Ransom (9 page)

Archer suspected his friend had guessed what Correy had done to him, years back, but he was grateful they had never spoken of it. He couldn’t bring himself to tell William what was really at stake here, either.

Am I that obvious? Can anyone tell, just looking at me?
He hoped not. He had never intentionally done anything to try to attract another man—he certainly had not invited Correy’s attentions—but there had been a few invitations, from friends in the theatre, invitations he had never accepted, and no hard feelings. He had been in the throes of a much more conventional romance, back then, with the lovely understudy to the celebrated Mrs. Sarah Siddons.

But the invitations had been there, nonetheless. And now this. Will might wonder, as he was beginning to, himself, whether Archer wasn’t sending some sort of signal that suggested he would welcome such attentions.

And if William wondered that, he might also wonder if he wanted to keep a friend who was sending such signals. That sort of association would sound the death knell for a young officer’s ambitions, and Will was highly ambitious. All to the good, because he was going to be a captain who would take his place beside Jervis, Nelson, and Pellew in the pages of history. Men like that were rare, and England needed them.

It was almost funny that Will could look at such men and not recognize himself—as when he’d said that Adrian had caught a man stronger than he was. He’d caught two at once, and it probably frightened the hell out of him.

Maybe that’s why he went after me. A corvette won’t take on two frigates if there’s a lightly-armed sloop handy. I’m an easy target. And he knows he can use us against each other. He enjoys that, it gives him power.

He should have taken advantage of Adrian’s expectation that he would be jealous of William. There would have been no point in having him beaten if he thought Archer would be pleased to see it happen. That probably wouldn’t have worked, though. He could wear the mask of manners society expected; he couldn’t pretend to hate the best friend he’d ever had... a man he loved.

But he could provide a diversion. Those two frigates would find it easier to defeat the corvette if the corvette was preoccupied with trying to sink the sloop. If Adrian’s vigilance was lulled by a victory on one front, he might neglect the more important battle. It was not the sort of diversionary tactic that would ever be taught, pray God, but it might serve the purpose. Let him think he’d won, as Will had said. Play for time.
Somehow I don’t think he would have said that if I’d told him the whole truth. Even so... he’s right.

But all the old terror, Correy’s legacy, was still dragging at Archer like an anchor, and he didn’t know if he could slip that cable. He had to do that. He had to. If he held onto it, bottled it up as he’d been forced to before, he’d probably start having noisy nightmares again. Will would know for certain that something was wrong.

He had survived worse. He truly had. Adrian was a lecherous swine, but he didn’t seem to be interested in beating his prey to a pulp, as Correy had done. It wasn’t likely to be as bad as being wounded, which Archer had also survived. Or even that horrible infestation of bedbugs some of the men brought aboard from a whorehouse in Verona—it took a month to get rid of them, and every man in the crew had been covered in bites.

And with regard to vermin of various species... however threatening he was, Adrian was not Correy. Dangerous, yes, and smoothly vicious, but he had no chance to blackmail his victim, no power to ruin Archer’s career and wreck the rest of his life.
He can’t put me in more of a prison than I’m in now, or throw me overboard, or do anything much worse than kill me. Which he won’t do if he can help it, because he wants the ransom.

His duty was to do what he could to get them out of this. He was grown, now, no longer a frightened 16-year-old. It was not a task he would have chosen, but what he wanted was not the issue. This wasn’t about what he wanted, it was about doing his duty.

More important still, it would keep the son of a bitch away from William. The way Adrian had looked at him, stretched half-naked on the gratings, twisted Archer up inside.
Leave him alone, you bastard. Keep your filthy hands off him!

It was not just protectiveness. Archer had realized almost immediately that what he felt for William was far more than the love of a friend. His feelings went much further than the Articles of War permitted. The strength of the attraction shocked him; after Correy, desire for another man was the last thing he had ever thought to feel. But there it was, however futile. Still, if he wanted to keep Will’s friendship, he knew he had to keep any other feelings entirely to himself.

