1. The West Indies, 1802

When he opened his eyes and looked down at himself, he almost wished he had not woken at all. His body was half bare, swathed above the waist in white bandages, a crimson stain on his right side immediately drawing his eye. Blood. His head fell back against the pillow and he closed his eyes.

It’s just a scratch.

The words echoed as unconvincingly now as when he had spoken them aloud. The pain had lessened – that was something at least – though the itchy, sticky feeling in his skin gnawed almost as unbearably. Breathing came easier in the stifling Caribbean air, but the dizzy, feather-stuffed feeling in his head indicated a good dose of laudanum was to thank for all that.

Archie scowled through the drug’s malaise, angry that Horatio had forced the stuff on him after he had refused it countless times, on no uncertain terms, no matter the pain. A bullet in the abdomen was almost always fatal without a good physician to dig it out – and Clive was too drunk to be that. Delirium and comatose oblivion would come soon enough, with the wound already festering; Horatio had no right to rob him of what precious hours of lucidity remained until the infection took its toll. Better to endure the pain with dignity and comfort Horatio with fond, last conversations before the image of a rotting wreck of a man was all Horatio had to remember him by.

He did not need to open his eyes to know that Horatio was here now, Archie could feel his gaze like a physical weight pressing down on him, heavy with the knowledge that he was getting no better. Horatio was always beside him when he woke, as though the man feared that if he left the room, even for a moment, he would slip away. Archie frowned; he wouldn’t, not without saying goodbye. But for now he must do something to assure Horatio that he was quite alive as of yet.

“How long until we reach Kingston?” His voice was hoarse, faint and almost slurred; his head spun from the effort of speaking. Effects of the laudanum, no doubt. The drug left him so weak Archie did not think he could open his eyes again if he wanted to.

“Here.” Horatio raised a cup to his lips. Archie tilted his head, letting the cool, sweet water flow onto his tongue and down into his burning throat, managing somehow to swallow it. He fell back gasping when the cup was empty; the effort of drinking took more strength than he had.

So much for dignity. Archie turned his face away, grimacing at the sweat sliding down his forehead. Simple tasks were becoming so difficult. “Horatio . . .” He made to tell his friend to leave; he did not want Horatio to see him this way, so weak and sick.

“Sir . . .”

Surprise cut through the drugged haze, forcing open Archie’s heavy eyes. Horatio would not address him so, not in earnest anyway. Archie sucked in a breath, bracing his body for the inevitable agony of movement as he shifted toward the speaker.

His eyes took a moment to focus, but confirmed when the room stilled that it was not Horatio standing pale in a blue midshipman’s coat at the foot of the hammock.

“Mr. Wellard . . .?” Archie rasped thinly. What on earth was he doing on his feet? The lad ought to be resting. Henry Wellard had been wounded in the Spanish uprising too after all, defending Sawyer of all people – though he had been lucky enough to receive the bullet in the shoulder only. Archie made to order him back to the midshipmen’s berth, but Wellard spoke before he could.

“Jamaica is eight days sail behind us, sir. We’re bound for Portsmouth.”

Portsmouth? The word sobered him. Clenching his teeth, Archie raised himself onto his elbows. The effort produced a sickly wave of nausea, but no intolerable pain, and so he pushed himself up further into a sitting position, blinking away the dizziness and taking in the room around him. Even after fully coming-to, he still did not understand where he was.

He wet his lips, dry and parched again. “Where is Hor . . . Mr. Hornblower?” he demanded, the question high and nervous.

Wellard’s gaze dropped to the planks at his feet. He spent a moment fidgeting with the empty cup in his hands. “I – I don’t know, sir,” he faltered, and then looked up, his large eyes dark and grim. “You haven’t been well, sir. How much do you remember?”

Archie fell back against the pillow, crestfallen. Horatio was not here. Worry rose in him, turning to anger. If Horatio had devised some scheme to spirit him away while he remained in Kingston in danger, if Horatio had refused . . . .

As for what he remembered, well, these quarters were not entirely unfamiliar. He did recall the fever, the disoriented moments of waking in this cramped cabin, the faces above him, the pain. And he recalled an even bleaker recollection of several pairs of hands holding him down while a strange man dug inside his body with silver instruments and then doused him with opium until he thought he would float away and die at last. He did not know whether Horatio had been there or not.

Horatio had been there aboard Renown, holding his shoulders while Clive cleaned the wound with seawater and wiping the sweat from his face after the bleedings. Archie’s stomach turned with the memory.

“The ministrations of His Majesty’s good doctors, certainly,” he answered after a moment, brushing a hand almost protectively over his side. Yet now that he looked again, there was not so much blood as he had first thought, and the stain was more a faint pink than red.

Wellard did not appear so reassured. “And Kingston, sir?”

Yes, of course. Kingston. Archie closed his eyes, remembering the deceptively sunny prison cell he had shared in the infirmary with Bush, where he had lain sweating in the heat, coughing and struggling to breathe, itching with the crawling flies feeding on the fresh blood of his wound – Clive had left them there, hoping the maggots would clean it. Yet worst of all had been the view of the men building a gallows outside his window, and the grating knowledge of his own uselessness in defending his friend in court. Horatio was far too upright to comprehend the witch-hunt he had been caught up in, and worse, had not seemed to see or care that it was his very life he fought for before Hammond and the others. “I remember enough,” Archie muttered into the pillow. Horatio had come to him in the morning and evening, and in the moments when the tribunal gave him respite. His friend’s eyes had shone more gravely than ever as they fixed upon the scarlet stain soaking through the bandages – the slow hemorrhage that Archie had hoped would kill him before the infection could. Neither of them could bear speaking of his condition or what was to come and so spent the time keeping each other company with what cheer they could muster. Anything more tender had been said that first night after Clive had refused to remove the bullet. It had been agony to see Horatio weep over him then, knowing that slow death was inevitable, that he had caused him that pain. Archie had been thankful Horatio had seemed to decide to restrain any more tears until after.

And then there was Horatio’s last visit before the trial had reconvened, when his attempts to be cool and evasive had only made his intentions of confessing to pushing Sawyer all the more clear. Archie could not forget his own determination as he had struggled into his uniform the next morning, the desperation to reach the courtroom before Horatio marched to his ruin. The terrible agony of the journey had been allayed only by the knowledge that the crucible would be over soon, for both of them, and would end for the best.

Why? Horatio’s stunned question rang once again in his mind. Did the fool not understand? They meant to hang him. Hang him! He had done what any true friend would do. After all these years did Horatio not know how much he . . .? Archie bit hard into his lip. Clive had confirmed that the walk to court was likely to kill him – a less shameful end than the noose. That part of the plan had gone awry, of course.

“Sir . . .” The fear in Wellard’s voice snatched him from his reflections. “Sir!” Archie blinked to find Wellard reaching for the door. “I’ll get the help, sir,” he promised, glancing back over his shoulder, his dark eyes wide with alarm.

Archie stared down at himself with a grimace. His condition must not have improved by much if so little as a few moments silence gave cause to panic. Still, he was too tired to insist that he was all right and therefore did not stop Wellard from scurrying out of the cabin.

He scarcely had time to resettle himself in the hammock before the door opened again, admitting Wellard and two other men. The first was middle-aged, fair-haired, and in civilian dress, but not the surgeon of Archie’s fever memory. The second was a round and kindly figure instantly familiar to him, even in a Captain’s uniform, a man whose presence filled him with the relief and comfort one might find in a favorite uncle. Yet what he was doing here?

“Mr. Bracegirdle!” Archie cried in a rush of disbelief, smiling up at the man who had once been the Indie’s First Lieutenant. An old friend, and Captain now, and here with him. Fate certainly smiled at the oddest times.

The older man nodded to him, but remained where he was. The reserved gesture stole the smile from Archie’s lips. Had his familiarity had gone amiss? He opened his mouth to amend himself with respect to Bracegirdle’s rank, but the other man – a surgeon’s mate, Archie guessed – set upon him before he could.

“You’re awake, well and good.” The man laid a cool hand over his brow. “The fever’s broken, praise the Lord. For a time we feared you wouldn’t make it.”

Archie narrowed his eyes, all too used to similar pronouncements from Clive each time he was found alive in the morning. But he took small comfort in the fact that this man did not reek of laudanum or liquor as Clive had. Perhaps this one’s word could be trusted

“I’m not so sure I intended to,” he offered with a weak smile. He was also unsure of how much the ship’s surgeon and his mates knew, of what slip of the tongue might be considered dangerous. A properly ethical doctor might be inclined to care for any man in need – even an enemy – but he was a convicted mutineer.

But perhaps he did not even have long enough to worry about the crime on his head and how it might taint Wellard and Bracegirdle. Perhaps now that he had given Hammond the scapegoat the Admiralty required – a means of explaining away Sawyer’s madness rather than attributing it to their own folly in keeping a madman in command – the tribunal had shown some pity and had allowed Bracegirdle to carry his body home for proper burial. Archie had heard of dirtier deals made with real criminals, particularly when they were of noble families – his father was the Earl of Cassilis after all and a man to raise holy hell. And he had also heard of men rotting for weeks with infection before they died. Surely the physicking was only to keep him comfortable. No doubt he would be pickled in a barrel soon enough.

Yet a proper burial seemed too kind for the vicious tribunal Horatio had faced. The laudanum was dulling his wits; perhaps for the moment it was better to lie quiet and let the surgeon’s mate do his work.

The man did nothing but unwrap the lower end of the bandage, scrutinizing what appeared to be a red and swollen expanse of skin. Archie had no desire to look closer than that, though the calm face above him was reassuring.

“You had a bit of cloth caught up with the ball,” the man explained. “It wasn’t lodged so deeply as your surgeon seemed to think, but it did fester something ugly. That physician gentlemen said it’s no wonder you lost consciousness and nearly slipped away on us, the blood loss aside.”

Archie stared at him, entirely incredulous. “He removed it?” Silly question. Of course, that must have been what the doctor had been doing with his ghastly instruments and his opium.

The surgeon’s mate shot him an exasperated look, replacing the wrapping and then straightening. “Well, the surgeon will see to cleaning it later. For now you’d best sleep. You’re still not all to rights, bullet or no. The laudanum will only fool you into thinking otherwise.”

Archie made a face; he did not think he could sleep, not when matters were so uncertain now. Everything had been so certain when he had resolved to go to court, and after, when he had given Horatio his reasons. He had been dying for God’s sake. Wetting his lips, he looked up at the surgeon’s mate again.

“Thank you, but –”

He stopped short when Bracegirdle cleared his throat, too wary of asking anything that might endanger his old friend. A pregnant glance passed between Bracegirdle and the surgeon’s mate, who stepped back toward the door to let his captain came forward.

“I daresay I can satisfy your curiosity, sir!” Bracegirdle offered with a familiar chuckle. Archie blinked at the sound, having been regarded with the utmost solemnity since the bullet had struck him. Yet he and Bracegirdle had always seemed in accordance on one thing, laughter was preferable to tears.

The older man’s reserve vanished once the surgeon’s mate departed. He immediately came forward and grasped Archie’s hand. “Mr. Kennedy.” Bracegirdle squeezed his fingers tight, his round face curving into a smile. A lump rose in Archie’s throat, but quickly swallowed it.

“Is this your ship, sir?” he asked instead. He had heard no news of Bracegirdle making Captain in the year or more since he and Horatio had left the Indie, but they had been at sea most of the time and had not seen every Naval Gazette to make print. Bracegirdle nodded, and Archie grinned; not surprised by the news. “My congratulations, sir,” he said, though the prospect seemed to make his presence here all the more precarious. Bracegirdle’s first ship . . . .

As if sensing the thought, Bracegirdle returned to the business of providing an explanation. “You’re fortunate I docked in Kingston the morning the trial reconvened, or else we might not have smuggled you out of Jamaica alive.” He lowered his voice so as to not be overheard even through the thin walls of the ship. “Commodore Pellew was beside himself over the whole mess. After your particular performance, he agreed that you deserved a chance. Thankfully, a physician friend of ours was also on the island – an interesting Irish gentleman.”

Sir Edward had a hand in this? The man who had spoken little more than a dozen words to him all these years? Archie bit his tongue before he could demand why Pellew would do such a thing after scarcely seeming to recognize him in court – the man had not even looked him in the eye. But if Pellew were in a mood to grant rewards, then that must mean his precious protégé was safe.

Archie allowed himself to cling to that hope, not quite certain he could bear to hear otherwise at the moment. More astonishing, and troublesome for all parties concerned – Horatio especially – was the implication that he was expected to survive.

“Forgive me, sir. The Ship’s Surgeon aboard Renown was certain I was dying.”

Bracegirdle narrowed his eyes in a rare expression of distaste. “Your surgeon also seemed to think your captain in full possession of his wits, as I understand it.”

Archie snorted a laugh. A fine thing to hear now, after that farce of a trial. If only Bracegirdle had been aboard Renown to help him convince Horatio of this earlier.

“Point taken, sir,” was all Archie said, relieved at least that Bracegirdle knew of the crime he had confessed to, that he was not somehow inadvertently deceiving the man. As for Clive, Archie supposed the fool’s rather conservative methods sufficiently explained his refusal to attempt the surgery himself.

Clive’s error did not explain everything, however. It seemed too unlikely that a condemned man could be miraculously saved and whisked out of a Naval infirmary right under the Admiralty’s very nose. Commodore Pellew might have the power to create effective smoke and mirrors, and might be able to offer Bracegirdle some protection, but this mad scheme was almost too much even for Horatio to risk for him.

“Sir, should the Admiralty discover what you’ve done, you would be hanged for your actions. I’d not have you risk it for me.”

“Who would think to look for you?” Bracegirdle shook his head with the patience one was wont to show the sick. “Lieutenant Archie Kennedy was on the brink of death when our friend arrived and unfortunately did not survive the attempt to remove the bullet. He was taken away and buried at sea. You, on the other hand, are Maurice Carlyle – an adventurous, hot-blooded Scot in need of passage home – you gave us that name when we asked you for a new one days ago. The details of your story I leave to you.”

Archie grimaced; the Carlyles were his mother’s relations in America. Hot-blooded Scot might just do, but the rest . . . . Archie shook his head. Then again, such tricks had worked for Kitty Cobham – at least until he had recognized her in Spain – and surely Bracegirdle had weighed the risks and possibilities before taking him aboard. And more importantly, Archie did not wish to seem ungrateful by suggesting his old friend was being foolish.

Perhaps he could understand a little now of why it had been so difficult for Horatio to accept his parting gift in Kingston. But his own heart knew that when such a gift was given it was not meant to be refused. Bracegirdle knew the truth and had already made his choice.

Pushing his qualms aside, Archie smiled up at the other man and then over at Wellard, who had proven so true. A poignant warmth rose inside him despite Horatio’s absence. “Mr. Bracegirdle, sir, there is nothing I can ever do to repay you.”

Again, the older man brushed him off. “One must stay true to his old shipmates, Mr. Kennedy, as they say.”

“Of course, sir,” Archie nodded. It was true; had their circumstances been reversed he would naturally do the same. Yet their circumstances were not reversed and there was still one question he had not yet asked, what he longed to know above all else. “Sir, have you any word of Horatio?”

Bracegirdle stopped, looking upon him with sympathy now, well aware of what Horatio meant to him. “No . . .” He seemed to hesitate, weighing his words. “I would have liked to see him, Mr. Kennedy, but I understand your death did not go easy with him. When it was safe to tell him you had a fair chance, he was not to be found. For my part, I had orders to make sail three days later. I did not even happen upon Commodore Pellew before we left port.”

Archie’s heart sank a second time, cold and empty inside. Horatio still thought him dead – Horatio, who had been right there beside him as he had felt himself slipping away. He could still see so clearly the bleak and devastated visage above him as Horatio had stared down into his eyes, torn apart yet already growing so numb.

My dear friend . . . . Not his most intimate of endearments, but perhaps the most honest, the most unwittingly tender.

Of course Horatio would have been unable to face what he would believe to be only his body and therefore would never have thought to follow when this doctor had taken him away. And of course Pellew would not have told Horatio the news; it would prove too detrimental to the great future Pellew had in store for him were Horatio to linger in Kingston, fussing at the bedside of an undead mutineer – not to mention the danger of their complicity. No, he should be glad Horatio did not know; his friend was likely safer this way. Whatever Pellew’s disregard for him, the man could be trusted to protect Horatio.

“Thank you, sir,” Archie managed in a thin voice as the image of Horatio fell away and the cabin came back into focus.

Wellard and Bracegirdle were watching him, the same concern mirrored on both their faces. But Bracegirdle knew him well enough to understand what he needed now. “I’ll leave you to sleep, then,” he said, patting his arm. “Pleasant dreams, Mr. Ke – Carylye.”

“I’ll try, sir,” Archie muttered in return, watching Wellard touch his forehead in salute as the Captain moved past him and opened the door.

Wellard gazed out into the companionway a moment, as if considering whether to follow or not. Deciding against it, he closed the door and turned to face Archie again. “If you are in need of anything, sir . . .” he prompted softly, large eyes brimming with concern.

Archie ran his tongue over his lips, finding that he had to look away. Such caring was too reminiscent of Horatio, of memories Archie would rather not succumb to at the moment.

“No, Mr. Wellard, thank you,” he answered as gently as he could. “I think I should like to sleep.”

“Of course, sir,” Wellard nodded, and then once again glanced briefly to the floor, before raising his head and looking back at him. “If it’s any consolation, sir, I’m certain Captain Bracegirdle would send word to Mr. Hornblower if you asked.”

“One would hope.” Archie tried to sound cheerful, though his heart was not in it. It was difficult not to be touched by the younger man’s attempt at comfort, but the truth was that if he and Horatio were to meet again it would be a reunion all too brief. He no longer held a commission and therefore could not sail with Horatio anymore, could never be Horatio’s first officer once he received a ship of his own, as had been their plan. The thought of Horatio relying on some other man who did not know his moods and his damned noble foolishness almost made Archie ill inside.

The ship’s bell rang in the distance, breaking that unpleasant thought, and once again Wellard reached to open the door. “I’m on watch, sir. Do sleep well,” he said before slipping out of the cabin and clambering up on deck.

As grateful as Archie was to have a friend aboard ship, he was glad to be alone. With a long sigh, the full weight his predicament came crashing down on him. He was alive and Horatio was gone – somewhere unreachable where Archie could neither help nor comfort him, where he might get himself killed in battle before Archie ever got the chance to seek him out in England again.

At least he had been given the chance to say goodbye. Their farewell had been just as Archie wanted, unclouded by tears or pity for his unfortunate state, merely a few last moments of simple familiar affection between old comrades-at-arms, of words perhaps unfitting to any chance listener, but significant and sentimental between them.

Horatio had tried for more, of course, the dear fool, on the verge of breaking down, attempting to put into words what Archie had been certain of long ago. To his surprise, Archie still chuckled at what had finally come out.

I’m honored to have served with you.

The words would have been cold and inadequate, a mere platitude, to any who did not know Horatio Hornblower, but they were humble and meaningful in regards to the past months. The man who had been proud to serve under Sawyer, who had believed in infallible captaincy, and who for months had glared at Archie’s mutinous ravings and his calls for justice, could not let an him die without conceding – without any real proof that his confession was false – that his actions had been the right ones all along. And strange, that curious moment when one thinks to leave this world behind him, when such absolution means something; it had seemed sweeter then to die a hero to one righteous man than to live with the admiration of the Fleet. In Archie’s mind his crown of thorns had seemed a wreath of laurels.

And I to have known you. His own words floated back, his eyes stinging just as they had then. Archie rolled his head on the pillow with a heavy sigh.

That was one thing this unexpected turn of events could not change, what Horatio felt for him. His old fondness for drama should have let him delight in the romance of it all, but he did not. The whole bloody calamity exhausted him. Archie closed his eyes, hoping to put it from his mind for a while.

2.

Another few days went lost to the laudanum. The Surgeon or one of his mates would rouse Archie only to eat or drink, or when it came time for the medical necessities. Archie was glad for the drug during those days, for escape from yet another sweltering fever and the new throbbing pain of a pus-ridden incision. And above all else, he was glad to whittle away the dull, lonely hours in deep dreamless sleep. After the fever broke, the surgeon cautioned that so much lying about in the oppressive Indies’ heat would only worsen the pneumonia he had developed in Kingston, and – now that his wound could be trusted to hold together – he should spend more time sitting up, preferably topside where the fresh air might clear his lungs. Since Archie was too weak to manage the ship’s steep ladders on his own, the surgeon’s two mates and the loblolly boy had to carry him up at first. They brought him on the quarterdeck in the early mornings and evenings, when the air was cooler, leaving him to dazedly ponder the stars for lack of anything better to do.

The idleness grew so much that one night he passed the time mending a uniform jacket for Wellard, and then another morning assisting another midshipman in courting a sweetheart through letters. It was the youngest midshipman – inquisitive Mr. Aberline, all of fourteen – who beseeched him to know how he had received such a precarious wound. Archie had fretted then, briefly, but managed to spin a tale of bandits and blood with the familiar aristocratic disdain and braggadocio that had filled the drawing rooms of his childhood. At least it had kept the young men on the off-watch entertained.

Eurydice – Bracegirdle’s first command – looked to be a fine ship. One of the mids imparted that she had been taken a prize from the French and then given to Bracegirdle with orders to stop a Spanish privateer in the Indies, and after capturing the twenty-four gun Isabella thereabouts of Turtle Island they had gone to Kingston to turn her over to a prize court. Eurydice carried only twenty-two guns herself and a crew just shy of two hundred souls, and was less than half the size of the gallant Renown, but under command of an already respected captain she was sure to hold her own against the French. But of course Mr. Carlyle had no knowledge of these matters and therefore Archie resigned to keep this assessment to himself.

After a week, Archie was advised to spend more time on his feet, with a minimal dose of laudanum to allay the pain. He was all too happy to dress and shave and wash with little assistance – to do anything really that made him feel more like a living man and less like an aching corpse – though, after five years of holding a lieutenant’s commission, and more as a midshipman, it felt strange to walk the quarterdeck and glance down to find himself not in uniform. That hardly mattered; of course, that part of his life was done, and probably for the better.

On the tenth day, Captain Bracegirdle requested his presence at dinner.

Eurydice had only two lieutenants, both older than he – the dark-haired and solemn Mr. Edwards and the red-faced Mr. Richardson, who sweated perpetually in the Caribbean heat. Mr. Edwards had the watch, along with two of the Midshipmen, but the Captain’s cabin was nonetheless full with the addition of the Sailing Master, the Marine Captain, the Surgeon, Wellard, and himself.

Archie was obliged to take the place at Bracegirdle’s immediate right, finding it strange to be anything but a junior officer at a ship’s table, and a full table at that. No such gatherings had been held aboard Renown; Captain Sawyer could never have abided dining with the officers he had both scorned and feared.

Tonight, Archie was glad for the fare if nothing else. After three weeks of only water and the dreaded beef and anchovy soup given to the sick, the fresh mutton, vegetables and brandy seemed a godsend. He still lacked a proper appetite, of course, and therefore was given only half of what the others put down. A ship could not afford to waste provisions even on an honored passenger.

Bracegirdle noticed his relish, chuckling as Archie stuffed a spoonful of peas into his mouth. “Well, my lord, I’m relieved to see you find our cuisine palatable at least.”

Archie snorted bashfully at his own eagerness, but who could fault a sick man for enjoying a real meal at last? But, as though his mother were watching him, Archie put his spoon down, sitting back properly in his chair and taking up his brandy.

“Of course, Captain.” He tried for his most vacant tone, but could not resist adding, “though it is presumed that men eat rather poorly aboard ship, officers even.” He quirked his lips into a smile; which the older man shared. Neither of them were thin, and aboard the Indie had oft together laid in such indulgent excesses, as Horatio termed them, that it had become a common jest that neither maintained their weight eating calavances.

“Well then, we might beg you to entice the landlubbers back home with the truth,” Bracegirdle replied good-naturedly. “No need to cry out about King and Country, appealing to one’s belly ought to be enough!”

The men laughed – jests directed at landlubbers always made sailors laugh – but Archie could not help but grimace. “I’m afraid with my luck, sir, any ship such recruits were posted to would find itself on allowance or worse.”

“Oh very well, sir.” Bracegirdle patted his arm, leaving off his teasing likely out of deference to Archie’s soured view of the Navy. Instead, the Captain raised his glass. “A toast, then, to wash away this talk of bad luck!”

The attention of their company turned to Wellard, seated at the far left-hand corner of the table. As the newest midshipman aboard, the toast was by tradition his duty. Archie leaned back in his chair and watched the younger man straighten, his pale cheeks coloring to have so many eyes on him. He bent his dark head, casting his gaze briefly to his lap before looking up and clearing his throat.

Archie immediately fell to studying his cup, confronted with a memory that for a moment made the sight of Wellard pitifully unbearable. In his mind, Archie saw only a younger Horatio, nervous and pale at his mother’s table, in a freshly pressed midshipman’s coat, those enormous dark eyes seeking his for refuge. With a sigh, Archie blinked the image away, finding Wellard’s gaze on him, concerned and warm.

Wellard raised his cup, intoning, “To absent friends.” It was no more than the usual Sunday toast, but delivered with such a perspicuous undercurrent that Archie felt a grateful smile tugging at his lips. Those watery brown eyes held his a moment longer, before Wellard returned his attention to his drink. Archie quaffed a fiery mouthful from his own cup, feeling suddenly that he needed it.

