“Archie . . .” Horatio sighed as his friend rose from the Wardroom bench and crossed into their shared cabin, closing the door behind him without a word. Archie did indeed appear weary and fraught – as well he should be, considering that his grumbling of a moment ago bordered on treason – but the abrupt exit was hardly like him.

The man’s bedeviled, Archie’s words tumbled through Horatio’s mind again, the future; it’s far more uncertain. Lightening flashed outside the square windows, casting an eerie blue-white glow over the dim room, as if punctuating a prophecy – Cassandra’s foretelling the fall of Troy.

Disaster, treason; the two thoughts ran together discordantly, each as catastrophic, but the latter more immediately dangerous. Horatio’s eyes darted about the Wardroom for the hundredth time. All was quiet; no one had overheard Archie’s words. He heaved a sigh of relief for that at least, and then frowned. Perhaps for the moment the wisest choice was simply to let the night swallow up what had been spoken here.

In the dark of their cabin, Horatio found Archie already in his hammock, coat and hat hung up, clothes folded atop his sea chest. With only an hour remaining until his watch, Horatio added only his own waistcoat and shoes to the pile. But even without duty to keep him awake, Archie’s words in the Wardroom left him too unsettled to sleep.

Damn it. Archie should not say such things, as an officer, as a King’s man. Horatio frowned again. He could not blame Archie for having doubts, but . . . . He shook off the thought, treading silently over to his friend’s bed – the only place he would find any real warmth to last him through the next interminable hours in the freezing rain.

It was no easy thing climbing into the hammock without disturbing Archie, but Horatio managed it. Once under the blankets, his body curved protectively against Archie’s back, his chin resting on one strong shoulder as he listened to the slow whisper of Archie’s slumbering breath – the only sound to fill their small cabin and the quiescent Wardroom beyond.

The sound was so hypnotically peaceful that Horatio pressed closer. He slipped one arm around Archie’s waist, clinging almost urgently, as if determined to put his own body between Archie and some unseen danger, unwilling to leave an inch of him unguarded. That was foolish; the danger lay in Archie’s heart. It was that heart – sometimes made of gold, sometimes of ice – and its irreverent impulses that Horatio feared most, and the knowledge that Archie would hang for certain if Sawyer were to sniff out his thoughts.

The idea made him ill inside. He pulled Archie against him with both arms, heart bucking with the thought of losing him. Damn it, he must teach Archie to watch his tongue.

Closing his eyes, Horatio banished the thought. He buried his face in Archie’s neck, taking in the clean, salty scent of him, the soft warmth of his skin, the golden silk of his hair, until he grew aroused by the feel of Archie against him. God, even desire – which had once seemed so unconquerable and dangerous a thing – was a welcome and simple notion now compared to the pernicious questions hanging over them.

Craving that simplicity, that familiarity, Horatio could not help himself; he brushed his lips against the tender skin beneath Archie’s ear. “Archie, wake up.” He caressed a pliant earlobe with his tongue.

Archie tensed briefly in his arms, but before he could speak Horatio started a path of kisses down one side of his neck, pulling the collar of his nightshirt back to reach one warm shoulder. A low groan escaped Archie’s lips, not of pleasure, but of complaint. Horatio froze in response, his chest seizing with the fear that his attentions were unwanted.

“The Wardroom’s deserted,” he explained when Archie said nothing, rubbing a hand coercively over Archie’s strong chest, over a steady sleepy heartbeat, wanting to make it waiver. He frowned when Archie did not respond to either his touch or his words. “I thought this might be too good a chance to waste.”

“Of course,” Archie muttered, the reply so half-hearted that Horatio grimaced.

“Archie . . .” He brushed the hair back from his lover’s face, letting his fingers trace one clean-shaven cheek. Archie was warm, almost too warm. “Please don’t worry, Archie.” Horatio nuzzled his soft cheek. “I’ll protect you.”

The remark flung Archie toward him. Even in the pitch blackness Horatio felt his searing gaze, read the thoughts still firmly grounded on the path of dissent. “All eight-hundred of us, Horatio?” his lover challenged sharply.

A chill washed over him. Horatio strained his ears, but once again it seemed no one had heard. He let out a breath, but was unable to shake the queasy feeling Archie’s question left in the pit of his stomach. Before he knew it, he had a finger pressed to Archie’s lips and was murmuring, “Shh.”

The command came rougher than he intended. For a bare moment Horatio could feel Archie bristling, hating to be ordered about, and gently traced Archie’s shapely lips to soothe him. “Shh . . .” he whispered more gently this time, leaning down to smother Archie’s warm, pink mouth.

At first Archie’s lips were still and unyielding beneath his own, but the kiss must have melted something inside him; one hand came up, stroking Horatio’s cheek with drowsy, tender fondness, inviting him closer, lips parting for his tongue.

Seizing on that invitation, Horatio cupped Archie’s face in both hands, assailing his mouth with another kiss and then another until the cabin was filled with the quiet, wet suckling of their lips. The hand against the back of his neck remained weightless, the body under him hot yet perfectly still, but Horatio ignored these things, working his tongue delicately inside his lover, savoring the wet fullness of Archie’s lips before nudging his tongue in all the way, wanting to be good for him, clever at pleasing him. His hands moved down all the while, pushing up Archie’s nightshirt, exposing his hot sturdy thighs and the silkier, more tender flesh between his legs.

In no time at all Horatio had his trousers undone, fumbling to push them from his hips without breaking the languid rhythm of their mouths. Once the barrier of cloth was gone, he stretched his body over Archie’s full length, crushing Archie’s half hard cock between them, eliciting a muffled groan.

Chuckling quietly against Archie’s mouth, Horatio reached under him, in a mood to tease. He ran his palm over the smooth, hairless back of one thigh, gently urging Archie’s leg up around his waist so that their bodies might rub together more fully.

Far from excited, Archie broke off kissing him, shoving at his shoulders. “No.” He raised his head from the pillow, twisting to pull free. “Get off me.”

Horatio rolled off him at once, a sharp breath hissing over his teeth at the fire Archie’s wriggling ignited in his lap. Shame scorched his cheeks in the next heartbeat. What kind of beast would be aroused when Archie was upset, when he might have remembered . . . something?

Sitting upright in the hammock, Horatio stared where Archie lay invisible in the darkness. “What’s the matter?” he demanded, still breathing raggedly. For several heartbeats no answer came. Horatio frowned, laying a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Archie . . .?”

Archie sat up with him, causing the hammock to sway. He remained silent another moment before shaking his head in the dimness. “Nothing. I – I just don’t want . . .”

“Archie . . .” Remorse flooded Horatio’s heart when Archie could not finish. Perhaps he had been too forceful, too demanding, though he had not wanted much, only to feel Archie against him, to take and give what comfort he could in this dreary mess in which they had found themselves. “Forgive me, Archie, I’ll –“

He moved to get up, but Archie stopped him, seizing him by the forearms. “No, no.” Archie shook his head again. “I didn’t mean that.” Warm arms wound around Horatio’s neck for proof, using their superior strength to haul him down against the pillow again.

There was nothing to do but lie still as Archie’s hands caressed his face and hair, drawing him toward his mouth again. Horatio kissed him hesitantly, unsure of what Archie wanted. It was hardly wise to ask, deserted Wardroom or no, considering the danger of what they were doing. He wished they were ashore, where they could speak, where some tender word from Archie might erase his suspicion that the touches and kisses he was receiving were not wholly in earnest.

Horatio did not dare touch in return until Archie tugged at one of his hands, pushing it toward his lap. Understanding, Horatio let his fingers play over the soft inside of Archie’s thigh, earning an open-mouthed kiss. He returned it hungrily, sliding an arm around his lover’s wide shoulders to bring Archie closer, holding him almost immobile as he pushed his tongue deep inside Archie’s mouth. His working hand moved up, fondling his lover’s sensitive balls and squeezing gently until Archie broke contact with his lips, expelling a scorching gasp against his neck.

Horatio soothed him with a kiss to his temple, the pads of his fingers tracing the underside of Archie’s half-swollen cock, teasing until it stiffened to its full hardness, weeping a trail of warm liquid onto his naked belly.

At last, Horatio wrapped his fingers around him, playing idly with Archie’s cock as though he had never held it before, pinching the wet tip, smearing the moisture over its rigid length so that his fingers could slide up and down more easily. He squeezed, gently tugged, and then carefully caressed while kissing and licking the exposed side of Archie’s neck where his face was tucked against his shoulder.

Archie groaned softly under the onslaught, but did none of his usual twisting and biting. It was almost as though Archie were not even fully awake. Yet he was marble-hard and throbbing, his release so close at hand that Horatio nuzzled his ear and whispered, “Archie, come for me.”

Body tightening at the soft command, Archie rolled his head away, burying his face in the pillow, his breathing rough but not dangerously so. Horatio bent to kiss the half-bared curve of his shoulder while his hand continued urging him toward climax, until Archie let out a tiny gasp, tensing as he came, spilling hot wetness over Horatio’s fingers.

When Archie stopped shuddering, Horatio let him go, reaching for the damp rag lying atop his seachest. He cleaned them both and then straightened Archie’s nightshirt once he lay beside him again. God, he was so blissfully warm, like a furnace. Horatio sucked in a breath, his own body burning, impatient for Archie’s attentions in return. But Archie still lay facing away from him.

