The Red King (47 page)

Andrew pointed at him.

“I love you heart, mind and soul. I love you
with my whole being,” Rory said, plainly, meeting Andrew’s intense,
unreadable stare. “I know that you do not remember, but you told me
the same, once.”

Blushing, Andrew looked down at his lap. He
glared at the remains of his apple half and reached for the
other.

“We will rendezvous with my ship before the
week is out. Etienne, Malik, Yousef, and I will be boarding it. We
sail for Algiers and Ortega will return north,” Rory stated,
thinking it best to profess all, and do it quickly. “My hope is
that you will return with us but I will not make any assumption as
to your desires. I have secured passage with Ortega for you, plus
assurances that he will see to your well-being for the future. If
you do not wish to stay with him, he has agreed to take you…where
ever you would like.”

Andrew was frowning severely now, his eyes on
the pale, open face of the apple.

“You have choices, Andrew, and the freedom to
make your own decision,” Rory finished. He stood and Andrew raised
his head, lips parted as if he wished to speak. Rory shook his
head. “Think on it. You’ll not be disturbed save for your meals. If
you wish it, and if you feel strong enough, you can dress and step
out for some air. None will stop you.”

With trembling legs he moved towards the
door. He looked once more to Andrew before he left, saw him staring
hard at the apple in his hand, and left before he could fall to his
knees and beg Andrew to come with him.

He went straight to the quarterdeck,
desperate for the wind on his face. He stumbled as his feet twisted
in the lines and had to lean against the gunnel, close his eyes for
a moment. He looked towards the horizon, at the sun hanging low and
golden above the dark line of land. Though winter approached, as
they moved south the wind was still warmer than the blistering cold
of the North Sea. It blew now steady and swift, the late afternoon
sky free of clouds, fair sailing all but promised. His mind was
treacherous, though, turning his thoughts to Andrew and what life
would be without him. A simple day’s end, warm, content, and the
assurance of more to follow settled into dread he could no longer
bear. His hard won calm fled and he wept into his palm, heedless of
the attention he called until he was taken into a firm, steady
embrace.

“Rory, Rory…hush now,” he heard Etienne say
against his hair.

“I…gave him…his choice,” Rory cried, hiding
his face in the man’s shoulder. “What if he doesn’t come?
Etienne…what have I done?”

As Etienne sought to soothe him, his back
felt the weight of another’s hand.

“If you had forced your hand, it would never
have been right between you. You did it the proper way,
Ruaidhri
,” Yousef said behind him.

“I should not have,” Rory croaked, unable to
stop the flow of his tears now that they had begun. “I only just
have him back, within reach, and I sent him away. God, I am a
fool!”

Etienne held him, tightly, and his only
answer was to press a kiss to Rory’s head. They stood like that for
some time, and Etienne never loosened his hold.

When Rory straightened the sun was lowering,
bleeding bright orange into the sky as afternoon stretched into
evening. He saw that Malik had joined them and now hovered behind
Yousef, both of them grim and silent. All but the necessary crewmen
of the
Rovfugl
had left the quarterdeck, affording a modicum
of privacy. His throat hurt, as did his head. When he spoke, his
voice was gruff and broken.

“I need a drink.”

Quiet laughter came from them all. His face
wan and eyes red from shedding his own tears, Etienne said, “By all
means, let us find one.”

They filed down the steps to find Ortega
waiting for them, a glass bottle with basket weave on its bottom in
his hand. “Nils said you might need this.”

Etienne smiled at him as Rory took a lengthy
drink of rum. “Your Captain’s mate is quite the ready provider. You
should give him more credit.”

Ortega opened his mouth to answer but there
was a commotion from the hatch leading to the living quarters. It
opened with a slam to admit a disheveled and hastily dressed
Andrew. His breeches were only partially fastened on either side,
cinched at the laces but not tied. The shirt fell open over his
chest and was half in, half out of the trousers. He looked frantic,
wide-eyed and red faced, as he stumbled out into the sunlight.
Squinting, he spun on his heel, searching the faces around him
until he saw Rory. He swayed dizzily when he stopped and raised his
hands to press the knuckles against his eyes. In his right, he held
the other apple.