Bracegirdle broke the ensuing silence after all had emptied their glasses; it would not be proper for the others to speak without first being addressed by their captain. “Well, gentlemen, another two months ahead of us until we reach Portsmouth. Let us pray this infernal heat does not burn away our wits first! I’m sure you would hope as much, Mr. Richardson.”

The fat, perspiring lieutenant at Archie’s right made a face unworthy of Bracegirdle’s jovial prodding. “If it did not burn away the wits of Renown’s good lieutenants, then we should not allow it to endanger ours,” the man replied.

A prickle of apprehension stung the back of Archie’s neck, but to his relief, Richardson was not looking to him, too busy frowning at the table in general. Bracegirdle did not look his way either, only coolly shook his head at his Second Lieutenant.

“Come, sir, Renown is a ship of the line and out of our class. There’s no use in competing.”

Both the Sailing Master and the surgeon chuckled, likely used to Bracegirdle’s ways by now, but Richardson continued to frown. “Forgive me, sir. I was of course referring to that bit of news in the Kingston Chronicle that I have just found the time to read.” He leaned back and tapped his fingers against the table’s edge. “Two lieutenants, three prizes, a demolished fort. The younger lieutenant has been promoted, I hear. An inspiration to our young officers, wouldn’t you say, sir?” He glanced hopefully back at his captain.

Archie looked away from the pair of them, staring out across the table and fixing on some empty point on the bulkhead. Promoted. A great weight lifted from his heart to hear that Horatio was alive. But where was he now? The deep relief crumbled, and in its place settled a more oppressive anxiety.

Perhaps Horatio was still in Kingston, where Archie could never return, or perhaps sailing back to England as Archie had hoped. Probably he would be doomed to stay ashore there, at the bottom of the half-pay lists with all the other commanders and captains not of influence. In that case, it would be nigh impossible to locate him, as Horatio had no friend or relative to report his whereabouts.

Bracegirdle’s voice snapped Archie back to the scene around him. “This is old news, Mr. Richardson. I thought we’d talked this to death by now.” He sounded so perfectly neutral – light-hearted even – that Archie had half a mind to tell him he had missed his calling in the diplomatic service, though Archie noted that Bracegirdle still seemed to deliberately avoid looking his way. Instead, his attention transferred to the Marine Captain. “You’ve drudged up the matter enough times at my table, Mr. Harlow; why do you frown?”

The fussy Mr. Harlow scowled, brushing invisible crumbs from the sleeve of his red uniform jacket, though he did not seem as perturbed as Richardson at being put on the spot. “It angers me every time I think on it, sir,” he answered too readily in his deep, rich voice; clearly a man who loved to hear himself talk. “Imagine pushing a man such as Captain Sawyer into the hold. I say that upstart lieutenant had no more honor than a cutthroat in a London alley. My wish is that the crabs made a decent feast of him, and thank God he died abroad. A man like that isn’t fit to be buried in English soil. Pity they didn’t hang him – no . . .” He grandly waved a hand. “They should have drawn and quartered that whoreson the instant he confessed.”

Archie straightened in his chair. Perhaps he truly did hold nothing sacred as Horatio had often accused, or perhaps he’d had too much laudanum, because all he could do was laugh. There was no helping it. The scene was so absurd, with this pitiful bastard carrying on so righteously while his despised mutineer sat right under his nose sharing a civilized meal with him. A fine joke, worthy of the best of plays.

“Well, I’m certainly glad you gentlemen are against the practice of harming one’s captain.” Bracegirdle attempted to deflect Mr. Harlow’s ire with more conviviality. He could as well have put a stop to the conversation, but perhaps indifference in the matter would serve them both better in the end, considering.

“Indeed, sir,” Richardson answered this time, reaching inside his coat and drawing out the folded Chronicle in question, glancing down at it before he looked up. ”But Captain Sawyer. Who knows what further deeds he might have accomplished had that animal not attacked him in the hold. Mr. Wellard!” he barked, slapping the Chronicle down as if swatting at a fly. “You transferred from that unholy ship, did you not?”

Wellard winced to have all eyes on him yet again. He spent a long moment studying his hands, his lips quivering slightly as he muttered a reluctant, “Aye, sir.” Wellard was not a fool, and could guess the question’s aim.

“Then surely you had contact with this creature, this Lieutenant Kennedy. What manner of man was he?”

Archie gritted his teeth, truly angry now. It was almost as if Richardson were bating Wellard. But that was impossible, and Bracegirdle would not allow it if he thought the man harbored any dangerous inkling. No, likely Richardson’s question was either one of idiotic curiosity, or the usual foolish notion that men who served alongside mutineers were somehow as malicious. And therein lie the fallacy of justice in His Majesty’s Navy; its very precepts safeguarded persecution while only condemnation and the noose awaited the victim.

Wellard had gone even more pale. Archie seethed to see him look so trapped. There was nothing meek in his eyes, however. His gaze teemed with anger and distress, and that smoldering something that made him so intriguing, as he raised his head to answer.

“He was unnaturally kind for a man of his rank, ” he said, and then hesitated, pursing his lips. “I’ve heard that lunacy is common among officers. I often wonder if that was what drove Lieutenant Kennedy to such an act.”

Chuckling under his breath, Archie tried not to glower at him. Yet perhaps it was not so far from the truth; he had always likened what he felt for Horatio to a kind of madness.

“A tragedy, if that were true.“ the Surgeon chimed in, “to think that this entire debacle could have been prevented by giving this man the necessary care.”

“Indeed,” Bracegirdle concurred. “Even you cannot argue that, Mr. Harlow.”

The Marine smiled sourly, possessing enough sense at least not to openly disagree with his captain. But he was not ready to give up. “I would still suspect that he must have harbored some underlying viciousness or anger. Perhaps lunacy might muddle his sense of discretion – his ability to choose whether to act on such impulses or not. But even so, the very sentiment of wishing one’s captain harm is unworthy of a King’s officer.”

Archie heard this with a bitter smile. Harlow might have him there; he had advised Horatio to let Sawyer die, and by that same advice had not intended to stop Sawyer from falling into the hold. What had happened that night was still a blur; Archie remembered only that moment of surreal confusion as he and Horatio had both reached out to stop Sawyer from shooting the other on his way down.

“It would seem Lieutenant Kennedy took his reasons to the grave,” Archie interjected as coolly as he could, looking up across the table to catch the Marine Captain’s eye, weary of the conversation, of hearing these men pass judgment on what they knew not of. Harlow lowered his eyes. Satisfied, Archie looked away, his gaze drifting toward the Chronicle still lying on the table. “Might I see that, sir,” he asked Richardson with more courtesy than he felt toward the man at present.

“Of course.” The Second Lieutenant appeared puzzled as to why a civilian aristocrat would take interest in it, but handed the paper over nonetheless.

Archie had to look no further than the front page to find Horatio’s name. Their exploits at Samana Bay were suitably lauded – without mention of his own name, of course – along with news that Archie had always thought he would be happy to read, but now, under these circumstances, struck him like a blow to the middle. He folded the paper and returned it to Richardson at once.

Bracegirdle’s eyes rested on him as he did so, narrowed with worry. “Are you well, sir?” he inquired, the lightness of his tone irritating Archie for the first time. He nodded absently, heaving a sigh.

“Fine, thank you, sir” he muttered after a pause. Of course Bracegirdle did not believe him, but the older man knew him well enough to leave off, turning back to the others and purposing a new topic of conversation to which Archie paid no mind.

He was all too glad to escape the others when dinner was over. The officers retired to the Wardroom, for cards likely – an activity Archie had never had much interest in. He knew how to play, of course, because Horatio had often cajoled him into playing, though he much preferred to sit in the corner with his book, voicing the occasional condolence to whomever Horatio had ensnared into his whist trap.

Archie had no book to occupy him now, and though he was exhausted he was not ready to sleep. The empty quarterdeck seemed as good a place to be as any, in the cooler night air – the greatest luxory a man could hope for on a sweltering Caribbean voyage. And so, with his arms folded over the rail, Archie stared down out at the black water, musing over what he had read at dinner.

So Horatio had been given command of the Gaditana – Retribution, as she was called now? Of course Horatio deserved it, and it was a far better use of his abilities than lingering ashore on half-pay. Pellew must have arranged it all; new officers did not have such luck these days without the patronage of someone influential.

A strange wistful melancholy settled over him at the thought of Horatio sailing these same waters, not so very far away if he had left Kingston already. It was a fond thought, and Archie felt a fool for entertaining it, for standing here staring out into the distance, seeking that damned Spanish prize like a green midshipman still hungry for the sight of home.

A ship of his own, just as Horatio had always wanted. Not a very grand ship – Archie had only counted eighteen guns when they had ranged shot on her at the fort – but she would be lovely repainted and refitted. Horatio would be proud to command her. He would be happy, and with his duty and his crew to look after he would have no time to think on a dead friend who had endangered his career with his calls to mutiny and his foolish actions in the hold.

A hand touched Archie’s sleeve, seeking to divert him from his thoughts. Yet the gesture felt too familiar, too like something from his former life, when Horatio would sense his sorrowful moods and silently implore him to follow where he might soothe it away. They had learned to hold entire conversations in such gestures and looks, because of what they could not say aloud. The eyes at Archie’s back now burned with the same intensity as that gaze he remembered so well, and after being invisible to so many all these years – often by choice – the fixation of those eyes both unsettled and stirred him.

Archie turned to find Wellard at his shoulder, half wondering if the younger man sought to remind him on purpose. But how could Wellard know of all those things? And Henry Wellard was fundamentally different than Horatio, of course. He had none of Horatio’s inexorable naiveté, and there was something more dangerous, more reckless inside of him. He was beautiful – his pale skin, his glossy hair escaping his hat, his eyes like rich chocolate, always a struggle in his expression – but in contrast he was so simple and so young. Too young.

Wellard dropped his gaze, his cheeks darkening in the moonlight to realize his hand still rested upon Archie’s sleeve. “I did not want to startle you, sir,” he explained, withdrawing his hand.

“Of course,” Archie nodded, and then added in a low voice. “That damned lunacy of mine, after all. Were you to startle me I might react and throw you over the side in my own defense.”

For a sheer instant, Wellard appeared utterly mortified, but then erupted into a fit of giggles when Archie’s lips twitched into a smile. “Are you certain it wouldn’t be out of some underlying viciousness?” he mimicked through his laughter, his eyes flashing in the silver light, betraying his anger.

Archie chuckled along with him, all too eager to laugh at that miserable sod. “He’d have made a fine acolyte for Sawyer, the simpering villain,” he grimaced.

“Indeed, sir.” Wellard agreed with a nod, and then peered up at him in earnest, humor slipping away. “Forgive me, sir. I should have made you out to be something more dashing.”

“Dashing?” Archie scoffed with no small amount of incredulity. “Mr. Wellard, I have never been dashing in all my life.” It was true; he was pragmatic and at times fretful, but never dashing. Wellard would not think to apply the word if he had witnessed his mishap back in Muzillac years ago.

“All the same, sir,” Wellard leaned against the bulwark, facing him. “That man slandered you. I half expected you to be on your feet demanding satisfaction.”

Archie’s eyes widened in surprise, hardly thinking himself the sort any would expect to leap up in his own defense, not after what too many others knew of him. Yet Wellard did not know of his past; Wellard had only seen him shoot to kill on pure instinct, had witnessed some of his more rash behavior aboard Renown.

“I find him of miniscule significance, Mr. Wellard,” Archie shook his head. He had endured worse insults in the past, but he did not wish to explain that, and so changed the subject. “How are my repairs faring?” He reached out without thinking, brushing his fingers over the buttons he had sewn along the front of Wellard’s jacket.

The younger man’s heartbeat quickened at the touch, Archie could feel it through the layers of cloth. Their eyes met, and something distasteful yet enticing passed between them – the knowledge that this pretty young man could be his if Archie wanted. The thought must have unsettled Wellard just as much, for his voice trembled when he finally spoke.

“Fine, sir. I’ve never had a hand for mending. I fear I’d prick myself at every turn.”

“Ah,” Archie smiled. “You should leave that to me.”

It was such a thoughtless remark that for a moment Archie did not understand why Wellard was staring at him with a stunned expression on his face. Archie did his best to grin it off, taking his hand away. Thankfully, a swell in the chorus below saved both of them from a response.

Archie turned his attention to the maindeck, where amid the lantern light and under the shadow of the sails, the off-watch huddled with their beer, singing merrily out to the stars

We’ll rant and we'll roar like true British sailors,
We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas,
Until we strike soundings in the channel of old England,
From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues.

“Good god,” Archie laughed at the scene and the absurd memory it brought to mind, of Sawyer in a straightjacket serenading their Spanish prisoners. Yet these men were hardly laudanum-doused lunatics, and the enthusiasm of their words was enough to sober him. Every sailor knew why men sang this song.

He caught sight of Bracegirdle in the shadows a moment later, making his way up the ladder. Archie crossed the deck to join him at the rail.

“It seems your men are eager to go home, sir.” He smiled down at the crew, the word striking a chord of longing in him as well. He had not seen London in two years.

The older man nodded. “They’ve done their duty, my lord,” he replied and then lowered his voice. “And what of you, Archie? What will you do once you’re on English soil again?”

The question hung in the air a moment, no idle query. Archie gazed starboard out over the rolling dark water. Chances of finding Horatio in England would be slim, and there was his family to face, his father who would likely hear news of his death before Archie could reach London. His family would understand eventually of course, once he explained well enough, but anything beyond finding Horatio or going home seemed too enormous to consider.

“I’m afraid I’ve given it precious little thought, sir,” Archie answered after a moment.

“Well, no use in troubling yourself tonight. You look dead on your feet, if you’ll permit me to say so.”

Archie grimaced with the understanding that he was gently being ordered back to bed. He was not put off by it – he had seen enough of himself in the shaving mirror to know that he looked far from the picture of health these days. With a small nod, he straightened from the rail. He was exhausted, but doubted he would sleep any time soon.

“I’ll bid you goodnight, then, sir, Mr. Wellard,” he called back over his shoulder before he began to walk away, and then stopped at the edge of the companionway when Wellard called after him.

“Sir . . .”

Archie turned. The younger man moved toward him, drawing something out of the pocket of his coat.

“My duties keep me busy enough, sir,” he explained as Archie held out his hand, taking the small, leather-bound Shakespeare that Wellard offered him. “Perhaps having something to read will keep your mind off him, sir,” the younger man suggested all too gently, too knowingly.

Archie blinked; was his heartache so obvious? He drew in a breath, feeling the loneliness tugging at his body, at his heart, as neither the illness nor the pain ever had, and supposed it was. God help him; Wellard must fear he meant to throw himself in the sea out of pure despair.

“Perhaps,” Archie replied faintly, looking down at the book in understanding. His own words came back; It will help to keep your mind off the pain. He grinned ruefully, never imagining that matters would be reversed between them, in a fashion anyway. “Thank you, Mr. Wellard,” he said softly. “Goodnight.”

3.

By the time they were three weeks out of Kingston, the deck stayed reasonably cool as late as the forenoon watch, though the sun was still warm enough to dry Archie’s short-cropped hair. He lounged there in his shirtsleeves with Wellard’s book across his knees, poring over the lines of Hamlet as though the for the first time.

The midshipmen studying for their examinations had offered him their own books in good humor, after he had teased from one a laughable explanation of shortening sail, biting his tongue to keep from giving a good lesson on tacking and wearing. Archie could not help but pity these young men, these children, so eager to gain commissions and yet so ignorant of the fact that the Admiralty might one day prove more vicious to them than the enemy. England needed her Navy to protect her shores, of course, and glory would always seduce the young, but to think of any of these men under a captain like Sawyer . . . .

A call of “sail ahoy!” disrupted the thought. Archie reached for his spyglass out of habit, but no longer carried one, of course, and had to settle for glancing up at the crosstrees where the lookout was perched.

“Where away?”

The shout came from Wellard this time, officer of the watch this morning. The lookout pointed larboard, and Archie turned to see Wellard cross the deck, stopping half a fathom from where Archie sat to focus his glass in that direction. Anxiety settled in Wellard’s features, and Archie wet his lips to see it, but the approach of another midshipman kept him from asking what only an officer had right to.

Young William Dawson discerned Wellard’s unease straightaway. “What is it?” the other man whispered in a tight voice, fidgeting with his hat a moment before following Wellard’s eye.

Lowering his glass, Wellard leaned close to Dawson, extending one pale finger out above the clear, calm water toward the horizon ahead. “French colors, thirty-six guns. She’s a point off the larboard bow and moving fast.”

A prickle of alarm slid along Archie’s spine. She was close and the odds were certainly not in their favor, with only twenty-two guns. The Frenchmen would have the advantage of the wind if this meant action. Silly thought. Of course it would mean action; he had never known a French captain to mean an English ship good will.

His alarm intensified when Dawson angled his own glass in the direction Wellard indicated. “She’s run out her guns. Shall I go aloft for a better look?” Archie burned to shout for him to hurry, but did his best to keep his eyes on his book to conceal the distinct anticipation and dread stirring in his blood now. No landsmen would feel those things, though any man would naturally fear an enemy ship. In any case, Wellard must have nodded, for Dawson could be heard scurrying away in less than a heartbeat.

Only when Dawson was out of earshot and up in the mizzen top did Archie look to Wellard again. The younger man must have felt his gaze, for he turned, his eyes wide beneath his hat, features tight with indecision. Archie wet his lips a second time. “Beat to quarters. You must beat to quarters, Mr. Wellard,” he hissed, too low to be heard across the quiet deck. Wellard no

dded, as if this were the confirmation he had been waiting for. He peered through the glass a bare second more before whipping around.

“Beat to quarters! Beat to quarters!”

The shout spawned an explosion of noise through the quiet morning air. The Marines beat hard on their drums and the Bosun’s whistle screeched across the decks, summoning a stampede from below as the hands clambered up the ladders to their stations topside or on the gun deck beneath. Archie could hear them throwing the ports open, followed by the loud crashing as whatever lay in the way was thrown down into the hold. The alacrity of Bracegirdle’s crew was reassuring at least, much better than Renown’s company, who Sawyer would have had drunk by this hour already.

Bracegirdle emerged from his cabin a scant instant later, hurrying to the quarterdeck rail and taking the glass from Wellard. Archie joined them there, staring ahead, apprehension thrumming strongly through his blood. The enemy was visible to the naked eye now, riding fast downwind just as Wellard had said. Bracegirdle lowered his glass, his mouth tightening.

“She’s a privateer – the Minotaur. Thank God she only has carronades.”

A knot tightened in Archie’s middle, hardly reassured. Any ship with that name begged to be feared. Thirty-six guns of any kind were almost too many for a privateer – such ships were usually little more than brigs with enough cannon to intimidate a merchant vessel. Perhaps she had stripped ordnance from her prizes, or perhaps the simple truth was that the Frogs were growing more dangerous each day. In either case, this did not bode well; Archie was certain of that.

“What do you mean to do, sir?” he asked under his breath. There was little time to lose. What would Horatio do? Something impulsive, no doubt. Archie shot another hurried glance toward the approaching enemy, her sails billowing in the wind. “Sir, we’re heading straight at her. We must fire while we have the chance.”

Bracegirdle shot him a withering look. “A little less like Nelson and a little more like the lubber you are, sir,” he snapped, too lowly for the others to hear.

Archie gritted his teeth, bristling with the familiar anger of being brushed off. But Bracegirdle could not afford indiscretion of course, and so Archie bit his lip, striving for patience. “Sir, we have the advantage of long guns. The bow-chaser might cripple her before she has us in range. A good broadside or two when she’s close enough and you could sink her, or take another prize.”

“She has the wind in her favor.” Bracegirdle rebuffed him more gently this time. “She’s too fast, and we’re outgunned; I won’t risk her firing on us. I’d rather she be out of our path than see all my men slaughtered for a reckless deed. We’ll tack until we’re clear of her. About ship!” He turned to the helm. “About ship!”

The helmsman gripped the wheel, ready to turn it hard leeward. Archie’s fingers clenched into the quarterdeck rail as he whirled to face Bracegirdle again. Bugger discretion; if they left her crew alive to chase them down it could mean death or worse. “Have you ever seen a French prison, sir?” His voice shook with desperation. “Endless marches, near starvation, sleeping on the filthy ground with the rats. For God’s sake . . .”

“All hands to tack ship! . . . Ready about!”

The Bosun’s calls bellowed over the maindeck. A hand tugged at Archie’s sleeve. He and Wellard ducked by instinct to avoid being struck by the boom swinging overhead. The ship steadied after a moment, coming about on the starboard tack, but when Archie gazed toward the starboard beam, where the Minotaur should have been, he saw only a cloud of smoke and then a bright flash before the deafening blast of her carronades thundered through the air.

“Down!”

The cry seemed to reach Archie’s ears too late, but somehow he found himself facedown on the deck, his head spinning with the vague thought that they had not steered away fast enough. The deck shuddered under him as iron crashed through wood, the air thickening with the acrid haze of gunpowder; he coughed as he tried to raise his head again.

When he looked up, Wellard and Bracegirdle were gone. Archie got to his feet, brushing off his trousers. He could hear the commotion on the gun deck beneath, the boys running with cartridges, the loud squeaking of carriage wheels, the quarter-gunners calling orders, and finally Bracegirdle’s sharp command of “fire!”.

The entire ship rumbled as cannon fire rippled below from fore to aft, her timbers creaking with the violent recoil of the blasts. Screams rose from the Minotaur’s decks, and then Archie was sprawled on the planks again as another round of lead flew their way.

The smoke was so thick that when Archie’s eyes darted starboard he saw nothing but a tall shadow rolling toward them, like a phantom eclipsing the sun, ghostly and dooming. He was not a superstitious man – the vague shape of boarding planks told him all he needed to know of their enemy’s intent – and he was not a man to stand about either. As long as there were men to fight they still had a chance

His heart skipped with relief to see Bracegirdle reappear on deck, Wellard at his heels. Archie hastened down the companionway as swiftly as his weak body would allow. He glanced at the men with their weapons, the Marines with their muskets in the tops.

“Give me a sword, sir. I’ll fight.”

Bracegirdle looked at him as though he had grown two heads, and then seized his arm, shoving him in Wellard’s direction. “Take His Lordship below, Mr. Wellard. He’s in no condition for this.”

“Aye, sir.”

Archie seethed as Wellard took hold of him. Were they both mad? The younger man’s grip was surprisingly desperate as Wellard steered him toward the hatchway, and Archie soon realized that Wellard had grabbed him more out of fear than obedience.

Wellard did not let go until they had picked their way through the clutter below and slipped inside Archie’s quarters, bolting the door behind them though that would do little good in the end. Archie rested his back against the wood, struggling to block out the cacophony above, the clang of steel. He ran his tongue over his lips.

“Have you ever seen a boarding action, Mr. Wellard?”

The small, pale-faced man across from him looked to the planks at his feet, forcing his hands to stay at his sides in an effort to stop their trembling. “I scarcely saw the uprising aboard Renown, sir,” Wellard answered in a faint voice.

“Ah.” Archie leaned his head back, striving for something to say, something distracting. “You never forget the first time you see action, Mr. Wellard.” He still had a clear memory of that day aboard the Indie nine years ago, and could almost feel the weight of the cutlass in his hand, the vigor in his blood that had spurred him through the haze of close combat. He could almost see the faces of the men who had fallen under his sword – his first taste of blood and he had liked it, much to Horatio’s alarm. God, he had been so young then, so eager to fight.

Archie blinked to find Wellard staring at him. “What do we do, sir/”

For a long moment Archie did not answer. The noise above was beginning to die down. A shout echoed through the open hatchways, booming and furious, but despite its volume Archie could not make out the words. Wellard heard it too and shook his head.

“Sounds like Richardson, sir.”

The blast of a pistol answered the sound. Archie’s blood grew cold under his skin. “Officers! They’re shooting officers!” His eyes fell frantically upon Wellard’s blue jacket. “You must take that off!”

Wellard, too, regarded him as if he’d gone mad, touching a hand to the breast of his jacket, scandalized at what Archie was suggesting. “The Captain would have to hang me for it, sir!” he cried.

Archie drew a breath to collect his wits and then stepped away from the door. “You’re right,” he sighed, “too bloody right. I’ve no idea what I was thinking.” The Articles forbade cowering in battle. Archie sat down on the hammock, curling his fingers into the bedding. “Poor Mr. Bracegirdle . . .” His tongue darted over lips again; they were painfully dry and his stomach was turning. “I couldn’t bear to see him come to harm.”

“I know, sir.” Wellard’s voice was soft with sympathy. “But –“

The pounding of feet outside the door stopped their talk. The harsh shouts of the enemy echoed through the passageways; no doubt the French were rummaging through storerooms and scouring down in the orlop, searching for anything valuable Eurydice might carry. They would find only gunpowder and shot in this case, or food and medical supplies – all vital, but hardly warranting the fierce shouts and struggles as more privateers fought their way below as though anticipating gold or better.

Archie scarcely got to his feet before their own door rattled. He and Wellard glanced at each other, and then found themselves faced with two scruffy Frenchmen as the door crashed open wide. The men had pistols in their belts and cutlasses at the ready.

