Chapter Text
Archie shifted restlessly upon Horatio’s wide bed, his head aching from
lying down. They were two weeks into their journey and the Caribbean air
still stifled; he lay with nothing but the sheet over his dressing gown and
would not even have bothered with that were it not for a silly need to cover
his scar with an extra layer of cloth.
Retribution’s bell rang the afternoon watch. Archie hoped that meant Horatio would want his cot back for a nap – he had not napped since the first dogwatch yesterday. These days Archie found he could sleep ten or twelve hours at a time, yet considering how little Horatio occupied this bed for that purpose Archie felt as though he were sleeping for both of them.
The burden of command weighs heavy, Bush had told him once, and Archie could see that weight upon Horatio. A newly commissioned ship presented particular difficulties, especially after a third of her crew had been killed on the Minotaur’s decks and when there were prisoners to be put to work in their place. But a short-handed ship was not all that kept Horatio awake at night. Archie frowned;, knowing exactly how much time Horatio spent mulling over his poor heath and worse, his ruined future.
He heard footsteps and then the sound of Horatio latching shut the great cabin door. Archie’s blood stirred, so oppressively bored lying abed that even a few brief words were something to anticipate. Sighing loudly from without, Horatio stepped into view and slammed his hat down on the wide desk. He had his back to him, but Archie could see the tension in Horatio’s body as he leaned forward with his palms on the wood, drawing in a breath to calm himself.
“What’s the matter?” Archie called out to him.
Horatio straightened, letting out another great huff. “Damned carpenter’s incompetent, not a damn midshipman can call noon, and this damned paper work is hardly diminishing.” He shrugged out of his coat and flung it down atop his hat. “I’ll never tackle a word of it toiling with this rabble.”
Archie shook his head. It was not the carpenter or the midshipmen troubling Horatio, but whatever it was he likely would not share it. “Perhaps a nap would leave you better equipped to withstand them. I could read in the meantime.”
Loosening his stock, Horatio moved into the smaller doorway, his voice low though not precisely gentle. “There’s no need, Archie. Go back to sleep.” He barked it like an order.
“I’ve slept enough.” Archie threw the sheet back, tired of sweating under it. “I could see to the ship’s books. I am qualified to command this vessel in your stead, after all – at least I used to be.”
Horatio’s mouth firmed, unamused by the reminder. “In your state, you’re scarcely fit to dress yourself.”
Archie scowled. He could dress himself. Well perhaps he could not climb the rigging or lift a barrel of gunpowder, but he could dress himself. Horatio left off, however, coming into the sleeping cabin and securing the door. He said nothing, only unbuttoned his waistcoat and trousers, stripping them off along with the rest of his clothing and tossing them into a pile on the floor. Archie stared at him, shocked to see Horatio treat his uniform so haphazardly. He could remember a time when Horatio would fuss and preen and brush the thing to excess.
But Horatio was in a hurry to be naked now, and once he tugged his stockings off he threw himself onto the bed with a loud sigh. Sitting up, Archie watched him. He looked so tired with the shadows under his eyes and yet irresistibly sensuous stretching out his long limbs and rolling his dark head to one side, working the stiffness from his neck.
Smiling, Archie sank down beside him. Horatio’s big eyes opened then and he immediately rolled toward him, dropping his head onto Archie’s chest and rubbing his cheek there like a cat. “How are you, Archie?” he looked up and asked, gentler now.
“Better,” Archie murmured, petting Horatio’s clean-shaven cheek. His doe eyes were so melting that Archie could not resist kissing the end of his long nose. Horatio grinned and then flopped onto his back again, shamelessly sprawling his long arms and legs, unaware of how glorious he was with his smooth chest and slender, snowy thighs.
He closed his eyes again, and Archie thought Horatio might fall asleep if left alone. But by the creases in his forehead and the muscle twitching in his jaw Archie could see there was something amiss.
“Are you all right?” Archie asked quietly, touching Horatio’s shoulder.
Horatio blinked and nodded. “Just tired, Archie.”
Tired of what? And what would Horatio do during his next voyage without anyone to look after him? Archie frowned, but did not want to think on that now. He sat up and crawled over to Horatio, teasing him instead. “Captain Hornblower . . . undone by paper work and incompetent crewmen. Henceforth, his career might as well be termed one long continuous watch.”
Rolling his head back, Horatio chuckled. “Stop that.” He reached up and took Archie by the shoulders and then cupped his face in both hands, kissing him under the pretense of stopping his mouth. But Horatio’s hands would not let go and his mouth instantly yielded, inviting Archie’s tongue inside. Archie obliged, anchoring his palms beside Horatio’s shoulders and sliding one leg over Horatio’s hip so that he was on hands and knees above him. He pushed his tongue in slowly, tasting the inside of Horatio’s upper lip and then tickling at his tongue. Horatio seemed to grow hotter underneath him, groaning quietly against Archie’s mouth.
Horatio’s hands moved down then, sliding past Archie’s shoulders, over his ribs and hips, all the way down to his knees. Archie shivered when they moved back up, trailing lightly over the backs of his thighs under his nightshirt and then gently cupping his arse. He drew back for breath, his arms burning from the effort of holding himself up, but that did not stop him from sinking into Horatio’s wet mouth again. For his part, Horatio must have been too exhausted for inhibitions; he slid a hand down from Archie’s hip, grasping between his legs and hurriedly coaxing Archie to a full erection.
