horatio from worrying than out of actual appetite. All the while he could feel Horatio’s mood darken, turning something over in his mind. Archie wanted to ask what it was, but kept quiet on account of the guards moving back and forth outside.

The prison seemed to fall into silence after their bowls were collected. The lantern shining into their cell was put out, leaving them in the darkness, and no guard or Marine stood directly before their door. Archie was uncertain where the Marines had gone, but so long as they were away from Horatio that was all that mattered. There were no doubt other guards simply out of sight, but at least it was safe to talk now in low voices without being too well overheard.

Archie looked down at Horatio again though he could not see him in the blackness. He could feel the warmth of him, however, and so contented himself with gently winding one of Horatio’s soft curls around his finger. Horatio said nothing, lost in his own heavy thoughts. After a while, the silence grew unnerving.

“What’s wrong, Horatio?” He slipped his finger free and smoothed that one curl back into place. Horatio did like to be neat.

Horatio let out a breath, turning his head away. For a moment Archie feared he would not receive an honest answer – Horatio had a penchant for keeping his troubles locked up inside. But after a moment he sighed again and spoke, his words quiet and weighed down.

“You’re certain to hang. I’d intended to keep you safe.”

Archie shook his head. The last thing he wanted was for Horatio to blame himself. “It’s not your fault,” Archie murmured. It was his own, all of it was – Pellew had been right about that. He wanted to tell Horatio as much, but Horatio went on before he could.

“It seems as though I end up failing all those I mean to help – Clayton, Bunting, Hunter, Mariette, even Captain Sawyer in a way. They died and I advanced. I’ve always felt that I never deserved to and I’d give it all back simply for a clear conscience. With you it’s worse. You’re a thousand times dearer to me than all the others put together and I owe you more than I could possibly repay. I thought I couldn’t possibly fail someone I love so well and that I could reverse my own miserable mistakes in Kingston.”

Again, Archie shook his head, his throat tightening. Horatio should not talk like this. It was no fault of his that he had been careless in London or that Hammond was determined to see him hang. What was more, Horatio had always done his best for others – more than Archie ever would have. He did not deserve to die stewing in self-recrimination. For a long time he had thought Horatio the only honorable man in the world.

He laid a hand over Horatio’s. “Have you forgotten Spain? You brought me back alive. You can’t call that nothing.” Horatio had stood by him when all the others had wanted to leave him for dead, and before that Horatio had stepped between him and Simpson when all the others had looked the other way. It was not right that such a man should torment himself with remorse when Pellew felt nothing of the kind. “I learned something from you, besides, “ Archie went on. “All I ever did with my captors was fight and try to run like an animal, until I couldn’t anymore. You were better; you had enough goodness to rescue your enemies from the sea and that goodness got us out of there. You see? You’ve nothing to regret.”

Horatio was quiet a moment, lying there in the dark with Archie’s hand on his, but apparently he could not let the matter go. He seemed suddenly to want to talk, as though all too painfully aware that he would never get the chance to unburden himself again.

“That changes nothing for us now, Archie. Running and fighting might have been the only chance we had. I saw that was your instinct when the Marines came. I should have let you. Perhaps I should have even let do as you wished with your pistol at Edrington’s. It would have been less shaming than the noose. I fear I’ve been mistaken about a great many things.”

Archie grimaced to think on what awaited him in London, so caught up in worry for Horatio that he had not bothered to ponder his own ordeal. He had no idea whether he would be hanged from a yardarm or forced to make the march from the Marshalsea across the Tower Bridge to Execution Dock, but either way there would be spectators eager to see him die. He knew one thing; he would keep his little promise to Pellew. Surely the good Admiral would not miss the show. What a fine Shakespearian tragedy it would make if both Pellew and Hammond ended up hanging as well, though Archie doubted they would.

It was not an end he would have chosen, but it was better than lying dead at Edrington’s house, abandoned by the one person who could have stopped him. Anything was better than that. “You’d never have given up on me,” he said, the words strained.

“Of course not.” Horatio’s warm fingers curled reassuringly around his own, clinging just a little. “All the same, I felt selfish, keeping you with me because I needed you.”

Archie blinked. “I don’t see how. You had a career and a ship, everything you wanted.” If anything he would have been a burden, or a distraction at best.

Horatio’s fingers tightened. “I’ve never had anything that could rightfully be called a family, or a friend. You’re all those things to me, Archie. You’re the only one who knows me. More than that, after Kingston my duty left me hollow, not only because that tribunal had sacrificed you, but what we had . . .  I can’t explain it, but there was only carrying out orders and death without it, nothing attractive or noble. I couldn’t place what it was right away – I’ve spent too much of my life alone, perhaps – and I regret how I spit on it accepting Retribution. Even Hobbs knew the meaning of loyalty. I didn’t know it until I was in Pellew’s bed wearing a rank bought with my dearest friend’s disgrace. I felt like I may as well have been a spy for the French or something else as depraved, I had so grievously betrayed you and myself.”

Holding fast to the hand in his, Archie swallowed hard. He did not know what to say. Only choked attempts at absolution came out. “It wasn’t your fault. Pellew took advantage of you.” He wished the sick feeling in his belly would subside, the suspicion that his own horrid accusations at Edrington’s had been at work all along, driving Horatio into this mess out of something to prove.

“I hardly remember how it started.” Horatio sighed. ”I was drunk out of my wits the night you died. He came attempting to cheer me and didn’t seem to accept that it could not be so easily done. I told him the truth about us, Archie.” His big eyes seemed to sear Archie in the darkness.

Drunk? Archie gritted his teeth hard. That swine. But what could he do now? “You fool.” Archie gathered Horatio’s long, fine hand up against his chest and squeezed it instead. “He could have had you hanged.”

“At the time I had hoped so.” The answer came without a pause. “But you see, Archie? My life has sorely lacked for integrity without you. I’d rather be hanged with my loyalty intact than be Admiral of the Fleet a jaded mess of a man.”

“Horatio . . .” This talk was too much. Archie’s throat stung, but he could think of no appropriate quip to detract from the pain. Horatio had nothing to prove or confess. Who could blame him for stumbling in Kingston? He was fragile and unsuited for the mess they had been put through.

Archie started to tug him up without thinking, just to bring him close and assure him that there was no resentment anymore – that had been an ugly thing of an ill mind. He stopped when Horatio let out a sharp breath, letting go, but only for Horatio to seize his shoulders and pull himself up anyway, swearing under his breath at the pain. Archie steadied him with both hands around his arms, not daring to press too hard, just enough to help Horatio turn and lean against the wall beside him. He should not have tried to move him, but perhaps sitting up would be better for his doubtlessly aching head.

Horatio rested heavily against his side, his breathing labored by the effort of moving. Grimacing, Archie kept an arm around his back while he ran his free hand over Horatio’s chest, feeling for signs of broken bones though the layers of clothing were too thick for him to tell.

“Where does it hurt?” he whispered. It was bad enough that Horatio might have bruised or broken ribs without the added misery of knowing that no one here would lift a finger to tend to him. Archie wished he could something more.

“Everywhere,” Horatio sighed, unabashedly dropping his head onto Archie’s shoulder. He stretched his long legs out and tugged the hand he held so that both Archie’s arms were around him.

Poor thing, trying to get comfortable beaten and bruised in a cold prison cell. Horatio deserved better. Not knowing what else to do for him, Archie held him carefully against him so that Horatio might have the warmth of his body at least. It was not right that Horatio should spend their last night together in pain. He needed a warm bath and somewhere soft to lie. The remainder of the ride to London would be even worse for him, and the Marines . . . . Archie did not know how he would face them tomorrow, but he did not want to think on them now. God willing every one of them would fall victim to brigands tonight and found their throats cut. But if there was a God, He had long since abandoned the two of them.

“I wish I could kiss it all better,” Archie heard himself murmur into Horatio’s hair. He would do just that too, if given the chance – every pretty inch of him – and shy, impatient Horatio would just have to lie still and endure it. But he would never have that chance; all they had was a careful embrace now. Yet it was enough. It was a little better than the infirmary in Kingston. At least Horatio could touch him this time.

Managing a laugh, Horatio pressed closer, slipping an arm around Archie’s waist “To be fair, Archie, there isn’t a whole lot you can’t kiss better.”

Snorting, Archie cradled the back of Horatio’s head in one hand. But he patted his cushiony curls and pressed a kiss to his forehead in any case – there was no one to see. Horatio would never admit it, but he had a nature hungry for affection and liked nothing more than to curl close like a big cat when cold. Even now he relaxed somewhat against Archie’s body, his breath slowing when Archie’s hand drifted down and stroked his shoulders.