“Qu’est ici?” The Frog on the right-hand side of the door demanded. Archie clenched his teeth to be cornered in this tiny cabin, with nothing for a weapon but his bare hands. He doubted he could get close enough to strangle either Frog without having his head lopped off or a bullet lodged in Wellard’s heart for his trouble.

For a moment Archie stared at the enemy while his mind worked for words, all too aware of how closely Wellard pressed at his side, of how afraid he was. Damn it, the lad expected him to do something.

Archie vaguely recalled the story Horatio had told him of losing La Reve years ago, of Katherine Cobham and her ingenious idea to hide Horatio’s dispatches in her garter. She had not been taken prisoner by the Spanish, but, as a civilian, had been provided passage home. That would not work this time, however – these were privateers, not men bound to the laws of war as Navy captains were, and what was more, in Archie’s experience the Spanish were more merciful than the French. Appealing to these men’s honor now was not likely to work. Appealing to their greed, however . . . .

“No need for brute force, gentlemen,” Archie held up a hand, palm out to show he meant no threat, speaking in careful French. “I’m worth more to your captain alive, certainly.” It rankled, the thought of paying these bastards, but greed was a universal vice and ransom money was unlikely to go refused.

Both men surveyed the fine suit of clothes Bracegirdle had procured him at some point while in Kingston and decided to take him at his word. Then their eyes shifted to Wellard, who swallowed hard and stared at his feet. A poor move, for his fright only put a sickly gleam in the second privateer’s eye, intriguing the man in the way that vulnerability always enticed the wicked.

The man stepped forward, raising his cutlass and dragging the point across Wellard’s smooth cheek. “Jolie,” he all but purred. His eyes flicked to Archie, a dark and distinct glint of malice in their depths. Archie met the Frenchman’s gaze, seizing Wellard’s shoulder in order to keep him from falling forward on the blade in his terror. This man had pirate writ all over him.

Archie bit inside his cheek against a surge of violence, wanting to snatch that sword and run the bastard clean through. Yet he could not afford such a foolish move and instead made himself promise calmly, “a great deal of money, from noble relatives in London.”

“Arête,” the first man snapped to the other. The second lowered his blade to the apparent satisfaction of the first. Wellard nearly fell back into Archie’s arms, his face white as milk. Archie rested his hands on Wellard’s shoulders to steady him.

“On deck,” the first man growled, awkwardly pronouncing the two English words. “Vite.” He patted the pistol at his belt to make plain the price of disobeying. Archie sucked in a breath, gently pushing Wellard forward to follow the two Frogs out of the cabin. After all, what other choice did they have?

Blood and carnage awaited them above. Bodies littered the deck, some maimed and tangled, some still writhing, groaning and choking in the clearing smoke. Archie spied men with bullet wounds such as the one he had received aboard Renown and brushed a hand over his side in empathy. These men would die here, and with no dear friend to hold them through the pain as Horatio had held him. Archie glanced away, over to the larger vessel laid alongside theirs. Men lay dead on her decks too, shot down. A fierce battle must have been waged between the men in the tops.

When Archie returned his attention to his own ship, seeking out particular faces, he caught sight of Bracegirdle for the first time. His old friend was sprawled at the foot of the quarterdeck ladder, blood leaking from a wound in his leg. Archie went cold, his stomach twisting, but for the moment allowed himself to be heartened that the surgeon was with him and that Bracegirdle appeared pale but alert.

Richardson’s body was not far from him, his head lying in a pool of blood and worse. Archie had the sickly suspicion the man had been made an example of – if the horror writ upon the faces of the officers was any indication.

What remained of the ship’s company stood amassed on the maindeck. The officers stood with the gun crews, dirty with powder, the midshipman and Marines scattered among them, stripped of their arms. And beside him Archie could feel Wellard, silent and tense at his shoulder, though the boy had no firsthand knowledge of what was to come.

Archie tried not to think of that, focusing on the scene before him.

The privateers kept them heavily under guard – armed with muskets, swords, axes and pikes – their eyes watching for a hostile movement as Eurydice’s company turned toward the figure emerging from Bracegirdle’s cabin, surveying them over the quarterdeck rail. Archie took him for the Captain. Not a large man, not anyone physically imposing – though the deadly efficiency of his men erased any doubts as to how dangerous he was. Strangest of all was the mask of black silk obscuring his face, along with a neat growth of beard.

The man had no words for the crew he had captured, not even a name to be called by, though in truth Archie did not expect such things. The masked privateer only rattled off orders in rapid French, selecting his prize crew. His men shifted their weapons on command, ushering their captives across the long boarding planks. Archie attempted to steel himself, his heart pounding as he moved. It seemed too cruel, too surreal, being taken as a prisoner of war a second time.

**

After his first experience in captivity eight years ago, Archie had never been able to feel at ease aboard a French vessel, even a prize. This experience was no different; the same sense of powerlessness, the knowledge that worse was to come, harried him with all too familiar ruthlessness. Their captors had separated the officers from the men, stuffing the former in small storerooms throughout the ship. Archie suspected this to be more a precaution against an uprising by depriving the men of leadership than honoring rank. A wise enough move on their part, he supposed, and lucky for the officers. None of them need fear smothering to death in the cramped, overheated hold. Rather an undignified end for high-and-mighty fools such as Harlow. As a gentleman and a passenger, Archie had been allotted such quarters in a storeroom for’ard on the lower deck, separated from Bracegirdle by a guarded passageway. The Frogs allowed him to keep Wellard – either out of pity, or hope that Archie would make good on his promise of ransom and add an unharmed midshipman’s worth to the sum. He would wager the latter, given that a privateer earned no pay save for his share in the prizes he captured and would therefore be hungry for a fat share of ransom money.

Ransom was only a last resort, of course, and – considering his supposed death and false identity – would be a complicated venture to arrange, though not impossible. And of course if it came to that Archie would secure Wellard’s freedom as well.

His young friend had kept unnervingly silent since their surrender hours ago. He sat with his back against the bulkhead now, long arms hugging his knees, his face blank. Archie had no words to cheer him – he had nothing but his own melancholy thoughts that would only worsen the younger man’s fears – and so he rose and went to the door of their cell.

The guards did not object when he asked to see Bracegirdle – after all, what danger could the two of them pose in their condition? They ushered him into an equally tiny storeroom, faintly lit by the lantern light seeping through the narrow cutout in the door.

The surgeon had come and gone – Archie wondered if the privateers had not demanded his services for their wounded – but Bracegirdle was still awake. The older man turned his head toward him at the sound of the door slamming shut.

“Archie . . .” he murmured faintly from his makeshift bed of old blankets and sailcloth. Archie stepped around him, dropping to his knees between two empty wooden barrels and settling beside him on the floor

“How are you, sir?” He looked over the bandage wrapped tight around Bracegirdle’s right calf. The blood had soaked through the cloth, but no odor of infection lay in the air.

Bracegirdle frowned, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes were sunken. He seemed to have aged since this morning. “The Surgeon has dug out the ball. He expects it will fully heal, though he warns me it will be some days yet before I walk again.”

“Mm,” Archie nodded. To be expected, though that would delay any escape plans on their part. From the grimness of Bracegirdle’s tone, Archie suspected that was precisely what weighed on the man’s mind. He sighed. But there were more immediate concerns at present than escape, he supposed.

“I have laudanum, sir.” Archie patted his coat pocket, where he kept the small bottle the Surgeon had given him. He had not touched the stuff in days. “It will help you through the night.”

Bracegirdle only gave him a wry smile. “I may be wounded, but I intend to keep my wits about me.” Again, Archie nodded, relieved to hear that he was not the only one who intended to stay vigilant. Yet after a moment, the older man’s smile slipped away, an odd despondent echo entering his voice. “A fine pair we make. I’ve lost my ship and you your good name.” He tried to chuckle, but his heart was not in it.

Archie licked at his lips, staring down at his friend. There was little he could say, little consolation he could offer. But Bracegirdle had done so much for him; he must try to ease the shame somehow. He knew too much about shame and the damage it could do to a man’s mind.

“Sir . . .” He swallowed against the burning in his throat – it hurt to see his usually cheerful friend this way. “Forgive me for behaving as I did this morning on deck. I meant no disrespect – as little as a mutineer could mean anyway,” he amended ruefully. “Perhaps if I had not argued with you, we would have had the time we needed to get out of range.”

The apology hung in the air a moment, and in that moment Archie feared a strong rebuff that it was too little, too late. But in time enough Bracegirdle reached out and touched his arm. “There’s no need,” he assured quietly. “I should have listened to you. The impulsiveness of youth has it merits, if your particular friend is any example.” They both smiled at that, briefly, before Bracegirdle went on. “Forgive an old man’s caution, and pray the Admiralty is as merciful.”

Yes, Archie scowled; Bracegirdle would have to face a court-martial for losing his ship. He had not thought of that. “Sir, you can hardly be blamed for considering the safety of your crew. The fact is we were overpowered. In all probability, any course of action on our part would have ended the same.”

The Admiralty would hear it differently, of course, vicious dogs that they were. And of course Bracegirdle would have to survive prison in order to stand trial. A wounded man had little chance, even for the short time until he was exchanged. The French had already thrown the severely wounded over the side; Archie could still see them in his mind, their blood reddening the water.

He met Bracegirdle’s eyes, trying to convey hope nonetheless, and an understanding passed between them that it might prove best to change the subject.

Archie caught sight of the fresh bandages the Surgeon had left by the bed. He took one, fidgeting with it for a moment before he leaned forward and tapped the bloodied cotton binding Bracegirdle’s wound.

“You must change this,” he said. “I’ll do it.” Archie reached to untuck the edge of the dirty cloth, unwrapping it as slowly as he could so as not to disturb the wound or cause unnecessary pain.

Bracegirdle paid no mind to his efforts. “It’s a pity you’ll never make Captain,” he mused. “We’ve all seen what you’re made of.”

Panic and foolishness, no doubt. Archie bit his lip, letting the clean cotton slide between his fingers as he wound it tight. He remembered performing this same task for Hunter, in Spain years ago, and with it came the memory of how he had refused to help his shipmates, too caught up in his fear and pain to give Horatio the information he needed to devise a plan of escape. At the time he had not really wanted Horatio to escape, had not wanted the heroic Horatio Hornblower to succeed where he had failed. Good God, what he would give to have Horatio here with one of his ingenious plans now.

“Captaincy is the last thing I want,” Archie shook his head. “A part of me finds my curious predicament a blessing in disguise. Nothing is expected of me anymore, you see? I know it’s cowardly, but I do only want to go home.”

He finished with the bandage and sat back on his heels. Bracegirdle was watching him, and after a moment the older man laid a hand on his arm. “You’ve always been brave – even when I first saw you. No one expects to find a man two years a prisoner at the prow of a rowboat in a raging storm.”

Archie could not help but laugh. Had that been Bracegirdle’s first sight of him? He had been half asleep and still ill when they had spied the Indie that morning. “I had precious little time to weigh the dangers, sir.” He shrugged off the memory, and then wondered if Bracegirdle had brought this up with their freedom in mind. Perhaps the man only sought to bolster his courage. “It hardly matters,” Archie went on, his thoughts turning down the path of escape once more. “I doubt we’ll be so lucky this time. But the Captain . . . why is he masked?”

In all likelihood that was an insignificant detail. Bracegirdle seemed to agree, shaking his head against the rolled up jacket serving as his pillow. “Perhaps he’s disfigured, or an escaped mutineer turned traitor. I’ve heard such things are common.”

Archie frowned, wishing he had not asked the question. Was that the only choice left for a man running from the noose? He shook off the thought.

“We must do something. Wellard’s frightened. Every man must do his duty, Mr. Bracegirdle.”

The older man looked at him, his eyes all too perceptive, though tired. So tired. “Even if he only narrowly escaped the noose the last time he tried?”

“Yes, Mr. Bracegirdle . . .” Archie wet his lips. “If he wants to stay alive.”

**

His own quarters were far darker when he returned to them, not so well situated under the light as Bracegirdle’s. He was only able to see the small shape of Wellard curled on the floor against the bulkhead, and that of another barrel leaning against the opposite wall.

Their captors had tossed each of them a blanket at least. Archie spread his on the floor, before shrugging out of his jacket and sitting down, starting on his boots. He had his coat rolled into a suitable pillow and was ready to lie down when the shape beside him sat up in the darkness.

“Sir . . .” Wellard did not sound at all sleep-ridden, drying the apology on Archie’s tongue for disturbing him.

With a sigh, Archie sat up too, pushing the hair out of his eyes and turning toward the younger man. “Mr. Wellard, why are you still awake?”

“I couldn’t sleep, sir,” Wellard confessed in a low voice, as if his unease were shameful. Archie sighed again; there was no need for shame. No one could expect a boy so young as Wellard to be anything but frightened in these circumstances.

“It’s all right.” Archie crawled over to him, leaning back against the bulkhead and patting his knee. “Lie down.” Good God, he was only a child.

Wellard hesitated and then took a little longer than necessary settling into his lap, warm against him and pressing close, as eager for the contact as a cold kitten. Archie smoothed his glossy dark head and his narrow shoulders in an effort to soothe him. He thought he had succeeded, until Wellard shifted in his lap a moment later, rolling to face him in the near darkness.

“Prison, sir . . .” He spoke up suddenly, yet with the sound of longsuffering contemplation – a whole day’s worth. “How did you survive?”

Surprised, Archie’s hand halted on Wellard’s back, too used to assuming that everyone knew the tale of how they had escaped in the storm, of how Horatio had nursed him back to health after that foolish attempt at suicide. To speak of how he had given up would hardly be encouraging, and had more to do with what he feared aboard the Indie than anything that had happened during his captivity. But he had survived an entire two years before Horatio had turned up in Spain, two years that Archie thought on as little as possible.

“One day at a time, Mr. Wellard,” he said flatly, “just as you would.”

Wellard nodded, seeming to appreciate that Archie had answered him as one man to another, and not with lectures of valor and duty. But a man who knew firsthand that duty did not feed you, free you, or keep you warm did not talk that way.

“I’ve heard of captives made to march the whole of France, “ Wellard went on. “They say the journey takes longer than a hundred days and that it’s cold enough to freeze a man’s feet off. They say the journey’s marked with hundreds of bloody footprints in the snow. Is it all true, sir?”

Letting his hand fall from Wellard’s body, Archie swallowed hard. “Yes, it is true, Mr. Wellard.” He saw no use in lying, nor did he see any use in adding that the cold was not the worst of it. The burning Mediterranian sun could be just as brutal; he had watched many men fall from heatstroke and thirst, never to rise again.

“How do men live through such things?” Wellard pressed in a mix of wonderment and horror.

“One step at a time, Mr. Wellard,” Archie replied in a quieter echo of his earlier answer. “You cannot stop to consider how weary or how cold you are. You must keep on, because you’ll die there if you don’t. I knew my father would never see a son of his give up so easily and so I kept on. You must keep on,” he said again.

“As you did when you walked to court in Kingston, sir?”

Flinching at the memory, Archie nodded. “A bit like that, yes – only with a different purpose in mind.”

Wellard seemed to understand. He smiled a little. “Perhaps if we’re lucky Mr. Hornblower might happen upon us and repay the debt he owes you, sir.”

Archie wanted to laugh, unsure if this was meant as comfort or mere wishful thinking. “I have no delusions of being rescued, Mr. Wellard,” he shook his head. The words rang hollow. His stomach knotted painfully and his heart felt heavy with longing to picture such a scene.

He sought to hide that heaviness behind a cool smile, but perhaps he was no longer the consummate actor many claimed he should be; the dark eyes gazing up at him read the pain in his face all too easily. “Is he your lover, sir?” Wellard wondered in a hushed voice matched to the question.

“Mr. Wellard . . .” Archie tried to sound scandalized, but once again made a poor job of it. Only a man in love would still allow some part of himself to believe, even in these impossible circumstances, that his beloved would come for him.

“He must be an atheist, sir,” Wellard mused, almost as if talking in his sleep.

The strange statement snapped Archie back to his senses. “What?”

A hand came up in the dark, ever so gently brushing his cheek, an almost delirious smile playing about Wellard’s lips. “You look so much like one of God’s angels, sir, it must be blasphemy to lie with you.”

What nonsense. Archie snorted, shaking his head. But the drowsy adoration in those words pierced him, and he clutched at Wellard’s hand, not really pushing it away. He only held it against his neck, hating himself a little for the comfort he took in the warmth of it.

“Go to sleep, Henry,” he whispered to hide the strain in his voice, and then leaned his head back, closing his eyes as something threatened to crumble inside of him.

4. HMS Retribution – February 1802

“What did you think you were doing?” Archie rasped hotly in his ear. If Horatio did not know him better he would think the man furious; his cheeks were aflame and his eyes were gleaming, but not with rage. No, not Archie. “Flaunting your body on deck like that back there. Did you mean to drive me mad?“

Horatio made to answer in his own defense, but only to have his mouth claimed by a pair of hot, impatient lips, closing over his and kissing hard, driving his head into the wooden edge of the hammock beneath him.

“My apologies,” he panted when Archie drew back to let him speak – on his feet but leaning down over him. “I believed at the time such actions were imperative to my staying awake.”

“I see,” Archie nodded, his pink lips curving into a familiar smirk, so endearing that Horatio could not resist running a hand through his tousled gold hair. Archie’s eyes shone a deep sapphire in the meager candlelight, wide and bright in his small flushed face. Dear God, he was so alive and beautiful . . . . Horatio slipped his hand beneath Archie’s uniform jacket, stroking his broad back and sturdy shoulders. So strong and well-made, Horatio smiled, and warm – hot. The heat of Archie’s flesh seemed to burn Horatio’s fingertips through the damp linen of his shirt.

Archie’s body tightened wonderfully under his touch, pressing closer until Horatio had no choice but to spread his knees and anchor himself to his friend’s hips in order to steady the cot. Archie held him securely, hands under his shoulders, ready to catch him should the hammock’s swaying send him sliding to the floor.

“Good to be back in here,” his friend smiled above him, his feigned outrage gone. He slid a hand free, starting on the knot of Horatio’s cravat, fingers working quickly as ever, worming beneath the black silk and opening the first buttons of his shirt. “You’ve no idea how unpleasant it was down there in the hold with Bush watching me dress you. Better to undress you.” Archie’s grin widened. He bent to nip teasingly at Horatio’s throat while his fingers sought the buttons of his waistcoat.

Groaning under the tantalizing scrape of teeth on sensitive skin, Horatio rolled his head back, staring over the golden head of the man who had with only a few kisses rendered him helpless and entirely at his mercy. Ordinarily, Horatio would not have been able to stomach the vulnerability of being flat on his back, so thoroughly pinned by another’s body that he could scarcely free his hands. But with Archie, he only felt a pang of nervousness that the latched door with his seachest shoved against it would not be enough to bar them from discovery. His hand tightened, tangled in Archie’s hair, prompting his lover to pull back.

“I daresay it would be unwise to remove too much,” Horatio cautioned once he had Archie’s attention. There was always the chance they would be called on deck, or to the Captain’s cabin again tonight.

Tilting his head to a haughty angle, Archie scoffed at him. “A fine thing for you to say, Mr. Hornblower,” he rolled his eyes, “paragon of modesty that you are.” But after a moment Archie left off the buttons, knowing too well the danger of what the two of them were about. “Not to worry, Horatio.” A warm hand brushed a few unruly curls from his forehead. “You must trust me.”

The calming gesture, coupled with that soft voice, sobered Horatio’s passion for a moment, replacing it with a surge of tenderness at the way Archie – who by rights had all cause not to want another’s hands on his body – always took such care to soothe his skittishness and anxiety. Horatio swallowed hard, raising his eyes to meet that blue gaze mere inches from his.

“Archie . . .” he began in a strained voice. “Forgive me – that you were caught in the Captain’s wrath, that is,” he rushed to add when Archie quirked a thin eyebrow in puzzlement.

The words felt wholly inadequate. Horatio had seethed to see his friend – fully clothed and possessed of all the dignity of his station – punished for his own stupidity in playing water games with the crew. Let Sawyer clap him in irons should his own actions warrant it, but Archie was both a well-liked and prudent officer – so long as he and Bush were kept apart. The Captain had more than proved his madness by keeping Buckland on deck instead of Archie.

Archie took his apology in stride as he did everything else, as if that small disgrace were nothing. True to form, he was clearly more interested in the proceedings at hand. “Better than being on the quarterdeck with Buckland,” he scoffed. His hand trailed down, absently plucking open the buttons of Horatio’s breeches. Horatio’s breath tangled in his throat, writhing a little in anticipation as Archie caressed and talked. “I fear I’d have shot the fool for not acting when he had the chance – before we were run aground.”

“The men would have followed you,” Horatio protested. They always had, even in Muzillac, when his own blindness had left Archie in command long before he was recovered enough to accept such a burden. His courage . . . . It was difficult to assure him convincingly, however, with Archie taking him in hand and stroking firmly, leaving his throat dry with need.

“Shh.” Archie bent close again, claiming his mouth and ravaging him with lips and tongue until Horatio found himself too thoroughly kissed to breathe, let alone able to sustain a rational thought. “All that’s done now, Horatio.”

“Nonetheless,” he replied once he could think again, freeing his hands to stroke across his friend’s wide shoulders, admiring their strength, “my body is forfeit.”

Archie kissed him again, more slowly this time, withdrawing his wicked hand and grinding his body close between Horatio’s legs. Horatio groaned at the hard heat of him, shifting impatiently under Archie’s weight. Surely Archie would accept his recompense and not draw this out. They could not expect the adjoining Wardroom to be deserted for long. “Stand up.” The or

der came without preamble. Archie straightened, pulling Horatio up too, steadying him by the hips while Horatio’s feet regained the floor. His head spun, dizzy from the sweltering Indies’ heat and the arousal flooding his body, scorching him until Horatio thought his flesh would melt.

Somehow, Archie managed to discard his jacket before returning his hands to Horatio’s hips. Horatio’s trousers came down, Archie’s palms like two irons where they smoothed over his cool, sweat-soaked backside, and then once the obstacle of trousers vanished Archie had him on the cot again. Horatio instantly yanked him closer by two fistfuls of linen, pulling the shirt from Archie’s open trousers and groping for bare, beloved flesh. One fleeting touch and Archie shuddered, and in response Horatio felt his body twitch, his aching flesh crying now!

“Go on,” he urged, and then closed his eyes, his pulse rising at the sound of Archie fumbling with a small jar. A silky, slick hardness pressed between his spread thighs, and then Horatio was digging his fingers into Archie’s ribs as his body was wonderfully breeched and filled.

Horatio groaned a little then, biting his lip to keep quiet, liking the slight pain and discomfort, the edge of danger it added to the pleasure. He wrapped his legs tight around his friend’s waist, thrusting up in undaunted need. Archie moved inside him unsteadily at first, half panting, half laughing at their silly position, but when Horatio seized the back of his neck, demanding his mouth, Archie regained control of himself, thrusting deep again and again, sliding relentlessly against that spot inside of him until the pleasure built, exploding between them both.

He held Archie to him for long moments after the tumult subsided, stroking his lover’s hair while the two of them gasped for breath. Archie’s passion was so untempered, so overwhelming that Horatio almost felt he had been dragged behind a wild racing chariot and had only by a miracle survived the ride. Yet Archie was so loving, affection and concern clear in his eyes as he finally lifted his head, wiping the sweat from Horatio’s brow with the back of his hand.

“Are you all right?” His lover laughed his familiar gentle laugh, somehow finding the strength to turn them both so that Horatio was lying the right way on the cot, his head against the pillow. Horatio nodded, stretching out his sore legs and slapping one palm against the bulkhead behind him to steady the hammock so that Archie could climb in too.

After Archie settled at his side, Horatio dropped his head upon his strong sticky chest, listening to Archie’s breathing lull from erratic heavy gasps to a quiet steady rhythm. Both the earlier battle and their coupling had left Archie understandably exhausted – Horatio could feel him sinking into a contented slumber already – but Horatio felt strangely rejuvenated by the release of a moment ago. His overactive mind refused to be still.

Propping himself up on an elbow, he stared down into his lover’s face, slack and peaceful on the brink of sleep, like an angel in a painting. He loathed disturbing his beloved, but was struck by a revelation too important for his usual indulgence where Archie was concerned.

“Archie,” Horatio shook one shoulder gently. “Archie, wake up. I think I have it.”

Sandy lashes fluttered. Archie groaned, rolling away on the pillow in protest.

“Archie . . .” Horatio tried again in a gentler, more wheedling tone, this time pressing a light kiss to one side of Archie’s neck, prompting those blue eyes open a fraction.

His success was all too brief. Archie’s features tensed when no further kisses followed. “Horatio, for God’s sake,” he snapped with genuine irritation. “I’m tired. What do you have?”

Shaking his head, Horatio ignored Archie’s impatience, rather accustomed to it by now. “What if we were to attack the fort? The Admiralty might be more forgiving if we secured a fair enough prize.”

Blue eyes widened with a spark of interest. “Capture the island?” Archie rolled to face him, excited as ever by the prospect of battle. “Well, what have we to lose?”

Sinking down against the pillow, Horatio relaxed beside his lover once more. “Precisely,” he nodded, the plan already forming in his mind. He reached out, resting his fingers on the half-bared expanse of Archie’s chest.

“If I recall the map correctly, we should be here . . .” Horatio tapped a point just over Archie’s pounding heart and then let the tip of one finger disappear under the edge of his shirt, dragging a gentle line over to one nipple, “. . . and would need to move here,” he murmured, beginning to trace a map on his lover’s body.