Archie stilled, embarrassment bubbling up beneath the building arousal. He knew what Horatio wanted – he loved nothing more than to lie back and be taken – but did not think his weakened body had the stamina to please Horatio just yet. The other night, Archie had tried to please him with his mouth, but had grown too dizzy to keep it up very long. Both of them had guiltily, awkwardly apologized and had ended up simply touching one another while trying not to leave a mess.
But Archie did not want awkwardness now; he wanted Horatio to fall into a deep, sated sleep. Sitting back, he snatched the salve from the little desk, gently coating Horatio’s warm prick with a handful of the stuff. Horatio’s eyes squeezed shut at the touch and then opened wide in understanding.
“Well don’t hurt yourself,” he said, breathing hard.
“I won’t,” Archie promised. But Horatio took the jar from him anyway, reaching around and carefully preparing Archie with the salve. His touch was so feather-light that Archie shivered again, but then he relaxed utterly, wanting Horatio inside him. Horatio kept his hands under him, steadying Archie as he took hold of Horatio’s cock and slid onto him. It was as though he were melting, sinking down against Horatio’s hips – Horatio was so hot inside him. Archie dropped his head back, soaking up Horatio’s low groan and letting Horatio’s hands support him as he began to move.
The rocking of the ship did most of the work. Archie had only to balance on his hands, push a little with his knees, and let their bodies gently collide. He stared down at Horatio on the pillow. His head was turned to one side, swept up in a rush of pleasure. Archie loved looking at him, the way his lips parted and his features strained and then relaxed by turns. The pleasure was like a wave rolling back and forth between them, and then it took them both just as Archie began to grow too dizzy. His body tightened and then let go in shudders, spilling his seed onto Horatio’s smooth belly just as Horatio arched up and thrashed his head back with a thick, choked groan.
Gripping him by the hips, Horatio kept Archie where he was until he softened inside Archie’s body, his features relaxing in truth this time. But even then, Archie did not want to move; Horatio felt warm inside him and he wished Horatio would grow hard again so they could have another go. Both of them were too tired for that though, and Archie saw bright flecks before his eyes, feeling that he could not get enough air into his lungs to stop his head from spinning. His limbs were burning. He had to lie down.
Climbing off Horatio, Archie dropped carefully to the pillow, twisting so that he could comfortably curl up against Horatio’s shoulder. Horatio’s arms came around him, drawing him closer so that their chests where pressed together. Archie could feel Horatio’s heart still beating fast, his breathing rough in his ear.
“We shouldn’t do this,” Horatio said, his cheek in Archie’s hair. “You don’t look well.”
Archie frowned, feeling weak and thin, but insisted, “I’m all right. I only need water.”
“I’ll get it.” Horatio tried to sit up, but Archie stopped him with a hand on his chest. At the moment, Horatio needed rest more than he.
“I’ve got to piss too,” he lied.
“I’ll do it for you.”
Archie laughed; Horatio wasn’t making sense, groggy already. He waited a minute until Horatio’s arms loosened and then slipped out of the bed, tugging the sheet up over Horatio’s bare form and leaving him to sleep in peace. Archie really did want water, but could wait for that. Instead, he took Horatio’s jacket from the desk, shaking it out and draping it over the back of the chair. It would never do for Horatio to walk the quarterdeck wrinkled, and once awake Horatio would only find the state of his jacket yet another thing to fret over.
There were more important worries, such as the ship’s books, to attend to, lest the old Purser think to get away with a few tricks under a young captain. Archie roved through the records with a critical eye, not so good at figures as Horatio but not a dunce either. He went through every page and every line, certain Horatio had been too tired to bother. In fact, Archie could scarcely imagine Horatio selecting a crew in Kingston, other than Matthews and Styles who must have volunteered after Renown’s people had been divided and replaced. Pellew must have arranged the rest. Horatio did not even seem to recall leaving Kingston and did not want to talk about it.
Archie was so absorbed in the books that he did not hear the footsteps on the planks. He glanced up from the desk to see Horatio in the doorway in his shirt and trousers now, staring at him. Something overwhelming burned in his eyes. He looked like he would weep.
After a moment, Horatio cleared his throat and in a thick voice asked, “Archie, what’s this?”
“Oh.” Archie smoothed one page with his hand. “Just making certain your purser isn’t as incompetent as the Carpenter. Look here, Horatio.” He pointed to an entry from January, when Retribution had first gathered supplies. “These numbers don’t add up. There’s –“
Crossing the cabin, Horatio pried Archie’s hand from the page and closed the book. “Nevermind the Purser or the books.” His eyes were stern.
Archie frowned, thinking that Horatio did not want him poking about in the ship’s business. An acid reply formed on his tongue, but Horatio went on.
“And nevermind this.” He touched the jacket Archie had hung on back of the chair. “You’re not the steward. Now come, Archie.”
Before Archie could ask where they were going, Horatio slid an arm around his shoulders and the other under his knees. Archie huffed as Horatio hefted him up against his shoulder, ready to demand that Horatio put him down. His friend’s stern dark gaze forbade it, and despite the strain in Horatio’s features, Archie felt light and frail in his arms as Horatio marched solemnly back into the sleeping cabin.