“Archie . . .” Horatio shook him gingerly, not wanting to wake him if he had fallen asleep. Thankfully he had not, and slowly rolled onto his back, sighing in the darkness. Horatio’s mouth tightened worriedly at the sound. “Archie, what’s the matter?” It was unlike Archie to be so quiet, so unenthusiastic. Horatio laid a hand over his forehead; he was warm, but not alarmingly so, not enough to explain why he was so out of sorts.

“Ah, nothing,” Archie brushed him off. “Just tired.” A warm kiss scorched Horatio’s cheek, a signal that he did not want to speak of whatever it was. Horatio frowned at that, but drew Archie into the circle of his arms nonetheless, heaving him up on top of him.

He was a warm, sturdy armful, blanketing Horatio’s body with heat all the way to his toes. He rubbed his hands over Archie’s back, earning another kiss, this time to his mouth, before Archie moved out of his arms, sliding down his body with little warning. That did not matter; Horatio closed his eyes, biting his lip to keep quiet as Archie reached between his legs. He spread his knees, letting Archie crouch between them, tangling his fingers in that soft golden hair as Archie silently drew him into his mouth.

The wet caress of Archie’s lips left his body awash with near euphoria. Horatio’s fingers tightened in his hair, his muscles growing taut under that sweetly constricting mouth. The gentle suction sent his head spinning, drawing all sensation down into one throbbing epicenter between his legs, rendering the rest of him weightless and numb. Horatio threw his head back, lips parting with the uncharacteristic need to cry out how wonderful it was. He could not. Must not. It was too dangerous. His teeth sank harder into his lip, the frustration of having to keep silent intensifying the pleasure. He thrashed about, bucking his hips up once, and then once more until he finally climaxed in such a flash of ecstasy the room should have burned with white light.

For a time Horatio remained weightless, drained of strength, sweating and panting where he lay on his back. He became aware of Archie crawling up to him, leaving him tingling between his legs. Horatio did not mind the discomfort; he reached for Archie, pulling him tight against his chest, wanting nothing more than to savor these precious, tranquil moments when the troubles of the ship hung suspended. Archie seemed to feel the same, snuggling close, sliding one hand under his arm and gripping the back of his shoulder as if afraid to let go.

They stayed like that for some time, until Horatio regained awareness of the hour and reluctantly untangled himself. Sitting up in the hammock, he looked toward the door, tired, dizzy, his heart aching with the thought of leaving this place where everything was simple and certain. Archie loved him, he loved Archie – in numerous, unfathomable ways – two unconditional facts entirely at odds with the confusion and disorder aboard this ship.

A warm hand came to the back of his neck, easing the pain. Horatio closed his eyes, wanting to turn and sink into Archie’s embrace. But he could not, no more than he could cry out his pleasure; all he could do was sigh.

“It’ll be my turn on deck,” he said as though Archie did not know the routine of the ship. Yet Archie did not chide him for the mild response to his touch, only crawled closer, sliding both arms around his waist.

“You’ll be careful?” he whispered. Horatio’s body tightened with those words, but he did not dare deny that there was any danger on deck other than the storm, not with the image of that boy falling from the mast and Sawyer’s resulting fury still fresh in his mind. Instead, he cupped Archie’s chin in one hand, turning just enough to meet his mouth in a slow, thorough kiss.

Time stood still for those few tender seconds, but they were just that, a few. Horatio broke the contact though it pained him, brushing Archie’s cheek once before pulling away.

He rose from the bed with yet another sigh. “Try to sleep, Archie.” He straightened the blankets, spreading them over Archie’s shoulders once he had climbed under them. “I’ll send someone to wake you at seven bells.”

“Of course,” Archie replied, shifting to get comfortable. Horatio smoothed his hair once and then left him, taking up the pieces of his uniform and dressing silently in the dark.

**

The storm lingered into the next afternoon, leaving the sky a murky, ill- tempered gray, reflecting the mood of Renown’s crew as they trudged back and forth over the soggy deck. The mood of her officers was little better, kept out in the dreary cold with orders to determine whether the rigging was in need of repairs after the beating Renown had taken last night.

Watching from the quarterdeck, Horatio kept his oilcloth wrapped tightly about him, trying to display an unaffected face as he too was lashed by the violent wind and spattered with icy droplets. He knew why Sawyer had ordered the inspection; Renown had endured the worst weather during the middle watch, his watch, and the Captain was only looking for another opportunity to dress him down.

Despite himself, the thought made him glance at Archie. Renown’s Fourth Lieutenant stood under cover, a few feet from the wheel, hands buried deep in his pockets. He seemed to be shivering, though he had not once complained about the weather. In fact, Archie had been unusually quiet this morning, odd when Horatio awaited a full diatribe on the injustice of their being out in the rain while Sawyer remained cozy in his cabin. But perhaps Archie was simply too relieved to have the Captain out of their hair for the time being to gripe.

With a sigh, Horatio transferred his attention to the maintop, where the Second Lieutenant stood testing the stays, too far away for Horatio to read his expression. It was doubtlessly no coincidence that Sawyer had set this task while Buckland was off-duty, leaving Bush the senior officer on deck – no ally of his or Archie’s. Whether Sawyer’s favoritism was enough to secure Bush’s collusion in this quest to malign him remained to be seen.

Horatio paused to consider the punishment for failing to report any vital damage sustained during his watch. Sawyer would likely choose the harshest option at his disposal. That would mean death, hanging from the yardarm for endangering the ship. Horatio’s stomach tightened, his eyes flicking to Archie again. You’ll be careful? Archie’s fretful question floated back from the previous night. Horatio frowned; he had been so certain all was in order when he had turned the deck over to Archie for the morning watch, but now his nerves refused to be settled.

After a minor eternity, Bush climbed down from the top. Horatio noticed with some relief that the lieutenant gave no orders for adjustments to be made, only nodded to himself as he headed aft for the quarterdeck.

Horatio’s frown remained in place as he watched the man approach. He had never considered himself particularly adept at reading people, but there was something about the senior lieutenant that did not sit well with him. Bush clearly had no grasp of the situation aboard Renown, and seemed to blame her officers for the ill-disciplined state of the ship, but to call him sycophantic and slow-witted would be unfair, too like the vicious labels Archie was so free with of late; the man had only been aboard a week, after all. Still, there was something indefinable about him, something that seemed to bring he and Archie into tacit agreement that Bush must be watched.

“We’re lucky she’s a big ship,” Bush was saying as he strode across the deck, shaking the rain from his hat, “or she might have ended up crippled in the harbor with no chance of seeing Santo Domingo at all.”

Pushing his musings aside, Horatio studied him for a moment. So Bush was eager to be about their mission? He exchanged a dubious glance with Archie, who rolled his eyes, but thank God said nothing.

“Indeed, sir,” Horatio finally nodded. What else could he say? The lot of them should be honored to fight under Captain Sawyer’s command. It would not be prudent to mention that the crew had not had a gunnery drill in days, and that it was doubtful they could hold their own even against so indolent an enemy as the Spanish.

“For my part, I’m glad to still have solid earth so close at hand, “ Archie spoke up suddenly, making no effort to hide his disdain. “There are times when no amount of timbre and cannon can protect one from the volatile will of the powers that be. Look at the clouds, Mr. Bush.” He cocked his head to indicate the sky, where the horizon was indeed darkening. “They foretell disaster. If you ask me we ought to –“

Bush did not bother to follow Archie’s gaze. “I didn’t ask you, Mr. Kennedy,” the Second Lieutenant cut him off sharply.

Horatio’s fingers tightened on the quarterdeck rail. He shot a warning glance at Archie that he hoped Bush did not see. Bush was apparently not so slow- witted after all if he had gleaned the implication behind Archie’s words, and if he was so quick to grow indignant at the warning then remarking further on the subject would be unwise, given the chance that Bush would report such remarks back to Sawyer. Horatio’s stomach knotted all over again at the thought of the Captain turning his suspicions upon Archie.

But even the threat of Sawyer’s wrath was not enough to curb Archie’s infuriating need to have the last word. “Then perhaps there’s something to be said for your judgment,” he huffed, tilting his head to the opposite angle and staring down his small nose at the Second Lieutenant.

Damn it. Horatio gritted his teeth. How could Archie be so reckless as to insult a senior officer? Horatio gripped the rail with more force, fighting the urge to drag Archie below and keep him there until he learned to watch his tongue.

All danger aside, the remark was surprising; it was unlike Archie to be arrogant – or even angry – but Bush’s disregard seemed to have struck a nerve. Bush, on the other hand, seemed equally nettled. “I was under the impression you were an officer, Mr. Kennedy, not an oracle,” he answered back just as flippantly.

Archie only smirked at that, and seeing that thinly veiled warnings would get him nowhere, smoothly changed tactics. “Mr. Bush, I was simply advising that it would behoove us to prepare for harsh weather. The safety of this ship is every man’s responsibility, Mr. Bush.“

Bush narrowed his eyes, exasperated with Archie’s airs. “And your responsibility is to confine yourself to following orders, Mr. Kennedy.”

They continued arguing, Archie’s voice growing saucier by the minute while Bush’s rebuffs grew lower and rougher, angrier. Horatio stood frozen all the while, his gaze trained on the deck below, his palms growing sticky against the wood, fearing Bush would lose his patience and call for Sawyer at any moment.

But Horatio made an effort to swallow down his fears, studying the maindeck in earnest, where every now and then one of the hands would gesture toward the quarterdeck. Horatio frowned; discipline aboard this ship was fragile enough already without her officers forgetting the dignity of their station and quarreling in full view. The state of the ship became unimportant however when a growl from Bush grated in his ears.

