Ransom (24 page)
Last time. Was there anything else—anything William might not ask for? He was being so kind, so undemanding, he probably would not ask. “Will—”
“Mmm?” Marshall recaptured his mouth, running his tongue lightly between Archer’s lips. It was most distracting, and he lost track of his thoughts for a few glorious minutes.
Their lips brushed softly as Archer pulled back. He wanted to give William everything, but—what if the offer repelled him? He’d need to weigh his words. “Would—would you like to—be inside me?”
The hands halted in their smooth slide down his back. “Do you want that?”
He’d already had everything he wanted, and more. “Do you?”
Will kissed the side of his neck, down where it was still black-and-blue, and worked his way slowly back up to murmur in his ear. “Not really, Davy.” His hands resumed their slow descent, pulling their bodies closer together. “I’ll try, if you’re sure you want me to, but—” One hand moved from his back to cradle his cheek; he could almost feel William studying him in the darkness. “Doesn’t that hurt? I should think it would.”
Archer blinked back sudden tears, undone by his caring. “It—it has. Before. I think it would not, if you... went slowly.”
“Davy, no...” Will’s fingers found the tears, brushed them away.
“It—it’s all right, Will. I wouldn’t mind. It doesn’t matter. I’ve never—been with—anyone who cared whether it hurt or not.”
“You are now. And it does matter.” He found Archer’s lips once again, kissed him slowly and thoroughly, then started down his throat. “How can you think I’d enjoy something that hurt you? This is so good I don’t think I could stand any more. Thank you for asking...” He smoothed his hands across Archer’s chest, fingers making teasing circles around the nipples, starting waves of sensation that surged through the rest of his body. “... but there is something I would like, if you don’t mind?”
“Anything,” Archer said breathlessly.
“We do still have a bit of time. Let me—” He seemed at a loss for words. “Do a little of what you’ve done for me? Unless it reminds you of—”
Archer seized William’s hair and stopped his mouth with his own, then said quickly, “Nothing you’re doing reminds me of anyone else. Don’t even name him. Just—just do anything you like.” A twinge of apprehension shot through him as he said that, but it was eclipsed immediately by anticipation and overwhelmed by more light, careful touches as William’s hands and lips brushed across him. He wondered dazedly if his lover had somehow mapped the bruises on his body and decided to kiss them all away. Kiss it and make it better. He chuckled.
Will stopped immediately. “Ticklish?”
“No. Only happy. That feels so good.” He ran his fingers through William’s hair. It was in complete disarray, stiffened from the salt spray outside and twisted into elf-locks. Probably neither of them looked like officers or gentlemen, but in the dark like this it didn’t matter. There was a kind of freedom in the darkness. No sight; just scent, and taste, and hearing, and most of all touch, flowing over his body until it was almost more than he could bear. And then it was too much, and Will slid back up so they could hold each other one last time. Their lips met like the first time, only better—no fear of what the other might do or say, no uncertainty, only shared delight.
They moved together less urgently this time, a slow sweet union that was already almost a parting, like the last days of summer before cold rain began to fall. Archer let all his barriers down, allowed himself to ride the sensations like the
Calypso
on a following sea. It was different, different even than the carefree lovemaking with Mary Belle so long ago, as though the pain he’d endured at other hands had cracked open a shell. With every fiber of his body he felt William moving against him, and when the climax came for both of them it was as if his whole being flushed with a bright glow, leaving him shivering with pleasure.
He opened his eyes, half-expecting the cell to be lit with some lingering brightness, but it was still dark. Not for much longer, though.
Will held him tightly for a moment, then sighed. “We really can’t risk any more, Davy.” He kissed him as a lover one final time. Archer held on, drawing it out as long as he possibly could, realizing with a pang that this was going to have to last him the rest of his life. But finally they had to separate, and Will kissed him once again, chastely, on the forehead. “We’d better get dressed.”
“I know.” Archer breathed deeply, wondering if he could hold fast to the memory of the scent. “Will—thank you.”