“Here’s where you belong,” Horatio scolded, and then let out a woof of breath after depositing Archie on the bed. Archie scowled at him, but Horatio’s expression brooked no nonsense, very much the captain in command. “You must rest, or you’ll never get better.”
Archie snorted; he was better – better than he had been a month ago anyway. Better than dead, or near to it. But he could not deny that he was only half recovered and that the smallest illness could finish him now in his state.
“I only wanted . . .” Archie trailed off, but Horatio seemed to understand.
“Archie . . .”
He sat down on the edge of the bed, smoothing a hand through Archie’s hair and then along one shoulder, his dark eyes intent but gentle. Archie seized his hand, not to push it away but simply to hold it against his cheek. He liked Horatio’s hands, long and fine like an artist’s. Horatio sighed, his gaze turning even more tender, that fixed, absorbed look when Horatio forgot even his duty and saw only him. Archie blinked, finding he had to look away; Horatio had not looked at him that way since Kingston. Archie did not think he would ever forget the weight of those eyes then, watching him die.
The moment passed. Horatio tugged his hand free. “How are you feeling, Archie? The truth now.”
Shifting uncomfortably on the pillow, Archie made a face. For more than a month now he had been telling everyone that he was all right. But he had been frightened for Horatio. He had been in terrible, terrible pain. And he had been lonely until a fortnight ago. Archie saw no reason to burden Horatio with that, however; the man’s guilt was extreme as it was.
“Tired,” he said simply, and then touched a hand to his side. “It still hurts a little.”
“Here.” Horatio rose and went into the great cabin, returning with a small bottle. Laudanum. “It’s only a little, Archie. I thought you might need it. You must rest,” he said again.
Archie frowned at the stuff; it made him light-headed and clumsy, but that was better than the burning under his ribs. It was not as though he had a choice, besides; Horatio slid a hand behind his head, bringing the vial up for him to drink. Archie did not fight, but swallowed the bitter stuff and let Horatio wipe his mouth with a corner of the sheet. If Horatio wished to assuage his guilt by fussing then let him.
“There now.” Horatio set the vial down. “That wasn’t so bad, eh, Archie? Now what about this?” He retrieved the jar of salve from under the sheet. Archie snorted, supposing it was time they used it for its proper purpose today. The Surgeon had advised him to keep his scars moist.
He lay quiet as Horatio lifted his nightshirt up, spreading a dollop over the red marks on his side. Again, Horatio’s touch was deliciously gentle. Archie closed his eyes, willing to concede for once that he did not mind being taken care of. He squirmed a little at the ticklish sensation of being touched there, but Horatio did not tease; Archie may have lain nearly naked before him, but for Horatio, this was medical necessity not an erotic game. He was frustratingly good at separating the two.
“I’ve got to be on deck now,” Horatio said when he finished, putting the salve aside, smoothing Archie’s nightshirt down, and then drawing up the sheet. “Go to sleep. You’re sick. There’s nothing to worry over now.”
He squeezed Archie’s hand again and then kissed it. Archie smiled only briefly; there was too much to worry over – what would happen to Horatio after Portsmouth, for starters. Horatio’s hand slid from his. Archie wanted to tug it back. But he could not; Horatio had his duty and he had no right to keep him from it.
**
Archie let go of the memory, a fond smile lingering about his lips. He could still feel Horatio’s hand in his hair and the lingering Indies’ heat, dulling his senses to the bitter January cold that had settled into his bones. He would have been warmer with Horatio curled beside him, but caution did not allow them to stay cloistered for long and Horatio only slept at the opposite end of the house. Two years ago Archie had feared whole oceans would have separated them by now.
He took in his quiet bedchamber. The fire had died and very little moonlight seeped in through the closed drapes, and it was so cold that Archie half expected ice to form on the polished floorboards, yet even in the dark the place had a cozy feel. Even Horatio seemed to think so. Archie had never thought Horatio could feel at home anywhere but aboard ship, but his friend had grown fond of curling up with Archie on the chaise before the fire and then crawling into Archie’s wide bed, taking and giving pleasure beneath the blankets. He was even happy to have visitors downstairs – even Archie’s father, who talked more than Horatio was ordinarily comfortable with.
They saw quite a lot of the Earl these days, much more than Archie had seen of him before joining the Service. Archie wondered if his father’s presence did not comfort Horatio, as a former officer full of venom toward the institution he had served. That venom had grown potent after Archie and Horatio had returned from Scotland last year, when Henry Wellard had come up to London for Christmas with unhappy news.
Captain Hammond had been mixed up in some inane Irish rebellion with Bonaparte’s hand on the puppet strings. Pellew had given Bracegirdle a mission to carry a French major to Brest – with Mr. Bush as a first lieutenant of all people – and Henry had told of seeing Hammond blow his brains out firsthand. For his part, Pellew had advised a cover-up of the bastard’s treason on the grounds that Irishmen comprised too great a portion of England’s navy to risk dividing loyalties.