Horatio opened his eyes, sighing in near physical pain as the memory faded. His hands instinctively reached for Archie’s solid form to cling to, the sense of severance was so great. But he was alone, the creaking of the ship the only sound save for the throbbing of his pulse, pounding with a desire he had no intent to satisfy. The room was overwarm, but he scarcely felt the heat. He had felt little since leaving Kingston.

What have we to lose? Archie’s question echoed through the empty cabin, and for a moment Horatio’s body clenched, unable to bear the emptiness of his bed while the memory of Archie curled snugly against him was still so sharp. The phantom sensation left his eyes stinging. Horatio bit fiercely into his lip in response, afraid that were one tear to fall he would pass the night weeping. He neither deserved nor desired such release as tears could give. The pain was too precious; he must, must hold it inside.

They had lost everything in the end. Everything that mattered. The attack on the fort had made no real difference – Hobbs had still brought charges in Kingston. Horatio had not considered that possibility before, despite the man’s threats. His own ambition to woo the Admiralty had blinded him, made him believe that with a clever enough plan, he could earn even Hobbs’ admiration in the end. A high price had been exacted for that ambition, retribution of the cruelest kind.

The tryst before that mission had not been their last. Horatio closed his eyes again, recalling how he had stayed behind to lay charges inside the fort of their besieged island. He knew he would not die there, too keenly cognizant of Archie’s worry not to somehow find a way back aboard ship. Never had he expected, as he had knelt there in the smoke, to see his friend swagger through the doorway, pistol cocked and cavalier as ever with Bush at his heels.

He had not thanked Archie properly then; there had been no time. Archie and Bush had discharged their pistols and then the three of them had scrambled to outrace the blast. With no escape but the sea, Horatio could not forget the sparkle in Archie’s eyes as he had strong-armed Bush over that cliff. He had been so unfalteringly fearless, bobbing merrily like a dolphin in the water, laughing, as though Renown had not been sailing away, stranding them on an island full of bloodthirsty ex-slaves.

Later, they had secured a few moments from Buckland to change out of their soaked clothes, before Horatio was to take command of the then Gaditana for the first time. Horatio remembered all too clearly pressing Archie against the door of their cabin, both of them giddy from battle, all but tearing the wet layers of uniform from each other’s bodies. Somehow, Horatio had won the upper hand in their tussle, at least for a little while – long enough to make a good show of gratitude for what Archie had done at the fort – before Archie had recovered himself and had him one last time.

One last time, and Horatio could still feel it – the creaking of the cot, wet skin on skin, and the smell of sweat and salt and gunpowder as they rutted together in a frenzy to finish while they had the chance. And then hours later something had happened not according to plan. The Spanish prisoners had fought their way above decks. Sawyer had died, Bush had been wounded, and Archie. . . .

The scene was still so brutally vivid – the scarlet smear on Archie’s waistcoat, seeming so harmless at first until Horatio had seen the sweat on his face, heard the weakness in his voice, and smelled the fresh blood on him. Why had Archie tried to hide the wound, laughing so gallantly at his concern? The burn of the bullet must have been terrible; Archie would never have allowed Horatio to hold in the open otherwise.

Even after all that, Archie had not given up. But of course he would not; Archie would not abandon him to face court-marshal alone – not the man who had returned to prison to spare his honor despite the torment he had endured there, who had outraced a burning fuse to drag him off a bridge in Muzillac, and who had disregarded orders to bring him back alive in Santa Domingo or die with him. His dear savior, his fighting man, defiant to the last, holding off death until he manipulated the events of the trial to be sure the outcome was just as he wanted.

And for what? To have his name slandered by any and all? God only knew what had been done with the body – Commodore Pellew had not provided an answer when asked, and Horatio had locked himself away in a nearby inn, sickened by the possibilities.

Probably they had hanged the corpse as an example of what became of those who defied Nelson’s own and then buried the body in the shallow sand for the crabs to prey upon. The shame would not end there, of course. News would reach England and Archie’s family, and all Archie had done, all Archie had struggled to be, would be forever obliterated by one towering lie – a lie for which Archie had suffered pure physical agony to come forward and give. Dear God, what madness had possessed him to choose this eternal martyrdom?

Take it, and say goodbye.

Take what? His own miserable life that he was all too eager to part with? There was nothing worthwhile in being alone. His career that so far had amounted to naught but an eighteen-gun sloop posted far from the line of battle?

Everything had happened so fast – Archie’s death and his own acquittal and promotion. The only thought to penetrate the utter devastating grief had been that he could not resign his commission there, not yet. Sailing Retribution home was the easiest way out of Kingston. He had to make it out of Kingston, back to England to carry the truth to Archie’s family, before he could leave the Service. Some small, self-preserving part of him even believed the journey would do him good. Sailing a ship was the one thing he could do without thought, his mind free to mourn Archie as he should be mourned – every moment.

That was one reason Horatio feared resigning. Learning a new trade, a new life, might distract him from that grief. Standing alone on the quarterdeck, on this ship they had captured together, made Archie’s loss all the more acute, as it should be. He did not want anything to blur the memories he carried inside or to distance him from the pain.

There was another matter, too; if he climbed high enough in the ranks he might have the power to see justice done someday, to prove that Archie Kennedy was an innocent and honorable man.

Of course the gift of his life – of his career and his honor – would still have to be earned. Only great deeds could possibly merit the sacrifice Archie had made. But what deed would be great enough? Winning the war perhaps? He could hardly do that here, on orders to hunt down the French privateer Minotaur preying upon supply ships and small fighting vessels in these waters. Was this the great career Pellew fancied for him? Horatio scowled. One meager French ship could not possibly be worth a brave man’s good name.

A knock sounded on the outer door; Horatio bolting upright by instinct, before an angry knot settled in his chest at the disruption. “What the Devil is it now?” he snapped, rubbing at his throbbing head.

“It’s Matthews, sir,” the kindly voice of the old seaman echoed from outside. Horatio let out a sigh, climbing down from the bunk and crossing into the day cabin.

“My apologies,” he muttered, “What is it?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but we’ve spotted a sail. We thought it best if you came and had a look. Seems to be French, sir.”

Indeed. Horatio shrugged into his jacket and then opened the door, following Matthews out on deck. It was dark out, save for the lantern carried by his officer of the watch shining like a beacon for enemy eyes. Horatio whirled on the man.

“Put that out, damn you!”

The man obeyed just as someone handed Horatio a glass. Focusing the telescope in the distance, he surveyed the rippling Caribbean water, black as his mood. After a moment, he spied a pale shape against the dusty indigo sky – the square-rigged sails of a ship coming downwind. Her three masts appeared to be of equal height, and in the adequate moonlight Horatio thought he could make out the tricoluer of a French man-of-war.

“She’s coming this way.” Horatio lowered the glass. “To your stations, men!” He climbed the quarterdeck ladder, clasping his hands behind his back, anticipation stirring in his blood for the first time in nearly a month.

5.

“We must do something,” Archie muttered, rolling onto his side and propping himself up on an elbow where he was stretched beside Wellard upon the hard storeroom floor. “If only we could take the ship.”

They had been aboard this accursed vessel a week now, with no idea where they were headed. The Minotaur seemed only to be prowling the waters for further prey, and in the meantime helplessness and inaction were threatening to drive Archie mad.

Wellard turned his head on his makeshift pillow, wide awake but tired. Another sleepless night lay before them, with only so much talking they could do to pass the time. Even Wellard had begun to find him taxing, Archie was sure.

“We’re outnumbered, sir,” Henry frowned, his milky features tight with the same frustrations. They had been over this countless times. “We’d be slaughtered at once if we tried.”

“I know.” Archie sighed, sinking onto his back again and letting his hands fall to his sides. “If only we had fired on them sooner. We might not be in this pickle now.” No, that was unfair. He meant what he said to Bracegirdle days ago. The Minotaur was a powerful ship; any captain would be wise to try and steer clear of her. “And you are right, Henry,” he went on more uprightly. “We must not take mad risks.” He knew firsthand the miserable repercussions of a rash escape attempt.

The reminder was enough to silence them, and they lay absorbed in the difficulties of their situation until a sudden thought from Wellard broke the silence.

“Remember the Spanish ladies aboard Renown, sir? The French can’t be any better.”

Archie remembered well enough, still itching to get his hands around the neck of that blockhead Marine who had fallen for Senora Ortega’s vixen trickery. “I’m hardly in a mood to lift my skirts,” he retorted sourly, his patience crumbling by the minute. But he knew Wellard did not mean that exactly, only that deception was their only hope of fooling the French into freeing their men from the hold. Good god, he was being insufferable, and so made a conscious effort to reason more gently. “The element of surprise does not improve our numbers, Mr. Wellard. I almost wish the Captain would capture another British ship to even the odds.”

He should be shamed to wish capture on any British ship, but really there was no other hope. Wellard was clearly feeling more optimistic however, and said, “I know Mr. Hornblower didn’t plan his attack on Santa Domingo alone, and we had less than twenty men then, sir. And, sir,” his eyes lit up with yet another sudden notion, “if you were to take the ship, the Admiralty might grant you a pardon.”

Archie grimaced. Henry’s faith was touching, and encouraging, but neither faith nor encouragement changed the facts, and what was worse, a new set of fears had been collecting in Archie’s mind.

“Or word may have somehow seeped out that I’ve escaped Kingston. There might be someone aboard whatever ship we signal for assistance who might recognize me and see me hanged. God knows what drawings were made of us when we were brought in. Don’t you understand, Mr. Wellard?” He seized the younger man’s sleeve, staring hard until the hope left Wellard’s eyes. “Captains Sawyer’s good name means more to the Admiralty than one bloody privateer.” Fancies of pardon would only lead Wellard into doing something foolish and compromising.

“Sir . . .” Wellard still had a mind to protest, but Archie did not let him, clenching the soft flesh of Henry’s forearm until the mid winced.

“You do understand that if we happen upon a friendly ship the first thing I will do is try to smuggle you and Mr. Bracegirdle to safety?”

“I would not leave you, sir,” Wellard whispered softly and automatically for Archie’s comfort. Henry’s rich dark eyes reflected the faint gleam of a hanging light outside their door, dancing almost wildly with devotion.

Archie swallowed uneasily, retreating all too quickly to his habit of making light of things. “Come, Mr. Wellard. I’ve heard that one before,” he teased – or thought to, but the jest was not so funny.

It was pernicious and unjust, Archie had told himself many times in the past month, but his humor tonight was hopelessly fettered and angry. Thoughts he had dismissed before as silly or dishonorable seemed to be running amuck in his mind now. It was too easy to see Horatio, leaning over him in the firelight in that damned Spanish prison, his eyes huge and desperate, pleading with him to drink that one cup of water that stood for so much. And it was all too easy to loathe himself for giving in, when Horatio had only ended up leaving him to this anyway in the end.

I won’t survive if you don’t help me. Those choked, shameless words that had beguiled him into drinking – into living – clove him now. Their unintentional falsity wounded most of all; Horatio was surviving at this very moment, aboard Retribution, believing him dead.

He was being ridiculous of course. Horatio would never have left him if Pellew had told the truth. Horatio would have sailed him home and sat vigil through every perilous hour of fever. And Horatio only lived without him because Archie had asked him to. And so much did Archie want to be assured of it that he closed his eyes, eagerly parting his lips when a warm mouth covered his own.

Archie reached out, wanting to feel that familiar warm body clench and tremble under his touch, to feel the power he had over that body and to remind Horatio that he alone could command him, slip past his defenses and win surrender without a fight. But his fingers only found smooth dark tresses, bound and spilling over the shoulders of a body he did not know so well. Delusion slipped away and Archie’s eyes flew open. Henry Wellard’s eyes opened too, impassioned and hungry.

“Sir. . .”

Archie placed his fingers over those coral lips before Wellard could say more. Allowing him to speak seemed too dangerous now.

“I’m obliged to tell you to find a good girl, Mr. Wellard,” Archie tried to smile, tried to deny the disagreeable warmth in his own body and trivialize what had just happened. His fingers slid away, fondly caressing one smooth white cheek to soothe away the nervousness. Henry was so easily frightened. Archie swallowed; frightened too, frightened that something all too fragile lay in his keeping now, something he did not quite want. He did feel affection for Henry, terrible affection, but he did not feel that.

“Aye, sir,” Wellard murmured, low and thick, his eyes bright and glazed. Archie bit into his lip, feeling more trapped by that dark gaze than he ever could by the armed guards no more than three fathoms from their door.

A timely thought; footsteps echoed outside their cell a moment later. Archie glanced toward the door, where a pair of cold gray eyes appeared in the cutout, glaring in at them.

“Vous!” the privateer snapped, wagging a sharp finger through the tiny bars in Archie’s direction. Both he and Wellard sat up, eyeing each other apprehensively as longing vanished from their minds. “Le Capitan voudrais veux parler.”

“Of course,” Archie managed flatly, rising to his feet. He knew well enough what their captain wanted with him and therefore complied calmly as the guards led him away.

The Minotaur appeared slightly smaller than the old Indefatigable, though it was difficult to tell for certain. Privateers had none of the impressive orderliness of a Navy vessel – in terms of tidiness, a French vessel had nothing on a British ship for that matter – and true to Frog form, hammocks were slung every which way and cables were coiled haphazardly, making the ship seem more cramped than she was.

He only noted these things out of a need to soak up every detail of his surroundings. The state of a ship revealed the character of her captain and crew, the nature of the enemy, and he had to keep his mind occupied with plotting at least a hypothetical escape. Archie mapped more important details as well, the location of hatchways, doorways, the number of sentries guarding them, bespeaking the importance of each one. He noted the faces of the men in their beds, whether they seemed tense and distantly alert in their sleep or if they appeared wholly relaxed, deaf and dumb to danger.

By the time the guards led him across the gun deck, Archie was confident he had a good image of the ship’s layout imprinted in his mind. He put those thoughts aside however when he climbed the hatchway into the sweetness of the open air. The night was cool, the fresh breeze itching his unshaven cheeks and tickling his skin. Archie scratched at the stubble there with a frown, wishing for a razor, but forgot that too when he gazed out at the quiet deck and noted with interest that the Captain only kept a handful of men on duty at night. Archie would have to report that information to Bracegirdle tomorrow.

His skin prickled when the guards knocked on the door of the Captain’s cabin. Archie could not discern why, exactly – perhaps because he could never quite trust a Frenchman, or because he disliked being away from Wellard and Bracegirdle. It did not matter. He could not afford to lose his wits now.

“Entrez!” A low voice barked from within. One of the guards opened the door, ushering Archie inside.

The Minotaur’s captain stood facing him on the other side of a dark mahogany table positioned horizontally on the right side of the cabin. His writing desk lay to the left, cluttered with papers, against a backdrop of deep red velvet where the curtains were drawn over the stern windows. A sleeping cabin lay to Archie’s right, and one glance proved it to be quite deserted, satisfying him that they were alone.

The Captain himself was a small man, scarcely taller than he, and quite thin in a fine black coat relieved only by his frilled cravat. He wore no wig, bearing a cap of blonde hair to the candlelight, but his face remained obscured by his beard and that silk mask. A pair of blue eyes regarded Archie coolly from behind it, slightly out of focus – the scent of wine on him betraying the reason, though the Frenchman seemed quite in command of himself when he spoke at last.

“You will forgive the late hour, monsieur.” The man did not make it a question. “The week has been long.”

“Of course,” Archie nodded, in no mood for pleasantries. His captor seemed to sense this, speaking more to the point.

“You told my men that you were worth money.” He smoothed his coat and then clasped his hands behind his back. The hilt of a knife caught Archie’s eye, peeking out from under his waistcoat, inside his trousers. It was the only weapon the man seemed to wear.

Archie returned his gaze to the Captain’s face. “I did, sir,” he replied in a level tone. To show any fear now would only give the man more power over him than he already had.

The Frenchman’s mouth twisted amid that hedge of beard. He moved from the table over to his writing desk, laying a finger upon the open page of what appeared to be a log.

“Very interesting, monsieur, considering the Eurydice’s books make no mention of a ‘Mr. Carlyle’. I would think the presence of a nobleman’s son very official. ” The man straightened, his eyes taking on a malevolent cast behind his mask. “I do wonder, monsieur, how a man your captain did not see fit to mention would manage to come by such a sum as I would ask. Perhaps you are not who you claim.”

Cold dread washed over him. Archie straightened. In all likelihood Bracegirdle had acted wisely, but if this man were to mistake him for . . . . “The fault of the clerk, certainly,” he said with as much conviction as he could muster. “My presence was more of an afterthought – a favor, you see?”

Leaving the books, the Frenchman moved toward him, hands behind his back, his steps measured and careful as if to convey a threat with his demeanor that his stature could not. “I do hope so.” He cocked his head to one side, smiling darkly. “I have little time for charlatanry, monsieur. Understand it will not go well with my men should your offer prove false. Therefore I suggest you provide me with a means of collecting on this sum. After all . . .” the Captain stopped less than a foot from him, ”if you’re of no importance or military value, then your countrymen will hardly miss you at the bottom of the sea.”

No military value? Archie wanted to laugh. He was an undead lieutenant who had been hacking up Frenchmen since seventeen. But the Captain did have him on a point. What was worse, even if he reached their destination alive – likely Martinique or Guadeloupe – and was released as a civilian and not taken for a spy, he would have no means of securing passage back to England.

Ransom was the only sensible way out, though he loathed to lay such a request upon his family, even from the finances he had signed over to Fiona in Kingston. Years ago, as a prisoner of war, he would rather have died than write a ransom letter, though it had been his right as a gentleman to do so. The idea smacked distastefully of giving up.

Seeing his indecision, the Captain stepped closer, mouth curving into a cruel sneer. “You will of course include a thousand pounds for your pretty boy’s freedom.” Again, this was not a question. “Or perhaps I must tie him over the capstan and let a good dozen of my men have a turn with him before you are convinced this is no place for a little boy.”

The filthy son of a bitch. Archie’s blood raged, the image of that dog with his sword to Wellard’s cheek flaring to mind again. But before he could respond, a knock sounded on the door, followed by a flood of rapid French.

“A sail! English colors! Eighteen guns!”

Eighteen? Archie shook his head. She hadn’t a chance. Her crew would be wise to strike her colors before she took fire, particularly when doing so might mean prize money for them in the end. He bit into his lip to keep from smiling as the Captain rose and opened the door, snatching up his glass.

Following as far as the doorway, Archie stared out starboard where a two-masted shape beat to windward in their path, her sails almost an incandescent blue in the moonlight. She lay nearly in range of the Minotaur’s carronades, but far enough to give the Frenchman time to order his crew to their stations.

The Captain lowered his glass, turning to one of his men at the starboard rail.

“Wake the men and run out the starboard guns,” he snapped. “I mean to have her.” He seemed to realize Archie was behind him, for he turned around and asked in quiet English, “You know of her, monsieur? She’s one of yours – the Retribution.”

Retribution. The name struck Archie like the aura before a fit, filling him with elation. Horatio. All at once he felt like Moses witnessing the parting of the Red Sea. Mercy at last, and only his grip on the doorframe kept him from dropping to his knees in the face of it. He was so intent on thanking Heaven and all the stars that he did not realize the Captain was staring at him.

“If you anticipate company then I will have to disappoint,” he warned in a low cold voice. “It would be foolish to have more prisoners aboard than crew. If that ship so much as fires a shot I’ll have my men kill them all.”

The threat sliced through Archie’s relief like a cannon ball through rigging. His panic mounting, Archie’s eyes darted starboard again, where Retribution was coming nearer. He thought he could hear a sound carried by the wind – a familiar voice shouting, commanding, readying his crew for battle. Horatio would never surrender without a fight; his honor could not abide it. Archie wet his lips, his fingers shaking against the wood. He must stop the Captain from giving firing orders to his men.

The Frenchman seemed to have forgotten him, turning on his heels and stalking past him into the cabin. Archie watched him open the drawer of his writing desk, pulling out a pair of pistols and tucking them into his belt, and then reaching for his hat on the padded bench. The deck at Archie’s back was a scene of chaos, with men running to and fro preparing for action; if he intended to make a move, now was the time.

“Sir . . .” Archie took a step forward, reaching for the handle of the door, pulling it shut behind him. “On the subject of ransom . . .”

The Captain straightened at the word, but did not turn around, perhaps waiting for Archie to finish. He did not; he could only think of Horatio and the Captain’s threat – thirty-six guns to Retribution’s eighteen, and no quarter. Archie pulled his hand from the door, his heart pounding as he lunged to take the Frenchman by surprise while he had the chance.

~

“Damn, damn, damn,” Horatio swore under his breath, staring out through his glass as the blasted privateer ran out her guns. The enemy had twice their cannon, and given her angle across Retribution’s bows, he had no chance of wearing ship and maneuvering to a safer position.

“We’ve angled the guns as you asked, sir,” Matthews informed, standing on the maindeck beside him. Horatio turned to see the gun-crews ready, awaiting his order to fire. He glanced across the dark water at their enemy and then to Matthews again. The old seaman wore a worried face. “I don’t think we stand a chance, sir,” he said.

“Don’t let the men hear you, ” Horatio barked in a low voice, glancing nervously across the quiet deck. In a moment like this the loss of morale would be poison. On this small of a sloop it was so impossible not to be overheard that any whisper may as well be bellowed from the quarterdeck.

“Aye, sir.” The older man knuckled his forehead, but his expression remained grim.

Horatio nodded unsteadily and then swallowed hard. A captain must steel himself for the sake of his men, must learn to conceal all doubt and fear. “We have our orders, Matthews,” he tried to say more cheerfully. “Stopping the Minotaur is our duty.”

After another “aye, sir” from Matthews, Horatio turned away from him, lifting his glass and peering through it over the Minotaur’s decks. “What the Devil,” he swore, and then adjusted the glass, following a black shape emerging from what must be the Minotaur’s great cabin. Horatio watched bewildered as the man mounted the quarterdeck. What manner of captain would wait so long to come on deck when battle was imminent?

When the figure passed into a pool of light Horatio saw that his face was dark, at odds with his pale hands. He was masked. The man shouted something in sharp French over the quarterdeck rail and then came to stand at the side, facing Horatio in the moonlight and calling out over the water.

“Rendez a moi! Ou tout le vous mourra!”

The Frogs on deck leveled their muskets with the warning, and beneath them lay the guns ready to fire at the masked man’s command. The bloodshed would be tremendous if the Captain were to give that order. Horatio’s own gun crews would not even have the shelter of a deck above them for cover, and would thus be disadvantaged when it came to taking fire and standing their ground.

“He says to give up now or he’ll slaughter every man jack of us,” Horatio translated to Matthews beside him, aware that the older man was still waiting for him to act.

“What do we do, sir?” Matthews’ voice cracked with fear. Despite himself, Horatio loathed him for that untimely weakness. He had brought the older man aboard for his wisdom and guidance – someone to trust now that he was alone – not to add to the weight burdening him already by reminding him that the decision to fight or cower lay in his hands alone.

A part of him found the prospect of battle appealing. He would die, of course, but he was already so dead inside that the physical passing would be nothing. It would be an honorable death in the line of duty and would satisfy his pride, but how many would he take with him?

Horatio’s eyes swept over the heads of his crew. One hundred and forty-eight men at his call – too many men to die. But even five would have been too many, even one. His idiocy had already led too many others to death – Clayton, Mariette, and more. He could not sacrifice his men for the sake of pride. Too much had been sacrificed for him already to add good men like Styles and Matthews to the butcher’s bill. Horatio stared across the water, where the masked man was waiting, and then lowered his head as he took a moment to compose himself and gather his courage.

“Lower the ensign,” he said at last, looking to nothing but the dark sea. Thank God Matthews did not argue; Horatio only heard his footsteps on the planks as the older man moved to obey.

The rest passed in a blur. Boarding planks were laid, and the masked man came down from the quarterdeck and crossed over to meet him. Horatio bowed his head, his shame too great to look the man in the eye. He reached for his sword and somberly handed it over.

“Captain Horatio Hornblower at your service, sir,” he intoned. A part of him noted dimly that his opponent was smiling, but Horatio thought nothing of it. Probably it was only smug satisfaction for the prize the Frenchman had won.

“Bien,” the man replied, but did not supply a name in return. It did not matter; names made no difference. The Captain only accepted Horatio’s sword in silence before turning to his men, ordering the prisoners taken below.

6.

No more than a half hour passed before Horatio found himself alone. His men were confined to the hold, the masked man was in his cabin with the logs and documents he had collected from Retribution, and the Frogs were below – without so much as a shot fired, there was little to keep them above for long once their prize was secured.

Horatio had been surprised when the masked man ordered his men to leave him free and unharmed. The Articles forbade mistreating captured officers, but Horatio had not expected these filthy mercenaries to have any regard for the dignity of officers. In fact, he had fully expected to be thrown below and stripped of anything valuable, as pirates were said to be ravenous for whatever spoils they could lay their greedy hands on, like carrion to a corpse.

But if his captor wished to play the gentleman, then thank God for small mercies, and for his solitude here in the corner of the enemy’s deserted gun deck. Facing his men now in the wake of defeat would be more shame than Horatio could bear.

Damn it, he should have resigned in Kingston while he had the chance, or refused his promotion at least. What had Pellew been thinking? No one out of Bedlam would have put a man in his state in command – so crushed by grief that he was little saner than Sawyer. But Pellew had not understood that grief, of course.