He studied Will’s sleeping face, so close in this tiny cell. The curly black hair was matted down with sweat, his mouth softened in sleep, the lines of pain eased by unconsciousness. William had been protecting him almost since they’d met, one way or another. He’d removed the towering threat of George Correy and set a standard of achievement that Archer found he had to live up to. His love for Will brought out a courage he didn’t know he had on that French ship. William was always there—he had helped Archer master his panic in that damned waggon only a few days ago. It was not just life that Archer owed him, but the self-respect without which life was insupportable.

High time he paid back a little of that debt. And if he had to whore himself to do it...

Well, it wasn’t as if that were anything that had not happened before. Last time, he’d sold himself for mere survival. Now, at least, he’d be doing his duty, helping his Captain, protecting his friend. That was worth the price. He would never be able to give himself
to
William, but he could give himself
for
him, shield him, and perhaps atone for the shameful, unnatural desire. If he were very lucky, this might even break him of it, as a horrible hangover might cure a first-time drunkard.

Not likely. When he considered William in that light, he felt only eagerness. He wanted to know how it would feel to hold him as a lover would, to kiss that soft sensuous mouth, to learn what he might do to give pleasure. But the thought of Adrian—the arrogance, the hands claiming his body, the ugliness of soul that would take pleasure in causing such pain to force service to his appetites... There was nothing in common between the two.

Except me.

And it was nothing new. He knew he could survive this. More to the point, Will might not. And to see his bright soul tarnished, beaten down...
No. Never. Not if I can prevent it.

I don’t think Adrian can possibly be any worse than Correy.

Oh, God...

Breathe.

Return to TOC

Captain Smith had just time enough for the ink to dry before he heard the footsteps outside his door. He looked over the missive once more; it appeared to be in order.

Adrian had come for it himself, this time. “Have you finished the letter, Captain?”

“Yes.” He wondered if Drinkwater had been able to make any sense of his veiled reference to espionage. It was a long chance; the man would be knee-deep in the thousand important details that were by rights a captain’s responsibility, and the reference would probably slip past him.

Even so, there was one small consolation: if Adrian had detected anything wrong with that first letter, he would not be standing there waiting for this one. “Twenty thousand for me and five each for my men,” he said, passing the paper out through the bars. “That first seems a bit high, surely?”

“The three of you have already been more troublesome than any of my previous guests.”

“I’m delighted to hear it.”

Adrian took the page closer to the lantern outside—not, fortunately, close enough to warm the paper. “This appears satisfactory. I will send it on its way later this morning.” He turned, then stopped as if remembering something. “By the way, Captain, I’ve decided how I’m going to punish one of your men for your little outburst earlier.” When Smith merely frowned, he said, “Aren’t you curious?”

“I’m not about to beg for clues; no doubt I’ll find out eventually.”

“No doubt. Well, then, if you have no questions...”

“I do have one. You appeared to be implying to Mr. Marshall that Mr. Archer had been the one who tried to escape. Was there a reason, or were you merely being... whimsical?”

“What an interesting way to put it, Captain. But yes, there is a reason. I find it useful to remind my guests they have only one another to blame for their misfortunes. For instance, this next time I will make it clear to... your young officer... that your noble and patriotic display is the cause of his discomfort. You will get full credit this time, Captain. Never fear.”

“Piracy,” Smith said, in the same conversational tone, “is something for which I may summarily hang a man, when I catch him, without the bother of a trial.”

“But I have caught you, Captain, not the reverse. You seem to have an unhealthy preoccupation with hanging.”

“I intend you will find it permanently unhealthy.” Smith turned on his heel and extinguished the lantern. After a moment Adrian realized he would get no more amusement here. He left, slamming the door in a display of ill temper.

Alone, Smith sat heavily in the chair. It had been a risk to let the blackguard know he valued Marshall. It made a target of him. But not doing so might have meant his death. Of course, the best men were always the first to be risked, the ones sent into danger to get the job done because they stood the best chance of accomplishing it. Calculated risk, the daily lot of a ship’s captain. And it never got easier.