Horatio rested one palm on Archie’s chest, as though half to support himself and half to simply touch him. The weight of it felt good, reassuring, branding warmth into him where it lay. Archie loved Horatio’s hands. They were always gentle upon his body and willing to aid him whenever he needed. He gave Horatio’s brow another kiss just to think on how generous Horatio could be, smiling slightly when Horatio tilted his head up and nuzzled his long nose against Archie’s cheek.

“I wish we could have one another one last time,” he whispered, a heavy note of longing in the words that sent a flutter of warmth through the pit of Archie’s stomach.

He wanted the same, somewhere warm and far from here, but he may as well have wished for the Admiralty to acquit the both of them. “We had more than that,” he said, resting his cheek against Horatio’s forehead. It was true; he was happy simply sitting here. Yet Archie smiled when he felt Horatio’s fingertips tracing the line of his jaw.

“I know, but I’d be hard-pressed to think of anything I liked so much.”

Before Archie could say anything in return a warm finger slipped up and stroked his bottom lip. Archie held his breath at the slightly ticklish heat of it, and then Horatio’s hand curled under his chin, tugging his head down. Their lips touched. Archie could still taste the saltiness of blood mingling with the familiar silky warm taste of him. His tongue flicked out to test the little cuts despite himself, as though the wounds were his own. They may as well have been, Archie thought, pulling back.

The hand at his jaw had not lowered. Horatio leaned up again, pressing their mouths together a second time. He seemed determined, as though he wished to forget their surroundings. But Archie could not forget, thinking of the Marines and what they might do if they were caught like this. Gently, he drew away before Horatio could kiss him again, shaking his head in the dark.

“Not here.”

“Shh . . .”  Horatio rubbed a hand over his chest, using his other arm to draw Archie closer. “They can only hang us once.”

Archie shook his head. They could beat him, or . . . or worse. He made to say so, but the tip of Horatio’s finger had begun moving over his chest, tracing something with almost ticklish slowness through Archie’s clothes. He was making letters. Archie held his breath to try and concentrate on what they were, and then exhaled sharply a long moment later when he deciphered the word “please”.

He did not know what to do. Archie had no wish to see Horatio suffer further at the hands of the Marines, nor could he deny him. But even if someone did see, there was the simple truth that the two of them would not have to live with whatever the Marines did to them for very long. Perhaps they would spare Horatio this time and start on him instead.

His fingers found Horatio’s chest. He traced the word “yes” before sliding his hand up to Horatio’s cheek. Horatio’s mouth found his again, opening and closing softly so as not to make a sound, almost simply rubbing delicately against Archie’s lips rather than kissing in earnest. His hand traveled down, stroking across Archie’s chest and then wandering lower across his hip and the outside of his thigh. It was almost as though Horatio were trying to imprint the physical memory of him in his mind, or perhaps seeking to conjure up old, warmer memories of the heat beneath Archie’s clothes, memories of a first time together or a second.

Archie remembered with him. There had been a great deal of nervousness, especially on his part at the idea of wanting another man to touch him. Then there had been the time when he had decided that it would only be fair to let Horatio take him and the surprising discovery that such a thing could feel good when done willingly and carefully. It had all been part of a healing process, putting him back together piece by piece starting with his own body. There was nothing he would not give Horatio in return for the patience he had shown.

But he had nothing left to give now, nothing that would save him. He could only play with Horatio’s curls while Horatio lapped at his mouth and touched him. But Archie’s hands soon slipped down with the need to touch as well, gently moving over Horatio’s back and then up to his narrow shoulders. There was no need to brand the feel of him into his memory. Archie had no chance of forgetting.

Yet Archie’s fingers crept up to Horatio’s neck, stroking where the pulse beat strong, feeling Horatio’s breath quicken against his chest at the ticklish caresses. He could not take his hand away, thinking only of the noose that would encircle the skin under his very fingertips, snatching Horatio’s life away and leaving him a cold corpse. Hammond would clamor for it and Pellew would allow it. There was nothing to stop it or change the fact that his own stupid accusations at Edrington’s and stupider actions in London were to blame.

Archie’s eyes stung. He could not stop touching Horatio’s neck. He had seen men swing before. It could be horrible, the gasping for breath if the job was not done right, the body dangling with a bruised and swollen face . . . It did not matter that he would not be there to see it. He could not bear the thought of such a thing being done to the warm body against him. Not Horatio. But the Admiralty would do it. They would not care that Horatio was good and honorable or that he had once served them with more dedication than any other man in the fleet.

It was too much to bear, infuriating and killing all at once. Archie pressed his face to Horatio’s neck, taking in the smell and feel of him for the last time. The last time. A few tears escaped despite how tightly Archie squeezed shut his eyes. They burned. Archie bit his lip against them. He was not a man for tears. Horatio seemed to sense the breakdown in him; his hand moved through Archie’s hair, attempting to soothe, and then his fingers were brushing the wetness from Archie’s cheek.

Archie looked up, dearly wishing for the light so that he might see the childlike softness in Horatio’s large eyes one more time. But perhaps it was better that they were in the dark. There would be no hope in his eyes this time, nothing to reassure Archie that all would be well, no idealism or logic to ground him.

But there was warmth, always warmth, and Archie let Horatio draw him close. He would remember that warmth when they put the noose around his neck. He would not be afraid. As if reading the thought, Horatio brushed a finger across Archie’s throat, drawing in a shuddering breath that said he was fighting the pain down too. It did not work. It would not be held in; something heavy and wet dropped onto Archie’s cheek where they were pressed together. Neither of them wanted to die.

Part X:

They saw no trace of Pellew the next morning. The Admiral had apparently chosen to return to London on his own. Horatio was relieved, miserable and unnerved as it was without having to face the man in front of Archie.

Archie had been the one to wake him in the early hours after Horatio had somehow managed to fall asleep in his lap, the soothing warmth of Archie’s fingers against his scalp the last thing he remembered of the night before. He’d had a foolish wish to be shot right then, if he must die, thinking of how blissful it would be to slip away from this world in Archie’s warm arms rather than swing from the cold gallows or a yardarm. A man should choose how he wished to die.

The thought had reminded him of Bunting. The man’s words from years ago swirled in his head. The speed of the bullet compared to the slow agony of the rope. His own naiveté at the time sickened him. The world looked different in a mutineer’s shoes.

Horatio felt as though he had already been hanged and trampled by the time he woke. His ribs ached sharply and his entire body complained of bruises. Archie had helped him eat the tasteless porridge passing for breakfast and even then Horatio’s jaw ached swallowing the stuff. He had no mirror to see himself, but judging by the worried manner in which Archie stared down at him Horatio guessed a particularly hideous bruise had formed there.

The Marines had not laid a hand on Archie – possibly due to the fact that he was the son of an Earl – but despite a lack of bruises he did not look much better. Clearly, he had not slept; dark circles rimmed his eyes, the stubble on his cheeks had grown thicker, and his red-gold hair lay every which way in tangled waves. He looked wild.

The glare of the gray sky overhead stabbed at Horatio’s already aching skull when they were ushered outside, but that pain was nothing compared to the agony of hoisting himself up into the cart. He expected further grief from the Marines, yet they did nothing but snigger when Archie caught his arm and pulled him forward onto the bench beside him before he could fall.

“Looks out for his missus like a proper gentleman,” one grunted, sticking his weathered face into the open space at the back of the cart and grinning unimpressively. Horatio only glared at the fool, doing his best to ignore how Archie tensed angrily at his side. Then he blinked when the Marines slammed the door shut and latched it.

“No irons?” Horatio heard himself ask when the man passed by the window. He felt agitated and contentious when he ordinarily would have been silent, infused with an itching need to combat something.

The Marine shook his head. “Admiral Pellew’s orders. He said the two of you was to be treated like gentleman and not animals. Not my place to question, but you’d better not give us any trouble. Not like two buggering little cunts could manage much,” he grumbled and then strode off to help his comrades ready the horses.

Horatio scowled indignantly at the man. How dare he say such a thing; he knew nothing of their prowess in battle. In the past he and Archie had managed far worse than four armed men. They had captured ships and a fort in Santo Domingo. The fools in Kingston had been prepared to boast of those actions and make a hero of him. But a hero could easily become a disposable inconvenience from one moment to the next, if last night was any indication.

He tried to tell himself that he should have expected this turn of events, that his own weak nature had been overdue for discovery. The self-blame felt hollow, however. Admiral Pellew had shown the same base inclinations, as well as Edrington. Who could imagine them falling out of favor?