The good Earl had raved for more than an hour at the news. Why should the Admiralty shield a guilty man and crucify an innocent? Politics be damned; and even if his son were guilty, siding with the enemy still outweighed assaulting one’s Captain as far as treason went. Cassilis had even threatened taking that argument to Pellew personally, but Archie doubted he had. In any case, the news had put a strain upon Archie; he wondered whether Pellew might have preferred Horatio for that mission and how Horatio’s conscience would have fared against such a cover-up – sensible in and of itself but absurd considering Hammond’s calls for blood in Kingston. That night, Archie had taken Horatio to his bed more thankful than ever that he had left the Navy.
Horatio heard the news with dispassion. If anything, Archie suspected the Navy’s latest compromise had only rooted Horatio’s convictions deeper in his heart. He had been quiet that day, what little regard he had left for Pellew no doubt crumbling.
A knock sounded on the door, but Archie could not bring himself to leave the warm cocoon of blankets to answer it; his side ached from the cold and his body felt stiff. After a moment, the door creaked open, admitting the tall figure of Horatio draped in a cozy dark wool robe, stockings and soft leather bedslippers on his feet. He crossed the room almost soundlessly, a candle in one hand. In the yellow light, his eyes seemed huge, his soft skin ethereal alabaster. Archie could remember when the Caribbean sun had turned his friend golden, but Horatio spent most of his time indoors these days.
Pausing at the edge of the bed and setting his candle down, Horatio toed off his slippers and unfastened his robe, letting it slide to the floor before tugging the blankets back and climbing in. A cold draft washed over Archie’s body; he gritted his teeth to stop them from chattering. But Horatio drew the covers up quickly enough and slid his arms around him from behind. The chill of Horatio’s hand cut through Archie’s nightshirt; he jumped, as though a block of ice had dropped upon his chest.
Horatio snatched his hand away. “I feared you were asleep.”
“It’s too cold to sleep.” Archie shook his head against the pillow, and then with a grin added, “Alone, that is.”
“Indeed,” Horatio murmured against his ear, reaching for him again. He pulled Archie flush against his chest this time, throwing one leg over his hip and curling around him like a vine. “You’re warm.” He buried his face in Archie’s neck, the tip of his long nose so cold that Archie shivered.
It was just like those days at sea, when Horatio – always cold – would come down off watch and nestle with him in his hammock. Archie would hold him and fitfully massage him until Horatio stopped shaking, and then they would pleasure one another very quietly just to keep warm. Archie smiled at those memories, taking up one of Horatio’s icy hands and tucking it under his chin. Horatio thrust the other between his thighs, where Archie kept it nice and warm.
They lay like that for a moment, until Horatio apparently had not grown warm enough. He slid onto Archie’s body, gentle but heavy against his aching side. Archie could not hold back a groan, shifting Horatio’s weight just a little and earning a worried look for his trouble.
“It’s my wound,” he murmured after a moment. “It’s keeping me awake.”
Sympathy creased Horatio’s features in the candlelight. “The weather’s grown so damned cold. Put some heat on it; it’s the same with my shoulder.”
“Aye, aye, Dr. Hornblower,” Archie nodded. Sometimes he forgot that Horatio had been shot in the shoulder long ago – he had not been there when it had happened – but he did not want to speak of wounds now, particularly that one. Instead, he ran his hands up Horatio’s back under the blankets. He was still chilled, but his weight felt good against Archie’s body now. He slid his heels up on the mattress, cradling Horatio between his thighs and rubbing warmth into his skin through the linen of his nightshirt.
Leaning over him on his elbows, Horatio smiled at the touch, but through an expression that was purely thoughtful. “You realize it’s been two years,” he said in his quiet, solemn way, pushing a hand tenderly through Archie’s hair.
Looking up into the burning intensity of Horatio’s dark gaze, Archie swallowed, remembering that January Friday all too well. He was still very sorry to have put Horatio through that grief for nothing, never failing to underestimate what it had taken for his awkward friend to sit at his bedside and say goodbye. For a moment, he feared Horatio would offer another apology – or worse, weep – but his friend did not seem to want to dwell on Kingston anymore; he curled a hand under Archie’s jaw, leaning down and kissing his mouth.
Forgetting the cold, Archie tangled a hand up into Horatio’s hair, pulling him closer. But Horatio needed no encouragement, either in a hurry to get warm or spurred to desperation by the memory of grief. He sought Archie’s mouth with a sudden hunger, pushing his tongue inside – hot compared to the rest of him – rubbing his body against Archie’s all the while, creating waves of warmth sweeping all the way down into Archie’s toes. His fingers tightened in Horatio’s curls, loving it when Horatio was passionate.
A chilly hand slid down to Archie’s hip, gathering the hem of his nightshirt and hastily raking it up. Horatio’s own gown had ridden up already, and when he ground their bodies together flesh to flesh this time, Archie squirmed, giggling despite himself. “Good God, even your prick is cold!” He rubbed up playfully against the half-hard flesh pushing into his belly.
Horatio chuckled, sliding his mouth under Archie’s ear and nuzzling there, sucking the skin so sensuously that Archie felt flutters in his belly, knowing well how wonderful that sweet velvet mouth felt all over his body. “I’d best put it somewhere warm, then,” Horatio whispered, tracing the bow of Archie’s upper lip with a teasing finger and then pushing the tip between Archie’s lips to demonstrate his intentions.