“Damn it. Kennedy!” Horatio whipped around. Bush had a grip on Archie’s arm, hauling him back toward the bulkhead. “I’d toss you over my knee and teach you a firm lesson in subordination if the Captain permitted it!”

Horatio went still. Bush may be within his rights to rebuke Archie for his impertinence, but this bordered on a threat. His gaze darted to Archie’s face, hardened in defiance, all but his eyes, wide with shock at Bush’s close proximity, at the dangerous harshness of his voice. Horatio had not seen that blank, anxious look for nearly a decade, and the mere thought of what had put it there was enough to infuriate Horatio into forgetting his own sense of caution.

Clearing his throat, he planted himself between Archie and the Second Lieutenant. “It might be advisable, Mr. Bush, to note that an ill fate often awaits a man who abuses his authority.”

Bush blinked, as if surprised to find that he and Archie were not alone. His brows wrinkled instantly, no doubt berating himself for losing his temper where all could hear. Horatio looked away from him, turning his attention to Archie. Those blue eyes were on him, dark with anger, burning with a warning Horatio did not understand. Archie had never looked at him with such anger before; in truth, it left him ill inside.

But Horatio wanted him away from Bush and seized Archie by the forearm. “Come, Archie,” he tugged at his friend’s sleeve. He could offer Archie no more than a soothing word now, but later – no matter how furious he was with Bush – he knew he would have to speak with Archie about his impudent ways.

Seeming to read the thought, Archie grew angrier, shaking off Horatio’s hand and stalking toward the hatchway. Horatio watched him disappear below with a grim face, itching to follow after him. He nearly sighed in relief when a nod from Bush permitted him to do so.

“Archie . . .” Horatio called when they reached the bottom of the ladder. His friend was less than a yard ahead, tense and bristling like a cat. “Archie . . .”

Damn it. Horatio clenched his fingers. It was far from the first time he had seen Archie unresponsive, true, but this was no terrified trance – Archie radiated fury, almost violence, clamping down on old fears he would rather die than reveal – but if he had something to vent, something to ask of him, then surely Archie knew he could turn to him and say it here.

No, not here, Horatio realized, glancing at the Sailing Master and the Purser as they passed. Anything out of Archie’s mouth now was likely to be grounds for hanging, and what Horatio had to say in return would only enrage him further. They needed someplace private; he would never use the excuse of his senior rank to chastise Archie publicly.

“Archie . . .” Horatio caught his friend’s arm, leading him across the Wardroom into their cabin. Archie did not speak, even after Horatio shut the door, but stood with his back to him, staring at the cot as if he wanted to burrow into it and refused to let himself, or perhaps remembering a time when he had done such a thing and loathing himself and Horatio for sharing in the memory.

Whatever the case, the ghosts of those older days softened Horatio’s heart. “Archie, it’s all right,” he said gently. The violence behind Bush’s threat might be deserving of alarm and outrage, but it was highly unlikely anything would come of it, not while he was here at least.

But once again, Archie did not hear him; he stood frozen, seething. Horatio grimaced, mindful of the deck above and Sawyer, of what Bush might be thinking now. He stepped closer, trying to keep his voice even, free of the anxiety that would only worsen Archie’s distress.

“We have to go back on deck,” he said. ”An officer can’t abandon his duties, Archie.”

“Go back on deck, then.”

The icy reply made Horatio grit his teeth, All at once it was as though a wall had risen up between them. They could not afford barriers, not when rationalizing Archie’s fears was the only way to ensure his safety.

“Archie . . . “ Horatio placed his hands on his friend’s shoulders. Archie jerked slightly at the touch, no more than an involuntary reflex. Still, it stung to be spurned so. Horatio frowned, but forced himself to remain calm. “Archie, we’ll talk later. It’s too dangerous now.”

He knew he did not mean talk in the literal sense – the ship’s walls were too thin for that – and imagined melting the tension between them lying together in the darkness, kissing and touching softly, but Archie took him at his word.

“Then you do see.” He let out a breath. The anger in him did not quite ease, only gave way to a fettered hopelessness. His shoulders sagged and he simply seemed fed up.

“See what?” Horatio could not bite back his irritation. Damn it, there was no need to carry on this way; this was not the time. Their place now was on the quarterdeck. Archie knew he would never allow Bush to harm him. What more was there to say?

But Archie was waiting, and he had hurt Archie in some way, although how remained a mystery. Horatio sighed; hurting Archie was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Archie,” he tried again, taking him gently by the forearms and attempting to turn him around. A quick embrace would be harmless, and there was nothing between them that could not be soothed with a touch. But once again Archie shook off his hands, glaring a warning as he stepped back. Horatio flung his hands up in exasperation. “Archie, damn it, what’s the matter with you? Last night –“

He stopped; that was far too dangerous. But up until that moment he had not realized the memory of Archie lying unresponsive in his arms was foremost in his mind, and had been all morning, grating and hurtful.

Archie raised his head and their eyes met, but Horatio found no pity in his lover’s cold blue gaze. “I didn’t fancy being your cabin boy, nor am I your damsel in distress.”

The underlying bitterness of the last bit was too much. Horatio did not allow himself to speculate on what Archie meant by that remark, nor make any accusations of his own. There was simply no contending with Archie in these moods.

“Very well, Mr. Kennedy,” Horatio sighed. Ordering him to return on deck was only likely to make Archie more determined to do the opposite. Archie knew his duty as well as any officer aboard this ship. If he left Archie alone now he would come to see reason on his own.

Hoping as much, Horatio stalked out of their cabin.

The sound of footsteps stopped him halfway up the ladder. Horatio turned, expecting to find a calmer Archie following after him. But Archie was not looking in his direction, his mouth twisted and his face pale as he moved into the Wardroom, one hand pressed to his middle.

“Archie,” Horatio hastened toward him, his own stomach turning in sympathy when it became clear what was wrong. He snatched a handkerchief from inside his coat, watching in alarm as Archie pressed it to his mouth with both hands, wrenching forward and heaving up his breakfast into the linen.

“Sir?” Horatio glanced away from Archie to see Midshipman Wellard outside the door. The boy appeared as concerned as he, dark eyes wide at the sight of Archie retching miserably.

Realizing they were no longer alone, Archie straightened, wiping his mouth, but his forehead was still pinched and his lids drooped, dizzy on his feet. Horatio steadied him with an arm around his waist, laying his free hand against Archie’s cheek. He was burning. No wonder he was out of his wits. Damn. Horatio swung his gaze to Wellard.

“Get Doctor Clive.”

Horatio took the handkerchief from Archie’s hand once Wellard scurried away, tossing it into a bucket. “Archie, I didn’t realize . . .” He trailed off when it became clear what a fool he sounded. How could he not have realized? He had been pressed right against him last night. Why did Archie not stop. . .? Get off me. Horatio bit his lip at the memory of Archie struggling beneath him. How could he let himself be so caught up in his own pleasure that could not see he was forcing himself on him?

And now Archie was sick. Well, tending him was the best he could do for the moment. “Come, Archie, lie down.” Horatio started to steer him toward their cabin.

Twisting free of his hold, Archie fixed him with such a hard stare Horatio wondered if he had made Archie ill and not his breakfast. “Let go of me,” he straightened, stepping out of reach. With his cheeks aflame and his eyes wild, he appeared almost like a man possessed, an entirely different creature than the lover wont to sink complacently in his arms.

Horatio swallowed a lump in his throat. “Archie . . .”

“What is the meaning of this, Mr. Hornblower?”

That ever-angry voice snapped him back to his senses. Captain Sawyer stood scowling on the doorway, Clive at his heels and little Wellard lingering a fathom behind. Horatio swallowed again, dread washing him, but he did his best to appear reasonable.

“Sir, Lieutenant Kennedy is ill. I advised him to lie quiet.”

Sawyer narrowed his eyes. “You’re a doctor now, Mr. Hornblower? First a lawyer, then a politician and now a surgeon; when are we to see the end of your vast credentials, sir?”

Dread gave way to irritation. He had sent for Clive, and failed to see how helping his friend to bed was any great breech of authority. True, he had left the deck, but Bush had allowed it. Mentioning Bush would only lead the Second Lieutenant to repeating he and Archie’s argument, however, and he had no wish to endanger Archie. Horatio frowned; Pellew would never have faulted him for aiding a fellow officer, but Pellew was not here.

“The important matter at hand, sir, is to see that Lieutenant Kennedy is properly –”

“I will be the judge of what is important on my ship, Mr. Hornblower,” the Captain barked and then transferred his attention to Archie. “Mr. Kennedy, why did you not report directly to Clive? Or are you also unclear who the doctor is aboard this ship?”

Still as stone, Archie paused to study the man. Horatio held his breath all the while, sensing Archie’s wariness and Sawyer’s impatience for an answer. If Archie were to shift the blame on him it would be less than he deserved; Archie should not risk Sawyer’s wrath to shield him after what he had done last night. But Archie was evidently not in a mood to contend with either of them.

“I was on my way to do so, sir,” he answered quietly.

The statement was too simple for Sawyer to find fault with, and Horatio exhaled when he turned away from Archie. Relief came too soon, however; the Captain went back to glaring smugly at him, as though Archie had somehow proven his point.

“There, Mr. Hornblower. Now get back on deck. And God help you if I find a halyard out of place after last night.”

