Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef (28 page)

He looked up from something Nancy was murmuring to him and heard his sister Felicity say, “To be alone in a boat with all those men, Lady Catherine. It must surely have presented certain … difficulties?”

Catherine looked at her, her eyes flashing. “We did not serve tea every day, Mrs Vincent, and the privacy we can take for granted here was scarce. But we had other things to distract us.”

“It is the opinion of some that you possess great beauty, Lady Catherine. I would have thought …”

Roxby began to intervene as everyone else fell silent, but Catherine reached out and touched his arm. She said, “I think everyone here knows what you would have thought, Mrs Vincent.” She saw Miles Vincent hide a snigger. “But out of respect for our hosts, and because of the love I bear the bravest, kindest man I have ever known, I will curb my tongue. But I must say, if it occurs again I shall be less than agreeable.”

Felicity rose and a footman ran to hold her chair.

“I have a headache. Miles, give me your hand—”

Nancy said hotly, “She fills me with shame and disgust!”

But Bolitho was looking at the woman who had just declared her love for him, openly, without question, without shame.

Roxby said loudly into the silence, “I think some more port, eh?” He shook his head at his wife and sighed noisily with relief. “That was good of you, Lady Catherine. I did not want her to spoil this little affair for you.”

She laid her gloved hand on his. “Spoil it?” She threw back her head and gave her bubbling laugh. “When you have shared an ocean with blood-crazed sharks, even that embittered woman seems none too bad!”

Much later, as young Matthew drove the carriage along the narrow lanes and the fields gleamed in bright moonlight, Catherine opened both windows to it, so that her bare shoulders shone like silver.

“I never dreamed I would see this again, nor smell the richness of the land.”

“I am sorry about my sister—”

She swung round and put her fingers on his mouth. “Think only of what we did together. Even when we are separated, for so must we be, I will be with you as never before. Your ship and your men are a part of me too.” Then she asked tenderly, “How is your eye now?”

Bolitho glanced out at the moon. The misty circle was still around it. “It is much better.”

She leaned against him so that he could smell her perfume, her body.

“I am not convinced. But I shall write to that doctor again.” She hugged him, and gasped as he bent over and kissed her bare shoulder.

“But first, love me. It has been so long. Too long …”

Matthew, half dozing on his box, because the horses knew this road like their own stable, jerked awake as he heard their voices, their laughter and then the intimate silence. It was good to have them back, he thought. Complete again.

Allday had told him how she had stood beside Sir Richard and had faced the mutineers fearlessly, until they had won the day.

Matthew grinned, and knew that had it been lighter he might have been seen to be blushing.

With a woman like that, Sir Richard could conquer the whole world.

Bodmin, the county town of Cornwall, was filled with inns and post-houses, as well as cheap lodgings for the passengers of the many coaches that spread their routes eastward to Exeter and as far afield as London, north to Barnstaple and to the great ports of the West Country like Falmouth and Penzance. It was a plain old town, set on the fringes of the forbidding moor, which had long been the haunt of footpads and highwaymen, some of whom could be seen rotting in chains at the roadside as a warning to others.

The parlour of the Royal George was low-ceilinged and pleasant, little different from most other coaching inns where travellers could take a tankard of ale or something stronger to wash down the excellent cheese and cold cuts of meat while the horses were changed for the next leg of the journey to Plymouth.

Captain Adam Bolitho declined to offer his hat and cloak to an inn servant but found a high-backed seat away from the fire, retaining his outer clothing as a kind of protection against local curiosity. In any case he was not particularly warm, despite the body heat of the other passengers and, now, a blazing log fire. He had left Falmouth early, on the first available coach, his collar turned up and the clasp of his boat-cloak fastened to conceal his rank. His fellow passengers had been civilians, merchants mostly, and those who had managed to remain awake during the journey had been discussing the new possibilities they saw in trade with Portugal and later with Spain, as the war expanded. One of them had noticed Adam’s hat, which he had kept more or less discreetly beneath his cloak.