A sharp stab of anticipation pierced straight into Archie’s belly. He quivered, tightening his lips around the tip of that fine, long finger, tasting the salt of Horatio’s skin, watching Horatio’s eyes brighten with arousal all the while. Horatio drew his hand away, brushing Archie’s cheek. “My love,” he murmured softly, his expression tender.
Archie said nothing, his throat dry. He drew Horatio closer in his arms and arched his head back, baring his neck for his lover’s adoring mouth. Horatio traced the line of his jaw with kisses and then moved down his throat, his tongue lapping at the hollow there before dragging his lips across the curve of one shoulder. Archie cried out softly, his body beginning to tingle, begging more intense pleasure. But he stroked Horatio’s curls patiently, russet in the candlelight, enjoying the warm weight of Horatio’s body nestled between his legs, pressing down on his aroused flesh.
Shifting to one side, Horatio took Archie’s mouth again, slower this time, dipping his tongue inside and then withdrawing, playing a little game of chase. He stretched across to snatch the oil from the bedside table, and then gently folded Archie’s leg up against his chest. Horatio’s fingertips dragged leisurely down the back of his thigh, reaching the warm place he wanted and smearing oil there, slipping one fingertip gently inside, opening him up. Archie shuddered at how sweet and intimate it felt to be known in this way, loving how gentle Horatio could be. He liked it best when Horatio would kiss down his body and then coax him with his tongue, but Archie did not need that now.
Leaving off kissing, Horatio rose up on all fours above him. Archie settled his legs against Horatio’s back and his hands on his shoulders, lying back and looking up at Horatio above him in the candlelight. Want glazed his lover’s deep dark eyes and he needed no invitation to take; he pushed his way inside, just a little at first – enough for Archie to toss his head back and groan at how warm and smooth he felt, how good. His body relaxed and Horatio pushed in all the way, sinking down against Archie’s chest as Archie wrapped his arms and legs around him. Horatio’s own arms slipped under Archie’s shoulders, pulling their bodies closer as his hips rolled into Archie’s.
He went slowly at first, gliding up and back against the magnificent spot inside Archie’s body in deep measured strokes so the pleasure would resonate to the fullest. Both of them soon began to sweat, filling the air with only their ragged breathing and Horatio’s rough, “Oh God.” Archie felt himself melting – no, boiling over – with the way Horatio stared down at him, watching the pleasure sweep over his face. And as the pace of Horatio’s lovemaking increased and became more erratic, that pleasure thrummed in a melody of sensation inside Archie’s body, some notes deep and echoing, others sharp and piercing.
Archie clung to Horatio all the while, who squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in Archie’s neck, his breath coming in rapid puffs to match the rhythm of his body. “Horatio . . .” Archie called softly, his head twisted to one side, cheek crushing Horatio’s pretty curls. Horatio’s body moved more urgently, until the pleasure swelled up into a great wave, breaking and dissolving in a burst of liquid on hot skin.
They lay panting when it was over, Archie on his back, stretching out his legs with Horatio’s dead weight on his chest. But after a few moments, Horatio recovered himself, lifting his head and looking down into Archie’s eyes again. Something unguarded and tender welled up between them and, giving into it, Archie petted Horatio’s smooth, flushed cheek, smiling at the contented light softening his velvet eyes.
“Horatio, you know you’re the only one I’ve let do this,” he said quietly, watching those curved dark brows climb as satiation gave way to surprise. Horatio seemed to think he’d had scores of male lovers, and Archie supposed he had not made any real effort to refute that.
But Horatio did not miss what was meant in the word “let” and pulled Archie close into his arms with a new sense of possession, something Archie had been afraid of long ago. “An honor and a privilege,” Horatio murmured, his voice hoarse. A scowl flitted across his features for the past, but he let the matter go. “I didn’t think I’d ever get warm.” He hugged Archie tighter, rubbing hot palms over Archie’s still heaving chest.
Archie snorted. “It’ll be colder in Scotland.” He settled against Horatio’s body, tucking his head between his friend’s shoulder and neck, not really wanting to think on Scotland though the prospect of returning there was hardly unpleasant. But he only wanted this moment now; he and Horatio never had enough time to curl up together after making love. They were always in a hurry to dress and avoid discovery. Archie had almost begun to miss shore leave, when as two poor officers they had the perfect alibi for sharing the same bed and would lie close all night.
Yet Horatio’s thoughts had already skipped ahead to the future. Archie did not look up at him, but he could feel Horatio’s expression growing thoughtful, calculating. “How long do you think it will take to complete the castle, Archie?”
Pulling the blankets up to his chin, Archie shook his head. His grandfather may have bankrupted the family commissioning Culzean Castle, but there was still half of it to build and Archie’s father wanted him to oversee the process and take Fiona away from her husband while he was at it. “Two years or more. It’s just as well; it will give the Admiralty time to forget me.”
He felt Horatio nod; they had already agreed that was a fine idea, and part of the reason his father was sending him. “We’ll be living in Glasgow?” That’s what? 50 miles from Edinburgh?”
“Yes,” Archie answered slowly, wondering what Horatio would want there. “Why?”
Pushing the covers back, Horatio let him go and sat up. Archie rolled onto his back, finding Horatio’s expression suddenly serious. “I – I’ve been thinking, of . . . of studying medicine.”
“Medicine?” Archie parroted before he could think better of it. Horatio had mentioned pursuing such a career before, though Archie had thought those remarks nothing more than contrite rambling that the great Horatio Hornblower had been unable to heal his wound personally.