And now he had failed, lost his ship on his first commission and to little better than pirates at that. His actions would be a great embarrassment to Pellew, who had used his influence to secure his promotion and appointment as Retribution’s commander – Pellew who had always believed in him, who had expected great things from the first.

The dissappointment he would cause his old captain was not the thing that tore at him however. He had always known Pellew’s faith in him was mistaken, that it was only a matter of time before Pellew learned this for himself. True, his sense of honor could not abide repaying years of mentorship and patronage with failure, but he was not likely to see Pellew again for that to matter. The worst was that the end of his life lay in sight now, for he knew even from Archie’s vague tales that he would not survive captivity long. There would be no great deeds, no victories, no fight for justice, not even a visit to Archie’s family. He would repay his dear friend’s sacrifice with a fruitless, pitiful death in prison.

It was no more an end than he deserved, and if God indeed existed then such a fate could only be counted retribution for striking Archie unconscious years ago and leaving him to face capture and imprisonment alone. Horatio had long since pressed Archie for the details of his suffering at the hands of the French and Spanish – every torment and discomfort – that he might understand and somehow ease the pain his actions had wrought. Archie had never shared those memories, of course. Like Simpson, captivity seemed an unspeakable subject. What cruel irony that Horatio would learn this knowledge firsthand at last, but only when such understanding on his part would no longer be of use.

The sound of footfalls from the other end of the deck diverted him from his brooding. Horatio glanced around from his quiet corner toward the hatchway aft, where a square of moonlight illuminated the stair. At the bottom stood the black-clad Captain, still wearing his mask.

Horatio rose to his feet as the man crossed the deck to him, watching in silence as his captor stepped out of the blue-silver light and into the pitch blackness, a mere shadow gliding forward between the rows of neatly housed guns. There was something about this man that compelled Horatio’s fascination; something dreamlike and familiar in the way he moved. Horatio could not take his eyes from him.

Yet it infuriated him to look at this man. Any admiration he felt was no doubt only the grudging respect a gentleman afforded a better commander. This was the man who had forced the shame of surrender upon him before his men, who had sealed his fate for the worst. Horatio loathed him for that more than he had ever loathed anyone, and it was that hatred that took precedence over every other emotion. He pressed his lips into a hard line, staring into the masked face of his captor with unrelenting eyes.

“You have my ship and my sword, sir,” he snapped as the Captain came to stand before him. “What more do you want?”

For a moment there was no reply, and although Horatio could see nothing save the barest outline of his captor in the dark, he sensed a change in the man’s demeanor, as though the Captain were taken aback by his hostility. Horatio’s stomach tightened, cursing his show of indecorum, that he had unwittingly exposed his anxieties to this man.

Warm fingers pressed against Horatio’s lips before he could amend himself. “Shh,” the man whispered, as if to comfort him.

What the Devil? Horatio instinctively recoiled from the touch, but after a moment realized he felt no real alarm. Perhaps it was because he no longer cared what became of him, or because the smaller stature of this man made intimidation difficult. In any case, whatever the man wanted could not be worse than what Horatio had endured already.

Nonetheless, Horatio complied with silence. Perhaps the man had something to say. He must have, to have come to him so purposely. But the man said nothing. Horatio could only hear him breathing in the dark, a labored sound as if he were overwrought or in pain, and he could feel the man’s gaze on him, intense and unflinching as those long frustrating moments stretched. Horatio swallowed hard, trying to find his voice, to wonder aloud how the man who had demanded his surrender so imperiously from the deck of his ship, who had promised him no quarter, could be at a loss for words now.

A hand came to his cheek without preamble, warm, strangely gentle – not the hand of a mercenary killer – and Horatio stood frozen as the masked man slowly, almost covetously, traced the lines of his face. Horatio found himself speechless in the wake of the man’s audacity. No one had dared touch him like that since . . . .

Only one had ever touched him that way.

Horatio . . . He could hear Archie’s voice, sweet and soft, whispering to him from some dark corner of his memory. Horatio leaned his head back, his body wracked with longing.

The gentle hand moved lower, tracing his bottom lip with the pad of one warm thumb before hot, silky fingertips danced their way down his throat where his shirt and stock lay open. Rage burned inside him at the memories that touch continued to evoke, at the way he sighed for them, exposing his need.

Horatio pressed his back against the bulkhead. He knew he should step away from this intimate onslaught and fend the man off, but it was as if the man’s touch had put a kind of heathen spell on him, rendering him immobile.

Perhaps this was how it had happened between Archie and Simpson. Horatio had always wondered how a man like Archie could be overcome. Archie’s touch had always seemed to work strange magic on him, confirming Horatio’s belief that without deep and implacable trust intimacy was dangerous and beguiling. He could only wonder what it would be like to be stripped of the oppressive burden of his dignity, to be conquered by this faceless specter and defeated to the core. Was he to have that knowledge firsthand too now?

Something ignited under his skin as the man’s hand continued down, over his chest, over his heart, raising his blood to a pounding. Fear, no doubt, fear so intense his body could only register it as heat. Horatio was flooded with heat; beads of sweat began forming on his skin in the clammy night air.

Yes, that was what this man must want. To take him and make his victory complete. The fury inside Horatio’s body kindled to a near inferno. Were his ship and crew not enough? His future? Damn the greed of pirates. Must this man also seek to take from him the last vestige of his honor – his fidelity to the only lover he had ever known?

Horatio shook his head fiercely, as if the masked man had demanded his body aloud. If he died with nothing else, no deed to his name to justify what Archie had done for him, then he would die with his loyalty untarnished.

Regaining some semblance of strength, Horatio’s hand came up, seizing the man’s wrist and prying it away. His heart thundered and Horatio could hear himself breathing fast. Reason told him he must flee the stuffy air of the cramped gun deck and the masked man before he went mad, and sucking in a breath to steady himself, Horatio pulled away from the bulkhead, darting across the deck for the hatchway.

Somehow, Horatio gained the presence of mind to drag his confused, pounding body up the stairs. He dropped down onto the quarterdeck ladder, struggling to gather his wits while the cool air dried the sweat on his brow. His hands were shaking against his knees; he needed something, a distraction. Staring out at the sea did not help, not when all he could see was Retribution before him, her colors struck. The sum of all his failures.

When he turned away, he noted that the Minotaur had captured another prize too – a small frigate trailing just abaft her larboard quarter. He had glimpsed her before, aboard Retribution, but had not given any thought to her being a British ship of war. It did not matter; he took no comfort in the fact that he was not the only captain to cower under the Minotaur’s guns.

Taking his eyes away from the water, Horatio reached into the pocket of his coat without really knowing why he chose to punish himself in this way, drawing out the worn leather book he had kept tucked against his breast for the past month now. He carried that book like a family Bible, more for its sentimental significance than any real interest in reading it. The very same Shakespeare that had lain beside Archie in the hospital. The last thing Archie had touched . . . .

Opening it now was like lifting the lid on some Pandora’s box of memory, and as words, scents, images resurfaced he felt like a ghost looking back on his life, watching it from outside a window he could never again reach through.

Horatio blinked, seeing only words again. He tried to concentrate on them, finding it strange that he had happened upon Hamlet, a play about a man many thought mad with grief.

A shadow fell across the pale pages. Horatio turned to see the masked man standing outside the open door of his cabin. A knot tightened inside Horatio’s chest, leaving his throat dry. He could feel the man’s eyes sliding over the words of the play, could sense a certain satisfaction in the man’s demeanor at what he read.

“You must be missing a lover,” his captor observed in clear English, the soft tenor of his voice ringing like chimes in Horatio’s mind. The remark was damning; how did the man know? But even before logic could provide an answer the caution he and Archie had mastered over the years urged him to deny the assumption. After everything else, would he have Archie slandered as a sodomite too?

“A friend.” Horatio’s fingers caressed the cracked leather, a tender, futile touch that would never reach beyond the grave. “A dear friend,” he sighed.

The masked man stepped forward, and when a ray of moonlight struck him Horatio saw that he was fair-haired, his fine, wavy locks short-cropped and windblown. “Perhaps he ran way and became a pirate,” he offered with mischief in his voice, as if the vast grief clawing at Horatio’s heart were a great jest, something that amused and pleased him.

Horatio’s head snapped up in anger, his eyes fixing fiercely on his captor. Archie had never run from anything, not from war or mutiny, and had more honor and courage than all the captains of the Fleet.

“He died in battle,” Horatio growled, as if the force of his voice could wash away his friend’s disgrace. That was how it should have been, if Archie must die at all. He died for me, a voice inside him cried, but those words would not come out.

Perhaps his manner conveyed the truth well enough, in some way easily understood by those more perceptive than he, for the masked man took pity on him. Horatio watched him lower his head, watched the line of his shoulders soften as if he too were weighed down by a great burden that he could not bear any longer.

“No need for sorrow, Horatio . . .” All at once his ruthless captor became nothing but a soft-spoken, melancholy man. Horatio stared up at him in confusion. “We may yet drink Portsmouth dry again, if we hurry. Do you want to?”

Horatio closed Archie’s book in dazed reflex, tucking it back into his coat as if the question had come from it and not the man beside him. His mind reeled with the image of glazed blue eyes and a laughing face. He blinked and looked up again, the words still echoing. The voice was right, the fair hair, and yet . . .

With all my heart, his mind cried belatedly in answer, but his heart had stopped beating.

Numb in the clutches of his madness, Horatio held his breath as the masked man began to walk away, expecting the vision to vanish. But it did not, the man only crossed into his cabin, motioning for Horatio to follow.

Reason fled, and in its absence Horatio rose to his feet, moving after the black-clad figure as if in a trance. He stepped inside the dim cabin, watching the masked man pull shut the door, leaning back against it, staring up at him. Horatio’s breath caught, finding himself gazing into pure blue eyes as he reached up to pull away the mask.

7.

For several heartbeats Horatio stood paralyzed, the black silk falling to his feet, forgotten. All he could do was stare into the face before him, into those eyes – startlingly blue where the dimness of this place had washed away every other color, just like that January morning when that azure gaze had first met his, leading him out of the rain. The very eyes that, in death, had taken the brightness of the world with them.

Death, the word echoed, and logic warned therefore that his own eyes could not be trusted. Many a man had lost his wits to grief, only to be plagued by hallucinations at every turn. Archie’s play and its talk of ghosts must be afflicting his stricken, wretched brain now.

Horatio blinked several times. The image would not fade.

Pale lashes fluttered, and a quick tongue darted out across a shapely mouth – familiar gestures prompting Horatio to study the sight before him in earnest, struggling to apply reason to what he saw. The harder he stared, the less ethereal the vision seemed. The thin body and gaunt features told a tale of long illness, pale where Archie had been golden. With his tousled hair, grizzled beard, and wild eyes the man before him looked as though he had crawled from the grave.

Blue eyes met his, seeming to understand what was wrong with the picture he presented. The figure brought a hand up, rubbing irritably at the stubble along his jaw. “It is me, Horatio.” The familiar voice floated softly to Horatio’s ears, so fragile and uncertain it wrung his heart relentlessly.

“But how . . .?” he demanded, too dumbstruck to finish the question, a part of him fearing that if he spoke or moved Archie would vanish, leaving him here muttering to himself. That had happened often enough in Kingston, in the days after –.

A chill swept over Horatio’s body. Dear God; had he left Archie in Kingston alive?

Horatio did not realize how harsh he had sounded until Archie straightened, suddenly a bundle of anxiety. “I can explain,” he rushed to say, his eyes darting to the mask upon the floor between them. “The Captain, he meant to kill you – all of you. I had to do something. One minute I was standing here, and the next I had my hands around his throat, and it felt good, Horatio. It felt good.” Despite his shaken appearance, Archie’s eyes held no remorse. Remorse was not an emotion that came to Archie easily, a fact Horatio never thought would comfort him, but at this moment his wounded sanity craved any confirmation possible that this man was indeed his lost Archie Kennedy.

“You. . .” His mind could scarcely comprehend Archie’s flood of words. His hands sought confirmation now. But Archie slipped away before Horatio’s numb fingers could reach him, darting for the cluttered desk on the left side of the cabin.

“He has a letter of Marque, I’ve got it here, somewhere,” Archie rifled through the papers there, pushing books aside, a hat, and a sword Horatio recognized as his. Horatio ignored that; Archie’s frenzy tempered his shock like ice to a burn, replacing it with the urge to soothe him, protect him. But from what? “Just a moment, Horatio, I’ll –“

“Archie . . .”

Horatio managed to get the name out at last, a name he had not uttered in weeks. Archie froze, as if startled to hear it. Something broke inside Horatio’s heart then, a wave of pain and tenderness too much for the cold, stoic man in him. He reached out, too overwhelmed to think on what he was doing – that it should not be possible – wrapping one arm and then the other around that too-thin body, clutching Archie against his chest.

Archie sank into his embrace with something between a sob and a sigh. The tension in his body eased, like a fortress crumbling, until Archie lay almost limp against him.

“I didn’t mean to deceive you,” he murmured against Horatio’s chest. “I wouldn’t have fired on you for the world, but I couldn’t very well get those Frogs to surrender, and I thought if I jumped overboard and swam to you one of your people might recognize me – the charge on my head, you understand? – or the Frogs would see what I’d done to their captain and . . . With a hundred-odd hostages – and Wellard and Mr. Bracegirdle – I thought it best to make you come to me. Between your men and ours we have a fair chance of taking them on, Horatio. Don’t you see?”

Through the frantic tumble of words, Horatio made vague sense of the situation. Archie was alive. Archie had saved him. The masked man had been Archie all along. There had never been any danger, any failure, only ingenious thinking on Archie’s part – who was some sort of prisoner aboard this ship.

A prisoner. Oh God . . . .

“It’s all right, Archie,” Horatio smoothed his cropped red-gold hair. “It’s all right.” Damn the French; small wonder Archie was so unsettled. First injury and illness, and now this? Anger curled inside Horatio’s gut. How many calamities must Archie suffer? And this was all his fault for leaving him. Dear God. Horatio sank to his knees, burying his face in Archie’s hair.

He was so intent on clinging that at first he did not feel the tears sliding down his cheeks, soaking into Archie’s hair. But Horatio did not fight them, only clung tighter, remembering the last time he had held him, the thick wetness of Archie’s blood staining the layers of uniform between them, the raw, excruciating fear.

Archie shifted, winding both arms around his neck, embracing him fiercely until Horatio winced at the unaccustomed scrape of stubble against his cheek. “The thought of him . . . that fucking whoreson . . .” Archie nearly shook with anger in his arms.

“Shh,” Horatio whispered. None of that mattered. “Kingston, Archie, I thought . . . how . . .?” The tears were thick in his voice. Archie had been so gravely wounded, so sick, but Horatio had heard of men buried alive by mistake. Christ, why had he not followed when they had taken away the body? Why had be been such a coward?

The tears came harder. He was shaking now.

His pitiful sobbing sobered Archie enough to pull back, holding him at arms’ length. “Horatio, please don’t,” he entreated softly, reaching up to wipe the wetness from Horatio’s cheeks. Horatio lowered his head, loathing himself for the distress his childish bawling had put in those dear blue eyes rimmed with shadows already. He should be gallant. He should snatch Archie up and carry him away, not leave Archie to subdue him like an infant.

“It’s a long story, besides,” Archie deflected his questions of a moment ago, lowering his hands into his lap. “I’m not even certain of all of it myself. But if we don’t get away from this ship soon none of it will matter.”

Nodding, Horatio started to pull Archie to his feet. Archie’s safety was more important than an explanation. Did the particulars even matter? Archie was alive. “We’ll take the jolly-boat and –“

“The men, Horatio!” Archie cut in frantically. “You must think of something.”

Horatio blinked. He had forgotten them, forgotten his ship, everything. His mind lay in a fog. Damn. He released Archie reluctantly, sinking back onto his heels under that expectant blue gaze. “Archie, after all this, I can hardly consider . . .”

“You must,” Archie’s fingers curled into his forearms. Horatio winced, although he found the display of strength reassuring. “The Frogs aren’t stupid, Horatio. It was only the cover of darkness that allowed me to do as I did. Once they learn their Captain is dead they’ll kill us all, starting with me. They’ve got two of our ships – well, Retribution is mine, I suppose,” he amended with an odd smile, “but we have three hundred prisoners in the hold. Mr. Bracegirdle is hurt and by now Wellard must think me dead.”

“Mr. Bracegirdle?” The name tumbled out stupidly, only for Horatio to realize Archie had mentioned him before. But Archie, with his dear saintly patience, wet his lips to explain.

“Pellew agreed to let him spirit me out of Kingston – probably because he did not think I’d survive the surgery.” He made a sour face at that. But then his eyes lit up. “They both know an excellent physician, Horatio. If only I could remember the man . . . I owe the three of them so much, but . . .” Expression softening, he laid a hand over Horatio’s on the desk, “I did not mean to deceive you there either. It was as much of a shock to me to find myself alive. I did fully expect to die.”

Pellew? Horatio paused on the name. His eyes narrowed, an itching sense of betrayal crawling along his skin. Why would Pellew help arrange such a thing and not tell him? He would have entrusted Archie to Bracegirdle, of course, and could accept that sailing home on different ships would arouse far less suspicion. But he could not accept Pellew’s brisk treatment of his grief, nor the brushing aside of the injustice done to Archie as though it were an obstacle to the real business at hand, not while Archie lay severely ill in need of care. Not after Archie had sacrificed everything for him.

Reading the anger in his eyes, Archie gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Later,” he pleaded.

Later indeed. But for the moment Horatio turned to what was more important. “What of this, Archie?” He reached to push aside Archie’s coat to have a look at that dreadful wound. The infection must have faded – Archie was neither feverish nor coughing – but Archie was damnably skilled at hiding his ailments.

Catching his wrist, Archie pushed his hand away. “I’ll be much better once we’re out of here. I promise, Horatio.” He flashed a tight smile no doubt meant to be reassuring, though it only appeared forced.

“Of course,” Horatio nodded nonetheless, rising to his feet, his mind tripping numbly down the path of duty again. This must be hell for Archie, with all his dreadful memories of captivity. He would be cruel to delay a moment longer. “It’s almost midnight. It looks like most of the crew’s asleep. We’ll have to move soon while the men are off their guard. But first we’ll see you to safety, Archie.”

“No, no, Horatio.” Archie rolled his eyes. “I’m not helpless. Let me do something.”

“You’ve done enough.”

The words hung in the air between them like the tense silence before a broadside. But Archie let the remark pass with a bare shake of his head. “Horatio, don’t be ridiculous. I’ll hardly feel safe if you stuff me in a jolly-boat.”

Horatio froze, instantly sick with the reminder of yet another unforgivable blunder, though he knew Archie had not meant to twist the knife. But taking the ship would mean a fight, and privateers were known to be vicious. The memory of Archie bleeding in his arms was still so fresh. ”I’ll not see what happened aboard Renown happen again,” he snapped in a hard voice that should have brooked no argument. He would rather have Archie angry with him than in danger.

But Archie was too obstinate, and on edge besides. He straightened in his chair, stubbornly thrusting out his strong jaw. “And I suppose you are invincible?” he huffed, so peevish and impliable that Horatio instantly retreated from the argument. He would have to do as he must and leave Archie to his indignation. But Archie was not finished. “Truth to tell, Horatio, I don’t trust you enough to let you out of my sight. You might do something repentant and foolish.”

It was not an angry statement, but an honest one echoing with genuine anxiety. Yet it grated, flinging his own inadequacy in his face, punctuating the vast imbalance between them with respect to all Archie had given and done, and all he had not done. How could Archie make light of his desire to change that?

“Of course I am repentant,” Horatio growled. “I left – “

He stopped short when Archie turned away, leaning his elbows on the table and burying his face in his hands. “Could you at least feel some joy, Horatio?” His voice shook slightly. “I know it crushes your pride not to be the savior of all things, but could you forget that for a moment for my sake?”

The acrid words took Horatio aback. A moment later he was on his knees again, cradling Archie’s head against his shoulder, murmuring, “Of course I feel joy, Archie, of course. My mind can scarcely comprehend it. I only can’t help but feel I don’t deserve all you’ve done for me. Archie . . .” He combed his fingers through those treasured tawny locks, frowning to see the strain in Archie’s pretty features. “Please . . .”

The touch seemed to settle him. Archie lifted his head, recovering himself. “I’m sorry, Horatio,” he said gently. “It’s been . . . I just want you to . . . This ship, it’s driving me mad, you see?”

“Which is why we are leaving at once, Mr. Kennedy.” Horatio got to his feet and squared his shoulders, only for Archie to shake his head at him.

“Carlyle,” he corrected, pointing to one of the books. “Maurice Carlyle, if you please. You must be careful.”

Horatio stopped. A false identity. He had not considered that, though he now saw the obvious need for one. Of course Archie could not be Mr. Kennedy – Lieutenant Kennedy – that name was attached to a convicted mutineer. Using it would get them both hanged. Horatio’s heart sank. In some ways he supposed Archie was still very much dead.

But that was foolish. Archie would insist that such a small thing as a name did not matter, not while they were in such grave danger here. “Your quick thinking has done half the job, Archie, now we’ll have to rely on strength in numbers to do the rest. Three hundred in the hold, you say? They’ll need weapons and a man to free them.”

Reaching into the pocket of his coat, Archie drew out a ring of keys and laid them on the desk, grinning. “One of the Frogs was dutiful enough to return these to his Captain. The keys to the armory and the hold must be here; I’ve not found others in this cabin.”

Horatio itched to take the keys and volunteer for the task, but the warning in Archie’s eyes forbade him to do so. Horatio cleared his throat, pondering alternatives. “You mentioned Wellard? Do you suppose he’s up to it?”

Archie leaned back with a sigh. “He would be the wisest choice – the least suspicious, anyway. With “His Lordship” dead and the crew deprived of their ransom, there’s no need for the Captain to treat him any differently than the others. I’ll send for him.” He paused, pulling a sheathed knife from the drawer and then a pistol, tucking them into his trousers. “In case there’s trouble,” he grimaced.

Rising from the chair, Archie took up the Captain’s mask, tying it on again before peeking his head out on deck. Horatio watched uneasily, shrinking behind him into the sleeping cabin, but after a surveying glance, wished he had not done so. The body of a man lay sprawled on the floor, clothes rumpled as if someone had hastily yanked them on. Judging by the small bruises marking the man’s neck, Horatio grimly concluded that Archie had throttled him with his bare hands.

Archie froze when he ducked back inside, seeing what Horatio was staring at. His tongue swept nervously over his lips, as if eyeing his handiwork for the first time.

“I – I couldn’t lift him . . . Switching clothes in so little time was difficult enough, but look . . .” He gestured toward the man’s face, where above the growth of beard the sun had only tanned the skin around the outline of the mask. “He must have never shown his face at all. Mr. Bracegirdle thinks he might be an escaped mutineer, that he feared recognition. There’s no way to tell, but I do wonder.”

“Perhaps, Archie,” Horatio conceded absently, no longer wishing to look at the man. It could just as easily have been Archie lying there dead on the planks. He was thankful when a knock at the door spared him from dwelling on the thought.

“Entrez,” Archie called, and in response Wellard stumbled inside, his face white, like a man approaching the gallows. Then his features brightened with relief and adoration once Archie removed the mask.

“Well done, sir,” the mid whispered, smiling, before glancing up at Horatio in the doorway, touching his hat. “I recognized the Gaditana, sir,” he said, his smile fading.

“Yes, yes, Henry,” Archie broke in impatiently. “We’re all glad to be alive. Now, we’ve a mission for you.” Dark brows shot up as Archie bent closer, tucking his ring of keys into Wellard’s palm while he whispered his plan in the boy’s ear.

Horatio could not help but note how familiar they had grown with one another – the looks they shared, their close proximity, and Archie’s casual use of Wellard’s Christian name. Wellard had always been comfortable in Archie’s presence, but this was different, the sort of closeness that formed between two people in a crisis. It was natural enough, considering – it had been crisis and captivity that had brought the two of them together, after all – but unsettling nonetheless. Horatio frowned; he had no right to wonder if . . . .

“You'll be careful?” Archie finished, and then transferred his attention after Wellard nodded. “Horatio?”

Horatio cleared his throat, snapping back to attention when he realized he was being prompted for input. “See if you can’t wait for them to change guards,” he said, “but no more than half an hour.” He wanted to have this done with as soon as possible.

“Aye, sir,” Wellard nodded, and with another touch of his hat, was off.

Archie opened the door after him, ordering the nearest man to throw Wellard below with the others. Horatio studied him when he stepped back inside, beginning to accept the reality of the situation, of Archie before him. He looked so fragile and determined, so drained.

“You’re tired.” Horatio caught his friend’s sleeve. Archie should sit down, or perhaps lie down if they must wait long. But Archie dismissed his concern with a small shake of his head, closing the door of the sleeping cabin at Horatio’s back, blocking their view of the body.

“I’m all right,” he sighed, rubbing at his eyes, and then changed the subject. “I wonder how much that bastard would have asked for the two of us.”

So Archie had planned to take Wellard with him back to England? Horatio nodded to himself; the news should not have surprised him. “How did you intend to pay it?”

Archie shrugged. “My sister, if it came to that. I signed everything over to her in Kingston. She would be clever enough to discern the situation with the right clues. There’s really very little you can slip past Fiona, Horatio.”