Risking a sidelong glance at Archie, Horatio could tell by the set of his friend’s features that he found Pellew’s order strange. They both knew he had acted nothing like a gentleman toward the man. But perhaps the order was merely a glimmer of the man’s humanity of older days. In any case, it was a small mercy, and as the two Marines climbed in and the cart rolled off Horatio did not know why he wasted time in questioning it.

The ground was still muddy from the earlier rain; they had to travel slowly. All the while, Horatio became pressingly aware of the tension in Archie at his side. He could feel his thoughts, his distress like a sixth sense. Horatio wanted to reach out to him, pat his back, and utter reassuring words. But he dared not on account of the Marines on the bench across from them. And what would he say if he could? That it would all be over soon? The noose would not bring Archie peace. He would die full of rage. Perhaps some of that rage would even be directed at him, that under all his honor lay a coward who had not permitted them a fighting chance. Archie would think such a thing, no matter how he would deny it. Perhaps that would be the worst of it, knowing that deep down he would be resented for not doing all he could. What man could bear to die with failure?

He tried to tell himself that perhaps a small chance remained in London. Perhaps the Earl of Cassilis had received his letter and might somehow take up their cause and delay the proceedings. Surely a court-martial questionably conducted with the aim of stringing up a scapegoat would not hold up under honest scrutiny, not when Archie had information on Hammond that might suggest other motivations in Kingston as well as treason – a fact that would destroy any possibility of the Admiralty accepting a confession in regards to pushing Sawyer from Horatio instead. But the hope was small and not worth clinging to. In all likelihood the Admiralty had not abandoned its position to cover for Sawyer’s madness at all costs.

If they were acquitted, what then? He certainly could not bear for Archie to hang, but how would he bear it if Archie were given a command of his own? He would be proud, of course, and would encourage him to take it with all his heart. But his own life would only turn the same miserable gray color as it had after Kingston. He would be alone, cut off as a captain with no one to trust or alleviate the coldness of the war. He did not want that life. He would rather hang than spend decades trapped in his own lonely misery. If only hanging did not mean dragging Archie down with him or hurting him somehow, particularly after Archie had given so much to preserve his life in Kingston. He mattered to Archie, if not the Navy.

After more than an hour, the cart stopped. The rain had not started again and evidently the Marines felt a need to climb down and stretch. He and Archie were not offered the same luxury, locked in the cart with one man for a guard who faced away from them to witness some jest among his comrades. Horatio could scarcely bear to look on them, still unsettled from the day before.

The physical attack had not impacted him as much as the fact that he had gone from hero to ungodly deviant due to such an irrelevant thing as what he had chosen to do with his own body. The illogic of it had never fully struck him before. Aboard ship, adhering to the Articles had seemed the only sensible way to live, though he and Archie had circumvented them on more than one occasion out of the need for comfort. But what of his achievements? How could they suddenly mean nothing? A crime could not erase a fact. Yet had he not asked the same question of himself when Archie’s name had failed to appear in the Chronicle with his and Bush’s? It seemed strange that one offense could negate every other aspect of a man’s existence.

Horatio swallowed hard, and a moment later he realized he was angry, his blood warm and his jaw set. He could not bear the hypocrisy of the events set in motion, of Pellew, Hammond, and these Marines. He felt powerless and insignificant, used even, as though he had been fed a great lie and was to be punished for discovering its falsity. He would be left to a sodomy charge by a sodomite, condemned for mutiny by a traitor, and despised as a pervert by men who had threatened to violate his unwilling body. What of the consistency and impartiality of rules? The Navy had spit on them just as it had spat on truth in Kingston. Hanging in London would only allow those untruths to stand, just as accepting his promotion had allowed a false confession to stand. There was nothing to be gained from hanging. It would not save Archie and the Service would not benefit from getting away with what they had done in Kingston.

His eyes took in their desolate surroundings, a hot sense of upheaval swarming under his skin. The landscape remained blighted by winter though it was early spring now. There was nothing but barren trees and a broad stream. That blasted sergeant put his musket down and went over to a tree, unbuttoning his trousers so that he might relieve himself. The other two were fussing with the horses and the man nearest the cart was still turned around.

Archie watched them too. Horatio could feel him wracked with impatient energy as he did so, keenly aware that the men had let down their guard. He wanted to act, but he did not ask. Archie would never demand he do anything beneath his honor.

His friend’s anxiety was catching. Horatio’s eyes flickered about once more, taking in the Marines and the scene around them. He was at a loss. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. Both their lives and good names were as good as gone. Yet he owed Archie more than simply sitting here. Archie’s distressed, impatient expression gnawed at him. He could not bear it. He did not know what to do.

Even afterward, Horatio could not have put his finger on what drove him to act as he did. It could have been anything from plain apathy and irreverence to outright conscious rebellion. He knew one thing: he had not expected to survive it and would have said, if given the opportunity, that he had not even wanted to. What he wanted was to give Archie his fighting chance.

One moment he was staring into Archie’s face and the next doing the only thing he could under the circumstances, telling himself that the only strategy was to use an enemy’s tactics to his advantage. He leaned in and smothered Archie’s mouth with his own, keyed up enough to give the appearance of sexual passion. Archie froze, and then his hands came to Horatio’s shoulders, attempting to push him away. No doubt he did not understand and feared bringing the Marines down on him again. But there was no fear of that inside Horatio, only chaotic determination.

His hands groped blindly at Archie’s body, satisfied when Archie let out a muffled yelp. They needed to make noise. Archie tried to draw back again, but Horatio tangled a hand in his hair. His heart was beating fast and his jaw ached where he ground his mouth against Archie’s. Archie’s heart hammered too, but that was just as well.

“Quit that, you filthy buggers!” The shout could not have come sooner, but it was not good enough. Horatio did not stop, shutting out the pain of movement.

He heard the stomping of boots followed by curses and the sound of a hand at the latch that locked them inside. Horatio drew back and held his breath, ready to seize his moment. Ignoring the wide-eyed shock in Archie’s face, he took Archie by the shoulders and when the door swung open shoved him toward it with a cry of, “Now!”

When it came to combat, Archie was never slow to act. Lunging forward, he managed to yank the Marine’s musket from his hands, turning it around and cocking the hammer, squeezing the trigger as easily as though it were a Frenchman or Spaniard he faced.

The noise was deafening. Horatio watched the man fall and the red blood spilling out onto his red coat, numb as though he had been shot instead. To Archie, this was simply another fight in which he killed on instinct before he could be killed first – the color of a uniform did not matter – but to Horatio . . . .

There was no time to think on it. Archie was already leaping out of the cart. Horatio watched him half dazed. The Marines had heard the blast and would be within their rights to shoot for what Archie had done. Was that not what he wanted? To let Archie die fighting instead of facing the shame of the noose? Three men to one, those were not favorable odds. Horatio felt as though he were reliving Hunter’s recklessness all over again, only this time he was a part of it.

He did not know how he managed to scramble down from the cart with his throbbing ribs and mess of bruises, but next Horatio knew he was on his feet; the rapid pounding of his heart seemed to numb him to the pain. He did not even know what he had climbed down to do – after all, this was suicide.

Archie darted ahead of him, snatching up the sergeant’s musket from the ground. He wasted no time in aiming the thing and lodging a bullet into another Marine. The blast did not seem so powerful this time. Horatio was even stunned to feel relief when the body hit the dirt, as though his own instincts were telling him that survival was the goal. Two against two. They had an even chance.

The sergeant whipped around, gripping the edge of his open trousers with his free hand and fumbling for the pistol he had taken from them the day before. He was not fast enough. Archie lunged for him and all at once Horatio burned with nothing but fear.

The blast of a musket exploded through the air. Horatio ducked by instinct and for a moment he feared Archie had been shot. Panic flooded him. Why had he not moved faster to stop the bullet from hitting him? After what had happened aboard Renown he could not bear to see Archie shot again.

His thoughts were so contradictory and muddled that it took him a moment to feel the new burning in his own shoulder and the wetness trickling down. He had been hit. The realization came with a mix of relief and fear. He had known this would be certain death.

But he could still move, and his mind was telling him he had to look for Archie. Gritting his teeth against the fiery pain, he saw Archie and the sergeant on the ground, grappling for the pistol that now lay beyond their reach. Horatio’s eyes darted away from them. The Marine who had shot him stood reloading his weapon, watching Archie and the sergeant too. There would be no way for Archie to defend himself against both men at once.

He could have done nothing and let the two of them be shot, but instinct did not seem to allow Archie to be hurt. Perhaps it was the pain that stopped Horatio from thinking honorably, he could not have said. The next thing he knew he was turning to the body beside the cart, snatching the bayonet from the man’s belt. He slapped one hand to his wet, burning shoulder, gripping the steel in the other and charging forward before the Marine could fire.