Horatio’s skin prickled at the grim reminder, but he knew he had no choice but to follow Sawyer above. He brushed past Clive, who reeked of rum and worse, and that made Horatio even angrier; if any transgression warranted reproach aboard this ship it was Clive’s drunkenness on duty. Pellew would have flogged any hand for the same.

Saying as much would only enrage Sawyer further and would be no help to Archie in the least. Resigned to that, Horatio risked one last glance at his friend and then set his features as he ascended the ladder, already hearing Sawyer’s sharp demand for Bush to report.

It was not until he heard the answering “all’s well, sir” that his heart stopped hammering.

**

Later that night, Renown creaked in protest as high waves slapped against her sides, tossing her this way and that over the rolling water. The wind howled through the rigging like a great mad ghost, shaking the sails, rattling the lines while the rain poured down, torrent after torrent, like an icy, rushing waterfall.

Horatio stood on the quarterdeck, soaked to his skin, arms wrapped about his chest in a futile effort to combat his shivering. He turned to Buckland, standing a few feet from him under what scant shelter the whipping wind would allow. The First Lieutenant was faring no better than he, lifting the bicorn from his head and adding to the puddle at his feet where his clothes were dripping steadily.

“We’ve taken all the sail off her that we dare,” Buckland called out to him, barely audible over the wind and rain. “We have no choice but to wait this out.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” Horatio touched his hat in case Buckland could not hear him. He glanced up at the sails, reefed an hour ago at Bush’s request, grateful to have any decision where they were concerned out of his hands; the Captain was still in his cabin again, asleep this time, but his watchdog, Hobbs, was not far away on the deck below, waiting to report any usurpation of his master’s authority. Damn it, who ever heard of a Captain sleeping through a violent storm?

A clamor from the hatchway stole Horatio’s attention from the gunner. He turned to see Lieutenant Bush climbing up the ladder, not as drenched as he and Buckland but still thoroughly wet. “Where the Devil is Mr. Kennedy?” the Second Lieutenant growled, his gaze sweeping angrily across the dreary deck. “I could use help below. These men don’t know how to move.”

Knowing the question was directed at him, Horatio swallowed. “In bed, sir. Clive’s orders!” he shouted back, watching Bush’s eyes narrow with doubt.

Horatio sighed; he might not have believed it either had he not witnessed that scene in the Wardroom that morning, or heard him sniffling in the hammock when he had gone to check on him not two hours ago – when Archie had pretended to be asleep. Horatio frowned, trying to push away the hurt for now.

Bush disappeared below, followed by Midshipman Wellard, and Horatio did not see either of them again for the remainder of the first watch. The rain thankfully lessened during that hour, stopping altogether by the time the bell rang midnight. With the weather calm, Buckland took the opportunity to snatch another four hours of rest, turning the deck over to Bush who appeared at last at the top of the hatchway again.

The two senior lieutenants exchanged a few words while Horatio busied himself with shaking what water he could from his coat and hat. He was still hopelessly soaked, quaking with cold, and admittedly sullen – with no hope that Archie’s warm hands would chase away the chill when his watch was done. But there was little use in giving in to the discomforts of the flesh with his duty at hand.

After Buckland made his exit, Bush came to join him at the rail. The Second Lieutenant cast a brief, discontented glance up at the sky and then shook his head. “It might not have taken so long to secure everything below had we prepared earlier.”

Horatio narrowed his eyes, unable to find the statement as casually conversational as Bush might wish. In truth, he found it grating. “Indeed, sir. If we had listened to Mr. Kennedy –“

“It was Sawyer’s place to give the order, not Mr. Kennedy’s,” Bush cut in, but to Horatio’s surprise, there was no rebuke in his voice. He seemed only to be making an observation, and one that did not please. Perhaps the Second Lieutenant was beginning to see the truth of how matters stood on this ship after all.

“Of course,” Horatio agreed with a curt nod. He did not dare argue that Archie had been right – the safety of the ship was every man’s responsibility and no captain should put himself above accepting the advice of his officers – or point out that Sawyer had no trouble leaving his cabin when it came time to chasten him for imagined usurpation. Disapproving of Sawyer’s actions for one night did not make Bush an ally.

For whatever reason, Bush seemed to think it best to change the subject. “Are you standing watch for Mr. Kennedy, then?” His tone was perfectly amicable, but the question still made Horatio uneasy, unsure of where it led.

“Yes, sir. He’s come down with a fever. Doctor Clive advises he should rest.”

Bush considered this with a slight tightening of his mouth. “I hope he isn’t indisposed for long, Mr. Hornblower. With our hands full as it is, a fragile officer does the ship little good.”

Fragile? Horatio narrowed his eyes. Archie was anything but fragile, and if Bush meant to suggest that Archie was purposefully shirking his duties then he was soundly mistaken.

“He has merely fallen ill, Mr. Bush,” Horatio protested as firmly as he dared. “It happens to the best of us – especially in this weather.” He added that sourly, fully expecting to wake up sick as a dog on the morrow after a night in this rain.

The Second Lieutenant seemed to accept this, yet still appeared ponderous. “Do you think his illness is to blame for his behavior of late?”

The question was hushed, almost conspiratorial, as if he were speaking of the Captain and not a junior lieutenant. It was also infuriating and unwarranted. Archie may be insolent, but he had nothing but the best interests of the ship at heart. Surely even Bush could see that. More galling, however, was the idea that Bush expected him to stand here and gossip idly about his closest friend.

“Sir . . .?” Horatio began, seeking to communicate that Bush had overstepped himself without committing any open disrespect himself.

But Bush would not be detoured; he leaned closer, and in a tone of genuine bafflement said, “Just this afternoon I picked up a trouser button he’d dropped. He was unusually hostile when I offered to sew it on.”

Of course Archie would be hostile, Horatio wanted to snap. How could Bush disregard Archie in public and then expect him to be grateful for his assistance in private, especially after frightening him that very afternoon? Anger bubbled inside Horatio at the thought of anyone being so callous toward his friend.

“Perhaps he misunderstood your intentions, sir,” he answered through gritted teeth. Perhaps Bush was unaware of his own intentions in seeking to lay his hands so familiarly upon Archie’s person. Horatio grimaced at the thought. But at the very least, Archie’s hostility was prudent for their sake. A man was expected to be repulsed by indecent advances from another man. The last thing they needed was for Bush to be suspicious of the nature of their relationship as well.

Oblivious to his speculations, Bush went on. “Perhaps,” he agreed fairly enough, “but that kind of behavior toward a superior is only likely to see him hanged, Mr. Hornblower.”

Horatio shivered at the word. Was this a threat that Archie should comply with him? No, that was unfair. Bush may be a stern officer who believed in strict loyalty toward his Captain, but that did not warrant taking him for a blackmailing pervert.

“He does have his pride, sir,” Horatio conceded, but did not elaborate. Archie would never stand to be browbeaten, not anymore, to Hell with the consequences. He would quarrel with Bush every step of the way out of sheer stubbornness if the two of them did not seek truce via some common ground. What that ground could be was anyone’s guess.

“And a damned reckless tongue,“ Bush added under his breath, clearly still nettled by the barbs he and Archie had traded this past week. “I suggest you speak with him,” he said in a firmer voice, very much like an order.

It was an order, Horatio realized, and shook his head. “I’ve tried, sir, but . . .” He stopped himself, unable to forget the incident in their cabin this morning. Perhaps Bush might be more forgiving if he came to understand that Archie did not act out of arrogance, but out of distress. ”Mr. Kennedy has undergone experiences that leave him sensitive to what he perceives to be bullying; he was a prisoner of war, sir.” That might work; captivity was a hardship reputed for leaving a lasting shadow over a man’s mind.

But any sympathy Bush might have expressed was lost to the sound of Sawyer’s cabin door creaking open. Horatio straightened, his blood tingling anxiously as he quickly surveyed the deck, steeling himself for whatever tirade or punishment the Captain might have for him despite the fact that all was in order. But to his relief, the emerging figure was not Sawyer, only Clive, crossing over to the hatchway and making his way below.

Heaving a sigh, Horatio turned back to Bush, whose thoughts had not strayed from the subject of Archie.

“The Navy is no place for sensitivity, Mr. Hornblower,” Bush warned, but not unkindly. “What did he do before?”

Finding that an easy enough question to answer, Horatio shook his head ruefully. “Spent his time in London, sir, at the theatre. An activity that met with his father’s disapproval.” And his own, though Horatio could not say that. It rankled to think on the lovers Archie might have known before, particularly the men.

“His father chose an unlikely occupation for him,” Bush observed dryly, drawing Horatio from that thought. “I’m afraid I find him better suited to the playhouse.”

That was insulting; Archie was no soft city man. But perhaps it was Horatio’s own fault if Bush had gained that opinion. Perhaps mentioning prison was a mistake, leading Bush to believe Archie had been captured due to incompetence or disobedience. Horatio could not detail the truth of course, but made a firm effort to amend himself nonetheless and make his point with unmistakable clarity.

“Sir, Mr. Kennedy is both a loyal friend and a competent officer. He’s saved my life on more than one occasion. Renown could not wish for a braver or more trustworthy man.”

Yet even the awkward fervor in his voice did not seem to dispel Bush’s doubts. That did not matter; Bush’s view would change once he witnessed Archie’s conduct under fire; he would see the Spartan beneath the puckish exterior and he would respect him then. But for now, Bush only shook his head.