“You don’t think . . .?” Horatio trailed off, his features sinking. Archie blinked and only then did he realize how childishly hopeful Horatio had appeared a bare moment before, that he had been looking to him for encouragement or approval.
Archie rushed to pat his knee. He had not meant to throw cold water on Horatio’s hopes. He was only not quite sure he could honestly imagine Horatio as a physician. “No, no,” Archie quickly said. “I only thought that had you an interest in medicine you would have followed after your father and never bothered with the Navy in the first place.”
Horatio’s eyes narrowed, not following the logic, but then he slowly shook his head. Suddenly, before he even opened his mouth, all the ghosts of Kingston were once again present in the room.
“I suppose I’ve changed. I used to think a man could not do his duty to the fullest unless he led men into battle. But I’ve come to learn that there are many forms of service, Archie, and that it doesn’t matter a damn whether a man’s service is lauded or not. I’d rather serve my country with a clear conscience than be handed tainted honors.” His hand was flapping nervously. “Take Clive, for example. Had he been half the man he should have been hundreds of lives might never have been endangered and you might have been saved at once. Think about it. His duty was as vital as any captain’s, perhaps more so.”
He was rambling. Archie continued to stare at him, attempting to follow Horatio’s reasoning. After a moment, cold fear settled inside Archie’s chest, a sickly, sinking feeling. He wet his lips and then finally said., “You want a way back to sea.” He had anticipated something like this, that Horatio would grow bored ashore eventually.
Horatio blinked as though that had not occurred to him, dropping his hand into his lap. “No. There are hospitals in London – I’ve grown to like London, Archie.” His eyes brightened, and then all of a sudden he seemed to comprehend the fear clutching at Archie’s heart. He reached over and patted Archie’s shoulder. “I don’t mean to tear us apart. I’ve thought it out; by the time your work in Scotland is done, I’ll be ready to complete my studies here in London. I wouldn’t part with you for the world.” He took up Archie’s hand and squeezed it, his voice soft and disarming, innocent.
Archie nodded, feeling silly for panicking over their love affair when the important thing was that Horatio had at last chosen a path for himself and might finally put the past behind him. He ought to have shown more faith in Horatio’s affections for him. What was more, Archie supposed – now that he thought about it – that while Hornblower the stoic officer might not display much of a bedside manner, Horatio the man was caring and compassionate. He had seen enough blood by now not to be bothered by it and was a creature of tremendous patience, not to mention that Horatio was so adept at fussing over him that he may as well put that skill to good use.
“I think any man would be fortunate to be in your hands, Horatio,” Archie answered at last, recalling all the times Horatio had fed him and helped him to walk in Spain or salved and washed his wounds on the way home from Kingston. He had shown more reserved kindness to other men, sat with them or brought them food. And while it was true that Horatio’s fine mind was suited for mathematics and maneuvering out of crisis, his conscience was not suited for war – not death, anyway. Archie remembered their first experience of battle years ago, when Horatio had ran below with a wounded man while he had hacked at Frenchmen in a frenzy of something close to joy. No, Horatio was not suited for death, yet the physician’s work was always ethical, even to his enemies. Perhaps if Horatio could use his fine mind to improvise clever, life-saving surgeries he might find peace and even satisfaction in the work.
Lying down beside him again, Horatio stretched his long legs, folding his arms behind his head and heaving a sigh. “No more Admiralty, no more compromises, only my best efforts, Archie, and a long life together.”
Archie smiled, curling up against Horatio’s shoulder. He would be happy to finally see Horatio at peace and to keep their home together here in London. “I’ll grow bored in Glasgow, certainly,” Archie said, rubbing a hand over Horatio’s chest through his nightshirt. “I could ride up to Edinburgh and distract you when you’re not on holiday, or we could meet halfway. You’ll have to learn to ride, of course.” He smirked at the idea; Horatio was able to ride around the park with him now, but still mistrusted horses something terrible.
Riding seemed far from Horatio’s mind, however; he wrapped an arm around Archie’s shoulders and with a mischievous light in his large eyes murmured, “And spend the night in some cheap inn with clapboard walls and pox-ridden tarts downstairs, just like when we were mids?”
“Well, yes, but . . .” Archie paused. They had not been lovers when they had both been mids – neither of them had been ready to come to terms with their own feelings. “Only better.” He cradled Horatio’s cheek in one hand, stretching up and kissing his full, beautiful mouth.
Threading a hand in his hair, Horatio drew him closer, his mouth moving slowly and deeply against Archie’s, so warm that Archie hardly felt the cold seeping in above the pushed-down bedcovers. After a moment, Horatio pulled back, and peering at Archie with those huge eyes – hungry for affection and approval – asked, “Could the son of an earl love a physician, Archie?”
Archie smiled, warmth swelling in his chest where panic had clung a few moments before. He took in the sight of Horatio on the pillow, his luxurious curls, his smooth pale skin, and most of all his ripe red lips. “The son of an earl could love a stable boy if he had your face, Horatio.”