There were voices all round. Etienne called
his name. Malik cried, “Coinin!” Laurent spoke quickly and
apologetically. “He wouldn’t wait for me to come find you. He
wouldn’t let me help him dress.”

“Quiet!” Rory shouted and all fell silent. It
was plain to see that Andrew was furious, seething, and Rory
wondered what it could mean. “Andrew?” he asked, stepping
forward.

Andrew’s shoulders tensed and Rory just
managed to knock away the apple as it rushed towards his face.

“What was that for?” Rory started to ask,
wishing he could list and tally Andrew’s rapidly changing emotions,
if only to avoid further items thrown at his head. Before the words
could leave his lips, however, he was hit with Andrew’s full weight
as the man lunged at him. He was caught around the neck and held
tight enough to feel Andrew’s heart beating fast against his
chest.

There was a rush of air across his ear. “You
would leave me?”

“Andrew?” Rory asked, cautiously. His arms
wrapped loosely around Andrew’s body.

“You were going to leave me.” It was barely a
whisper, but it was loud enough to hear the hurt and
desperation.

“Look at me! Andrew, look at me!”

They pulled away enough to see each other’s
faces. In Andrew’s eyes Rory could see anger and fear….and
love.

“You remember? Andrew, do you remember?” Rory
asked, hope and joy warring with suspicion in his heart.

His answer was a kiss.

There was a commotion in the distance,
registering somewhere in the back of Rory’s mind. He rejected it,
focusing every minute part of his being on the man in his arms.
They kissed, again and yet again, parting only long enough for Rory
to murmur “I love you” and for Andrew’s mouth to soundlessly
answer. He tightened his hold and Andrew stiffened, fingers
clutching at his shoulders. “I’m sorry!” Rory cried, alarmed, and
released him.

Andrew did not. Instead he breathed his words
into Rory’s ear. “Don’t let go. Please.”

“I won’t,” Rory whispered in reply. “Never
again.”

“Rory!”

His name was spoken sharply in his other ear.
He jumped and looked over his shoulder. Etienne was grinning so
widely that Rory could see he still had all of his teeth. “I do
hate to interrupt, but the captain has taken the lead to the bow,
just now, and there may be a problem. Before we go into battle,
might I have a moment with Andrew?”

Reluctant though he was, he allowed Andrew to
pull away and slip one arm around Etienne’s neck. He buried his
face into the soft, silver hair and was still. Rory watched
Etienne’s face, certain that Andrew was whispering to him, as well,
and saw the man’s eyes widen and fill with tears. Then there was a
laugh.

“He was certain it had to be your choice,
Andrew,” Etienne said, pausing to drop a kiss to Andrew’s temple.
“But Laurent and I planned to give you some of his tonic and while
you slept we would smuggle you across in burlap. Malik had already
agreed to carry you.”

Andrew looked at Rory and they both turned to
Malik. The man shrugged, his shoulders like capstones. “It seemed
to be the only way.”

“We’ll not be sorry,” Yousef quipped, leaning
on Malik, who was a solid as a stanchion. “We’d rather face you at
your worst, Andrew, than face
Ruaidhri
without you.”

“I had no knowledge of this,” Rory said when
Andrew’s eyes met his once more. “I told you, I would not force you
and that the choice was yours. It’s your own fault if you trained
me too well.”

Smiling, Andrew put his lips to Rory’s ear.
“Henceforth, you are to never leave me without my express
permission.”

“I will hold you to that, though it would
have more weight if the others could hear you,” Rory whispered in
return.

“We’ll put it on paper, with their signatures
as witnesses,” Andrew decreed.

Rory laughed and pulled him close. “We shall
do just that.”

“Report to your stations! All hands! All
hands!”

Ortega rushed by them, cursing. “Damned poor
seamanship, watching your romance unfold like addled milkmaids at a
Mummer’s play.”

“Captain!” Rory called, releasing Andrew and
following.

“I did try to warn you,” Etienne called after
him.

“There is a ship,
Ruaidhri
, on the
horizon. It appeared whilst we cheered and cooed after your
pas
de deux
,” Ortega growled, pulling the spyglass from his belted
waist. He thrust it into Rory’s hands. “It flies the Blue
Ensign.”

From behind them, Etienne was heard to groan.
“Alas, that unfortunate accent.”

“Not now, Etienne!” Rory warned, extending
the lead and peering through it.