He sighed. Damn that young man’s impudence! A dozen would have been unpleasant; what he got for baiting the bastard would leave him barely able to move for at least a day or two. His defiance had been splendid to see, but hardly worth the cost.

Well, he was young, strong, and resilient, and, one could hope, intelligent enough not to make the same mistake twice. Archer had shown a fine spirit, too, snatching the opportunity to communicate even though he knew the risk. They had both demonstrated, in a way no argument could, that even the prospect of severe punishment was not enough to command their allegiance to anyone but their own captain. That one priceless moment gave him the chance to start undermining Adrian’s hold on his crew.

Smith wished he’d had time to explain to them that the escape attempt had been his own, but those two would not need explanations. They would manage. They would recognize Adrian’s games as clearly as Smith did.

He only hoped they would survive them.

~

Supplemental Log, HMS Calypso, in for repair, Portsmouth. Lt. Anthony Drinkwater, in temporary command. 19-7-1799

No further news. However, Ad. Roberts informs me that his recommendation to keep Captain Smith on the books of the Calypso has been approved, with the proviso that if he has not been returned to us by the time she is restored to seaworthiness, another captain will be assigned. The shipwrights have given me an estimate of six to eight weeks, and examination of the records of other abductions reveals that all abductees were returned within six weeks. It looks to be a near thing. We hope daily for contact.

~

“Wake up, Will.”

Marshall was just conscious enough to find the tapping on his arm an intolerable nuisance. Then he realized he was lying on his face. Why in blazes had he tried to sleep this way? He pushed up on one arm, and a wave of pain knocked him down. And he remembered.

“Will?”

“Just—just a moment, Davy. I’m trying to decide if I want to wake up, or die now and get it over with.”

“You must move.”

He squinted at Archer. The sun must be just over their little port; it was almost bright in the cell. “Last night you said I had to hold still.” He didn’t mean to sound like a petulant child, but he was becoming acutely aware of how much the act of breathing shifted the muscles in one’s back. It felt as though someone had poured molten lead from his neck to his waist and it had cooled just enough to immobilize him.

“Yes, but now you have to move about, otherwise you’ll be too stiff to move at all. Wait.”

Cool wetness eased the sullen heat, and he relaxed under the dripping cloth. “Bless you, Davy. Give me a moment.”

He was just becoming halfway comfortable and dozing off again when Archer was back at it. “Get up, Will. Breakfast.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake—” He gathered himself, started to push up, and decided it really wasn’t worth the effort. “Why don’t you eat it, Davy, I’m really not—”

“No.” Archer put the plate down an inch from his nose. Two white objects rolled around beside a biscuit. “Look. Those hens I hypothesized must have outdone themselves, we’ve got boiled eggs this morning. Weren’t you just wishing for eggs awhile back? Get. Up.”

“This is insubordination,” Marshall grumbled.

“This is my chance at revenge for all that gruel you shoveled into me when we had that fever aboard ship. Come on, William.”

He gritted his teeth and tried to do it all at once, lurching to his hands and knees. “Damn it to
hell,
I’ll have that bastard’s guts for garters—”

“Swear all you like, but keep moving.” Archer shifted the plate away and helped Will get vertical close enough to the bulkhead to lean against it sideways, leaning back being clearly out of the question for the moment.

“Thank you, Davy,” he said when he got his breath back. “I do appreciate—”

“It’s no more than you’ve done for me. Much less.” Even though he’d accomplished his objective, Archer looked like he was on his way to a funeral. “I know I once said this would never happen,” he said hollowly. “I wish I’d not been so damnably wrong.” He pushed the plate over, and retrieved mugs of tea from just inside the door. “I should have...” He shook his head.

Marshall had no notion why his friend was indulging in self-recrimination. “You weren’t holding the stick, Davy. You weren’t giving the orders. And unless you’re some kind of twisted Machiavel who thrives on discomfort, you certainly didn’t have us abducted.”