“I hope you’re right, Mr. Hornblower.” He shrugged. “It seems we have an interesting course ahead of us.” Horatio frowned at yet another ominous warning, but found he could do little else but nod.

**

Horatio was still shivering by the time he went below that night, eager for his bed – cold as he would find it. He crossed into the Wardroom and was surprised to find Clive, stepping out of his and Archie’s quarters, adjusting his wig. Odd that the doctor would visit Archie twice in the space of a watch, yet nothing about this ship was orderly.

Instantly, Horatio recalled his conversation with William Bush, his impression of Archie as a weak, even mutinous officer feigning illness in an effort to avoid his duties. What if Bush had voiced these opinions to Sawyer and Clive was here to decide the matter? Accusing a fellow officer of being unfit for duty was a serious charge, yet Bush had not indicated any such intention, only frustration with Archie’s impertinence. Horatio grimaced, minutely ashamed for harboring ill thoughts of the man, but the atmosphere of this ship made it difficult to determine which suspicions were dishonorable and which were within reason.

Retribution from Bush was not even the greatest of his fears. What if Clive was here because Archie’s illness had grown worse? Many a man had perished of fever. Horatio’s stomach knotted with quiet, unbearable panic, confronted with a searing, selfish thought. What would he do on this ship without Archie?

“How is he, Doctor Clive?” Horatio approached the older man before that fear could get the better of him, loathing that Archie’s health should rest in the hands of another of Sawyer’s minions, and a drunkard at that. His nose wrinkled at the sour scent of wine in the air.

“He’s well enough, Mr. Hornblower,” Clive made another unnecessary adjustment to his wig. “He should resume his duties within the next day or so. I’ll order him soup. See that he eats it.”

Horatio breathed a sigh of relief that neither Archie’s health nor his neck seemed be in danger. “Of course, sir,” he promised with a nod. The doctor took him at his word, moving past him out of the Wardroom toward the sickbay below.

With Bush and Buckland up on deck, the Wardroom was again deserted, providing an ample opportunity for the conversation Horatio knew he must have with his friend, but he did not enter their cabin quite yet. He sat down on the bench instead, his mind running over the conversation of the previous night, haunted by the gravity in Archie’s eyes as his friend had tried to warn him of impending disaster.

Last night, Horatio had found Archie’s talk untimely and imprudent, dangerous. But after Sawyer’s absence on deck tonight, the poor preparation of the ship, and the confrontation this morning, he began to understand what had prompted Archie to speak. Renown would soon set course for Santo Domingo, their first commission under Sawyer’s command, and Archie believed him unfit for the task. He had been suggesting they take action before it was too late.

Action. Horatio shuddered at the thought. What could he do? Archie’s accusation was serious and Bush at least was not on their side. Yet after several nights under harsh weather, Horatio was shamefully inclined to agree with Archie. If Sawyer could scarcely show his face during a natural disaster, what would he do in an engagement?

He sighed; it was all a tangled mess. Bush believed Archie unfit and Archie believed the same of Sawyer. No wonder they were at odds. Duty dictated that he instruct his friend – order if need be – to treat the senior lieutenant, and their captain, with proper respect and deference, but how could he in good conscience fault Archie for Bush’s failure to see the truth?

The loblolly boy’s clamoring diverted him from his musings. Horatio rose from the bench, holding out his hands for the tray the boy was carrying. “I’ll take that,” he offered perhaps too eagerly, but soup and water were easier to bring a lover than apologies.

“Aye, sir,” the boy scampered off with a smart salute, leaving Horatio alone. He glanced down at the tray once and, deciding he had wasted enough time already, moved into he and Archie’s cabin.

The lantern was lit, but Archie was not reading – a thing odd in itself. He sniffled once under the blankets, drawn up to his chin, but said nothing as Horatio closed the door behind him. Horatio frowned, not knowing what exactly he expected Archie to say, only that the palpable tension between them left his heart heavy. These few hours alone had clearly done nothing for Archie’s temper; in fact, the hard set of Archie’s mouth indicated that his anger had deepened.

What had he done to deserve this silence and disdain? Horatio wanted to ask, but had the feeling that would be foolish. He shook his head and stepped around Archie’s cot, sitting down on his own hammock not six inches from his friend, resting the tray across his knees.

“How are you, Archie?” he asked quietly, taking up the spoon and stirring through the beef and anchovy broth. Only silence answered him, and eager to fill it, Horatio went on, “They’ve sent you soup. Here, sit up. I’ll –”

Once again, his offer of assistance was met with a withering glare. Horatio glanced down at the food, and then back at Archie’s stubborn countenance. Memories of Spain resurfaced, of that dreadful night when he could not get so much as a spoonful of oatmeal down Archie’s throat without argument. Surely Archie would not terrify him like that again.

Archie must have read his thoughts, for his expression grew even more indignant. How he despised any reminder of those helpless times. “I can feed myself,” he retorted, sitting up and taking the tray.

Horatio did not protest; at least Archie was willing to eat. And eat he did, discontently, as though the food had a foul taste, keeping his profile to him. Horatio merely sat watching, his hands in his lap, hating that they found themselves so distant at a time like this. He wanted to talk, about anything really – so long as they could find comfort in one another’s company again and forget this floating hell. A part of him warned that he was being foolish, that Archie would come around soon enough, that getting out of his wet clothes was more important at the moment.

At last Archie set the tray down on the floor. He remained sitting up, wiping at his nose with a handkerchief, the blankets pooled around his waist. The set of his shoulders was hostile and tense and he still would not look at him, but after several strenuous moments he grudgingly ground out, “You had no right to discuss me with Mr. Bush.”

Not mistaking the hurt in Archie’s voice, Horatio shifted his hands, curling his fingers nervously into the bedclothes. “Archie, I could hardly avoid answering his questions. He’s our superior officer after all.” He tried to sound reasonable, but in truth his conviction rang hollow. Archie’s anger frightened him; he simply could not bear the thought of Archie hating him, of matters growing any worse. Horatio sighed. Last night he had been so certain of Archie’s love, but nothing was certain anymore. Not even the warmth of Archie’s smile could be taken for granted here.

Archie took no pity on him, and why should he? Perhaps if he had kept his filthy urges to himself . . . . “And I suppose you couldn’t avoid volunteering information either?” His tone was cold and mocking.

Horatio’s fingers clawed at the linen. Why did Archie have to put on airs? Small wonder Bush could not abide him. But he was not Bush. Had they not known each other long enough to speak plainly in private? “Archie, what – ?”

“Prison, Horatio. Clive was full of questions.”

Prison, the word came sharp, and Archie’s voice still bore that wounded note. Horatio pressed his lips together, lowering his head, recalling that moment on deck when Clive had moved past. Fool, he upbraided himself; how could he speak so carelessly and subject Archie to an uncomfortable interview as a result?

“Archie, forgive me.” It was an insubstantial thing to say, but Horatio could not think of anything else. He had meant no harm, and after another sigh tried to tell Archie as much. “I thought it best Mr. Bush understand you’re not the upstart he believes you to be. I did not intend for Clive to overhear.”

The matter of Clive seemed unimportant. Archie met his eyes at last, that blue gaze blazing in the lantern light. “You thought it best?” he mimicked with such quiet, restrained anger that Horatio’s heart bucked nervously. “I didn’t confide in you lightly

At a loss, Horatio bit into his lip. There seemed no way to explain, none that Archie would allow. The betrayal in his lover’s eyes was far too livid for Horatio to do anything but stare back at him. Anger and hurt tangled inside his chest at the unspoken accusation that he had shared more with William Bush than the simple knowledge that Archie had been a prisoner of war. How could Archie even think he would betray his confidence in that way? Damn this ship; were even the most precious alliances doomed to be reduced to suspicions and accusations here? He could not let that happen; Archie meant too much to him.

He shifted over to Archie’s cot, only to be met with a warning glower. That was damning, from the man who on any other night would have at least helped him out of his wet clothes, but Horatio refused to be daunted. He sat behind his friend, resting his hands on his shoulders, frowning at the tense hard muscle beneath the linen of his nightshirt. “Archie,” he pleaded in a gentler voice, trying to ignore how still he was, how unresponsive, “there’s so little to be certain of here. I fear I shall go mad if we cannot trust each other at least.”

Archie blinked at that, his tongue sweeping over his lips, but remained otherwise frozen, his head bent, his hands stubbornly gripping the blankets. Letting out a breath, Horatio chanced to reach out in his frustration – he was poor with words but perhaps his hands might better avail him – sliding an arm around Archie’s shoulders and drawing him to his chest. Archie struggled, attempting to push him away, but Horatio caught his wrist, holding onto him firmly.

“Relax, or you’ll be sick again,” he warned with no small amount of irritation. A fierce wrinkling of Archie’s nose was all he received for answer. Horatio scowled in return, but rubbed a hand down Archie’s back nonetheless. “Relax,” he coaxed more gently, pressing him closer. His heart was beating too fast, his breathing labored.

For a long time Archie said nothing, but acquiesced to his embrace at least. For that, Horatio did not quite mind the silence, content to rest his chin against the top of Archie’s golden head, letting the warmth of him seep through the layers and layers of sodden cloth, almost weeping with relief when the heat finally melted the ice that had settled over his bones. Outside, the wind gained force, coupled with the heavy rush of rain again. Archie heard it too, angling his head up to look at him.

“Is Bush on deck?” he asked in a tight, hoarse voice that could scarcely be called amicable, but at least he was talking. Horatio grudgingly nodded, and Archie declared, “Serves him right.”