The vessel was dead ahead, tacking to catch
the wind and cut them off from the starboard side. “Hellfire,” Rory
swore.

Quiet tension returned to the deck. Ortega’s
crew were efficiently preparing for battle; readying breeches for
the small swivel cannons on the gunnel, preparing themselves for
boarding. They did it without speaking at a pace that stunned Rory.
This was well-trained seamanship, and he was vastly impressed. The
only voice on the deck now belonged to one of his own. It sounded
very out of place.

“Yousef!” he called, distracting the man from
tormenting Andrew with threats to his barely fastened britches.

“Aye, Captain!” Yousef bounded up the steps
and faced Rory, at attention.

“Take this aloft, tell us what we face,” Rory
ordered, handing him the spyglass.

“Aye!” Grinning, Yousef tucked the glass
firmly in his belt and ran to the shrouds. Ducking around Ortega’s
men, he leapt up to catch the rigging high and pulled himself
around to continue up the outside. He scaled to the top with ease,
threw his arm over the yard, and extended the lead with his
teeth.

“I’ll wager my man can say who comes for us,
first,” Ortega offered beside him.

“I’ll take that wager. Pounds or dukaats?”
Rory’s eyes sought and found the jack who dangled at the top of the
foremast.

“Bah! To hell with petty denominations,”
Ortega said, disdainfully. “Twenty gold pieces.”

Rory considered, cast his glance down to
where Andrew and Malik were standing close, watching him. His mouth
curled up on one side and he turned. “Your chair.”

Ortega opened his mouth, the agreement ready
on his lips, but stopped. “My chair?”

Raising his brows, Rory waited.

“That chair is worth far more than twenty
gold pieces,” Ortega said, folding his arms across his chest.

“So raise your wager.”

“All right, one hundred gold pieces or my
chair,” Ortega agreed. They shook hands. “Though where you’ll put
it on that tender you head is well beyond me.”

Rory ignored the insult, smiling a bit and
shooting a glance towards Andrew and Malik. The big man held Andrew
around his shoulders and was bent low as if they were speaking. As
he watched, Andrew took Malik’s head in his hands and pressed a
kiss to his broad forehead. Then Etienne and Laurent appeared,
carrying boots, doublet and cloak, insisting on dressing Andrew
completely, if not properly.

“I can’t make out her bow, “Ortega said,
squinting against the wind. “She’s square rigged, looks like a
flush deck.”

“A brig?” Rory asked.

“Can’t be sure,” Ortega muttered. “A lone
brig before the channel? Cromwell wouldn’t waste his time. He’d
have a full line, not just one ship.”

“A merchant wouldn’t fly the Ensign. A scout
would certainly not fly its colors,” Rory added.

“Curious,” was all Ortega said in return.

There was a shout. “Ahoy! Captains!”

Yousef was halfway down the shroud, holding
on with one hand and leaning out to catch their eye. “She’s small
and bluff, with a boltspirt and sail. Lateen sheets on all but the
main. She looks like a polacca.”

“A raid?” Ortega asked. “This far North?”

Instead of answering him, Rory turned back to
Yousef. “Get back up there and don’t come down until you can tell
us what she is!”

“There hasn’t been a raiding vessel in these
waters in twenty years.”

Rory felt his stomach clench. “Could
Maarten’s fleet have heard already? Started sweeps on their
own?”

“Maarten’s fleet is cut down to three ships,
mostly due to your efforts. They weren’t the cleverest of thinkers
to start and would never leave the Mediterranean without an
order.”

“Damn,” Rory muttered, at a loss for what
they faced.

“Indeed,” Ortega agreed.

They stood in silence, then, waiting. Rory
cast a glance down, expecting to see Andrew and sundry clustered
together at the starboard gunnel. All were gone except Malik.

“Andrew tired,
Ruaidhri
,” the man
answered before Rory could ask. “Etienne and Laurent took him back
to rest.”

“Go with them, lock the cabin, and don’t come
out until you hear my voice,” Rory ordered.

“But, Captain, I would stay here. Another
back would be welcome,” Malik protested.

Rory opened his mouth to berate his
insubordination, but there was a shout and a crash behind him.
Yousef rose from his landing crouch, having swung down on a
buntline. He was laughing.