Horatio beamed, loving and needing praise of any sort. Without a word, he ran a hand down Archie’s body, seizing his prick and gently stroking him, ready for another turn. He nudged Archie’s chin back with his long nose, kissing his way down one side of Archie’s neck. Archie was ready to roll Horatio onto his back when he heard a noise from the kitchen below – the cook preparing breakfast. Horatio pulled away from him and sat up with a scowl.
“Damn her.” He sat still for a moment catching his breath. Horatio loathed being interrupted. “I trust she’s making my coffee.” He grumbled another few words and then climbed out of bed, retrieving his robe. “I should go, Archie. Your sister’s coming. I’ll send Angélie up with your breakfast.”
Archie said nothing as Horatio crept from the room before either servant could notice him there – that was their life together, creeping about, and today Horatio was in a special hurry to be dressed and ready to escort Ophelia to her sister’s. For his part, Archie decided to lie in bed a trifle longer and think on what Horatio had said.
Part II
Did Cassilis’ retainers make a sport of sending men on wild goose chases or was this evidence of a grudge? Neither the Earl nor the Countess were at home – they had gone to visit that rascal the Duke of Clarence – and Admiral Pellew had been rather briskly instructed to take his business to the Earl’s steward instead.
Like a fool, he had sent away the coachman who had brought him from the city proper upon arriving at Cassilis’ estate. A wise man never cut off his path of retreat, yet Pellew had anticipated a lengthy visit. The butler had offered him use of the Earl’s coach to convey him to this steward at the edge of the property, but out of stubbornness Pellew had refused, in no mood for hollow courtesies; Cassilis knew to expect him and should have postponed his visit to the cursed, meddling Duke.
Nonetheless, Pellew supposed avoiding the Earl was a mercy. Perhaps it was cowardly to find it so, but no matter; no man was above cowardice and Cassilis could be difficultt. As a mid, the man had been exuberant and agreeable, and as a captain Pellew recalled him as imperious but efficient, yet misfortune in American seemed to have embittered Cassilis to the world at large. What was more, the man had a nasty habit of keeping up with the Naval Gazette and upon their last meeting in the summer had been full of contempt for any accolade given a man of Admiral Sir Edward Pellew’s squadron.
His latest vitriolic crusade concerned his son’s honor – or the family honor, more like. After a dozen refusals to hear him out, Cassilis had come rallying one last time, threatening to publicize sensitive information capable of raising real hell. Pellew grunted, slamming his boot down with extra force upon a twig in the frost-covered field. The Devil take the man. Hornblower’s outrage at Kennedy’s circumstances might have been pinned on naiveté and youthful affection, but an Earl and a former fighting captain ought to better understand the political mire of the situation aboard Renown as well as the mess with Captain Hammond and the Irish. In the scheme of things a junior lieutenant’s honor – or his life for that matter – were unfortunately expendable.
Still, Cassilis had persisted, claiming that Pellew lacked the bollocks to deflect Hammond’s scapegoat hunt and had instead sacrificed his son rather than getting to the bottom of the matter. The Lords of the Admiralty were weak-bellied fools, Cassilis had decreed, and would rather tarnish a family’s honor than lose face by admitting they had put a madman enabled by an incompetent drunkard at the head of eight hundred men.
That was rubbish. No one had dragged Kennedy into that courtroom or put those damning words in his mouth. Nothing but practicality and devotion had led Kennedy to do as he had, despite what Cassilis believed – that Pellew was in cahoots with both Clive and Hammond, or some other ridiculous thing. A live man was simply worth more than what they had all believed was a dead one – Kennedy obviously knew it – and Hornblower had distinguished himself as a brilliant and valuable officer. For a man like him, Pellew was loath to admit he would have traded ten Kennedys, at least until Hornblower had thrown his future away.
The fact remained that Cassilis seemed to take his handing down of Kennedy’s conviction, as well as the cover-up of Hammond’s treachery, as a personal betrayal. Pellew narrowed his eyes all over again. What was he to have done? Allow division to fester among the Navy for the sake of an old acquaintance? An Admiral could not afford sentimentality. Cassilis had no call to accuse him of favoritism on Hornblower’s behalf either; Hammond had been the same man burning to put the noose around Hornblower’s neck after all. And though the Earl had expressed no wish to harm Hornblower in Kennedy’s place, who did he think stood to be hurt by the re-evaluation of that trial?
A man so dear to me as one of my very own. His own words from Kingston came back. Damned idiot boy and his impenetrable conscience. Pellew had thought Hornblower’s voluntary return to prison years ago the greatest abuse of pride he had seen, yet Hornblower’s outburst in Portsmouth had topped that blunder tenfold. All but post-captain and he had cast aside years of careful patronage out of devotion to a friend. So much for the boy’s vaunted reason.
Pellew shook his head. There was nothing to be done for the whole mess now. Hornblower had made his choice and God willing he was happy with it. He had made his own choice and now it was time to put this matter aside for good.
The winter sun hardly lent any warmth, not enough to melt the light snow upon the ground, but after the exertion of a mile’s walk the chill came as a relief. The walk gave him nothing to look at but grass blighted by winter cold and barren trees, but Pellew hardly required diversion; this was a mission like any other and therefore not intended to be pleasant.