“I hope I can’t say the pleasure was all mine—”
“Oh, no.” Reluctantly, Archer moved away, and found himself so utterly weary he could barely sit up. He located the washing cloth, tidied himself up, and dragged his clothing back on. “We ought to sleep the day away, with so much to do tonight.” The last word ended in a prodigious yawn.
“Yes. You sleep now, Davy. I’ll wait until it’s light and make certain nothing looks out of place.”
“Thank you. I don’t know why I’m so tired.” And chilly. He found his jacket and used it as a cover, bunching extra straw up as a pillow. “G’night, Will. Or good morning...”
“Good night, Davy.”
Archer closed his eyes and slipped off into sleep, a deep velvet sleep with no need at all for dreams.
Marshall sat back, trying to sort out his thoughts. He had never imagined his body was capable of such intense pleasure, or that he could have done such things and, even now, feel no guilt at all. The rightness of it went all the way through him. It had been risky and dangerous, they could never admit having done it, or dare take the risk again—but it had not been wrong. Whatever society might say, anything so joyful was no sin. The only worry he had was that somehow they might be found out, and he didn’t think that likely.
He was still astonished that he had let himself do what he had done—what they had done. What Davy had said the other night was true, though—if it had not been for these peculiar circumstances, it would probably never have happened. These circumstances... and one moment of clairvoyant certainty, just as he was losing consciousness in the choke hold. For just an instant, he had seen what had to be the future—or at least a possible future: Davy lying on the quarterdeck of this ship, motionless, eyes closed. Dead? Perhaps.
It was not imagination; he had such flashes rarely, but they were always true sight. His Irish grandmother had had the gift, and warned him that it had been passed down to him.
He wasn’t grateful; he would not have called it a gift. The first time he’d ‘seen’ was when his mother had taken ill after giving birth to a baby sister; they’d both died within the week. Most recently, it had been his two gunners, in the last battle. When he’d seen them in his dream, their faces had been blank. He hadn’t remembered that, or realized what it meant, until the French missile took out the rail and blasted his men to eternity.
And what about Davy? Were things different enough now? Had this given Davy the will to live, countered his hopelessness about the future? Or had he made it worse, waking a wish for the impossible? Try as he might, he could not force the vision. Gift or curse, it came at its own whim.
Well, he had done what he could. And it was no sacrifice; if he had given Davy any happiness, the gift had been returned a hundredfold. If they both survived the morrow, this would be a strange but wonderful dream, to be put aside when they went back to the
Calypso
. If they both died, it would matter not at all. If only one survived...
If Archer were to die, if that was what the vision had meant, it would be a grief worse than anything he’d ever known—but nothing like the guilt and regret he’d have been burdened with if he had let Davy go down into the dark without sending the love he felt with him
. And if I die, I suppose I’ll find out if there really is a hell.
That seemed to cover all eventualities.
He heard the faint echo of two strikes on the ship’s bell. Five a.m. The sun would be up soon, and with any luck they’d be getting breakfast in an hour or so.
Gradually the sky outside brightened and enough daylight trickled in to show that they’d left no visible evidence. He found the washrag, rinsed and concealed it in the straw. Anything else—any scent? The decks of the
Titan
had taken on a strange odor when temporary “wives” were visiting... He couldn’t tell, but took the lid off the slop bucket for a minute. By the time that smell cleared out, anything else should go with it.
He was relaxed enough to feel sleepy, but he was wary of lying down beside Archer just now. The cell was only six feet wide; their mats were too near one another. It would be so easy to roll over and take Davy into his arms, warm and sleepy and trusting, and simply hold him close. It would feel so good, and he dared not risk the chance he might do it in his sleep. From now on, he’d have to find some excuse not to sleep next to Archer, at least not until these feelings subsided. Some pretext... keeping watch should sound reasonable. Would be reasonable, actually, at this point. He settled down in the corner beside the door, next to the water buckets, let his head rest against the wall, and closed his eyes for just a moment.
Captain’s Log, HMS Artemis (Supplemental Log, Detached duty, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth.) Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, commanding 29-7-1799
Tor Bay, fair weather and a good wind. Met two ships since departure (
HMS Sophia, HMS Polychrest
), and informed them as to the situation. No sign of the
Morven
thus far.