Horatio fully expected the man to shoot him in the process. It was like that night when Sawyer had fallen into the hold. He had never panicked like that before. He had darted out to stop the man from shooting Archie and then one of Sawyer’s pistols had gone off. It took him a moment now to realize that the blast ringing through his head was not in his memory. He did not know what came first, the shot or the wet feeling of the bayonet slamming into the Marine’s body.

There came a gurgling sound, nothing unfamiliar. The body fell and Horatio’s left foot found the corpse by practice, both hands yanking the short blade out. He opened his eyes, shocked by the scarlet color of the dead man’s coat. He did not know what he had expected to see – a Spaniard, a Frenchman. He was even surprised not to hear canon fire or the bellowing of orders around him. Horatio tried not to look at the Marine’s face, tried not to note that it was the man who had helped the sergeant beat him yesterday. An honorable man did not kill for personal anger

Everything fell silent around him, the scene reeling. He felt dizzy and weak, but he knew he had to turn and look for Archie.

Holding his breath, Horatio turned away from the corpse at his feet. He found Archie on his knees beside the sergeant’s prone body, dropping the pistol from his hand. Blood ran down one side of his face. He was tousled and hurt somehow. But he was alive. In the horror of the moment Horatio did not know whether to be relieved or not.

Archie got to his feet, staggering and breathing hard, clearly in pain as he tried to walk. Horatio could only think that he should help him out of habit, but the dizziness of his own pain overcame him. He slumped to his knees on the ground, clutching his throbbing shoulder and rasping heavily as the agony in his body threatened to make him sick.

“Horatio . . .” Archie hobbled over, out of breath. “Are you all right?”

He knelt down at Horatio’s side, face pinching with concern where it had been fierce before. Dizzily, Horatio wondered how that could change so fast, but he dumbly took his hand away from the wound so Archie could see it, his fingers sticky with his own red blood.

“The bullet’s grazed you,” Archie was saying. “Here. We’ve got to stop the bleeding. It’s all right.”

He reached down to tear a piece of his shirt, but Horatio pushed his hand away, unsure whether he was more horrified by Archie or himself. He did not want to be all right or to realize that they would both survive this. They had killed four Marines.

“What of the bodies?” He looked up and asked stupidly, as though Archie had pre-meditated this whole gruesome action from the start like a battle plan. He wanted orders. He wanted to be led, and they could not simply leave these men here like refuse.

“The stream.” Archie got up. “I’ll do it, Take care of your wound.”

Horatio wanted to protest. Covering up what they had done would be lying. He wanted to believe that it had all been happenstance or accident only. But he was in no condition to protest or to grasp the fact that Archie fully intended for them to get away with this.

He tried not to watch as Archie limped away, dragging one body after another to the water’s edge, stuffing rocks into their pockets and rolling them in. Horatio was unclear as to whether it was a sign of respect or the ultimate irreverence; it was proper for a sailor to bury a man in the water. Archie did more than that; he retrieved their things taken from the inn and cut the horses free, letting one ride away and climbing onto the back of the other. How he thought to manage without a saddle Horatio did not know.

“Come on,” Archie held out his hand. The beast pranced and snorted just as impatiently.

Horatio stared at his friend. They had killed four Marines. They could not simply ride away. The Admiralty would be right to hang them. There was no doubt they would be hunted. They would deserve to be hunted.

As if reading the thought, Archie stared him angrily in the eye. “Do you think these men deserve to live more than a Frenchmen or a Spaniard merely because of a British uniform?  A man is a man, Horatio. You and I both should be used to killing by now.”

Horatio made to argue, but he could think of nothing to say save that he had killed because he was told to, not because he believed it right. That seemed irrelevant and what was more, he felt a pressing fear sitting there that someone would come upon them at that moment.

Sucking in a breath, he dragged himself to his feet, managing despite the waves of torrid pain to accept Archie’s help onto the back of the beast. He told himself that he went only because he feared remaining there to be found alone. Not since taking his promotion in Kingston had he felt so muddled inside.

“Hold tight,” Archie called out to him. Horatio did the best he could, his heart pounding, intensifying the pain. Gritting his teeth against it, he clutched Archie for all he was worth as Archie dug his heel into the horse’s flank, sending them darting off to leave their wretched deed behind them.

**

They rode for as long as they could. Horatio did not even think to ponder the direction they were headed until first they stopped to rest. Falmouth, Archie explained, patting the purse Edrington had given him – another thing taken from the Marines. In Falmouth they might depend upon a criminal’s greed and buy passage on a smuggling ship.

They would never make it, Horatio wanted to say; too many things could happen in the meantime. This was not like their flight from London, when Horatio had been certain that all would be well once the right men at the Admiralty heard their plight. They had been cast out altogether now into a wilderness of danger and uncertainty. But Horatio kept his fears too himself, lacking the energy for argument.

On the second day Archie decided it wise to let the horse go, leading her in the opposite direction so as to throw off a search. For someone who had failed five escape attempts, Archie took charge of their flight with keen and sometimes unsettling efficiency. Perhaps he had his own failures to reconcile. He seemed determined, having no trouble negotiating places to hide within the trees and taking not a moment’s sleep. He kept silent, wild-eyed, until Horatio began to feel himself more in the company of a protective animal than a friend.

Moving on foot was hardly better than riding. The damned beast had only further abused Horatio’s battered body and the short rests he took failed to rejuvenate him. The constant pain in itself exhausted him. His steps dragged and his breath came short, as though an invisible band shrank tighter around his ribs with each movement.

Archie seemed to fare better; the rain came to wash away the blood on his face and he made no complaint of being cold or tired. Horatio had once admired Archie’s tolerance for pain, but now he only found himself unnerved by Archie’s indifference toward what they had done.

The storm did not stop. On the third night they had the good fortune of finding a cottage that appeared to have been only recently abandoned. By that time Horatio was far too drenched and exhausted to consider the propriety or wisdom of settling inside. The place was small, perhaps fifteen feet square, and with its leaky roof Horatio could easily see why it had been forsaken. Perhaps it served huntsmen in better weather, on the edge of a local lord’s land. Or perhaps whoever had lived here had simply died. He found himself in a morbid enough mood to entertain the possibility. Perhaps the two of them would die there too in some other crisis lying in wait for them.

Archie built a fire in the hearth and then managed to uncover a few things of use – a pair of blankets, a flask of whisky, soap, and other odds and ends in a cupboard. He spread the blankets out in the driest corner and splashed the whisky onto Horatio’s shoulder after peeling his clothes away and soaping his bruised skin. Horatio shivered in the firelight, but endured it all in silence. Afterward he lay down and slept for several hours. Thank God he did not dream.

The sound of the door creaking open startled him awake. His body instantly clenched at the noise of footsteps around him echoed by a steady pounding that could only be more pairs of feet – dozens no doubt. Cold sweat broke out over his body. Horatio shivered. The Marines must have descended upon their hideout while he slept. They would want revenge for their comrades. They would beat him and worse as a rebel and a murderer. He was too weak from the previous blows to fight back. Perhaps Pellew had even come with them. He would let Archie die, take Horatio back to London, and . . . .

A hand grabbed his. Horatio jerked away. They were going to put him in irons again and there was nothing he could do but struggle feebly on the blanket. They would kick him for struggling and they would strike him with their weapons so that everything went black and he would be as helpless as a sack of flour. Pellew would stop them from violating him, but . . . .

Someone was stroking his hair. Horatio went even colder, his heart freezing in his chest. Everything had gone quiet. Pellew had sent the Marines away and now he would peel the thin blanket back and fondle him. Horatio’s stomach lurched; he could not stop it, no matter how hard he tried to swallow against it.

“Horatio . . . “

Something cold and made of metal was shoved under his chin. Firm fingers gripped the back of his neck, pushing his head toward it. Horatio forced himself up onto an elbow. Sharp pain stabbed at his chest and next he knew he was heaving up all that he had eaten the previous night in waves of cold nausea.

He was gathered up like a limp bundle when his stomach had finally emptied itself. Strong arms enclosed him and a warm hand rubbed up and down his bare back. The heart beating against his own was so steady while his raced and his breath came ragged. Horatio tried to match that stable rhythm, but it did not work. Something else crumbled; His eyes stung and the wetness spilled over, leaking out of him in feeble sobs. His body hurt, he had become enemies with the world he knew, and everything seemed out of his hands.

“It’s all right.” Warm hands continued to stroke over him. “It’s all right, Horatio.”

