“What exactly are you saying, Captain?” the flustered lieutenant demanded, bending forward on his palms over the desk.

Pushing the paperwork aside, Captain Hammond leaned back in his chair to study Renown’s incompetent first officer. Ordinarily, he would have respected a man with balls enough to go after what he was worth, but in the case of this ineffective, sniveling coward who had been caught napping in a crucial moment of danger Hammond could barely restrain a laugh. Buckland’s request that he put in a good word for him with his superiors was nothing short of pathetic.

“I am saying, Lieutenant,” Hammond intoned slowly so the fool could understand, “that your career is finished. You’ll sail home on Renown and in all likelihood be put ashore on half pay.” That was, of course, if those loyal to that upstart Hornblower did not arrange an “accident” for him first.

“Finished?” the man huffed, his homely face pinching. “We were all cleared of the charge of mutiny, Captain.”

That was true for the record books and the Gazette, though it did not make Hornblower any less guilty in the minds of any sane man who heard the evidence; it was only Hornblower’s ambition that had let him sacrifice his friend. Buckland, however, was another matter entirely, and one where the question of guilt or innocence made little difference.

“Your conduct under fire leaves much to be desired, Lieutenant,” Hammond told him flatly, a vast understatement. “A captain needs a man he can depend on to keep the men in line. After what we’re heard in court, no captain would have you.” What use was a man whose Marines even disobeyed him?

Buckland straightened, but not angrily or proudly; he simply took his hands from the desk and stood there, crushed, the posture of a man who’d had his last hope dashed and yet lacked the dignity to face his circumstances with any grace. Hammond took a perverse delight in bringing him to that end. If only he could facilitate the ruin of the Commodore as well. But Sir Edward did not yet have need of last hopes.

“That damned Hornblower has cost me everything.” The lieutenant lowered his head, but then he looked up again, a spark of determination in him still. “I thought at the very least we might share a common enemy.”

That surprised Hammond, that this pitiful creature could harbor such bitterness and enmity. In the courtroom, Hammond had thought Buckland to be no more than another of Hornblower’s ingratiating acolytes driven to accuse him out of twitish, momentary frustration, but perhaps there was something intriguing about this man after all if he was cowardly but not a fool. Perhaps he was deserving of a last hope.

“That we do, Lieutenant.” Hammond pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. Buckland brightened, able to look him in the eye now. “In that case I may be able to make arrangements for you, if I might consider the Commodore your enemy as well.”

That was bold, but enemies of the Commodore were easier to come by than enemies of Hornblower, and Buckland was hardly in a position to tattle.

“Of course, Captain.” Buckland grinned up at him cheerfully. The fool was good-natured if nothing else. “Hornblower seems to have the Commodore wrapped around his finger.”

Hammond smiled for the first time since the interview had begun. A strange fondness stirred under his skin, allaying the heat that always rose inside him whenever he thought of Sir Edward. “Very good.” He walked around the desk, stopping not a foot from the other man, a sordid desire springing suddenly to mind. “My assistance comes with a price, of course.”

Buckland nodded in acceptance of this as readily as he had before. “Anything you ask, Captain,” he continued to grin. His eagerness only pleased Hammond further; he did enjoy wielding power over the weak and earning their complicity. One day he would have the Commodore in his power as well.

He stole a glance at the door, and satisfied that it was securely latched, advanced another step on the smiling lieutenant. “We’re both far from our wives and surrounded by nothing but pox-ridden strumpets,” he began. Then his voice hardened. “I don’t care for pox- ridden strumpets, lieutenant, but I believe you can understand my desire for entertainment.”

Stupidly, Buckland nodded, but he did not appear to understand. “Yes, I –”

Hammond cut him off, seizing the man by the shoulders. He had no time for small talk and less for wooing. He wanted to claim this man as the Commodore’s enemy, as Hornblower’s enemy, and more perversely wanted to be Buckland’s final ruin as he could never be Sir Edward’s.

“Over the desk, lieutenant.”

Tightening his grip, Hammond guided Buckland forward. The man balanced himself with his palms on the wood, but they slipped when Hammond pushed him lower and he had no choice but to grip the edge of the desk. He spread his feet further apart to steady himself, amusing Hammond by inadvertently sticking out his backside.

Stepping behind him, Hammond reached around, his hands going straight to the buttons of Buckland’s breeches, making his intentions more than clear. Buckland gave a start, his ample rump slamming against Hammond’s stirring groin, touching off a wave of pleasure. But when Buckland came in contact with that hardness, he jerked forward again in shock.

“What do . . .?” He turned his head on the desk to stare at Hammond over his shoulder, his twitty face aflame. But at least he understood now.

Ignoring the lieutenant’s protest for the moment, Hammond loosened all the buttons and pulled Buckland’s breeches down over his hips, revealing his pale, fleshy arse and his doughy thighs. Hammond grunted, certain the Commodore would make a more impressive sight.

“An innocent man paid with his honor today,” he said at last, with a rare twinge of amusement. “A coward should learn to do the same.”

Buckland said nothing, aware that there was nothing he could do, and craven to the core he turned his head back into the desk and waited, surrendering without words. Hammond smiled to himself, unbuttoning his own breeches and placing his body in position without bothering with oil of any sort. He gripped Buckland’s hips and pushed his way into port, soaking up Buckland’s groans of pain muffled by the wood.

The lieutenant’s channel was tight, but his arse did not feel particularly good nor was there any great thrill in the taking, only a perfunctory thrusting in and sliding out. Hammond closed his eyes, wishing away the pale, unimpressive man before him and picturing the Commodore in his place. Sir Edward would be defiant in his own way, either glaring with his stern dark eyes or refusing to look at him at all, and he might curse or promise retribution, but he would be too cowardly to really fight and deep down would be forced to acknowledge who held the power between them then once for all without the protection of rank.

The thought sparked fire in Hammond’s blood; his movements increased and he thrust harder, forcing Buckland’s body again and again into the table until his release burned close at hand. He pulled back then just in time, not a boy anymore and therefore able to control such functions, splattering his seed across Buckland’s flushed buttocks to mark his conquest and ownership.

Hammond was slightly out of breath when he straightened to tuck his shirt back in and button himself up. But he was possessed of all the dignity of a king when compared to the man slumped over his desk with his breeches around his ankles. Smiling to himself again, Hammond cleared his throat.

“I might think twice about your usefulness now, lieutenant. Perhaps I’ll find a place for you aboard my own ship.” It was a lie, but the aftermath of his release made him feel charitable enough to give the man hope.

The remark elated Buckland so much that he forgot his despicable state and looked up from the desk. “Why thank you, Captain,” he beamed. The smile faded when he caught a glimpse of himself and his turned as red as a Marine’s coat.

“That will be all.” Hammond said after a moment, too disgusted even to laugh.. Instead, he coldly turned away, impatient for the fool to pick up his breeches and leave.