“Archie . . .” came the automatic rebuke, but Horatio quickly clamped his mouth shut against any further chiding. If Archie wanted to be angry than let him; there was no one around to hear.

Forgetting Bush, Archie dropped his head onto Horatio’s shoulder again, soft red-gold hair tickling his jaw. He did not seem angry anymore, only exhausted. “We’re all going to die,” he muttered in a low, pained voice, another warning, another prophecy.

Horatio’s heart clenched, wanting to say no, that he would not allow it, wanting to reason that every mission carried its risks, but knew that Archie would not accept either of those answers. He gritted his teeth, there was nothing he hated more than these grim moments when neither logic nor affection could comfort Archie.

“God help us,” the hollow, forlorn prayer was all that came out, as useless as anything. He wrapped his arms tighter around Archie in the unsteady cot, the only solid thing to cling to while everything else spun out of control.

~

They found themselves in Portsmouth five days later, charged with collecting the final supplies before Renown set course for the Indies, and after they made their rounds in the dockyard, Horatio found himself alone.

Staring down at the soaked Portsmouth street, he wondered for the hundredth time if Archie really had gone to the bookseller’s shop. The man had been carrying on so mercurially of late that his actions had become difficult to read.

With a sigh, Horatio turned away from the window, surveying their rented room. A lieutenant’s pay afforded better than the accommodations they had grown used to over the years – certainly better than their cramped quarters aboard Renown – but Archie had been in and out of here so fast Horatio doubted his friend had noticed the improvement. Any other time, Archie would have torn at his clothes the instant they had latched the door, aroused by the prospect of a large, soft bed. That had all been before that damned incident with William Bush, of course.

Horatio shrugged out of his jacket and sank into a chair. He was certain, after thinking it through, that Bush had not meant anything indecent, therefore regretted any offense he may have caused the Second Lieutenant by assuming such filthy things of him. The man simply had a rough manner, and the atmosphere of the ship had them all at their wits’ end, especially Archie, who should have held his damned tongue in the first place.

Bush had not appeared so harmless at the time, of course, and stepping between he and Archie had seemed the proper course of action. The fierce rage in Archie’s blue eyes still haunted him, leaving Horatio certain his friend hated him for knowing the truth of Jack Simpson and the reason Bush’s threat left him still with horror.

Archie had been a trifle less prickly of late – at least he answered when spoken to now. But it was still terribly unlike Archie to put books before pleasure, assuming, of course, that he had truly gone to the bookshop and was not sulking in a tavern with Midshipman Wellard, glad to be away from him. In any case, Archie’s absence suggested that their two days ashore would be far from relaxing.

A knock at the door interrupted his worries. Horatio rose, ready to snap at the fat innkeeper to leave him be. He stopped short once he pulled open the door, confronted with a rain-drizzled Archie, shivering and bundled in his cloak.

“No books?” Horatio secured the door and watched Archie drape his damp cloak across the back of another chair.

With a sigh, Archie set his hat down on the table. “No. It seems the world no longer makes room for such things, filled with uncultured fools as it is – present company excluded, of course.” He smirked and turned. “This is for you.”

Horatio went still, and of all things, found his hand curled around the stem of a deep red rose. He bent, taking in the scent of the sweet-smelling petals, before considering how strange it was for one man to give flowers to another. “Archie, I –“ He swallowed once, unsure of what to say. He had expected another quarrel, or a night of silence, but not this.

“Just take it, Horatio.” Archie shook his head impatiently. “I wanted to give you something. One needs to remember that it is summer after all.”

The fact was indeed difficult to remember in this weather, and it was not the first time Archie had brought him a silly gift. Nevertheless, Horatio could not keep himself from staring stupidly as Archie slipped out of his shoes and trudged over to the bed, flopping onto his back with a heavy sigh.

His blood heated at the sight of Archie against the pillows, knowing all the while that Archie had wound him around his finger with that flower and was weaving a stronger spell even now. What else could this be but a ploy – the coy aversion of those blue eyes, the angle of Archie’s head, spilling his golden hair just so? By rights Horatio should have been vexed to be manipulated in this way, but he glanced down at the rose in his hand again, affection swelling in his heart, knowing better than to spurn a peace offering.

Crossing over to the bed, Horatio sank to his knees. Archie’s lids fluttered, but his friend did not turn to him. Hardly surprised, Horatio grimaced, laying Archie’s gift across his knees.

“Well don’t fall asleep before I can thank you, Archie.” Clearly, Archie had no intention of falling asleep, but it seemed wiser to play along. The faint smile from his friend proved him correct, betraying whatever mischievous thought flitted through Archie’s mind at the idea of being so close in a private room with a soft steady bed. Both things were such rare commodities that even Archie could not squander this opportunity brooding.

But Archie’s smile faded just as quickly as it appeared. “It’s merely a rose, Horatio.” He rolled his eyes. Horatio ignored both the words and the gesture. This foolishness had gone on long enough.

Sliding closer on his knees, he curled his fingers along Archie’s jaw, angling his face toward him. “Might I . . . offer a kiss in return?” God, why did he feel so awkward asking? True, Archie’s affectionate nature never made it necessary before, but there was a first time for everything and this was his lover of six years.

A chuckle from Archie only deepened his embarrassment, but at least the man was amused, lazily stretching out one arm to him. Horatio noted in that moment Archie’s habit of never really giving in; only growing bored with his own anger. Or perhaps in this case the tension between them existed only within Renown’s wooden walls, like a nightmare. Indeed, this place did seem otherworldly by contrast, making it easy to lean down toward that lovely pink mouth.

Archie tasted of the rain, the Portsmouth winter, and something wonderful that Horatio had never been able to define. He lost himself in that, vaguely aware of Archie’s hand clutching a fistful of his hair, of Archie’s quiet sighs as what Horatio had meant to be a gentle brush of lips ground his head rather mercilessly into the pillow. How could he help himself? He only wanted to drown in Archie’s warmth until both of them melted altogether.

When he could bear no more, Horatio pulled away, gasping for breath. Archie’s eyes were closed, a crimson flush to his cheeks that the rain had never put there. Horatio could only smile down at him, waiting for his eyes to open.

“There’s your kiss, Mr. Hornblower,” Archie declared at last, if not a tad breathlessly. The impatience in his voice was only to cover for his own sense of foolishness, Horatio knew, both because in six years they had never been at odds in this way and because Archie was at a loss over how to remedy the situation. Apologizing would be too logical, and also involved swallowing one’s pride, apparently making it out of the question for the prickly Lieutenant Kennedy.

Seeing that all was left to him, Horatio drew a deep breath. “Indeed,” he nodded in return. Then he leaned close again, his impatience returning. “Might I have more, Archie?” He pressed his lips to one side of Archie’s neck, sucking gently in the way he knew Archie liked.

With a low groan, Archie stirred a little under his mouth. Horatio lifted his head to find those blue eyes on him, bright and hungry where they had been cold and fierce only a day before. “Take what you want,” Archie whispered. The uncharacteristically passive invitation sent a stab of pleasure through Horatio’s body. He wanted all of him.

But Horatio found it prudent to exercise restraint; Archie had refused his advances twice in five days for a reason after all, and no matter Archie’s attempt to redress that now, and his own desire to put their quarrel behind them, he would be damned before he gave credence to any of those ideas Simpson had ground into Archie’s mind years ago. Pet. Cabin boy. Whore. Horatio’s lip curled in anger. He meant to take his time tonight.

He settled for loosening the knot of Archie’s stock, pushing the black fabric aside and dotting kisses along Archie’s throat while his fingers opened his jacket. Too many buttons, but Archie did not order him to hurry, as he usually did, allowing Horatio the chance to study him as he started on his waistcoat. Archie kept his eyes closed, a reassuring look of trust and relaxation in his features that said he could not be bothered with a thought for Simpson.

Thank God for that. Horatio finished with the waistcoat and then opened Archie’s shirt, revealing that broad, golden chest. Eager to touch, he ran both hands over the heaving swells of muscle, finding the nipples with his thumbs and rubbing them through the fabric.

Archie yelped, jerking upward against his hands. Encouraged, Horatio bent, nuzzling the fur in the gap of his shirt before pushing the linen aside and trapping one pink nipple between his lips.

“’Ratio . . .” His toes curled at the slurred sound of his own name. His tongue teased the silky flesh to a hard point, one hand wandering to the front of Archie’s trousers. He looked up when he found the buttons, meeting Archie’s eyes as he opened them, fingers grasping the hard shaft that sprang into his hand.

Caressing him idly, Horatio pondered which Archie might prefer, to be held close and touched as he was doing now, or. . . .

“You don’t have to, Horatio.” Archie said it calmly enough, but with an accusatory edge that broke the spell between them. After all the anger Archie had directed at him over the past week, Horatio could hardly stand Archie mistaking his consideration for reluctance now.

Taking his hand away, Horatio shook his head. A part of him was inclined to get up from the floor, go down for a drink and leave Archie this way until he came to his senses, but he could not do that, of course. Archie would be too badly hurt. Instead, he crawled closer, smoothing a hand through Archie’s hair.

“Archie, you know better than that,” he scolded gently. Without waiting for a response, Horatio punctuated his intent to please by lowering his head and capturing Archie’s mouth again.