It was not until then that Horatio realized he was clinging, his hands clawing into what he soon rationalized was Archie’s shirt. He felt as though he had been dangling from the edge of a cliff for months now, slipping and slipping a little more with each twist of this nightmare until only the tips of his fingers held on, and then shoved away completely and left to flail. He could never tell Archie that he had overheard his conversation with Pellew, listening to Archie grasp at straws to save him while Pellew had stood a free man of influence refusing to put forward the truth. Perhaps Pellew had refused out of jealousy. No matter, the Admiral would not come for him now.

Slowly, the wrenching panic let go of him. Horatio realized that it was safe to open his eyes. The room was the same as it had been before he had fallen asleep, quiet now save for the popping of the fire. It had only been Archie making all the noise along with the rain outside, battering the thin roof and walls.  Horatio’s grip loosened and he simply lay limp against Archie’s shoulder.

“You’re shivering,” Archie murmured, his cheek pressed to Horatio’s curls where his head was tucked against Archie’s neck. “You have a fever. It’s not bad. Don’t worry. But you’ll have to rest.”

Rest? How could they rest? No doubt they were being hunted this very moment. The Admiralty must have learned of their escape by now. “We can’t.” Horatio’s protest was little more than a shadowy whisper, all his body had strength for. Chills raced along his skin under the sweat and Archie’s warm hands. He knew Archie was right; the past few days had worn him down and he must have caught a chill.

“We’re fifty miles from London, Horatio. We have a little time. Here.”

Water splashed behind him and then there came the dripping sound of Archie wringing out a cloth. The coat of sweat on his back was wiped away and Horatio was held at arms’ length while Archie wiped his mouth and his flushed face.

Horatio’s eyes focused on him for the first time. He looked cleaner, if not haggard, his gold hair damp and his clothes changed, Two buckets sat beside him as well as another cake of soap and the clothes they had traveled in. He must have just come in from fetching wash water. God knew that with the way the rain came down Archie had only to hold the bucket outside the door.

“Here,” Archie said again, setting the cloth down and reaching into the bucket once more. He pushed a cup to Horatio’s lips, offering him water to drink. Horatio gulped it, eager to get the foul taste out of his mouth. When the water was gone Archie helped him to lie down again

Horatio wanted the blanket back. He felt exposed and vulnerable in the firelight. But Archie did not cover him. Instead, he took up the wet cloth again, wiping at the damp sticky places on Horatio’s body – under his arms, over his chest, even between his legs and behind his knees. The coolness relieved him, but it was not enough. Horatio wished for a tub of water to soak in. He had never felt as itchingly filthy as he had these past few days. He could still feel the Marines’ disgusted gaze probing at his body and wanted nothing more than to scrub himself raw.

“Better?” Archie’s hand felt remarkably cool on his forehead, pushing the damp curls away from his face.

Horatio did not know what to say. Archie’s sad eyes and the grim set of his mouth seemed to say everything. Neither of them knew when things would get better or how. He loathed that Archie should see him like this and his cheeks colored to think on how his pathetic panic and sobbing of a moment ago must have looked.

“I thought they were –“ he began hoarsely, as though Archie were sitting there regarding him as some brand of mad man. Or perhaps it was simply that he had begun to feel like a madman.

“I know,” Archie said softly. “It’s all right.” Horatio shook his head at himself with a frown, still watching Archie in the firelight. Of course he knew; he had suffered it all before. Many a night Horatio had watched him toss and turn through nightmares and those shocking fits.

That understanding seemed to hang between them as Archie rose, shrugging out of his coat, waistcoat, and trousers and then sliding under the blanket. The bed was warmer with him in it. Horatio could remember how he would climb into Archie’s bunk in Spain after his nightmares. Physical closeness had seemed to comfort him.

Archie was careful not to press too close now on account of Horatio’s injuries, but the mere feel of him soothed Horatio a little, enough to turn his head and look at him ruefully. It was difficult to imagine that he had only discovered Archie alive less than a fortnight ago. He could scarcely wrap his head around how their lives had changed so fast. This predicament was certainly one he had never dreamed for himself. Probably Archie had not either.

“I’ll wager you wish you were back at Edrington’s, or that you’d never stepped into that courtroom in Kingston for that matter,” Horatio sighed.

Archie’s small nose wrinkled at the mention of Edrington. “I wasn’t happy there. I never liked being at his mercy to be cast out when I became inconvenient. As for Kingston . . . well at least there was something left I could do. That’s the worst thing, Horatio, when there’s nothing you can do.”

Horatio found himself nodding. He was tired of being at the mercy of a world he did not understand and tired of one unforeseen horror after another springing upon him. It was as though the fortress of the world he knew had taken a fatal hit in Kingston and had been crumbling around him ever since. After Archie’s death a crumbling fortress had seemed better than none at all. He had given up in any case. At the time it had seemed better to lock up one’s heart and follow orders. Doing otherwise had not seemed worth it anymore. Even his own body had no longer seemed his. He could still feel Pellew’s eyes, coveting but not seeing. His stomach knotted, his own eyes squeezing shut.

A fingertip traced lightly along his ribs. Horatio shook at the unexpected touch, his eyes flying open. Color immediately rushed to his face, adding to the nagging dizziness of fever, realizing that it was only Archie fussing over his injuries again.

“Horatio . . .” Archie turned to peer down at him, his small lower lip between his teeth and his blue gaze intent but confused, as though he did not know whether to gather Horatio up again or throw something. Horatio turned his head away, regretting that his wounds should cause pain. He wanted to say that he was all right, but knew that would not work, not with Archie who still bore his own scars.

He did not jump this time when Archie pressed a kiss to the mark on his shoulder where the bullet had grazed him. Horatio had not realized until then that it was the same shoulder where Simpson had shot him long ago. They had ordered him to shoot back, but he had not done it – it would have been too good an end for the monster and it would not have been revenge enough. But this time he had responded, for Archie’s sake and perhaps his own. He had picked up the bayonet and run his opponent through and he did not know how to feel. His hand came up to touch the mark upon his skin.

“You did what came naturally,” Archie told him, laying a hand over his, reading his thoughts as always. “It’s natural to fight to free oneself or to survive. No one’s made to be a prisoner. Horatio.”

Perhaps not, but he was not sure he knew how to survive and now he felt dragged down and battered. His eyes closed again and he wished the shivers would stop skittering along his skin.

A second kiss landed on his collarbone when he did not respond, cutting through the chill. Horatio’s hand came up, smoothing over Archie’s hair. That simple touch was the only answer he could make now, whatever it meant.

Archie seemed to make sense of it; he kissed another spot on Horatio’s shoulder and then reached across him to take his hand beneath the blanket. “I know it hurts,” his breath came warmly against Horatio’s neck “But some of it’s easier to make better than you think, Horatio – at least it was for me.”

Letting his fingers tangle weakly with Archie’s broader ones against his belly, Horatio looked up at him. Archie looked so miserably sad. A lump rose in Horatio’s throat to see it. He could not think of anyone else who had given a damn enough to hurt for him before.  “I thought you said we had more than that, ” he reminded quietly for the simple sake of speaking.

“We do, but . . .” Archie licked his lips, dipping his chin a little. “But you were careful when I needed that.  What I felt mattered to you.”

“Of course it did.” Horatio looked up sternly into Archie’s face. “I couldn’t enjoy it otherwise.” He did not understand how any man could. Perhaps that was the source of the lasting wound Pellew had dealt; the man had relished something done against his will, blind to the way Horatio had shivered and the way his skin had crawled, as blind as he had been to his grief in Kingston.

And how could he have known how to stop it? He had never been with another man and had found himself too stunned that someone he had once modeled himself after could treat him like a covetable prize instead of a man with objections and loyalties of his own. He had been invisible, merely a body and a symbol as he was to the Navy as a whole. What was he to have done? The shaming experience had been over before he could work out the etiquette of refusal without the added burden of awkwardness afterward.

Closing his eyes again, Horatio tried to make his body forget. Warm fingers brushed the bruise on his jaw, and then a kiss followed, light as a feather. “’Was ever Scythia half so barbarous?’” Archie quoted in a murmur.

Horatio shook his head at Archie and his plays. He used to read them so often, in his silvery voice. It had been a long time since Archie had lain next to him and read. Horatio could not recall the last time. It had been a long time since he had seen Archie smile even.

Letting go Archie’s hand, Horatio reached up to tug him closer, wanting affection and familiarity. Perhaps there was something about panic and nightmares or perhaps it was because Archie was the only constant thing he had now. But Archie caught his hand again, pinning it back against the blanket.

“Got to be careful,” he said softly. Horatio nodded, so long as Archie understood that he wanted him near now. “Just lie still, Horatio.”