Horatio nodded grimly. Lady Fiona was indeed perceptive, and likely less than fond of him because of it. “You would not have written me?”

Archie’s puzzled stare was enough to sink his heart. Was he of no use to Archie at all? His friend read the hurt in his expression and sighed. “Horatio, it would have been a monstrous sum.” He said it out of pure practicality – the son of an Earl would naturally not look to a common sailor to buy his freedom – but still it wounded that Archie had not even considered him as a potential rescuer.

“I would have paid a king’s ransom, Archie,” Horatio insisted softly. He had means of acquiring the money; he would have found a way.

The words stopped Archie short, a small smile playing about his lips as he looked up. Horatio could not resist reaching out to stroke his stubbled cheek, watching those bright eyes fall closed at his touch. Archie’s arms slid around his neck, and then a warm mouth met his, yielding sweetly and caressing his lips with such piercing tenderness that Horatio feared he would weep all over again.

But the touch of Archie’s soft, familiar mouth proved at last that this was no dream. Archie was alive, and Horatio could taste that life filling him with a tangible sense of what he was fighting for, fighting to protect. And far from clouding his mind with desire as he had often despised intimacy for doing, that conviction turned his mind inexorably to the mission at hand.

“All right,” Horatio caught his breath, disentangling himself reluctantly from Archie’s embrace. A long night lay ahead of them, with much at risk. Yet Archie’s hand remained on his shoulder, fingering the golden epaulette there – the mark of his new rank – eyeing it thoughtfully as if pondering what his good name had bought. Horatio frowned, gently prying Archie’s hand from the bullion. He had so little right to it. “Come, Archie.” He turned away. “Let’s see what else we can find of use in here.”

They found another pistol and a whole cartouche box in one of the lockers, as well as another knife and Bracegirdle’s sword. Archie had been reluctant to return his sword, more pleased with his ruse than he was willing to admit, not to mention sullen that Horatio had failed to recognize him straightaway. Horatio glared at that, but at this point was willing to be called twenty kinds of fool if it meant that Archie was alive and in good enough spirits to tease.

No more than twenty minutes passed before a great tumult of clanging and shouting echoed from below. Wellard had wasted no time. The timbers rumbled with the thunder of running feet. Screams rose and curses roared, scarcely muffled by the wood. Horatio straightened, wringing his hands. Pray God his men were the ones wielding the steel. He shot an anxious glance at Archie. It was time to move.

Stripping of the Frenchman’s clothes, Archie hastened after him in his shirtsleeves. Horatio pushed Archie behind him when they reached the door, edging the wood open and peering out on deck over the muzzle of his pistol. His eyes caught dark shadows and the lethal glint of steel from the pikes and axes borne by the menacing shapes clambering up the hatchways – shapes he recognized even in the dark. Wellard had done well indeed.

Behind him Horatio could feel Archie’s heart pounding, his quick, excited breathing filling Horatio’s ears. Not fear, but the frustration of a man whose first instinct was to jump into the thick of the fight. “Mr. Bracegirdle!” he cried. “Horatio, he must still be below.”

“Not to worry, Archie,” Horatio assured him without turning around. His hand tightened on the door handle. “On the count of three!” He did not wait for an answer. One, two . . . He threw open the door, speeding out on deck.

Bodies lay sprawled over the wood. Horatio tried not to look at them, nor discern whether they were friend or foe. This ship must be taken at all costs. A man came at him then, pike raised high, and grinding his teeth Horatio squeezed the trigger of his flintlock. The shot rang out, echoed by another shot behind him. A body fell from the maintop, joining the pikeman on the deck.

Horatio turned to see where the second shot had come from, only to find Archie behind him, reloading his pistol, his features scrunched with anger. Just then, a pale face under a round hat peeked above the starboard bulwark. It was Wellard, holding a knife in his teeth as he hoisted himself up the mainchains, swinging his body over onto the deck. He must have climbed out one of the gun ports, but looked no worse for wear, oblivious to the fact that he had been the sharpshooter’s target.

“Well done, Mr. Wellard!” Horatio clapped the midshipman on the shoulder when Wellard came near. The younger man stared up at him, breathless yet smiling, but Horatio did not allow him time to stand there mooning. “Now take some men into that launch there and see if you can’t secure Eurydice until her officers are returned. Twenty men should do it – Marines if you can.”

“Aye, sir.” Wellard gave a stiff salute, glancing over at the waiting frigate before he turned to Archie with a tight smile. “It seems I am to see a proper boarding action after all, sir.”

For a bare moment, Archie stood unnervingly silent. Horatio swallowed hard, fearing his order had somehow angered Archie, that perhaps Archie wanted Wellard out of danger. But there was nothing for it; the boy must do his duty. After another heartbeat Archie seemed to agree, returning Wellard’s smile at last.

“Keep your head, Mr. Wellard, and you’ll be all right. Good luck.” He took the young man’s hand and shook it affectionately.

“Thank you, sir.” Wellard touched his hat and turned, and then glanced back. “Sir . . .” He paused, taking in Archie’s flushed, disheveled appearance and the ready pistol in his hand. “You’d have made a dashing pirate, sir,” he said, eyes bright and adoring.

No doubt flattered beyond measure, Archie rewarded him with a rich chuckle. Horatio rolled his eyes at both of them. “That’s enough dawdling, Mr. Wellard,” he warned sharply. The younger man gave a start, remembering his duty and scurrying away to lower the boat.

“Come, Horatio.” Archie tugged impatiently at his sleeve once Wellard disappeared into the shadows. Horatio nodded, turning his mind back to his own duty, letting Archie steer him toward the hatchway.

He stopped at the top of the ladder, peering down into the blackness below where the privateers had found no time to strike a lantern on the gun deck. Most of the fighting was still contained beneath, but little by little men hacked their way up. He spied a man running between the guns, a thin frantic figure, before a deafening pistol shot shook the deck beneath Horatio’s feet, striking the man down in his flight.

Horatio’s eyes slammed shut, that awful memory crashing down on him again – the scarlet stain over Archie’s chest and lap, the sheer amount of blood. Horatio shuddered, stealing a glance at Archie behind him just to prove he was still there.

Features set, Archie stood fearless, Bracegirdle’s sword at his hip and his hand on the hilt, ready to fight with courage and honor for the friend who had saved him. Horatio looked away, down the hatchway again, where the cries and groans of the dying swelled to a foreboding crescendo. He could not let Archie go down there.

By sheer luck, a large familiar shape appeared at the bottom of the ladder, pausing to recharge his pistol. As he started up the stairs, Horatio spied several dark stains over the front of his shirt, but thankfully he did not appear to be wounded.

Catching sight of him in the moonlight, the figure saluted with a rugged grin. Horatio ignored the gesture, seizing Archie’s shoulders and shoving him into the big man’s arms. “Styles, take him in the jolly-boat and wait for me. He –”

“Horatio!” Archie shrieked before Horatio could demand that Styles guard him with his life. “What do you think you’re doing? I told you I wanted . . .”

He struggled to free himself when Horatio did not answer, but his familiarity had already given him away. Styles took one look into Archie’s face, recognition and shock registering in his features as he nodded. Horatio nodded in return, relieved. Styles was trustworthy and knew what Archie meant to him.

“Hurry, Styles,” Horatio urged. They had no time to lose. Archie continued to twist and mutter as Styles moved to comply, subduing him with little effort. Archie might be a strong man, but in his condition he was no match for the burly seaman.

“You can go to the Devil, Horatio!” he seethed, red-faced and indignant at being restrained. The entire situation clearly had him at his wits end, for he gave off cursing, reaching out while he still could, striking Horatio hard across the chest with his forearm.

The blow hurt, almost knocking him off balance, but Horatio stood his ground and simply glared as Styles yanked Archie away. He could sulk in the boat – he could sulk all night if he wanted – all that mattered was that Archie survived to do it. Putting the matter from his mind, Horatio turned and ran down the ladder.

Tucking his pistol into his trousers, Horatio snatched his sword out when he reached the bottom. The enemy was already waiting, a shadow crouching behind the nearest gun. The figure did not leap out, and Horatio left him there, glancing quickly at a pair of bodies near an open gun port, marking Wellard’s path of escape. No time to contemplate the ghastly scene or the butcher’s bill; Horatio turned and ran further below.

Corpses lay everywhere, as well as enough blood and worse to turn his stomach. A great many of the privateers looked to have been taken in their sleep, some lying dead in their hammocks, but more were standing, fighting, the lower decks and passageways a vicious moving sea of men hacking at each other.

Somehow, Horatio clawed his way through the mob, his ears ringing with the sickly din around him. He spied Matthews fending off two snarling privateers with a large boarding axe. “Lead the men on deck, Matthews!” he called as he made his way for’ard. Out of the corner of his eye, Horatio saw Matthews knuckle his forehead before opening one of the storeroom doors in the passageway Archie had described to him.

The room was empty, save for a dark coat and a book lying upon the floor. Suspecting the things were Archie’s, Horatio gathered both before crossing the passage into the opposite storeroom, where an older, familiar figure sat staring at him in wonderment.

Horatio went still at the sight of him. On any other occasion, he would have been delighted to see Anthony Bracegirdle again – a man who had always treated him with infinite kindness – but now something ugly stirred up inside Horatio as he looked at him, something jealous and dishonorable. This was the man who had come to Archie’s rescue, the man who had done what was his responsibility to do.

“Mr. Hornblower . . .” Bracegirdle was smiling from his perch atop a wooden barrel, unaware of the detestable emotions twisting Horatio’s heart. “I thought I heard you outside, sir!” He appeared relieved, grateful – all those upright sentiments that Horatio should have felt toward him.

Horatio nodded, numb with his own petty stupidity. What was wrong with him? They must get out of here. Archie would never forgive him if he did not bring Bracegirdle up alive. He would not forgive himself. .

“Mr. Carlyle’s compliments, sir,” he said once he had recovered himself, “but we are to get out of here unharmed. Can you walk?” He glanced down at the bandage around the lower half of Bracegirdle’s right leg. Damn it, Archie should have warned him to bring help.

Bracegirdle shook his head. “Not very well, I’m afraid.” He held out an arm with a rueful but good-natured smile. “If I might burden you with the task, captain.”

Heat rose into Horatio’s face for the rank he took no pride in. “Please, sir,” he muttered, glancing distastefully at his uniform before stepping forward to sling Bracegirdle’s arm around his shoulders.

The older man was heavy, but somehow Horatio managed to steer him through the door. Scores of tangled shapes blocked their path to the hatchway, and not even the half darkness could veil the gruesome damage done. Men lay headless or limbless in the meager lantern light, and the noise above declared the privateers would fight to a man. But here below the scene had quieted, with only straggling bands of two or three having it out in the shadows.

“Pray God they’ve got that Captain in irons, Horatio,” Bracegirdle huffed as they maneuvered up the ladder. “I’ve a score to settle with him.”

“My apologies, sir, but I fear Mr. Carlyle has rid us of the problem.”

Bracegirdle did not bat an eye at the news. “He would,” was all he said. “He’s getting bold, Horatio. ‘Straight at ‘em’ seems to be his mind of late. There’s an admiral in him somewhere, that’s for sure.” Pride echoed through the older man’s words. Horatio frowned; it was too late to make an admiral of Archie.

The sheer effort of hoisting themselves up the stairs prevented them from saying more, and after a great deal of clumsy footwork, they managed to make it up on deck. The scene there had quieted too. The privateers were down to a third of their number, standing panicked in the midst of armed British sailors crowding them into the waist of their ship.

Several stricken faces turned toward him as he released Bracegirdle and stepped into the moonlight, his rank and what that meant plain enough. Weapons clattered to the deck. Horatio let out a relieved breath, satisfied.

“Your Captain is dead,” he declared in their tongue. “This ship is now a British prize of war. Matthews,” he called, turning to spot the old seaman halfway up the quarterdeck ladder, “you may run down her colors.”

**

There was no official surrender, no handing over of a sword, yet the Frenchmen glumly succumbed to their defeat. Captain Bracegirdle reported that the Minotaur’s first mate had been given command of the Eurydice upon her capture, and a Marine sergeant later reported the cur dead at Wellard’s hand. The young man had conducted himself with courage during the retaking of his ship and – with Eurydice short an officer – would now be entered in the books as Bracegirdle’s acting lieutenant. The news pleased Horatio and would likely please Archie as well.

It was slow work dividing up the prisoners and bearing the dead away to be sewn in their hammocks, but after a time Horatio and Bracegirdle got to naming the prize-crew, consisting of men of both ships – as both Retribution and Eurydice’s people would have to share in the prize-money. Once that was settled, Horatio signaled for Styles to bring the jolly-boat around on the pretense of craving a real look at the Minotaur before returning to his ship.

Archie’s anxiety seemed to have dissipated, not to mention the sharp constraint between quarterdeck and lower. Horatio could see him chatting and gesturing exuberantly as he helped Styles row through the black water, in the throes of a grand story – his own resurrection, no doubt. He stopped when Horatio climbed down into the boat, offering a smile, a sparkle in his blue eyes to rival the gleam of moonlight upon the water.

Styles was grinning too, caught up as all the men were in the festive mood of their victory. “A right bloody fox he is, sir,” he laughed, glancing over at Archie. “Stealin’ our ship right from under us.”

Archie rolled his eyes. “I did give it back,” he huffed, barely suppressing a smile.

“The ship hasn’t been the same without you, sir, “ Styles went on as they came around the Minotaur’s bows and steered toward Retribution. “Cap’n Hornblower here has been moping something terrible.”

Frowning, Horatio countered their amusement with a sharp warning glare. Moping was a grossly indecent understatement and one he did not appreciate. The grief he had suffered was nothing to make light of.

“My apologies, Styles,” Horatio muttered dryly, and then. “I trust the two of you will be cautions.” The last thing he needed was for Archie to be found out and hanged because Styles thought he had a good story to share with the crew.

The large seaman nodded, concentrating on his oar – he had witnessed Archie’s confession in Kingston with his own eyes, and knew the Articles as well as any man, but. Archie on the other hand, dauntless as ever, only glared at him and sighed. “Oh, Horatio, try not to be so funereal. I am alive after all.”

“Yes, but . . .”

A discrete touch to his sleeve silenced him. Horatio at least contented himself with the fact that Archie was not angry with him this time, only tired, and that Styles of all people could be trusted to keep Archie’s secret. They could speak of the rest later.

After another few minutes, they climbed back aboard Retribution. She remained undamaged and therefore no time would be lost to splicing or other repairs, but there was still much to do before she could be underway – stowing away their share of the prisoners, seeing the deck in order, taking note of the wounded, and conducting the burials. Horatio grimly realized that it would be hours before he and Archie would have another moment alone.

He turned to Styles before ascending to the quarterdeck. “Take Mr. Carlyle to my cabin and see that he has all he requires.” There was no sense in keeping Archie up; his friend was dead on his feet. “Call the surgeon to have a look at him. He’s to have my bed tonight. And see that he’s not disturbed.”

“Aye, sir,” Styles nodded. Archie simply looked accepting, as Horatio thought he would be. After all, the chance to eat, wash, and shave had to be preferable to the tedium of putting the ship back in order.

“And carry him,” Horatio added when Archie seemed to teeter. “Handsomely now.”

Archie scowled. “I can walk, Horatio.” His protest went unheeded. Styles might be his ally in a good joke, but the larger man loved him too much to let him fall on his face. He scooped Archie up – albeit apologetically – and started off in the direction of the great cabin.

Horatio started after them a moment, dearly wanting to be the one who bore Archie away, to feed him, bathe him, and help him to bed – all the things that had first made their bodies so familiar to one another – loathing, perhaps childishly, the myriad tasks of a captain that stood in his way. Nothing for it, he sighed and climbed the quarterdeck ladder. His men were waiting.

“Matthews, see that those prisoners are secured below and then call all hands on deck. We’ll see if we can’t be underway within the hour.”

“Aye, sir!” The older man saluted briskly, seeming to understand his distraction and that Horatio was in no mood for delay.

8.

Though Retribution’s sleeping cabin offered the most spacious berth aboard, it was still miserably cramped. The wide bed took up most of the room – sprawling between the hanging locker on the left and the small writing desk shoved up against the bulkhead on the right – but Archie found it so inviting after a week of sleeping on the hard floor that he hardly cared who squeezed around the furniture or rummaged through the drawers. In fact, he managed to sleep soundly until a jolt of the ship finally woke him.

Once he blinked away the film of sleep, Archie became aware of Retribution rocking beneath him. Horatio had wasted no time in getting the ship underway. Not surprised, Archie shook his head, glancing down at himself to find the blankets tucked neatly around him. He was not surprised either when he turned, discovering with a smile that he was not alone in the cabin.

At the tiny writing desk sat Horatio, peering down at his log-book. His dark curls gleamed garnet under the tawny glow of a single candle, his flimsy nightshirt slipping from one shoulder. By his slumped posture, Archie guessed Horatio had been there for some time. He smiled with a twinge of affection; it would be like Horatio to choose that incommodious place to work rather than the larger desk in the cabin proper. One could not hold a vigil so easily from there.

“Well, Horatio,” Archie stretched under the blankets, still smiling fondly, “are you yet convinced I’m not going to vanish?”

Straightening at the sound of his voice, Horatio turned to him, pen in hand. His expression was odd, as if partly peeved by the jest and partly abashed that his irrationality had been so transparent. Horatio Hornblower did not give credence to such unscientific rubbish as ghosts and guardian angels, nor had he spent the past few hours convinced that he had gone mad.

Archie reached up and patted Horatio’s half-bared shoulder, just to assure him that his earlier disbelief was no cause for shame. Horatio’s cheeks darkened in the candlelight that Archie would even acknowledge it, but he lowered his head with a grateful smile. “I think so, Archie,” he replied softly, catching Archie’s hand and drawing it to his lips, brushing the back of it with a light kiss. Archie smiled at the familiar gesture, even if it was meant to distract him from teasing. “Sleep well?” Horatio asked, letting go.

It was Archie’s turn to be abashed, disliking that he had squandered what precious time they had together resting. “I meant to wait up for you. What time is it?”

“They rang two bells just now,” Horatio told him, laying down his quill. Five O’clock, then, Archie nodded to himself. He had only slept for an hour. Then he wondered why he bothered fretting over the time when Horatio was dressed for bed, unlikely to go on deck soon.

“I did mean to come up for the burials,” Archie added after a pause. Showing respect for the dead was the least he could do, and he alone knew how deeply Horatio would grieve each loss. “How many?” he asked quietly.

Horatio’s expression hardened, befitting the gravity of his answer. “A third of the crew,” he said, averting his eyes and glancing at the log-book, where he had no doubt dutifully praised the courage of each man. “A fourth of Captain Bracegirdle’s.”

“Good God . . .”

“Archie . . .” Horatio rushed to soothe him with reason, as he always had. “We lost fewer than we might have, if not for you. Once again I owe you my life, everything.” Archie shook his head, ready to argue that their victory was owed to the men, but Horatio dropped the subject before he could. “Now is there anything you need?” Horatio’s dark eyes swept over him in that probing manner of his.

“I’m quite all right, Horatio,” Archie assured with more than a little mendacity. In truth, he was uneasy with Horatio so far away in the chair, but strange as it was to be apprehensive after so many years as lovers, he accepted that Horatio was not yet ready to come to him.

The sharpness remained in Horatio’s eyes, but after a moment he left off his scrutiny, turning to his log-book again, sighing wearily. “I hardly know what to write.”

Archie grimaced, understanding Horatio’s dilemma. Maurice Carlyle’s actions might prove difficult to explain to the Admiralty. Who would believe a civilian Scottish landsmen would be so adamant about saving a Navy ship?

“Nothing that would compromise you,” he urged, and meant it. “Far better if you don’t mention my part in the engagement at all.”

Turning to face him again, Horatio fixed him with a look. “Archie, you’ve stopped a privateer. That’s no small feat.” He paused, suddenly appearing so childlike, so hopeful but Archie knew how the world worked and could not be swayed. Horatio frowned at him for it, but tapped the pen on the page and went on more blithely, “We’ll bring the truth to Commodore Pellew in Portsmouth. I’ve no doubt he’ll find a solution on both accounts.”

“You’re as bad as Mr. Wellard,” Archie accused. Had Horatio learned nothing from their ordeal in Kingston? Pellew would not trouble himself any further over the undead Archie Kennedy, and who wanted to drudge up the question of who pushed Captain Sawyer all over again? For his part, he was tired of the whole abysmal mess. “I’ve no need of rewards, Horatio,” Archie explained more patiently. “Making it home alive would be enough. Being with you is enough.” For the little time he could have him, anyway, until Horatio received another commission in Portsmouth that would send him to sea again.

Horatio’s eyes held his a moment longer, as if he wanted to say more, but whatever it was he shook it off. “For now I shall only write that I surrendered my ship to a man I took for the Captain, and that he was killed in a struggle I did not witness, after which you volunteered what information you had. That should cover us in all events, eh, Archie?” His conviction was such that Archie did not have the heart to tell him the outcome would be little different either way.

“Of course, Horatio.” He smiled tightly. “I’ve infinite faith in your prudence.”

“Yes, thank you, Archie.” The reply was dry and half-hearted, sullen as usual at Archie’s disinterest in the prospect of acclaim. But closing the book, Horatio rose from his chair. “I suppose it can wait,” he sighed, lowering himself onto the edge of the bunk instead.

Archie studied him where Horatio sat dangling his hands in his lap. Horatio’s body was rigid, his forehead pinched and his mouth set in a grim line. He was troubled. He should not be troubled. The cost of their escape had been terrible, yes, but tonight they had so much to be thankful for, just as Horatio had said. Why did he sit there? Why would he not hold him?

“What’s wrong, Horatio?” Archie ventured after a pause. He did not like to intrude upon his friend’s moods – he preferred to grant Horatio his space – but this sorrow was maddening. He reached up, sliding his fingers under those bound dark curls, stroking the back of Horatio’s neck. Good God, the tension in him was alarming.

After a time, Horatio eased a little, exhaling sharply and leaning into his touch, but still he did not reach for him. With a scowl, Archie pulled himself to his knees, sliding close enough to get Horatio’s attention.

Drawing in a deep breath, Horatio turned to him, his eyes huge and pained. “I can’t forgive myself for leaving you,” he murmured in a rough, strained voice, on the verge of breaking down again. “I was so caught up in my own grief that I never thought . . . “

The words broke into something like a dry sob, and all at once Archie understood why Horatio would not reach for him. He did not think he deserved to, did not think he was wanted. Swallowing hard, Archie crawled closer, resting his head upon Horatio’s shoulder. A warm arm slid around Archie’s waist, loosely at first as though only to steady him, and then clasping him tight. Horatio smoothed a hand down his back, his touch seeming to beg forgiveness and offer everything at once.

Archie sighed, disoriented by the familiar, precious warmth. He buried his face in the smooth skin of Horatio’s chest where his nightshirt hung open, breathing in the scent of him, salty but clean. “For God’s sake,” he pleaded in a thick murmur. Would Horatio crucify himself all night?

“I should have been there to take care of you,” Horatio lamented against his hair, the despair in his voice matching his fast anguished heartbeat and the uneven rise and fall of his chest. “I could hardly blame you if you never trusted me again.”

That was too much. Archie pulled back, anger brimming to the surface. “Why? Because of Pellew’s little oversight?”

For a moment Horatio stared hard at him, his mouth working for a rebuke that would not come. Archie refused to relent; Pellew had deliberately chosen to keep Horatio ignorant of his survival, whatever the man’s reasons.

But a quarrel was the last thing Archie wanted. “Let it go.” He shook his head. He wanted peace, liberation. His hand came up, playing in the gap of Horatio’s nightshirt, watching those dark eyes widen and those full lips part as he gently scratched the skin there, leaning up to lick behind Horatio’s ear, “’Come, woo me, woo me,’” he whispered, “’for I am in a holiday mood and like to consent.’”

The words were slow to register, but when they did Horatio gaped at him as if the concept of making love were unthinkable. “You still want . . .?” He faltered, drawing back and peering at him with painfully incredulous eyes.

Archie scoffed a little, though fondly, thinking back on Henry’s absurd remark about angels and blasphemy. The two of them were both so silly. “Who would I rather have in my bed, Horatio? Mr. Wellard? Mr. Bracegirdle?” Horatio winced at mention of Wellard, but set his shoulders, attempting to be noble in the face of suspicions he would never voice.

“They have done more for you than I.”

The reply was so ridiculous that Archie had half a mind to push Horatio away. But he only sat back, glowering for all he was worth. “Is that all love is to you, Horatio?” he demanded. “Gratitude? I’d be a pretty whore if I went to bed with every man or woman who paid me a kindness. Is that what you think I am?”

“Of course not!” Horatio snapped back, balking at the thought. Then he seemed to realize his error and rushed to redress it. “I’ve only ever trusted and admired you. Archie. I . . .” At a loss, he brushed the hair out of Archie’s eyes, one strand at a time. Tension melted with the careful touch and Horatio leaned down, tenderly capturing his mouth.

Archie’s heart leapt at the delightful contact, the very thing he had been craving. His lips moved hungrily against Horatio’s, quivering when his lover’s tongue slipped wetly between them. But taste was not enough; he wanted to touch, to give pleasure to the flesh Horatio was so set on denying, to make him accept it, ask for more.