~
“Hey! You! Where’s the other one?”
Archer’s eyes flew open at the question. A guard, peering through the barred door, was frowning at him.
“Who—Oh.” William was sitting against the wall, slumped over and sleeping like the dead. Archer pointed. “Over there.”
The guard scowled through at an angle. “Sick?”
“No, I don’t think so. Will?”
By this time Marshall was shaking his head muzzily. He saw the guard, recognized the problem, and moved over to where he was visible. “I must have dozed off,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Stay where I can see you,” the guard said shortly, and slid a tray under the door: Oatmeal again, biscuit, and apples.
Marshall nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”
They shared out the food, and ate silently for a while. Archer glanced over occasionally, and once caught Marshall watching him with an odd, quizzical half-smile that vanished immediately. Something about the daylight turned William into a different person from the ardent lover of a few hours past—cooler, more remote. “It is strange, isn’t it?” Archer voiced his thought. “Like a dream—or the memory of a dream.”
“Yes,” Marshall said soberly, spooning up the last of his porridge. “That’s probably the best way to think of it.”
Archer didn’t really want to ask. “Are you sorry?”
“No. Never that.” Their eyes met, and Archer caught a brief glimpse of something gentler. “But... it needs some distance, Davy. Not the best thing to have in the front of our minds.”
“No, I suppose not.” He cleaned his own bowl and put the dishes outside, and they were taken away.
“What we need to do is consider the next step,” Marshall said under his breath, then started speaking in a normal voice about the best way to rig the
Calypso
for getting through a narrow strait during a thunderstorm with variable winds. Under that discussion they sketched out a plan of action for the night’s attack; by the time they were finished, Archer was beginning to believe they might actually have a chance to get out of this.
“What a gift you have for cheering a body up, Will. You’d have been a marvelous physician.”
William shook his head with a smile, but said nothing; he was clearly giving the matter some thought. “No, I don’t believe I would. Our local doctor was a good man, and I respected him, but I could never have studied with him. It would be too hard to be around sick people all the time—don’t laugh! I hate to see children ill, and then there was the matter of money—you seldom see a doctor who has any, no more than a minister. Not that I expect to become wealthy, but it would be pleasant to walk into an inn, as we did with the Captain, and be able to order what you like without counting pennies. And now I’ve made lieutenant, I’ll draw half-pay even if I’m not on active duty—though I hope it never comes to that.”
Archer had never needed to think about such things. His own childhood had been comfortable, his material needs met; even now, his father sent 50 pounds a year for his expenses, and had promised to continue until he was made lieutenant. He had to make his own way, of course; what else was a man to do? But if he fell on hard times he would never need worry about his next meal. “Well, most Navy men don’t get rich, either—Captain Smith and a few others excepted, of course. I suppose we all hope to be as lucky.”
“We’ve been lucky enough to still be alive. What about you, Davy? How did you come to choose the Navy? Family tradition?”
A year ago, if someone had asked him that, he would have simply said he’d wanted adventure, and changed the subject. But that old wound no longer smarted; it was almost funny, in retrospect. “Evasive action.”
“How? From whom?”
“Do you remember I once said Drury Lane was like my second home?” Marshall nodded. “Well, there was a girl, an actress.” Mary Belle Blossom. Or Maribel, or sometimes Mariabella, depending on the play. She changed it from one day to the next, along with her costumes and characters. “She understudied Mrs. Siddons once, when she played Cleopatra. Her role was only a handmaiden, but she would have been ready to play the lead. We would—” He almost said ‘lie there for hours’. Not something a gentleman should reveal. “Spend hours going over Cleopatra’s lines. I could probably recite the whole play, even now. I was all of fifteen, she was two or three years older.”
She was pretty, bright and lively; he had been fascinated, smitten, and wholly overwhelmed. “We had... I realize now it was a simple little affair, but, Lord, I was convinced the sun rose and set on her. After a few weeks, I proposed marriage. She told me not to be silly. Then I went home and told my father.” He sighed, remembering.