Again, Horatio nodded, rolling his head to one side as Archie half stretched over him on his elbows, inching down. He touched his mouth to Horatio’s sore ribs, starting to kiss them better just like he had said in that cell. The chill left Horatio’s skin, replaced by warmth different from the clamminess of the fever. A familiar tingling stirred in his lap as Archie went on to kiss the bruises on his sides where the Marines’ boots had cruelly landed; Horatio soon realized that he was growing aroused; he did not think he could, so sore and drained and jittery, but his body could not help but stir at the almost ticklish press of lips on those sensitive places. His hand found Archie’s hair again, tugging plaintively, but only for Archie to lift his head and nuzzle at one side of his neck.

“Just relax, Horatio.”

It was not easy. His chest tightened as Archie’s mouth crept down again. He was used to the urgency of pleasure, seeking release before he could grow too uncertain or embarrassed of his own responses. It was the most thrilling feeling in the world to throw himself into a rush of passion and leave behind the part of him that feared the consequences of breaking the rules. He could enjoy teasing Archie, but Archie was graceful and beautiful when he tossed around and cried out, not clumsy and awkward like him. Horatio would often rather pretend his gangly body did not exist.

Archie would never allow him to do so, however. Even now Horatio still marveled at the sensations buzzing through him as Archie crawled down and touched his silky lips to the taut flesh of his belly. Horatio quivered, arching slightly, his body reminding him that it had desires even with the bruises and the slight malaise of fever. His thighs fell away from one another trustingly and his head rolled back when Archie shifted, warm breath tickling the dark curls between his legs before Archie moved downward to kiss a bruise on his knee.

The stubble on Archie’s cheek scraped excitingly against the inside of his thigh. Archie kissed there, too, all the way up, his fingertips points of heat where they pressed lightly into his backside. A kiss to the hot underside of his cock shut the other sensations out. Horatio shifted, waiting for more. Archie’s tongue followed, hot and slippery up the length of him, stroking back and forth until Horatio shuddered.

“Archie . . .” He caught a hand to the back of Archie’s neck. That warm mouth closed around him, wrapping gently as silk round the swollen flesh and moving over him so sweetly that the pleasure seemed to twist Horatio up inside. All the while Archie’s fingers crept down, his thumb circling idly along the crease of Horatio’s thigh and then wandering lower to idly brush over the place the Marines had mocked and prodded and threatened.

The cold fear of the memory clamped down on him like a physical restraint. Gritting his teeth, Horatio thrashed once as if to shake it off, his skin crawling with that helpless anxiety all over again. He had feared Pellew would want to enter him there too. What would he have said in response? With all due respect, sir, I’d rather not be sodomized by my commanding officer?  Would Pellew have even asked?

His sudden fright did not go unnoticed. Archie’s hand fell away, but only for his mouth to slip down, soothing that intimate place with a gentle little stroke of his tongue across the surface of the skin.

Horatio’s eyes flew open, shocked. He did not know whether to laugh at such a ridiculous caress or cry that Archie would do such a thing, that Archie did not find him filthy even there. His face burned. But even stranger than that, the constricting fear in his chest loosened and he prickled inside with pleasure instead of remembered panic.

It was then that he made sense of something that he had never understood about Archie before. Gently, Horatio pushed him back, turning around onto his hands and knees despite the discomfort – better that way on account of his injuries.

His determined presentation of himself was met with silence, though not the kind that shamed him and made him wonder if he had done something wrong. He remembered the things he had said to Archie long ago when Archie’s mind had wanted union but his body had resisted any intrusion whatsoever. We don’t have to do this. Don’t think I expect it. Perhaps you aren’t ready yet. You might wait. It’d be easier if you had me instead.  All those things were conveyed to him now, unspoken from Archie behind him, and Horatio understood why Archie had insisted.

“Horatio . . . “Archie stroked a hand down his back, ready to add a new protest. Horatio shook his head, turning to look at him over his shoulder.

“It’s my body, Archie. Can’t I have what I want?”

Archie would understand that, the need to choose after so much had been out of his hands, a small act of dominance and power. Perhaps that need came strongest in the wake of nightmares and pain, but Horatio knew that Archie would understand.

Trying not to think on how he had crouched like this on Pellew’s bed, Horatio waited while Archie knelt close behind him, rubbing over his shoulders and down his arms, starting to lick along his spine. Horatio shuddered at the absolute delight of it, arching up like a cat. His head dropped between his arms, but only for Archie to bring his wet mouth to the back of his neck, sucking and biting gently until Horatio found himself pushing back impatiently against the hardness pressing between his thighs.

“Archie . . .”

“Shh,” Archie whispered. There were still sore spots and bruises for him to nuzzle and kiss, leaving a buzzing under Horatio’s skin wherever he touched. But after he had anointed them all, Archie dipped his hand into the bucket beside him where all the soap must not have dissolved. He touched the slippery stuff carefully to Horatio’s body and then his own.

Horatio found himself gripping Archie’s hand against the blanket as Archie squeezed into him, slow and warm and slick. He could feel Archie’s breath in a hot rhythm on his neck as they began to rock together. It was so good. A warm fire built inside him, spreading along Horatio’s spine until he grew lightheaded. He felt that fire through every inch of him, numbing the bruises and sore bones, leaving him euphoric. He gritted his teeth lest crying out lessen the intensity.

There was the feel of wildness and of being overthrown by sensation, but never helplessness. On the contrary, he welcomed every movement. There was familiarity and control that only what he wanted to happen had happened. After everything that had befallen him, he had craved that for a long time now. His head spun in the liberating rush of it.

**

They made it to Falmouth more than a week later.

The journey had been an unnerving one, trudging on foot along rural roads, avoiding towns or any place too greatly inhabited. It seemed to Horatio as though he had held his breath the entire time, his ear cocked for footsteps and his heart set to race at the slightest sound. Only exhaustion allowed him to stop and sleep, more often than not in Archie’s lap beneath the dubious shelter of a half-barren tree. He feared they were not moving fast enough. He feared being brought back to London in shame. He feared failure. Most of all, he feared what in God’s name they would do with themselves if they ever got out of England. But they had made an unspoken pact to stay alive, it seemed.

They had already wasted three days resting in that cottage. His fever had turned into a tiring headcold and Archie had a sore foot from the fight to nurse. That was hardly the worst of it. The anxiety of their flight had settled into Horatio’s dreams. At times he had woken up struggling, sure that his hands were in irons. Other times he had resisted waking at all, fearing that the past months had been a dream all its own and that he would find himself back in Kingston, infused with grief, a throbbing ache in his skull from the rum he had sought to drown it in, and the sense of something unwelcome done to his body.

Eventually, his eyes would open, finding himself under Archie’s watchful blue gaze. Archie would wash his face and offer him whatever food he had managed to find, very much alive if not worn down with worry. Selfish relief would fill Horatio then that Archie had survived and that they were alone. The fear and dread were absent in those moments. When Horatio’s aches had abated, Archie had stretched out on his back, pulled Horatio down on top of him and whispered coaxingly in his ear for Horatio to lie with him and forget all else for a time. The heat of Archie’s body had kept the fear away for much longer than a moment, until Horatio could only half-coherently murmur of his affection as he moved Archie there on the floor. He smiled then. They both did.

Sometimes they would talk. Archie would promise the nightmares would fade and that things would get better. He never spoke of putting a pistol to his head anymore; he seemed to look forward to leaving this hell behind. Horatio vowed that if they made it out of here alive he would resign himself to becoming a quiet academic. In those moments they had felt safe.

That sense of safety had long since vanished by the time they reached the harbor, yet it was there Horatio’s fears were realized. Archie pointed to a post outside another shop farther down the wharf, where a poster had been nailed. It was too far away to make out in the darkness, but on it Horatio could see the outlines of a sketch and what looked to be the advertisement of a reward.

He went cold, the nagging sense of pursuit intensifying for the fact that they stood in plain sight surveying the docks beneath the awning of a sail shop. The hour was close to midnight and the harbor lay half empty, but that did not stop men from moving about, and who was to say when a Marine would not emerge from one of the taverns.

“We can’t linger,” he told Archie beside him, a crawling nervousness under his skin. He dared not suggest they move closer for a better look at the poster. Instead, Horatio kept his eyes on the black water. They needed a ship. They needed to be away from here.

Apprehension quickened Horatio’s heartbeat as they moved nearer to the water. His eyes flicked about, expecting to spy the distinctive red of a Marine’s coat at any moment – surely the Admiralty had ordered a close watch on all ports. Yet he spied none, only clusters of men on the docks wrapped up in their business and what looked to be a crew newly come into port, snatching up drabs with their skirts hiked up and leading them behind the buildings for their pleasure.