“A commander, eh, sir? One so young, too!”

Adam had said shortly, “Post captain.” He did not intend to be rude, nor to give offence, but those sort of people made him sick. To them, war was profit and loss in business, not broken bones and the roar of cannon fire.

The man had persisted, “When will it be over? Can nobody destroy this Bonaparte?”

Adam had replied, “We do our best, sir. I suggest that if more gold were put into sound shipbuilding, and less into the bellies of city merchants, it would be over much sooner.” The man had not troubled him again.

That particular passenger wasn’t here in the parlour, and Adam guessed, thankfully, that Bodmin was the end of his journey.

One of the maids gave him a quick curtsy. “Something for the cap’n?” She was young and saucy, and no stranger to the attention of lecherous passengers, he thought.

“Do you have brandy, my girl?”

She giggled. “Nay, zur—but to you, yes.” She hurried away and soon returned with a large goblet and some fresh cheese. “From the farm, zur.” She watched him curiously. “Be you in command of a King’s ship, zur?”

He glanced at her, the brandy hot on his tongue. “Aye. Anemone, frigate.” The brandy was excellent, no doubt run ashore by members of the Trade.

She said with a smile, “Tes an honour to serve you, zur.”

Adam nodded. And why not? He did not need to be in Plymouth as early as he had said. His first lieutenant would be enjoying his temporary command in his absence. The next coach would do. She recognised the uncertainty on his grave features and said, “Well, now, if you be a-passing of this way again …” She took his goblet to refill it. “My name be Sarah.”

She placed the goblet beside him and hurried away as the red-faced landlord bellowed out some demands from waiting passengers. It did not take long to change horses, and for the guard and coachman to down a few pints of cider or ale. Time was money.

Adam sank back against the tall chair and let the din of voices wash over him. The dinner; Lady Catherine’s sharp exchange with Aunt Felicity, who would never acknowledge him as her nephew. His uncle … His thoughts stopped there. It had been like finding a brother, after fearing him to be dead.

He was glad to be returning to Plymouth for orders: despatches for the Channel Fleet, patrols in the Bay of Biscay or around Brest to assess the enemy’s strength or intentions. Anything to keep him busy, his mind too full to allow any thought of Zenoria. In the same instant he knew he could not forget her, any more than he could stop himself remembering their love-making, her lithe body naked in his arms, her mouth like fire upon his. He had known several women, but none like Zenoria. Her fear had gone, and she had returned his passion as if it were all new and unspoiled, despite what she had endured.

He glanced at the goblet. Empty, and yet he had barely noticed it. When he looked again it was refilled. Perhaps he could sleep for the rest of the journey, and pray that the torment did not return.

Now she was with her husband, offering herself out of duty, out of guilt, but not out of love. It made him sick with jealousy even to think of them together. Keen touching her, brushing away her shyness, and possessing her as was his right.

He could not hate Valentine Keen. He had, in fact, always liked him, and knew that Keen felt as deeply towards his uncle as Adam himself did. Brave, fair, a decent man whom any woman would be proud to love. But not Zenoria. Adam sipped the brandy more carefully. He must be doubly careful in everything he did and said. If he were not, Valentine Keen would become a rival, an enemy.

I have no right. It is not merely a matter of honour, it is also the name of my family.

Horses clattered in the yard, and more voices announced the arrival of another coach; it would be the one that had left Falmouth this morning too, but which had travelled by way of Truro and outlying villages. The landlord’s face split into a fixed grin. “Mornin’, gentlemen! What’ll it be?” The girl named Sarah was there too, running her eye over the incoming faces.

Adam ignored them. What if he and Zenoria were brought together again? And if he persisted in avoiding her, would that not make it even more obvious? How would she behave? Submit, or tell her husband what had happened? That was unlikely. Better so, for all their sakes.