His hand crept down, skimming the soft inside of Horatio’s slender thigh. The fingers against his jaw tightened in response, forcing him closer. Archie grew bolder as anticipation rose between them, a consummation at hand such as they had never needed after these devastating weeks. His fingers inched under the hem of Horatio’s wrinkled nightshirt, taking hold of the hot length of him, chasing away the hesitation, the lingering worries of duty until Horatio was all his, hard and throbbing in his grasp.

Horatio shuddered under the demanding caresses, his mouth grinding fiercely enough for Archie to feel his teeth, demanding in return. It was too much. Archie withdrew his hand, wanting to feel the exquisite ardor between them with his entire body. He wrapped both arms around Horatio’s neck, sliding up and straddling his thighs, crying out hoarsely at the press of teeth against his neck as a jolt of the ship sent him bouncing against Horatio’s lap in an almost painful burst of pleasure.

“Archie . . .” Horatio rasped against him, lost to desire now, bereft of his bloody misgivings. Archie bent in response, sucking lazily under Horatio’s ear and then licking down one side of his neck. He tasted wonderful, tangy and hot where the blood pounded under Archie’s tongue. Horatio could only groan softly at the attention, panting hard when Archie stopped. “Still so wicked,” his lover muttered, his arms dropping to Archie’s waist, circling loosely as one hand inched beneath the borrowed nightshirt. “Off with this,” Horatio commanded, impatiently gathering up the cloth.

Eager for the delights of flesh against flesh, Archie untangled himself, letting Horatio pull the thing up and toss it to the floor. Horatio froze the instant his eyes fell on his naked form, and Archie opened his mouth to chide him for it. But the smart reply died on his tongue when he realized what Horatio was staring at. He looked down at himself in the candlelight, leaning back on his hands, so thin that his ribs were almost visible, the terrible scars from his wound and from the surgery red and ugly still, shining with the salve he had spread over them. He looked as though he had been gored by Longinus’ lance, only on the wrong side.

“Hardly attractive, am I?” Archie lamented, moving to get up when Horatio did not answer. “I’ll put the candle out.”

Horatio restrained him with both hands around his waist. “I only wondered if you were well enough,” he countered gently, eyes lifting from those hideous marks, searching Archie’s face uncertainly.

Archie resisted a childish urge to fidget under such penetrating study. “I’m fine.” He tried to smile, but the gravity Horatio’s eyes unsettled him, the idea that Horatio might not want him this way, gaunt and marred. “I don’t like the idea of it – being cut up. It’s –“

“A miracle you are alive,” Horatio finished for him, brushing his fingers gingerly across the wound, nodding to himself when the touch produced no cry of pain. “My god, Archie, to have survived such a thing!”

The idea that the nightmare of Archie’s wound and the horrible weeks of separation would soon become something they could put behind them served to cool their desperation somewhat. Archie helped Horatio out of his own nightshirt more slowly, and once the barrier of linen vanished Horatio gave over talking.

He took his time, planting a kiss on Archie’s cheek and then nibbling a slow path along his jaw. His tongue flicked out, playing curiously back and forth over the stubble Archie had meant to shave away. Archie squirmed under the ticklish sensation, but the onslaught did not end there. A warm hand came to his chest, hot as an iron, brushing through the scattering of hair to carefully tease his nipples before dropping lower. Archie dove for Horatio’s mouth when that errant hand reached between his legs, swirling the pad of a thumb over the wet head of his prick, squeezing until he groaned.

“Horatio . . .” Archie entreated hoarsely when their lips broke contact. His body burned with a heat no fever could rival, trembling like a leaf. How did Horatio know to do these things? Horatio supplied no answer, only tightened his arms, pulling Archie down onto the bed.

He wanted Horatio on top of him, wanted to grip his shoulders and tug his hair while Horatio moved inside him in a measured, rolling rhythm, crushing him with his weight. But due to his wound Archie had to settle for curling next to him and hooking one leg across Horatio’s hip. Archie clung tight, dragging his lips over the body he loved so well, wanting to claim it, command it, protect it. He kissed a scorching trail across Horatio’s chest, laying siege to a silken nipple and laving it with his tongue.

“My God,” Horatio rasped under him, his body heaving, curving up toward Archie’s mouth. “I never thought . . .”

The sentiment was too well understood, subduing Archie for a moment. “Tell me about it,” he sighed, pausing to look up. A costly mistake, for Horatio’s flushed, tousled form only beckoned his lust all over again. But he restrained himself for another moment, saying, “I feared I’d die on that ship and never see you again.”

“If I’d known . . .”

Unable to bear the sight of Horatio stewing in guilt, Archie slid up, dusting a few fleeting kisses across Horatio’s throat before stopping that wet, self-recriminating mouth. Horatio’s fingers tangled in his hair, urging him closer, as though desperate for the absolution that came by way of kisses, and Archie leaned into him, allowing his mouth to be deliciously abused until Horatio drew back abruptly.

“Forgive me, Archie,” he said, catching his breath, the already high color in his cheeks rising as though he had made some unforgivable presumption. It was absurd, and it was disarming. “I should . . . you wanted . . .” Leaving off words, Horatio used his weight to carefully shift Archie onto his back.

Instinctively, Archie reached up, gripping a handful of mussed ruddy curls. “I want you,” he supplied, running his free hand down Horatio’s back, cupping that excellent backside and pressing him tighter between his legs.

Horatio’s eyes widened, and small wonder; Horatio did not take him often, had not for months in fact. But Horatio was also infinitely giving, and knew the singular pleasure and intimacy Archie desired. “When you’re better,” he promised gently, his gaze flicking once again to those angry marks across Archie’s side.

Endearing as his concern was, Archie would have none of it. He was in no pain and had waited long enough. “I’m better now,” he insisted, kissing one pale shoulder. “Take me. You never ask.”

A comely blush washed over Horatio’s cheeks. Even after all these years, talking about such things was still so awkward for him. “I wouldn’t have you think . . . that is, I’m not sure you’d like . . .”

“Of course I like it,” Archie cut in, stroking Horatio’s cheek with the back of his hand. “You’re always wonderful.” And he was, always patient and gentle; how could Horatio doubt it? But Archie could not risk having the night spoiled with such silly worries, and added with a devilish curve of his lips, “I merely can’t bear to let you think you have the upper hand,”

Horatio laughed. “No chance of that!” he declared, and then planted a firm kiss on Archie’s mouth. “Now let’s see how well you are, my love.”

The words were enough to stop their talk. Archie settled against the pillows, closing his eyes as Horatio lowered himself to his elbows, sliding down his body. He groaned as a warm tongue danced shyly over his nipples, sparking warm currents of pleasure through his blood, and then bit his lip when Horatio moved lower still, licking across his stomach, avoiding the scars and the salve spread over them. Archie twisted under him, his knees raising up, spreading invitingly as Horatio’s dark head descended toward his lap.

A cool puff of breath tickled along his thigh, drawing a shiver, before Horatio nipped gently at the delicate skin there, only to kiss and lick away the pain. Hot fingers tripped down, caressing intimately, just short of pressing inside him as Horatio dutifully captured the weeping head of his prick between his beautiful lips.

Archie’s body caught fire with the wet velvet heat clamping around him. His hips arched from the bed, his fingers winding tight in Horatio’s dark curls as those full, scorching lips opened, sliding down and then back up, working him again and again until Archie’s throat was dry from gasping.

Horatio chose that moment to pull away, the deprivation of his warm mouth so painful to Archie’s tortured flesh that he nearly cried. His vision cleared to find Horatio sitting back on his heels, surveying him with large, searching eyes. After a moment, Horatio seemed satisfied that he had caused no harm to Archie’s wound, and cleared his throat. “I think we’re ready,” he said, putting Archie back in mind of his earlier request. An original method of testing one’s wellness, Archie smiled as Horatio scrambled from the bed to retrieve the jar of salve on the desk.

Archie bit into his lip to keep from crying out as Horatio spread the salve between them. A strong arm slid around his back, gathering him up for a kiss. Horatio’s fingers slipped deep inside him, along with Horatio’s tongue, muffling the moan escaping Archie’s mouth. Archie shook, his nails digging into the back of Horatio’s neck, anchoring himself as he rocked his hips against the exquisite stimulation, throwing his head back. He could come off like this, with his seed drizzling like a frost over Horatio’s smooth golden belly. Archie sucked in a breath, the pleasure peaking dangerously. He tugged hard at Horatio’s hair in resistance.

“Horatio, enough,” he cried, his release too close at hand. “Turn me over and take me.”

The order had been a long time coming, but Horatio stared at him anyway. Only after a quick glance at Archie’s wound did he seem to comprehend the discomfort of taking him on his back. Yet still he hesitated.

“You could . . .” he began, but Archie cut him off, too near to bursting to wait another moment.

“No, no,” Archie moved to comply before Horatio could protest further. It was only when he was on his elbows and knees that he realized why Horatio was reluctant. Horatio had never had him facing this way before. Strange, but Archie knew the reason for that and did not want to dwell on it. Still, he felt self-conscious and risked a fleeting glance at Horatio behind him.

“Archie . . .” Horatio’s mouth was against in his ear in the next heartbeat, murmuring in a voice that said it was foolish to be nervous. And it was. A hand came up from under him, smoothing gently down his chest, over his racing heart, just as a soft trail of kisses swept over one side of Archie’s neck.

“Horatio . . .” he arched his body back into the tantalizing warmth, relaxed now and ready. Horatio pressed close above him, so close Archie could feel his heartbeat, his smooth chest against his back, and his warm body curved around his crouched form like a protective shell. Warm palms grasped the insides of his thighs, pushing them further apart, and then Archie let out a choked cry into the pillow as Horatio entered him.

Horatio froze above him for a bare moment, panting, sucking air into his lungs, overcome as Archie was by this burning union, as if soaking up with all his senses all he had been so certain he had lost. Archie twisted back against him, unable to wait. What he could see or not see ceased to matter once Horatio’s hard flesh touched the right spot inside him. The pleasure was all he needed, knowing that when Horatio began to move it would be just in the way he liked.

He did like it, despite how his lips ached for the comfort of Horatio’s ripe mouth. He liked the way Horatio’s hard nipples tickled at his back, the hot breath fanning his neck between greedy suckling kisses, and the heat against his thighs as Horatio thrust in and out of him.

And while the rhythm of Horatio’s hips was measured and gentle, his hands were not. They groped over his nipples, rolling them until Archie quivered, crept down and squeezed at his balls, and then closed possessively around his cock, bringing him steadily toward climax with each stroke.

“You’re mine,” Horatio rasped against his neck, demanding without mercy a surrender of a different kind than what had been forced on him hours before. Straining back against him, Archie gave it; he had no more will to fight, so overwhelmed by pleasure and emotion, so completely filled, so overpowered on all fronts that all he could do was crouch down and bury his head in the pillow. There was no refuge there either; Horatio bent, biting the nape of his neck, sending them both spilling over the edge.

Strength left his limbs in one breath once the inferno of orgasm receded. Archie’s body gave way, collapsing onto one side in a limp, gasping heap, paralyzed by exhaustion. A strong arm caught him around the waist, rubbing his chest until he could breathe again, comforting him in the aftermath.

“Are you all right?” Horatio breathed into his neck, lightly kissing the damp skin there. “Archie?”

Muttering in response, Archie summoned the strength to move again. He twisted to lay his head upon Horatio’s sweat-slick chest, sighing when his lover’s arms came around him. “How is it you manage to be so good?” he mused incoherently as Horatio’s fingers slid up the back of his neck, locking softly in his hair and pulling his head up.

“Perhaps because I’ve missed you so damned terribly, Archie,” Horatio whispered back, sucking delicately on Archie’s lower lip, tugging a little. “I thought the pain would finally kill me.” Horatio’s brown gaze was so warm and intense when he pulled back that Archie had to look away. The words struck a chord of remorse inside him. How could he have doubted?

“And here I feared you might forget me for a ship and a swab.”

“Archie!” Horatio balked, but then seeming to decide it was a jest, forced a smile.

It was no jest. That bit with the Captain’s disguise had been every bit as much out of silliness on his part as it had been out of caution. He had been in such a fettered state. Good God, how it had undone him to see Horatio mourn him so dutifully. A wife could not ask for better.

Discerning the cause of his silence, Horatio’s gaze hardened. “Archie, no prize of war could ever take your place.” The stern, raw emotion in those words took Archie aback, and as if that were not enough Horatio added, “especially one bought with your good name.”

Oh, it was not so good a name, Archie reflected; it had been whispered about the lower decks before, after rumors of a misspent youth at Drury Lane had angered the Earl into sending him to sea in the first place. But he said none of that

“You wouldn’t be the first to lose a lover, Horatio. In time you would have carried on.”

“Damn it, Archie,” Horatio’s voice was low, ringing with genuine anger, “do not cheapen what we have.”

He did not have to cheapen it. The Navy would do that for them, when Horatio could only run to him between missions like a mistress. What was more, Horatio would be expected to take a wife once he made post-captain. Their affair would become even more illicit then, more indefensible in Horatio’s eyes.

Once, he had told Horatio that was the way it must be, but now the idea filled Archie with anger and ugly jealousy. He had no wish to share. And with him ashore they would lose what had always been most precious to them – their easy, everyday closeness that came with standing together through battles and worse. Horatio would find that closeness with other officers now, that trust, but perhaps that was how it must be; it was better than nothing, better than death. Perhaps they had only been too fortunate these past nine years and it was simply time to grow up now.

Yet Horatio’s thoughts were still caught up in that awful trial. “Archie, I did fully intend to confess in Kingston. I couldn’t bear the thought of living without . . .” he trailed off, unable to finish, drawing in a breath to regain command of himself. “Now that you’re here, what would you have me do, Archie?”

The question was so fraught with desperation that Archie eyed him askance. Was he speaking of Pellew? His report? Archie wet his lips. Surely he could not mean . . . .

“Whatever a good man does, Horatio.” It was the only answer to all these myriad dilemmas. “You must do as you believe right. I have always loved you for that.” Indeed Horatio’s high morality had drawn him from the first, so rare and inexorable that it would crush Archie utterly to see him compromise it for his sake.

But Horatio seemed to put aside the question of duty for now. His eyes filled with hunger and uncertainty, large and melting as a child’s. “Do you, Archie – love me, that is?” he ventured quietly in reply, one of his more foolish questions.

Archie instantly snaked his arms around Horatio’s neck, burying his face in his shoulder. “’I love nothing in the world so well as you,’” he murmured, nuzzling at Horatio’s skin.

Horatio still appeared confounded as to how this could be so, but he bestowed a grateful kiss to the top of Archie’s head. “I suppose I needed to hear you say it,” he sighed by way of apology for being so sentimental.

“Mm,” was all Archie offered in response, drowsily pondering how endearing Horatio was in these unguarded, blissful moments after making love, how sweet he could be when duty did not weigh him down.

“For now I think I should let you sleep, Archie.” Horatio declared after a prolonged pause. And with that, he rose to fetch a damp cloth from the water basin Archie had used earlier, returning to diligently wipe away the traces of what they had done. Once his sense of discretion was satisfied, Horatio retrieved his nightshirt, handing Archie his own before covering himself and putting the candle out. And when they both slipped under the covers, Horatio surprised Archie by gathering him up in his arms again.

Lifting his head from the warm comfort of Horatio’s body, Archie stared down at him in the darkness. “We can’t sleep like this, Horatio. Are you mad? Someone might –”

“Shh, love,” Horatio stroked his hair patiently as if he were the mad one. “Just for a few minutes,” he promised, and then added dryly, “At least trust me to look after us in here, Archie.”

“But . . .” Archie found he had nothing to say to that, and gave up. He was too tired, and it was simply easier to let Horatio have some pride back. A fine thing if, after everything, they were hanged for cuddling together like two silly lovers, a fine thing. He sighed, dropping his head onto Horatio’s chest.

**

Archie woke later that evening only to be yanked out of his nightshirt and dragged into a shallow but proper bath. The crew would have laughed to see their captain on his knees like a servant, dutifully soaping “Mr. Carlyle” until he gleamed from tip to toe. But of course Horatio had not been concerned with the dignity of his office at the time. He had been efficient about it, however; any intimate activity would have sent Archie back to sleep again and Horatio insisted he remain awake long enough for a decent meal.

That meal was very fine – preferable to the slop the privateers had provided – and Horatio was very pleased to see Archie finish his plate. They had a chance at last to speak of his escape from Kingston, in whispers at least, during which Horatio continued to berate himself over the entire mess. He had been so afraid to touch him when they had said goodbye, Horatio had explained, had been in such pain.

Archie tried to reassure him with pragmatism, that perhaps Pellew had been right – letting Horatio carry on as though he were dead had been safer for them all. But seeing that Pellew was a sore subject, Archie had left the matter, relating the story of Eurydice’s capture instead. They at least agreed that the coincidence of Horatio receiving orders to chase down the very privateer who had captured him was indeed a sign that the gods did seem determined to keep them together – an exceptional concession for Horatio, who was quite the atheist – but Archie did not dare ask whether that sense of divine sanction would also lead Horatio into believing he could secure him a pardon.

They were interrupted by the clerk, come with paperwork for the Captain. Archie scowled at the sheer amount of it, but Horatio – bless his brilliant mind – argued that if Archie left him to it now, he might have a few moments later. Declaring that a fine plan as usual, Archie had smiled and made his way out of the cabin.

Matthews found him immediately, grinning and declaring how good it was to see him and that he did not believe that nonsense in Kingston for a minute. He also told him that the men knew of his aid aboard the Minotaur and wished the “gentleman” to have a share of the prize-money. And then, on the pretense of answering a landsman’s questions about the sloop, told him very cautiously that Horatio’s behavior over the past weeks had been downright worrisome. He had ordered a man flogged for disrespect toward his superiors, only after overhearing the man pontificate on “that mutineer in Kingston”. Horatio then forbade talk of the Renown altogether, and during the voyage had slept and ate only sparsely. The men had noticed and had whispered at times.

There were also rumors concerning Lieutenant Kennedy, in the seamanlike tradition of telling wild tales. Some claimed they saw his body hanged, others – ironically enough – that he had escaped prison and become a pirate. The officers who did not look so favorably on Horatio believed their ambitions captain, hungry for promotion, had set up his feverish friend to take the fall, arguing that Lieutenant Kennedy had no motive to attack Sawyer. There were also a few men aboard who had served with Sawyer in recent years, and they believed he had done the Navy a favor – if in fact he had done the deed. In short, Matthews said, Lieutenant Kennedy had become more of an enigma to the men than an object of scorn.

After Matthews left him, Archie returned to the quarterdeck rail, watching the men amuse themselves dancing and singing. Sailors truly were an inspiring lot. No matter the circumstances, they always found ways to stay merry. Horatio’s men were merry now, with prize-money owed to them, singing their hearts out.

They were in the throes of “Farewell and Adieu” when Horatio came on deck – slipping through the shadows and drawing Archie’s eye with a light hand on his sleeve. Styles glanced up, spying the two of them together, and raising his glass in their direction, finished the final verse with a hearty

We’ll drink and be jolly and drown melancholy
And here’s to the health of all true-hearted souls

The song dissipated into joyful cheers and the vigorous emptying of cups. Horatio took advantage of the noise, leaning closer and asking gently in his ear, “Well, Archie, do think you’ll miss it?”

Archie stared wistfully down at the crew. He had always been touched by the carefree camaraderie of sailors. Respect from the men had not come easily to him – not as an officer who had begun his career as an unwilling catamite in danger of a fit at any moment and later as a prisoner of war who wanted to die. But all that was in the past. He and Horatio had led men out of many an impossible situation, in Spain and Muzillac and Santa Domingo. These men were smiling up at him with respect now, King’s officer or no, for the victory he and Horatio had managed earlier that morning.

“On nights like this,” Archie confessed at last, turning to face Horatio at his elbow. He cut a fine figure in his crisp coat and hat, with the bright bullion spilling over his left shoulder, every inch a captain, and soon he would be post-captain officially, no doubt. “And I’ll miss you,” he added, unable to keep the sadness from his voice.

Horatio squared his shoulders, flashing a confident smile. “No chance of that,” he said cheerfully and then stood back, dark eyes fixed upon him, gauging his mood. “Would you care to join me in a game of cribbage, sir?” he asked with perfect formal courtesy.

Archie quirked an eyebrow and snorted. ‘Is that what we are calling it now?” He watched Horatio’s color rise, and smiled. “Very well. Show me no mercy, Captain Hornblower!” It was difficult to keep from grinning as he followed Horatio into the cabin.

9. Portsmouth – April 1802

“A thirty-six gun privateer,” Admiral Pellew mused with crisp satisfaction, poring over the report Horatio had laid before him and nodding his approval at the odd detail.

Horatio waited silently for him to finish, hands clasped behind his back. He could remember a time when he would have been on pins and needles to give such a report, fearing whatever he had done had not been good enough somehow, but now a cold detachment settled in his chest. He was distracted, glancing every few seconds out of the window at the gray Portsmouth morning, uneasy with the idea of Archie in the harbor, too near to those who might recognize his face.

But Horatio had come ashore to find the harbor unusually quiet. Many a vessel lay at anchor – sloops, frigates, even ships of the line – but there had been too little hustling about between the wharves and too little of the organized chaos of dozens of ships simultaneously scrambling to gather the ordnance and victuals necessary for a voyage of war. There would be no such voyages, save for those on convoy duty; a treaty had been signed with Bonaparte a fortnight ago. For the moment, England and France were at peace.

The shuffling of papers drew Horatio’s gaze from the window. Admiral Pellew looked up at last. “A notable action, gentlemen,” he declared at length, leaning back in his chair with his hands folded atop his great wooden desk. “You’ll be highly commended, Hornblower – and you, Captain Bracegirdle, Mr. Wellard,” he added, before turning his pleased yet austere gaze upon Horatio again. “It is a rare commander who can lead his men against such impossible odds. More than three hundred Frenchmen . . .” He marveled at the number.

The compliment sparked a strange indignation inside Horatio’s heart. His mouth firmed as though he had received an insult instead. He shot a furtive glance at the men on either side of him. Captain Bracegirdle wore a calm face, revealing nothing of his thoughts, and Wellard only appeared anxious to be in the presence of an admiral. Neither man seemed to think it his place to speak – not even Bracegirdle, who outranked him.

Clearing his throat, Horatio took the task upon himself. “Sir, it was Acting Lieutenant Wellard who led the men out of the hold. I had little part in the action, sir.”

Pellew fixed him with a look, as though accusing him of being deliberately obstinate. “Yes, yes, Hornblower. I’m well-acquainted with your modesty,” he snapped, his expression hardening. The Admiral waited, but when Horatio made no apology or attempt to amend his words, he went on. “You will not deny that it was you who undertook the wise decision to send this young man below?”

Horatio shook his head. He could not deny that. How would it look if he were to tell Pellew that he and Archie had chosen Wellard because Archie had forbidden him to free the prisoners himself? But Wellard was a trivial matter now; Bracegirdle had already awarded him his due.

“Nonetheless, sir, that does not change the fact that I failed in my duty. My orders were to stop the Minotaur, and instead I surrendered my ship. If it had not been for Mr. –“

Pellew cut him off, slamming his hand down on the desk. Out of the corner of his eye, Horatio saw Wellard flinch at the sound. “Damn it, man, I can read the particulars. It’s the end result that matters.” Was it? Horatio swallowed. He wanted to believe that, but during those last days in Kingston the particulars had torn his heart to shreds. He felt Pellew’s eyes driving into him like nails, but after a longsuffering sigh, the Admiral recovered his patience. “I didn’t expect you would be able to do more than sink her, but you’ve done your duty, and brought Captain Bracegirdle and his men home alive on their own ship. A pity you were wounded at the time of capture, sir,” he nodded in Bracegirdle’s direction.

Bracegirdle’s answering smile was pleasant enough, yet the ghost of apprehension lurked behind it, as if he sensed the tension in the air and believed it his duty to soothe it. “Well, sir, there’s a chance I wouldn’t have been captured at all if I’d fired on her first as Mr. Kennedy suggested.”

Horatio felt a surge of gratitude on Archie’s behalf. After all Bracegirdle had done, it was beyond generous of him to speak up for Archie now. Bracegirdle must have done so out of no more than simple modesty, of course, a captain musing over where he had gone wrong, but Horatio feel a little less alone in a quest even Archie refused a part in.

Mention of Archie left Pellew bristling with displeasure. Horatio watched his features tighten and caught the unsettled look in his eye as he impaled each of them with a sharp warning glare. Indeed, it was a grave danger to speak Archie’s name, and Pellew was wise to be cautious for his own sake. A respected admiral could not afford any connection with Captain’s Bracegirdle’s treason in Kingston.

“Yes, well,” Pellew muttered at last, “we’re all glad to hear our mutual friend has met with a better fate after all. Now, to the matter at hand . . .”

After a moment of slow disbelief, Horatio’s blood heated with the same anger his grief had numbed in Kingston – when that dangerous apathy had led him down this path of dishonor in the first place.

“That is the matter at hand, sir,” he protested more impatiently than he otherwise would have dared. “If it weren’t for ‘our mutual friend’ none of us would be alive.” He turned to Wellard for support, whom he knew viewed Archie with nothing less than respect and adoration. The younger man caught his eye, nodding his dark head vigorously.

“Indeed, sir. Mr. Kennedy’s fortitude was a great inspiration to me,” he chimed in.