There were men moving toward the ships as well. Horatio’s gaze settled on a knot of scraggly men climbing into a rowboat under the threatening fist of a looming beast of a man in a tricorn hat. The boat pushed off from the shore, rowing toward a merchantman at anchor. Horatio wished he had a glass for a better look. In the dark, he could only see dozens of shapes scurrying about on deck. The sight gave him hope at least.

Archie evidently shared the feeling. He laid a hand on Horatio’s arm as they walked. “Looks like they might be gathering supplies.”

Horatio nodded. That meant the merchantman was preparing to sail. He shuddered to think on what sort of men would sail away in the dead of night, but the terrible truth was that the less respectable the ship the better. It frightened him to reduce himself to such thinking, but what else was he to do? Leave him and Archie to the mercy of hypocrites?

“Come on.” Archie started off toward the man in the tricorn hat. Horatio’s skin prickled as he followed, feeling as though that poster with the reward had been nailed to his chest instead for all to identify him as the man in the sketch. Fighting down that feeling, Horatio kept his eyes on the man instead. He stood like a small mountain on the dock, watching the boat row away with a scowl on his face, clearly the merchantman’s captain. Something was wrong, though Horatio was too caught up in his own nervousness to puzzle it out. He knew he did not like the ragged epaulette on the man’s left shoulder, a poor imitation of Naval dress. Horatio did not like to think on how the man had obtained the thing.

His heart beat hard when Archie approached him. He towered over both of them with his angry dark gaze, suggesting he not be trifled with. Worse, he looked every inch the sort who might recognize either of them from the sketch and hand them over for the reward. If that fear crossed Archie’s mind, he did not show it, planting himself before the captain and looking him in the eye.

“Do you intend to sail tonight?”

The man folded his arms, his eyes moving over Archie from head to foot. “What’s it to you?”

The captain was hiding something. Archie saw it as well as he, but did not waste time in feeling out what it was. “We’ll pay you handsomely for passage to any port that isn’t British.” He touched a hand to his chest were he kept Edrington’s purse inside his coat.

Dark eyes followed Archie’s hand. The captain knew the promise was no bluff. “It’s Boston, if I can get these dogs to move,” he grunted.

Boston. Horatio nodded to himself. That was as far away as he and Archie might have right to hope for. Nothing that had happened here would matter in Boston. They would both have the chance to make a new life for themselves.

“Tonight?” Archie pressed. He was growing impatient, as was Horatio, whose gaze darted back to where the poster was nailed high, waiting for any man in the harbor to pay it mind. This was taking too long.

The captain seemed in no hurry. He stared down at Archie sourly over his folded arms. “The coin first.”

Archie shook his head, not prepared to be tricked by this ruffian and robbed of their only means of leaving England. But before he could answer the rowboat came back, this time for the captain. The man stepped forward to climb in, turning back to Archie angrily.

“You paying or not?”

Archie turned. He and Horatio exchanged a glance. Clearly they shared the same uneasy feeling, but the chance to slip away now could not be squandered. A better opportunity was not likely to present itself tonight.

“You’ll have the money when we’re aboard,” Archie declared when he faced the captain again. Horatio could only nod in support of this, though the captain was not looking at him.

“You two had best be no trouble,” he grumbled, lowering himself into the boat.

They followed, silent as the boat rowed away from the shore. Horatio took comfort in the press of Archie against his shoulder, but he could not keep from glancing back at the docks as the water carried them farther and farther away. Neither the prickling under his skin nor the gripping dread had left him, as though he fully expected to see Marines chasing after him with their weapons drawn. They would find him if he stayed; it was only a matter of time.

It occurred to him that aside from their other crimes, he was deserting in a sense. Oddly enough, he found himself recalling when the prospect had been suggested to him before years ago. He remembered his reason for staying, that doing otherwise would mean that Simpson had won. His own naïve pride seemed foolish now that his body knew the worst. What did it matter who won, so long as he was free?

But as they drew closer to the ship Horatio’s nervous eyes were drawn to her maindeck. The men had halted their activity and were standing about, nodding their heads as another raggedly clad fellow pointed over the side at the rowboat.

“Good for nothin’ and he’s only out for himself. We’ll never see a shilling with this one, lads, but we’ll get more o’ the cat then we’ve got comin’.”

The captain went rigid, as did Horatio at the other end of the boat. Mutinous talk. The sense of impending danger mounted. He glanced at Archie beside him. Archie’s jaw was set and his eyes may as well have been chips of blue stone. There was no time for any other response. The boat hauled alongside and the captain yanked himself up the gangway, storming onto the deck.

“You god damned dogs, what’s the meaning of this? Get back to work before I take a rope’s end to all of you. I want out of the harbor tonight.”

The men did not stir. They stood tense, angry at the threat of the lash. The captain was a fool for invoking it – he was no post-captain with the Articles to uphold and there was nothing so despised aboard ship as the brutality of the cat. No one seemed to pay Horatio and Archie any mind. They encroached upon the captain in a loose half circle, forcing him closer to the bulwark at his back in order to keep his distance. Horatio had seen enough rebellious ratings to know that they hovered on the brink of something dangerous.

“I warned ‘em.” The scrawny man who had stirred up the others turned to face the captain now, his long dark hair held back by a dirty scarf. “You haven’t got us a prize for months now. You let two ships slip away already. The Americans won’t be easy as the Frogs. We lads are sick o’ havin’ nothin’ in our pockets.”

Horatio’s mouth fell open despite himself. Pirates. They had walked into a den of pirates. The familiar disgust filled him. A pirate was even baser than a mutineer. He quivered inside, as though faced with lions instead of men, but there was nowhere he and Archie could go, and were they not criminals now too? Swallowing down his uneasiness, Horatio kept his eyes on the angry crew before him.

They grunted in agreement with their dark-haired leader, nodding vigorously, some even balling their hands into fists. The captain’s face reddened with outrage. Both his hands curled into fists as well, as though to grip the discipline and authority slipping through his fingers. Horatio found the signs of disorder all around as his gaze moved past the men to study the deck itself. The cables were sloppily laid, the deck was cluttered – signs of either the captain’s incompetence or the men’s laziness. Either way, the state of things unsettled him, depicting an unruly environment long out of control and set to explode at any moment.

The captain shook a fist at the dark-haired insurgent. “Hold your tongue or I’ll feed the fish with you. I won’t have any mutiny on this god damned ship from any of you fucking whoresons!”

The man’s eyes narrowed at being called a whoreson. He lashed out, striking the captain square in the face with his fist. The rest happened too fast. The captain roared and then reached inside his belt, drawing his knife and plunging it into the smaller man’s chest. He fell to the deck, limp and bloody like the Marines a fortnight ago.

The assault shattered something over the ship, whatever vestige of sanctity the captain’s rank had held. One moment he stood with the knife in his hand and the next another man lunged forward, snatching the knife away and thrusting it between his ribs. The captain fell beside the first man amid the shouts and curses of his crew.

Horatio watched with as much horror as he had watched Captain Sawyer tumble into the hold. His eyes fixed for a moment on the tattered epaulette. There would be no court-martials to answer to. The man’s fatal mistake seemed to lie in choosing to treat his crew as less than human.

The shouting did not cease when the captain’s eyes rolled back into his head. Another man whirled on the rest, half-starved like the dead mutineer beside the captain. “Well now look what ye bloody fools did. We’ve got to get out o’ here. Who’s the bloody captain now?”

A rumble rose up, with this man and that man shaking fists at each other. At the first threat the deck broke into chaos. Weapons were drawn, the silver winking in the moonlight. The men were prepared for a bloodbath.

Horatio’s heart sped dangerously, climbing with the heat of the quarrel around him. He felt sick inside, impatient and furious that this debacle should erupt now and endanger what might be he and Archie’s only chance to slip away. He glanced back to the shore where that poster waited, telling all who they were and that they were wanted. The noise around them here would only draw attention. Sweat started to sting his skin beneath his clothes. He had to do something before their bloody escape from the Marines and subsequent flight came to futility too. Somehow he knew that after everything he could never bear that of all travesties. .

He could feel Archie tense at his side, wracked with desperation as the quarrel intensified. Another knife made its way into a third man’s gut just as a knot of men scampered forrad, making for one of the guns to turn it on the others.

Horatio’s nails dug into his palms. If something were not done it would mean disaster one way or another.