He would go outside and let the air clear his head until the coach was ready to proceed. He reached for his hat and then his hand poised, motionless, as he heard someone mention the name “Bolitho.”

Two men were standing by the fire, one a farmer by the look of his clothing—sturdy boots and heavy riding gloves. The other was plump and well-dressed, probably a merchant on his way to Exeter.

The latter was saying, “Such a commotion while I was staying in Falmouth—I was glad not to miss it. All the town turned out when Sir Richard Bolitho came back. I never knew that any man could inspire such affection.”

“I was there too. Often go for the market sales. Better ‘n some, as good as most.” He tilted his tankard and then said, “The Bolitho family’s famous thereabouts—or notorious, should I say?”

“Are they, by God? I’ve read something of their exploits in the Gazette, but nothing …”

His companion laughed. “Rules for some, but not for t’others, that’s what I say!” Their coach must have stopped at other inns longer than the Royal George. His voice was loud and slurred.

He continued, as if addressing the whole room. “Sleeping with another man’s wife, an’ talk of rape an’ worse. Well, you know what they say about rape, my friend—there’s usually two sides to it!”

Adam could feel the blood pounding in his brain, the man’s voice probing his mind like a hot knife. Who was he talking about? Catherine? Zenoria? Or was he even hinting about Adam’s own father, and his mother who had lived like a whore to raise the son Hugh Bolitho had not known about until it was too late?

He stood up and heard the girl ask, “Be you a-goin’, zur?”

“Directly—er, Sarah.” She was staring at him, unsure what was happening. He added, “A tankard, if you please. A large one.” She brought it, mystified, as Adam moved out of the shadows and to a hatch which opened on to the inn kitchen. A face peered out at him. “Zur?”

“Fill this with the filthiest scummy liquid you have.” He pointed at a large tub where a young girl was rinsing out the bedroom chamber pots. “That will do quite nicely.”

The man still gaped at him. “Oi don’t understand ‘ee, zur …” He hesitated, and then something in Adam’s face made him hurry away to the tub. Adam took the tankard and carried it towards the fire.

The landlord, polishing a jug, called out, “Plymouth Flier be ready to board, gentlemen!”

But nobody moved as Adam said, “I gather you were speaking of the Bolitho family in Falmouth.” His voice was very quiet and yet, in the silent parlour, it was like a clap of thunder.

“And what if I was?” The man swung on him. “Oh, I see you’re a gallant naval gentleman—I would expect the likes of you to disagree!”

Adam said, “Sir Richard Bolitho is a fine officer—a gentleman in the truest sense, which obviously you would never understand.”

He saw the bluster begin to fail.

“Now, just a minute—I’ve had enough of this!”

The landlord called, “I’ll have no trouble here, gentlemen!”

Adam did not drop his gaze from the other man. “No, landlord, not here. I am offering a drink to this loud-mouthed oaf.”

It took him off guard. “Drink?”

Adam said gently, “Yes. It is piss, like the foulness of your mouth!” He flung it into his face and tossed the tankard to one side. While the other man spluttered and choked he threw back his cloak and said, “May I introduce myself? Bolitho. Captain Adam Bolitho.”

The man stared at him wildly. “I’ll break your back, damn your bloody arrogance!”

“How much more must I insult you?” Adam struck him hard in the mouth, and said, “Swords or pistols, sir? The choice is here and now, before the next coach.”

The landlord said urgently, “You take it back, Seth. The young cap’n ‘ere d’have a reputation.”

The man seemed to shrink. “I didn’t know. It was just talk, y’see!”

“It nearly cost you your wretched life.” He glanced at the sweating landlord. “I beg your pardon for all this. I will make it worth your while.” There were gasps and a sudden, hurried grating of chairs as he produced a pistol and examined it, giving himself time. He knew he would have killed him. It was always there—lies about his family, several attempts to tarnish their honour, while the liars hid themselves in secret cowardice.

The man was practically in tears. “Please, Captain—I’d had too much to drink!”