Archie kept still at first, until Horatio nudged his tongue between his lips, coaxing his mouth open. That made Archie groan, his body arching slightly from the bed, tantalizingly hard where they rubbed together. Horatio drew back, grunting at the contact, and then began kissing him anew, several times, driven by the strong arms winding around his neck as Archie finally returned those kisses as eagerly as Horatio gave them.

But he did not want to spoil this by finishing too soon; he wanted Archie to understand certain things before they returned to Renown, and so Horatio tried to pull away. Archie did not make it easy, tightening his arms and grinding their mouths together again.

“Archie!” Horatio had to settle for pinning his wrists against the pillow. “I could be doing something far more pleasurable with my mouth if you would allow it. You’ll like it, I promise.”

With a breathless laugh, Archie loosened his arms. Horatio glared at him for effect and then shifted toward Archie’s lap, pushing the wrinkled shirt out of the way. His right hand cupped the soft weight of his lover’s balls as his head dropped between Archie’s thighs, lips fastening around the erect length of him.

A sharp gasp and then a deeper moan answered his attentions almost instantly, but that was hardly enough. He was still troubled by that night in their cabin and wanted Archie to remember this, yearn for this, the next time the ills of the ship got the better of him. His free hand circled upward, stroking broadly over Archie’s chest, feeling the labored rise and fall as he nibbled gingerly on the head of Archie’s cock, his tongue working in ways that should have debased and embarrassed him.

He had no reason for shame, Horatio told himself. This was Archie. His hand moved down, wedging under Archie’s body, cupping his arse and pushing him upward as his mouth opened, swallowing his lover to the root.

Long days of useless abstinence soon took their toll. Archie began trembling and writhing under him, moaning softly and tugging at his hair. After two or three minutes, pleasure overtook him completely. His body clenched, straining as he cried out sharply through the spasms of release.

Horatio drew back once Archie went still, finding his friend flushed and breathless on the pillow. He could not help but smile, and taking Archie’s gift from his lap, rose to sit on the bed, reaching out to pull Archie’s heated, panting body up into his arms.

Archie remained quiet for several moments, his heart thundering against Horatio’s chest, though his body seemed more relaxed than it had been in days, limp against him. Leaning his chin against the top of Archie’s head, Horatio idly twined his fingers through the silky waves of his hair, contemplating liberating them from the confines of their ribbon. But Archie lifted his head before he could, blinking away the daze of climax and wetting his lips.

“Horatio . . .” He appeared disoriented, gilded lashes fluttering for another moment. Loosening his arms, Horatio let him straighten, watching his expression grow tense as his mind cleared. “Horatio, I . . .“

“What?” he prompted, keeping a hand on his back, a part of him afraid Archie might be ill again.

Archie sighed and shook his head, curling his lower lip in a frown. “Nothing, I – I love you, Horatio.”

The words should not have melted him, but they did. Oh, Archie had said as much before, but never so plainly. Always the meaning was conveyed in snatches of his plays and poems, whispered when he was particularly dazed, almost incoherent late into a night of shore leave.

Horatio smiled fondly, his fingers playing in the silken strands of Archie’s queue. “Archie, I know that.”

The words hardly seemed to reassure him; Archie bowed his head again, his fingers worrying the hem of his shirt, finding it very fascinating. “Do you? I often wonder how you manage to put up with me.”

The clear remorse struck a protective chord inside Horatio’s heart. Dear God, it took more than a little moodiness to detour him. “Archie,” he pushed the hair from his friend’s eyes, “all that matters is that you trust me.”

“I know. I do.” Archie licked his lips. “Things have been difficult is all.”

Horatio drew Archie’s head against his shoulder, hiding a frown. This was all his fault. Archie was usually so jubilant and adept at hiding his woes that it was all too easy to forgot the pain he was in, deep down. He should do more for him, something better than letting him literally worry himself sick over matters on the ship.

“Do you want to sleep?” Horatio hoped he did not, but offering Archie escape from the impending conversation seemed the most considerate choice.

“No, no,” Archie sucked in a breath, pulling away, even squaring his shoulders a little in determination. Horatio supposed he would count being let off so easily as coddling, and Archie would never suffer that. “Horatio, if you’re angry with me, I . . .” He did not finish, only lowered his head again with a bashful, apple-cheeked smile.

Horatio considered denying it and letting the matter pass, but knew Archie would sense the lie well enough. “I was a little hurt, Archie.” That was awkward to admit, though no less than the truth; the rest was easier. “And worried. Archie, you must watch your tongue.”

He looked up, as if he to say he knew that, but clearly found that his behavior over the past week warranted a more honest answer. “Horatio, I kept something inside for three years, and the idea that I had not done enough to stop it nearly destroyed me. I can’t do that again.”

“Archie, Bush is hardly Jack Simpson.”

Archie winced at the name, and then looked at him as though he were being deliberately dense. “Of course, but don’t you understand? The idea is the same. I’m as helpless now as I was then when it is the Articles that keep any of us from stopping what is happening. I know Bush sees in me what Simpson did, and for that he’ll never hear a word I say. Sometimes I think it makes no difference whether I am a midshipman or Admiral of the Fleet; no one’s opinion of me will change.”

Bush’s remark that Archie was better suited for the theatre instantly sprang to mind. Even an ignorant fool such as himself knew what else actors were famous for. Archie had vaguely mentioned dallying with actors, and then explained that Simpson justified his abuse with the claim that anyone with those perverse inclinations had to enjoy any man’s attention, violent or no, and moreover deserved the brutality. Archie did not believe that, thank God – no one deserved rape – but the idea of being thought of as a fainthearted molly infuriated him.

Oh, Archie would never be vain enough to call himself too pretty outright. Even now, he meant it in the most disparaging sense – the sort of pretty that made Randall dismiss Mr. Wellard’s orders out of hand; too pretty to be thought of as a man. “The disadvantage of beauty, Archie.” Horatio’s fingertips skimmed across one golden cheek, hoping to humor him.

A spark of anger entered Archie’s eyes and Horatio instantly withdrew his hand, though the indignation vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. “It hurts, Horatio, especially when that disregard comes from you.”

That made him straighten. “Archie, what do you mean?”

Again, Archie regarded him as though he were being purposely thick. “The night after we received our orders in Plymouth,” he said. “I tried to warn you and you wouldn’t listen. I felt like all you wanted from me was someone to roll around in the hammock with. To be honest, Horatio, I’ve never felt so low in all my life, and I hated myself for giving into you.”

Remorse burned; he had silenced him that night, but . . . . “Dear God, Archie, it wasn’t like that.” But damn it, why had Archie let him? He would have gone back to his own bed in an instant he had known how Archie felt. His intentions had been to comfort him, not drudge up his self-loathing.

“And the next morning you were ready to fight duels over me and yet not actually listen to a word I say, much less believe it.” His mouth tightened. “I’m not Helen of Troy for God’s sake. I wanted to throttle Bush with my own hands.”

Horatio did not doubt that, but Archie’s words only compounded the guilt. This was all his fault. “Archie . . . “ His tongue tripped clumsily for words. “I didn’t realize . . . I never meant . . .“ That conversation in the Wardroom had simply seemed too dangerous, too mutinous. What else was he to do?

“I know,” Archie cut him off quietly, looking away, as if he were shamed one.

No, Archie did not know, Horatio shook his head, but perhaps the past had left Archie too sensitive on the matter of possession to safely explain. It was a man’s duty to protect his lover, even if his lover was another man. His devotion to Archie demanded he do nothing less than guard his friend from Bush’s wrath and perhaps admiring eye, as well as Archie’s own mutinous heart.

“Archie, I care for you not pity you. I think you’ve confused the two.”

“Perhaps I have.” Archie shook his head with a sigh. “I tell you, I realized I had no right to be so upset. I’m hardly an officer, scarcely able to drag myself out of bed some days.” Some days, yes, Horatio wanted to tell him, but being legitimately ill was not the same as languishing in despair. Convincing Archie that he was a fine lieutenant was another day’s endeavor, however.

“Archie . . .” he reached out, stroking his friend’s shoulder. “I believe a man may suffer wounds to the mind as well as the body. I think, considering, you can hardly be blamed. It would be no different had you taken a bullet to the leg long ago and found it difficult to walk now on rainy days.” He was rambling, his hands flapping about, but Archie was looking at him, considering the idea; that was what mattered.

“I had not reasoned it out in quite those terms, Horatio.” Few men would, there was no denying that fact; the Service presented an uncompromising life. Yet Archie seemed to take comfort in his words, offering him a faint smile before wetting his lips again. “I did not mean to hurt you.”

Unable to bear the distress straining those lovely features, Horatio held out his arms. “Archie, enough. Come here.” He pulled his friend into a close embrace, cradling his head against his shoulder. The body in his arms was so rigid Horatio feared Archie might grow overwrought if he did not say something. “The course of true love never did run smooth, Archie.” He buried a smile in Archie’s hair, pleased that he had absorbed something from those plays Archie often read to him when he could not sleep.

Lifting his head, Archie seemed taken aback; indeed, the idea of him quoting plays was ridiculous. Archie recovered himself quickly, however, twisting in his embrace, pressing a kiss to his neck and then rubbing against his cheek like an excited cat, whispering, “It does when certain parts of the anatomy are properly lubricated.”

A stab of anticipation shot through Horatio’s body. The invitation was unmistakable, intensified by Archie’s careful enunciation of each word. His friend pulled back, reaching inside his disheveled coat to produce a small jar of some sort of lotion or cream.