Wellard only received another penetrating glare for his efforts. The Acting Lieutenant’s gaze abruptly dropped to the polished floor, his face paling. Pellew seemed to decide the man was sufficiently chastened, and with a sigh put aside the papers on his desk.

“Gentlemen, I think we’ve heard enough.” He was congenial again, though terse, impatient. “Captain Bracegirdle, you have your orders?”

Bracegirdle nodded, knowing a dismissal when he heard one. He turned to Wellard and, after making their salutes, the pair moved out of the room. Horatio watched them go, but made no move to follow after them; Matthews and Styles had agreed to look after Archie, and Horatio would not leave here until his business was settled.

Seeming to discern his purpose in remaining, Pellew called Horatio back to awareness with a quiet, “Captain Hornblower, a word if you please, sir.”

The door slammed shut, and Horatio turned, growing suddenly cold when he saw that they were alone. A word indeed. Many words. Many questions. Why? He stared back at his old mentor across an ocean of hurt and betrayal. Horatio’s stomach knotted. Always he had looked to Pellew to restore his faith in their duty, but now he looked upon him with a quiet rage and a vague disgust, God forgive him. How could Pellew profess to care for him and then keep such a secret in Kingston?

The Admiral rose from the desk, locking his hands behind his back as he stalked around Horatio in a close, predatory circle. Horatio swallowed. He could feel Pellew’s gaze burning holes in him, growing in intensity until Pellew stopped at his side and spoke.

“Hornblower, am I to understand that the matter of Mr. Kennedy is not yet settled?”

Settled? Horatio’s eyes widened. How could the matter be settled when Archie lay in danger of being discovered and hanged even now? When calling him by his very name could mean disaster? His tainted name, his wounded honor. God damn it, Archie had offered himself up to the Admiralty’s crucifixion and then had turned around and saved them all. How could Pellew, the unwitting Pontius Pilate who had accepted Archie’s false confession and handed down the verdict of guilt, stand here now and think the matter settled?

Striving for control over his anger. Horatio turned to meet Pellew’s eyes.

“Sir, Mr. Kennedy expresses nothing but gratitude toward you and Captain Bracegirdle, but, for my part, I wonder why you waited until after his confession to call in this physician of yours. Captain Bracegirdle informed me that you refused to send for this doctor when he brought forth the suggestion earlier that morning.”

“Of course I damn well refused!” Pellew growled. ”What sense does it make to save a man who might be hanged by the evening?”

Horatio’s mouth fell open. How could Pellew gamble Archie’s life on the principles of casual logic? “He might have died, sir.”

“Yes, Mr. Hornblower,” Pellew was far too calm, almost deliberately patronizing, “and we come near to death each time we see action, yet most of us have the sense to thank God for our lives at the end of the day and go on with the next. In the Navy there is no time for “could have”, sir.”

True enough, but that hard reasoning missed the point by far. “Sir, I was also given the impression that you appealed to your doctor as a reward for Mr. Kennedy’s . . . generosity toward me. Did he not deserve to live otherwise, sir?” The challenge in the question only earned him a blank look. Pellew seemed at a loss, but Horatio drew a breath and pressed on. “Has he not given you years of loyal service, sir, as an officer aboard your ship? Was he not wounded in the line of duty?”

After a long sigh, Pellew moved away from him, stepping around his desk again and placing his hands on the tall back of his chair. “Yes, Mr. Hornblower,” he conceded after a pause. “Perhaps he has given the Navy more than she deserves from him.” An odd remark, a vague reference to what Archie had endured aboard Justinian perhaps? Horatio had always wondered how much Pellew knew of that. But Pellew dismissed the comment and went on. “Still, that does not change the circumstances in which the four of you found yourselves, as I said before.”

Perhaps not, but none of that answered the other matter long on Horatio’s mind, that one burning question that had kept him awake for many a night during the long voyage home. “Sir, why did you not inform me that Mr. Kennedy was alive?”

“With such a slim chance of survival? I was certain he was not.”

So few words, such a perfunctory and unrepentant pretext for the disloyalty and neglect his silence had spawned. The thought of Archie alone, ill, and a captive aboard that ship . . . . Horatio shivered.

Pellew must have sensed the inadequacy of his answer. He took his hands from the chair and straightened. “Mr. Hornblower, I understand your particular attachment to Mr. Kennedy, but parting with friends – often in death – is a mark of life in His Majesty’s Service. You must think of your career, your duty –“

Duty? When last he had thought of that the Admiralty had very nearly hanged him and his comrades. He was not the only one who owed his career to Archie. A verdict of mutiny would have tainted every man serving aboard Renown. Even Sawyer of all people reposed in honor because of him. Pellew could not disregard that.

“With all due respect, sir,” Horatio protested, “no man has ever had so honorable a friend.” A friend who had sacrificed everything to save one he believed to be a good man, whether wrongly or rightly. A good man did not hide the truth, even when it brought him shame or allow himself to gain from his friend’s deeds. Archie might have asked him to keep silent on his part in their escape, but conscience would not allow Horatio to do so.

“Sir, Mr. Kennedy’s loss grieved me very deeply, so much that I placed little value on my own life. I surrendered my ship because I had no will to fight and could not bear to see another man die because of me. Mr. Kennedy was in no danger aboard the Minotaur – once he paid the Captain his ransom he would have escaped unharmed – but when he heard the Captain was to grant us no quarter he risked his life to remove him from command. Little did I know that it was to Mr. Kennedy that I surrendered my ship – he could not reveal himself for fear of being recognized – and it was he who deduced our plan of escape long before I even discerned his identity. If any man has done his duty, sir, it is my dear friend.”

Horatio drew in a deep breath when he finished, frowning. The cold military words were the barest version of the truth. They said nothing of the delicate state of Archie’s health during that time or of how Archie had kept Wellard’s spirits up in the face of his own resurfacing fears. And if Archie were here to speak for himself, he would likely say nothing of those things either. There was simply no way to make Pellew see how brave Archie was, how worthy. Far more worthy than he.

“Yes, a man of great loyalty, as I’ve said,” Admiral Pellew agreed with an emphatic nod. “But the fact remains that, with Captain Bracegirdle wounded, you were the commanding officer. Gazetting a mysterious civilian in your stead – one whom it might not be wise to draw attention to – hardly serves as inspiration to up and coming young officers.”

Damn the Gazette, and damn what was politic. This was a matter of conscience. “Sir, Mr. Kennedy has endured more than any man I’ve ever known, and through the years he has done nothing but persevere and do his duty. If I’ve learned to stand tall in the face of adversity, it is because – like Mr. Wellard – his fortitude has been an inspiration to me. Without him . . .” Without Archie, he would have been blown to bits over Muzillac years ago, or perhaps dead in a duel with Simpson. Horatio would have said as much if the Admiral had allowed him to finish.

“I would not argue that,” Pellew maintained. “But that does not change the fact that by his own confession he assaulted Captain Sawyer. With mutinies in Spithead and the Nore, the Admiralty cannot afford to overlook that crime. The wisest thing you can do, man, is get Kennedy out of Portsmouth.” There was pity in his face now, beneath the exasperation, as if he were looking at a mad, naïve fool rather than a man after justice. Damn it, was it not the way of the Navy to reward courage? Horatio supposed it was not if, by Pellew words, they were still to pretend Archie was guilty.

“You know he is innocent, sir. Can you do nothing for him?” Every man in that courtroom knew Archie was innocent – Hobbs, Buckland; Hammond had seen them shaking their heads as the Marines had taken Archie away.

“Not unless you would like to offer yourself up to the hangman in his place. I’m not sure Mr. Kennedy would be pleased with you in that event.”

No. Archie would not. Horatio gave an involuntary wince regarding a promise Archie had exacted from him on that matter. But another false confession was not what he had in mind. Archie’s family was of high standing, and with an admiral’s influence surely they could reopen the trial and expose the truth.

Yet Pellew’s unyielding demeanor seemed to render that out of the question, and the resulting frustration prompted Horatio to ask what he never thought he would dare. “May I inquire as to whether you have a particular prejudice against Mr. Kennedy, sir?”

A strange look entered Pellew’s eyes. “No, Mr. Hornblower, you may not.” Whether or not he took offense to the question Horatio did not know, but what other explanation than prejudice could there be for the way Pellew had overlooked Archie over the years? Archie had often insisted that Pellew’s view had been discolored by rumors of Simpson, and the cutting-out of the Papillon. Until this moment, Horatio had been certain Archie was mistaken.

Even in his anger, Horatio did not dare bring forward that accusation. Simpson was another matter that could prove just as dangerous to Archie as discovery in the harbor. But once again, Pellew seemed to think the subject of Archie could be brushed aside altogether with those curt words. He glanced down at his desk, at the papers there, as if impatient to be on with more important matters.

“Come, Mr. Hornblower,” he urged fondly. “The anger will pass, sir. No one outside of Bedlam believes this peace with Boney will hold. Nonetheless, your promotion in Kingston was nearly retracted. For a few hours this morning you were in danger of becoming a lieutenant on half-pay.” He scoffed distastefully at the prospect. “Fortunately, I learned of your exemplary achievement before that decision was handed down, and managed to secure your promotion as post-captain. The Minotaur will be bought by Government and you are to be her captain.” He took a packet of folded dispatches from the desk. “Your orders, sir.”

Horatio stared at the parchment laid across his hands, almost numb with disbelief. His heart hammered, but not with excitement or pride – no, he could not feel proud. If he had been a man given to outbursts, he would have torn the papers to shreds, but he was not that sort of man and simply stared in silent outrage.

The Admiral could do nothing for Archie and yet had used his influence to secure this? Had Pellew not heard him at all? Here he had spoken to wash away the dishonor he had done Archie in Kingston, and now Pellew expected to soil his hands anew? What man would leave his dear friend and savior undead and in disgrace to take the promotion that by all rights should be given him?

In Kingston, he had been in no state to quarrel with Pellew, had let the man brush aside Archie’s sacrifice like dust, and had docilely accepted his commission only out of the hope that Pellew would be appeased and leave him to his pain. It was not until he had found himself on Retribution’s quarterdeck that his own sickening confederacy in the Admiralty’s corruption had presented itself. He had not merely walked away with his life, as Archie had asked, but had benefited from his dear friend’s disgrace. That atrocity had gnawed at him during the voyage home. To stand here and accept this promotion now was to commit that sin all over again.

Horatio lowered his hands, clenched and shaking now. “Sir, I cannot accept this,”

His old captain scowled at him. “I once advised you never to refuse promotion, Mr. Hornblower. That advice still stands.”

Promotion. Horatio shook his head at the word. No, this was dishonor. There had been so much dishonor since he had first stepped aboard Renown. Was that what life in the Service entailed? Not protecting his people and his country, but abiding one disgusting compromise after another until he had not a shred of conscience left? And for what? So that years from now, when war left him as mad and cruel as Sawyer, Archie could look back across the chasm of a ruined life and rue the day he ever stepped into that courtroom in Kingston? Honor was all he had to make himself worthy of what Archie had done for him.

“Damn your pride, boy!” Pellew’s growling shout shattered his ears. Horatio blinked, bringing the man before him into focus again. His old mentor was livid. “Do you think this was easy to come by? Hmm?”

Horatio swallowed hard, dimly aware that he was quaking inside. No, it had not been easy for Pellew, just as this would not be easy for him now. Yet some instinctive stubbornness forced him to contain the tumult under his skin, to raise his head and meet Pellew’s eyes.

“Sir, I humbly thank you for all you have done for me, ” he said, laying the packet back on the desk, aware of Pellew’s frozen silence, of his stark disbelief. “I have been honored, sir. Yet . . .”

Horatio paused, commanding his hands to be still, letting them fall limp at his sides. Courage now. He had made up his mind weeks ago, after all. All he had to do was find the words.

~

Thick torrents of cold March rain beat steadily down onto the Portsmouth street. Horatio paused outside the Admiralty Building, staring into the gloom for a long moment, holding his Navy jacket over his arm. He wondered at the way he and Archie’s years together seemed to be marked by storms – the morning they had met, the roiling hell that had set them free from Spain, the disaster aboard Renown that had planted the seed of mutiny in both their hearts, and now this.

An icy chill crept into his bones as the bitter freezing wind tore through the thin linen of his shirt, stinging his skin. Absently, he touched the coat and hat tucked against his side. Any reasonable man would have put them on for simple protection against the elements, but Horatio could not. He was too proud.

His fingers brushed over the deep blue wool. Once, the garment had been a symbol of honor and duty, but now – heavy with its shining bullion – it seemed to represent that compromise he had found so morally indefensible.

God help him.

His eyes surveyed the wet street. A carriage drew up to the far corner. The door opened, and Bracegirdle climbed down, and after him came Wellard. Horatio breathed a small sigh of relief to see the coach’s windows covered. It would hardly be wise for Archie to parade on foot through a city they had caroused in so many times, a city they had drunk dry in joy only months ago. Horatio frowned; there would be no more of that after all, not here. There would be no more of many things.

After a time, Captain Bracegirdle caught sight of him, and giving Archie’s hand a final squeeze, he turned and made his way across the empty street. Horatio watched the older man’s smile fade the instant he took a second glance at him in his shirtsleeves. But Anthony Bracegirdle was both a tactful and understanding man, and with no more than a fleeting frown of concern, he drew Horatio back under the overhang to talk.

“I told him nothing,” Bracegirdle assured and then chuckled half-heartedly. “I’m not so sure he wants to know. He didn’t ask.”

Horatio looked toward the waiting carriage again, where Wellard had taken Bracegirdle’s place at the open door, chatting vigorously with Archie over some shared passion of theirs. Drury Lane, no doubt, given that Archie was eager to reach London and his sister in all haste. Horatio heaved a sigh, fearing this morning’s events might make that journey uneasy.

“I’ll do it, sir,” he said absently, already prepared for what Archie might say.

“He won’t take it well,” Bracegirdle warned, tugging his coat tighter around him to keep it from flapping about in the heavy wind. “He loves you.”

A surge of heat stung Horatio’s cheeks – a strangely welcome contrast to the bitter cold – but he knew Captain Bracegirdle meant nothing compromising. “Indeed,” he nodded. Archie loved him too well. “I have already received one earful this morning. I believe I may yet hold up against another.”

He could not help but cringe at the memory. He had never seen Pellew so irate, but in the end the Admiral had stood silent, disappointed, as Horatio had repeated his decision for the third time and then simply walked away.

Compassion filled Captain Bracegirdle’s eyes, seeming to deduce the nature of he and Pellew’s conversation, the strain it had put on him. He made no judgment of his own in regards to Horatio’s decision, only offered simply, “In the service, Horatio, honor is often measured by our achievements, but sometimes we find more honor in what we cannot do.”

Horatio managed a tight smile, grateful that Bracegirdle understood at least. “Thank you, sir,” he said. Still, he could not help but wonder if Bracegirdle knew of the promotion Pellew had intended to offer him, if he had expected their meeting to end this way. But Horatio supposed it did not matter.

Bracegirdle seemed to follow the thought, his eyes narrowing. “You wonder why I did not say more on his behalf.” It was not a question, nor did he seem in any way put off, but Horatio’s cheeks color all the same. He had wondered no such thing; the man had done enough for Archie already. More than he had done.

“Sir . . .?”

A small shake of Bracegirdle’s head dismissed any fear that he had given offense, even unintentionally. The older man simply answered, “Promotion isn’t what he wants, Horatio. He’s told me.”

“I see.” The answer held a dour note to it. Archie abounded with such declarations and yet Horatio had always questioned the veracity of them. Archie had faulted himself so relentlessly over the years for his imagined inadequacies as an officer that Horatio had assumed being a proper one was important to him. But that did not matter either anymore.

Turning his eyes to the carriage again, Horatio watched as Wellard threw his arms around Archie, embracing him for a long moment without regard for dignity. When Wellard pulled back, Horatio cleared his throat, knowing the time had come to say goodbye. He turned to Captain Bracegirdle unhappily.

The older man’s eyes, somber but fond, remained fixed upon Archie. “It’s always a tragedy when a great man never becomes the man he could be,” he observed quietly. “Do not let it be so, Horatio. The Navy is only one avenue to greatness.”

A crooked avenue at that, Horatio wanted to say, but thought better of it. “Indeed, sir.” he promised with a nod instead. He would see Archie do more with his life than rescue him from burning bridges and the gallows.

Wellard chose that moment to come running through the rain. “Sir, Captain Bracegirdle has been assigned convoy duty, and we have much to do.” He glanced eagerly up at his captain for confirmation before extending his hand. “I would not miss the chance to say farewell, sir.”

Horatio gripped the young man’s palm, forcing a smile as he muttered, “Good luck, Mr. Wellard. No doubt we’ll meet again.” Archie would never be happy until he showed his young friend all there was too see of London, or even Scotland, but for now this was a parting; God only knew how many months would pass until Eurydice docked in Portsmouth again. Horatio hesitated a moment and then pulled the heavy epaulette from his coat, shoving the blue wool into Wellard’s arms. “My hope is that you will soon have need of this,” he said, adding the hat to the small bundle.

Wellard’s eyes went round as saucers. “Sir!” he cried in astonishment, smoothing a hand over the wool as though it were silk instead. He looked ready to protest, but fell silent when Bracegirdle cleared his throat.

“Come, Mr. Wellard, it’s unkind to refuse a gift.” Wellard nodded, muttering his thanks, and then it was Captain Bracegirdle’s turn to offer his hand.

“Goodbye, Horatio.” He smiled warmly. “It has been an honor serving with you.”

The familiar words tugged at Horatio’s heart, but only briefly. This was no deathbed farewell; they too might meet again. He dearly hoped so as he took Captain Bracegirdle’s hand and shook it fondly. “And with you, sir,” Horatio returned. “I shall always remember your kindness.”

Perhaps he should have said more, but he had never been very good at such things. He released Anthony Bracegirdle’s hand and made his way across the drenched street, thoroughly soaked to his skin by the time he reached the coach. Still, he paused, turning to look back at his old friend and at Wellard one more time.

“I wish you joy, sirs!” Wellard called back, and despite himself Horatio smiled at the odd wedding-day feel of that blessing as he accepted Archie’s hand and climbed up into the seat beside him.

Archie did not ask why he had given away his jacket and hat, only studied him with tense blue eyes from where he huddled against the opposite window. In fact, he did not speak at all until Horatio closed the door and rapped on the roof for the driver to be off.

“I heard about the Peace,” Archie finally remarked once the carriage rolled into motion, his voice hoarse from another lingering bout of illness. ”God willing it will last this time.”

“Indeed,” Horatio replied, somewhat absently, distracted by the din of the rain; the sound filled his head with old memories. He peeked out at the gray sky and then turned back to Archie again, studying him. How quiet and self-possessed he was, how wise, as if he had aged a thousand years and yet retained his ageless golden beauty, no longer Eros but Gabriel beside him. “I seem to recall a time when you were eager to spill French blood,” Horatio reflected, the old image of Archie exuberantly imparting the news of war coming fresh to mind.

Archie snorted a laugh, and with good reason; that had been years ago. “After seeing a lapful of my own blood I was obliged to reconsider.”

The stark reminder quieted them both, and for a time they sat in silence as the carriage rattled on through the beating rain. It was not an easy silence – Horatio could sense Archie’s brewing worry and the questions tumbling through his mind as he lifted the corner of the blind with a lazy finger, pretending to be absorbed in the dreary sights outside.

But finally Archie could stand it no more. He turned away from the window, peering at Horatio with worried blue eyes. “Did you quarrel with him?”

Horatio’s mouth tightened. “Not as such,” he conceded, recalling the thunder of Pellew’s words and how, like a man at the gratings, he had tried to withstand the tirade with reasonable grit. “The Admiral had a great deal to say, as did I,” he went on. Pellew had called him a fool, told him it was high time he put aside his childish naiveté and accepted the ways of the world, and each word only served to root Horatio’s conviction more deeply. He disliked that conscience should be deemed a disease of innocence.

Archie took in his words with a solemn nod, accepting Pellew’s anger as a matter of course. His thoughts seemed tangled in more personal concerns. “Tell me your resignation wasn’t on my account. I’ll not be your penance.” He sounded so urgent that Horatio laid a hand on his arm.

“Archie . . .” Dear God, how could Archie ever think of himself in that way? If he had known any peace or joy in the last nine years, it had been because of Archie. But Archie was not appeased. In fact, he seemed to grow more fretful as the pause lengthened.

“Horatio, I thought I was dying in Kingston, everyone did. There is a great difference between giving what you think you no longer need and throwing away the rest of your life. Tell me it wasn’t for me,” he demanded once more, staring fiercely.

Horatio sighed. He could not tell him that, and Archie had thrown away the rest of his life for him, intentionally or no. The plain fact was that it would be unconscionable to leave Archie now. But Horatio could understand Archie’s fear, needless as it was; his choice had been out of much more than loving obligation. Much more.

“It is the principle, Archie,” Horatio defended gently. “I’d say my mind has been made up since that debacle in Kingston. A brave man must live with disgrace so that a madman may die with honor?” His brow furrowed in disgust. “A man does his duty, saves lives, and all the Admiralty can do is hound him for which of the Articles he violated in the process? In that case I’d almost rather I were a privateer, cut loose from the Admiralty and left to my own devices in taking on the enemy.”

“Horatio,” Archie stopped him, his voice strained but patient. “No one forced that confession out of me. I fear affection is clouding your judgment. I asked you not to compromise to yourself.” His eyes flashed after the last bit.

Compromise himself? Horatio stared back angrily. The only compromise had been the promotion Pellew sought to offer him that morning. “And I asked you not to cheapen what we have,” he snapped back more harshly than he meant to.

With a disgruntled sound, Archie turned to his window. It was a temporary retreat, for he turned back again in the next moment, wetting his lips and looking up at Horatio with warmer, calmer eyes.

“I do understand, Horatio,” he assured all too quickly. “I never said a word, but when I was sick in Kingston I did wish you would leave the Service if you made it out alive. I thought the Admiralty would never properly appreciate your talents and I wanted you safe from men like Hammond. I considered asking it of you, but . . .” Archie trailed off, shaking his head. “I don’t want you to regret this, or despise me for it in the end is all. But what now, Horatio?”

The soft worry in Archie’s voice wrung Horatio’s heart, and he marveled for the thousandth time at the way his dear Archie could be so flippant and yet so sweet.

“Archie,” Horatio reached for his beloved’s hand, grasping it gently, “if we haven’t come to despise each other after all these years of cramped shipboard life I doubt we ever will. As for what now . . .” He paused. In truth he had not considered the matter, but commanded himself to feign confidence for Archie’s sake. “I’ll have to do something worthy of all you’ve done for me. Perhaps I’ll study and make some great advancement, or become a doctor after my father. I could study at Aberdeen, and then tend the wounded brought from the front, or . . .”

His hands were flapping uselessly, prompting Archie to stare skeptically at his attempts at optimism. But Archie did not call him on a poor ruse, only indulged him with a grin. “And have your hands all over so many fine, brave men? I might grow jealous.”

Horatio could not resist chuckling. “As you were of my sloop?” he teased in return.

Taken back, Archie huffed with all the haughtiness his blue blood could muster, gesturing sharply toward one window. “That is your side of the coach, Mr. Hornblower,” he declared, the devil flashing in his eyes, “and this is mine.” He slid sullenly in the opposite direction, folding his arms and pouting for all he was worth.

Horatio paid him the respect of concealing a triumphant smile, allowing Archie a moment to sulk in peace before he edged nearer on the narrow bench, crossing their imaginary demarcation line. “Permission to come aboard, sir?” he leaned down and murmured in Archie’s ear.

That golden head turned, and all at once Archie favored him with a wide smile, sinking complacently against Horatio’s chest as he slid both arms around him. Horatio sighed, running his hands over hard, healthy muscle where Archie had been thin two months before. Archie tucked his head between his shoulder and neck, and Horatio rested his cheek against his soft hair.

“You’re cold, Horatio,” Archie murmured after a moment, reaching up to rub one shoulder vigorously where the rain had plastered the thin linen to Horatio’s skin. Horatio exhaled to feel the heat of Archie’s fingertips, and a mischievous light entered Archie’s eyes as he stretched up to whisper, “I’ll keep you warm.”

Horatio smiled, cradling Archie’s smooth cheek and gazing down into those bright sapphire eyes. “You always have,” he answered, affection welling up inside him. Archie’s arms slid around his neck in response, and Horatio bent his head, soundly kissing that small rosy mouth until Archie seemed to weaken in his arms.

“We’ll have to go away for a while,” Archie mused once Horatio drew back. “After London, that is.”

“I know,” Horatio nodded, brushing a finger once more over Archie’s smooth warm cheek, thanking whatever God was up there that Archie was still here with him. “I shall look forward to it.” Who would not, after everything that happened aboard Renown and after?

“And so shall I,” Archie declared, his lips curving into a grin. He dropped his head onto Horatio’s shoulder again, evincing little worry over what he would say to his father when they reached London, or what their lives might become. He only closed his eyes, settling peacefully into Horatio’s embrace.

Horatio held his friend against his chest until the pattering of the rain lulled Archie to sleep. He was reluctant to release him even then, but eventually let Archie slip down into his lap, smoothing his hair and arranging his cloak so that it covered him like a blanket. The dark memory of Kingston, of Archie in the clutches of death, still haunted Horatio as he gazed down at him. But though his heart was heavy, the despair did not last long. He would be a fool to sorrow in the face of his own restoration.