The anger of the mutiny infected him. Perhaps it had been buried inside him for a long time. He had done everything he could. He had tried to stop the bleeding that day on Renown’s deck. He had tried to make it to that courtroom in time. He had stopped Archie from taking his life. He had taken Archie out of London. He had escaped from the Marines, and he had fled. Yet here he was, stumbling into a larger mess just as he had with Hammond and those senseless political games. That was all that witch-hunt in Kingston had amounted to, the wicked play of politics where neither he nor Archie nor the truth mattered, not to Pellew or any of them. He was tired of it, tired of being trapped and betrayed by those crooked things like a net falling over him. He was outraged, outraged at the world for losing sight of the purpose of the law and outraged at Pellew for laying a hand on his body and then telling Archie that it was he who had cast himself adrift. Had the man stood in front of him at that moment, Horatio would have faced him down as contemptuously as any of these men. He was outraged at them too, for choosing this moment to fight.

He glanced at Archie and thought of Kingston again. Archie had been wounded and imprisoned, by all means helpless, and yet he had found a way to save him. The cost had simply not mattered to him. There was the key. What did the cost matter now with Horatio’s good name gone as well? Everything was gone, if all he had held dear had ever existed beyond his own mind. But there was the very basis of honor still in his own heart. He owed it to Archie to repay that “gift” in Kingston, to do all he could, no matter the cost. There would be no peace if he failed in this too.

It was so simple. He was tired of the shouting and chaos around him. All he had to do was quiet it and get this ship underway. Horatio drew in a breath. He was trembling inside though he stood still, but he raised his head to shout above the noise, half shocked at what came out.

“Enough! You’ll have your ship if you sail tonight. French or Spanish.”

They stopped and stared at him as though they had not seen him before. Archie stared at him too, wide-eyed. But there was no time to mull over what he had done. This ship had to sail and he had to erase the doubt in the sea of faces before him. If one man stepped up to question him then the others would fall to quarrelling again. He had to take command, and quickly, before another crisis erupted.

“Damn it, I’ve fought off three French Corvettes, stopped a fire ship, and captured a fort in one day with this man here.” He gestured to Archie at his side, still angry that his part in that action had never been put in the papers. Archie nodded in support of his words. The men looked at each other, comprehension beginning to dawn on them that he was a Navy man, a desperate man. But that understanding was not good enough. Horatio stepped toward them. He had to get these men to move. “Come on, men, put your weapons down. This is a bad business. You know your duty. Haul up those cables. Raise tacks and sheets. Man the capstan. Handsomely now.”

They continued to stare at him and then at each other. Perhaps they recognized the desperation of their own circumstances, perhaps they would rather not stand here and slaughter each other, or perhaps they simply unanimously decided that no man would make the claims he had to armed pirates unless they were true. Whatever the case, a long, breathless moment passed before the man who had started the squabble over who would be captain finally spoke.

“We ain’t havin’ the cat as master here.”

Horatio stared at him, ready to say that if he committed no offense then he would not be harmed. But the Articles did not hold here and if he adhered to them he would end up as dead as the captain at his feet. He would have to make the rules for himself as . . . as the captain of this ship.

“God forbid,” was all he could answer. “Now get to work. Prepare to weigh anchor.”

He watched in disbelief as one man after another spread out to a different part of the ship, hauling on lines or taking a place at the capstan at his orders. He called them out by habit, out of haste to be away to stop the crawling feeling in his skin, and it was not until the necessary hands had scurried aloft to unfurl the sails that he turned back to stand beside Archie at the rail.

Archie’s expression was a mix of emotions – worry, pride, and relief. He glanced over his shoulder at the now busy deck and then grinned ruefully. “Mr. Hornblower, I do believe you’ve turned pirate. Hardly the sort of command Pellew fancied for you.”

Horatio lowered his head at the words, knowing he should have balked and been shamed to the core, or at the very least protested that he had only promised to take a ship for a way out and had not resigned himself to the life. But all he could do was nod grimly, staring out over the dark water, his hands coated with sweat as he held the rail. He supposed that after their escape days ago, that Rubicon of blood, this was not so shocking.

“I suppose I’m still better than that traitor Hammond,” he sighed, “and at least this isn’t a bribe.” Pellew had fancied him a traitor to his own principles, a mercenary of another sort. Horatio shook off the subject when Archie’s eyes softened with concern. “A French or Spanish ship, Archie. It’ll all be the same, and once we dock in Boston we’ll be gone.” These were his choices to make now. There was no Admiralty to govern otherwise, not one that would not hang him first anyway.

Archie was not given the chance to answer. One of the men came up behind them. “What about them?” He pointed to the captain and the dead men sprawled on the deck.

Horatio turned, a frown crossing his face as he studied the bodies. “Get them over the side with all due respect, man, once we’re underway.” There had to be decency, some vestige of regard for life here. He may be a criminal in the eyes of the law, but there was no need to act as one in his own heart. Yet the plain fact was that they could not lower the bodies so close to the harbor and risk them floating ashore. He took his attention away from them. “Where’s the Sailing Master? We’ve a course to set.”

A course to set, the words echoed through his mind throughout the next hour as the ship began to drift away from the dark shore. Horatio wondered if he would ever see England again, remembering that only weeks ago he had wished to be away. He found in all honesty nothing but apathy in regards to the methods he had chosen, nothing like the pain when he had left Kingston, as though something had been ripped out of him.

He did not see Archie again until he found himself in the captain’s cabin. Archie quietly slipped in behind him and closed the door. “Everything’s shipshape,” he said, and then stepped around in front of him, tilting his head and looking Horatio over with his blue, blue eyes. “Are you all right?”

Horatio did not look away. “Doing the best I can, Archie,” he said somewhat wryly.

He thought they might leave it at that, but Archie quickly stepped up, sliding his arms around him and pressing him close for a moment. Horatio let out a relieved breath despite himself. He had for a moment felt like a different man, taking over this pirate ship, but here Archie was to tell him that he would always be the same man to him. He stroked Archie’s red-gold hair by habit, but gently pushed him back in the next moment. They dared not risk so much as an embrace here.

Archie drew away with a sigh, slipping his coat and waistcoat off and then tugging his shirt up over his head. He was tired and no wonder; he had hardly slept these past days, too busy looking after him.

“Going to sleep?” Horatio steadied the cot so that Archie could climb up.

“I think so.” Archie stretched out on his back once he was settled in the thing. “Wake me if there’s trouble.”

“Of course.”

Horatio glanced for a moment at the awful, healing scar on Archie’s side and then pulled the blankets up over his strong shoulders. There was no one outside the door, and so Horatio leaned down and risked a brief kiss to Archie’s brow. He stood over the bed a long moment after he straightened, watching Archie in the yellow lantern light. He did not know how to feel about what he had done and what lay ahead of them, but he knew that he had found an escape and that he was not alone. At the very least he had not failed; he had done all he could and had safeguarded what mattered.

**

Admiral Pellew stared down at the Earl of Edrington’s letter on his desk. It was full of courtesies, obedient of all necessary form and discretion, yet after reading it Pellew found himself pouring a second glass of Madeira and staring blankly at one of the lanterns hanging in the great cabin of his flagship.

Have you any news of interest to share? The letter had asked. Pellew knew well enough what news he was after. What was he to answer? That he had been responsible for Hornblower’s and Kennedy’s escape, ordering their irons off on purpose for fear of the damage Kennedy’s sharp and irreverent tongue might do him in London? Perhaps that had been cowardly, but an Admiral had to keep his reputation for the good of his family and the Navy itself. The truth would have been a scandal. Thank God Hammond had been sent back to Portsmouth before the matter of Hornblower and Kennedy failing to turn up in London could be addressed. If it were suspected that he was the last officer to have seen them . .  . .

Pellew had expected Kennedy to persuade Hornblower to escape – for Hornblower’s sake he had hoped they would succeed – but Pellew had never in his life expected the news he had received weeks later. A note had been slipped into his pocket on the street one day – he still did not know where it had come from, though it had to have been someone who knew what importance such information would for him. Hornblower had been spied in Falmouth Harbor on the quarterdeck of what was known to be a pirate ship, the Insurrection.

A pirate ship. Dear God! Pellew nearly wept inside at thought all over again. Why in God’s name would the boy chose that fate over the ship and the promotion he had arranged for him? Hornblower had spat on everything he had ever done for him. He had never imagined Hornblower as the rebellious sort before, but Pellew grudgingly supposed that he had not known many things about his closed-off young protégé. Young men were always unpredictable, easily led astray by their passions. His own passions had brought him dangerously close to ruin of late.

There was nothing to be done with the strange note he had been given. Pellew had burned it at first opportunity. Hornblower had made his choice and who was to say how that choice might fall back on him if the truth were ever found out. He was the last to be seen with them, he had ordered off their irons . . . . A man was nothing without his good name and the Navy did not need a scandal.

~ The End