“Just the thing for rough hands, rope burns, and buggering fellow officers.” He grinned, pressing the jar into Horatio’s hand. Horatio shook his head; if the rose had been a peace offering than this was the armistice. Oh, but the thought of having him. . . .

Setting the jar aside for the moment, Horatio brought both hands to Archie’s shoulders, pushing off his jacket and waistcoat, tossing them to the floor. “Out of these clothes first, Archie,” he murmured, sliding his hands to Archie’s hips, gathering the hem of his shirt.

“You too, Mr. Hornblower.” Archie stretched forward, assaulting his mouth with sudden eagerness until Horatio could do nothing but clutch the rumpled shirt in one hand, stroking Archie’s chest with the other. Archie groaned against his mouth, and then pulled back long enough to say, “I want to make love with you, not a uniform, as fine as you are in it.” With that, he attacked the buttons of his waistcoat, throwing himself into the spirit of things with his usual vigor.

Somehow they managed to work around each other’s hands, finding themselves shirtless and grasping at each other a moment later. The sensation of Archie sliding against his chest left Horatio impossibly hard, the soft hair and peaked nipples, the pounding of his heart, all combined with the hot, rasping breath against his skin and the fierce, hungry kisses Archie pressed along his shoulder. Horatio could not take it; he seized Archie by the arms and, overpowering him with a kiss, tumbled him onto his back.

Archie squirmed under him, trying to wind his arms around Horatio’s body in order to keep him where he was, but Horatio caught his hands and pulled free. That sapphire gaze fixed on him, slightly wild, brimming with frustration, but Horatio shook his head, unable to keep from grinning at the thought of being desired so urgently. “Your clothes, Mr. Kennedy,” he reminded, tugging at the waist of Archie’s trousers.

“Oh, of course.” Archie rolled his head to one side somewhat sheepishly, lifting his hips from the bed, allowing Horatio to peel the remainder of his clothing from his body.

For a moment, Horatio knelt staring down at the man sprawled before him, struck as always by the gilded beauty of Archie’s unclothed body. His eyes could not help tracing the lines of Archie’s face, the muscular curves of his arms and chest, the strong legs. . . . And when Horatio studied his lover in this way, filled with awe and yet throbbing with anticipation, he never knew if his heart would race itself to madness or simply stop altogether.

“Horatio . . . “ The hoarse entreaty brought him back to his senses. He climbed off the bed, adding his trousers and stockings to the pile on the floor, spying the rose he had set aside. Without really knowing why, Horatio picked it up, resuming his place beside Archie on the bed.

Archie’s eyes were closed, but the smile playing about his mouth revealed that he had been watching him undress a moment before. Shaking his head, Horatio touched the flower to Archie’s cheek, bringing his eyes open with a start.

“What are you – ?”

Horatio did not answer, dragging the rose down Archie’s chest, teasing one nipple with the cool, moist petals, pleased when Archie rolled his head to the other side, lips opening to let out a quiet cry. One petal fell as he moved the thing across Archie’s belly, stark red against the pale gold of his skin. So beautiful. Horatio could not help himself; he tore another few petals loose, sprinkling them over Archie’s body.

“Horatio, stop that,” Archie laughed – sweet, infectious music. Horatio only tore another handful, dropping them over Archie’s hair

“I worship you, Archie. It cannot be denied.” He grinned down at him with a playfulness Renown’s dreary atmosphere would never allow. God, it felt so good to be ashore, alone together and safe.

With a snort, Archie gathered a handful of petals from his chest and flung them back at him. “Idle flattery butters no bread with me, Mr. Hornblower!”

“Hardly the case.” Horatio brushed a fingertip across one fine, gilded eyebrow, admiring the pretty curve of Archie’s cheek, at odds with his strong, square jaw.

Taking advantage of his distraction, Archie seized a handful of his hair and tugged his mouth down. Their lips met, hungry and wet as Horatio stretched between Archie’s thighs, their bodies breast-to-breast now. Archie was warm, and Horatio was pounding, tired of wasting the time they had, impatient to bury himself in Archie’s heat. Archie’s thoughts ran with his, for his lover shoved the salve into his palm.

“Come on.” Archie held his shoulders and leaned back, staring him straight in the eye as he spread his thighs. The invitation sent a sharp jolt to the pit of Horatio’s stomach, as if he had never fucked him before. God, how could he ever fear anything could come between them?

But despite how his body cried for him, Horatio forced himself to be patient. He opened the jar and slicked his flesh with the stuff, squeezing his eyes shut when the cool touch eased the ache for a moment, and then turned his attention to Archie. The urgency ebbed as their eyes met, and Archie’s hold on his shoulders relaxed, his arms gentle and tender when they slid around him, reminding Horatio that for Archie this was an act of terrible trust and that he must be careful.

Holding Archie in one arm, he rolled onto his side, his fingers trailing delicately between Archie’s legs. He merely touched at first, coaxing, until the hand at the back of his neck tightened and Archie kissed him with more force. Horatio pushed his tongue into Archie’s mouth then, teasing the tip of Archie’s tongue until he arched toward him; if there was anything that aroused Archie it was his efforts to be gentle. He relaxed easily against Horatio’s fingers now, as if Simpson had never existed, had never hurt him, and his only memories of this act were of pleasure and unbroken trust.

“’Ratio,” Archie shifted under him, a signal that he was more than ready. Horatio obliged him, crouching over on all fours and slowly easing inside his lover with little thrusts that made Archie’s lower lip tremble as he bit into it.

The onslaught of sensation made Horatio tremble too. Archie felt wonderful, snug and warm and slippery. He balanced himself on his palms and rocked gently into him, reveling in the sweetness of it, and then finding a rhythm. Archie’s eyes went wide beneath him, lips parting as Horatio pushed their hips together, dragging his body over Archie’s smooth cock, leaving a wet trail on his own belly as he moved steadily inside him.

“There . . .” Archie’s fingers clawed into his back, a tremor passing through his thighs that told Horatio he was doing this right. “Like that, Horatio. You’re . . .” Words gave way to heavy rasping, and Archie squeezed his shoulders tight, drawing him closer, deeper inside of him.

He did not want to kiss him, he did not even want this to go so fast; he wanted to draw this out, savor the pleasure sweeping over Archie’s face, imprint it in his mind so that he would remember it in the dark of their cabin, but his own need cut his will to pieces. He sank into Archie’s lips, increasing the friction between them to match the hard grinding rhythm of their mouths, thrusting until sweat prickled his skin and Archie craned his head back, groaning softly against Horatio’s ear.

The sound was so sweet and tantalizing – so rare, given the caution necessary aboard ship – that it sent Horatio driving into Archie as hard as he dared, rocking the bed beneath them. Those cries grew louder, more choked, as the ardor between them grew more maddening, and then reduced to nothing but strangled rasping as they both shuddered, arching against one another as the tide of climax seemed to sweep them both away at once.

Horatio collapsed onto him when it was over, his limp weight crushing Archie into the mattress. For a long time both of them strove to catch their breath, and Horatio’s head spun as though he had drunk a pitcher of strong brandy. The dizziness worsened when he opened his eyes, trying to bring the room back into focus again.

Archie loosened his arms after another moment, smiling up at him with his eyes half closed. He looked as though he had been hit over the head and was just coming-to. “Mmm . . . that was good,” he murmured.

Taking his weight off Archie’s body, Horatio reached for his exhausted lover, gathering a warm armful of rose petals and sweat and the musky scent of sex, still so stirring even to his sated senses. “Indeed.” Horatio smiled into his hair, running a hand up and down that broad back until Archie’s heartbeat slowed. “It’s hard to believe this will be our last night ashore for weeks.”

The grim reminder of the voyage to come chased away the blissful incoherency. Horatio frowned that the shadow of Renown should reach them here, but the truth was that he would have traded even this night for a transfer before tomorrow.

Not yet returned to his senses, Archie only chuckled softly against his chest. “Let me sleep a little and I promise I’ll make it memorable.”

That promise was enough to put the dazed smile back on Horatio’s face. “I’ve every confidence you will, Mr. Kennedy, if experience is any indication.” God, Archie could be sweet, and thorough, and downright wicked. He had never had another lover to compare, but he knew that what they had was precious – too precious to let the nightmare and suspicion of Renown whittle away at that bond.

“Archie . . .” He combed his fingers through his lover’s red-gold hair, tousled and looking more like tawny feathers now after their coupling.

“Mm?” Archie murmured drowsily into his skin, on the brink of sleep already.

Horatio swallowed hard; he had to word this carefully. Even an inn was not an entirely safe place for mutinous talk. “I have been vigilant, but you understand that without vital evidence we cannot safely presume to – “

“No,” Archie agreed before he could finish, suddenly alert in his rush to spare him the risk of uttering something dangerous. He lifted his head and their eyes met in understanding, but for Horatio acknowledging the trouble was not enough; he had to soothe Archie’s fears, had to assure him that he would not stand idle in the face of disaster.

“Should anything questionable happen I’ll go to Buckland.” He was not sure what Buckland could do – the man was no leader – but surely there was a legal option open to them, and the more in favor of it the better. The Navy could not possibly punish officers for opposing their captain when eight hundred lives lay in danger.

Archie nodded, but kept silent. He seemed appeased, content, and that was all that mattered. Sighing, Horatio ran a hand over him fondly, fingering one rose petal caught in Archie’s hair. He spent a long moment marveling at the contrast of deep crimson on shimmering gold before closing his eyes.

It was not long before both of them fell asleep.