A moderately sized two-level cottage loomed up, with an oak and what looked like apple trees shading the back windows. A coach waited at the front the gate, but Pellew did not it or the sigils on the doors any mind; a steward was likely to have business even at this hour. Neatly groomed pine trees ran along the sides of the house, providing the sort of privacy Pellew required at the moment. He stepped behind them, taking out his handkerchief and dabbing at his face. He would be damned if the Earl’s steward saw him sweating and out of sorts. Indeed he was not a young lion anymore, but he was not so decrepit as to be undone by a walk in the snow.
Noise from the house stopped him short. Pellew stuffed his handkerchief away, keeping behind the barrier of the trees. He had no wish to be caught primping like a woman. However, simple curiosity had him peeking through the branches to see who came forth.
A tall dark-haired figure made his way down the front steps. Pellew’s chest tightened. It was disconcerting to see Hornblower in civilian dress; his lean figure and straight back seemed designed for fastidiously-pressed uniforms and his curls and his large eyes to gleam from beneath an officers’ hat trimmed in gold lace. Then again, it was strange to see the boy at all; after his departure in Portsmouth it seemed that Hornblower had simply vanished beyond recall. It was not possible to call Hornblower drab, yet he looked so unjustly common in his brown coat. But he was laughing, a thing Pellew had rarely seen him do.
He had a dark-haired girl on his arm, a tiny thing – the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. She had to crane her neck to tilt her impish face up at him.
“He’s absurdly handsome, Mr. Hornblower.” She seemed to be protesting, swishing her skirts with one hand as she walked in long strides to keep up with him. “Even Fiona thinks so.”
Hornblower looked down at her with a familiarly solemn and critical expression, the same he showed while sizing up enemy ships or maps of unfamiliar territory. “But is he a gentleman, Lady Ophelia? Would he . . .slay a dragon for you?” He flourished his free hand.
Pellew frowned. The girl’s relationship to Hornblower was none of his business, yet he could not keep from assessing the situation by habit. The girl could not be Hornblower’s intended if she spoke of another admirer, yet the two were alone and Hornblower seemed comfortable with her on his arm – the boy had always been awkward around women that Pellew had seen. If she was “lady” than she might be the Earl’s daughter, though the coach was not marked with Kennedy sigils. Whatever the case, Hornblower must have been attached to the Kennedy family somehow. Damn Cassilis for claiming him.
The girl cast her eyes to the ground. “A ruffian in the street perhaps, she conceded after a thoughtful pause, before looking up at Hornblower again, hugging his elbow with both arms and leaning close with a smile. “Would you slay a ruffian for me, Mr. Hornblower?”
Rolling his eyes, Hornblower answered her dryly, doing his best to ignore that her bosom was pressed to his forearm. “Would you have me dispatch him with a sword or a pistol, my lady?”
She ignored his bland tone, or else was not bright enough to catch his lack of enthusiasm, and shook her head. “A sword is more gallant, but a pistol has a certain efficiency, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” Hornblower concurred politely, as though he would declare himself unqualified to have a true opinion. Pellew shook his head; Hornblower’s modesty remained unchanged. But then, with more conviction, Hornblower added, “Your brother would prefer the sword.”
Did he mean Kennedy? If she were the Earl’s daughter than Kennedy would be her brother. Hornblower seemed to think the world of Kennedy after what the man had done for him in Kingston. Indeed Kennedy had acted sensibly, but that hardly merited Hornblower disregarding his abilities to remain with Kennedy’s family. Of course, Hornblower’s tremendous modesty would prevent him seeing any ability in himself to waste and he would therefore fail to see the travesty of his resignation. What a shame Kennedy had not proven useful in that regard.
The pair reached the carriage, where Pellew supposed a chaperone waited inside. Hornblower handed the girl up like a proper gentleman and then climbed in beside her, knocking on the roof to signal the driver to be off. Hooves clattered and the carriage rolled away, so very like that scene in Portsmouth years ago. Once again Hornblower seemed to vanish beyond recall.
It occurred to Pellew then that he had been eavesdropping and that he might have stepped out, explained his presence, and had a word with the boy. He would have liked to learn what Hornblower did with himself these days. His father was dead – Pellew recalled Hornblower receiving the news aboard the Indie – and Hornblower had no other family. The Kennedys must have been the only place he had to turn.
But there was no sense in mourning chances past. Pellew had a mission before him after all. He walked around the trees and passed through the still open gate, taking the path Hornblower had come down up to the door.
A young woman answered the bell, her hair a mass of black curls held back in a cap and her skin fair as milk. She eyed him up and down, curtsied, and in a thick French accent said, “Monsieur?” Her brows arched at his uniform, apparently as surprised to see an admiral as he was a Frenchwoman.
“The Earl’s steward, if you please, miss,” Pellew answered calmly. In truth he was tired of dealing with servants and wanted to get this business over with. Silently, he cursed Cassilis again.
She nodded and motioned him in, leading him toward the stairs. Pellew noted that the house was fine but not overly so. It was small, but gleamed with gilt here and there. Perhaps Cassilis’ mother had lived here and had scattered heirlooms about. Pellew had no chance to note anything particular beyond the bright Oriental rug in the parlor before following the maid to the upper floor.
They came to a closed door that could only be the steward’s study. The girl knocked while Pellew stood back, fighting the urge to wring his hands. He should not be so unsettled; It was Cassilis who held a grudge against him, not the steward. All the same, he had to endure whatever came his way here with as much grit as an officer would a broadside on the quarterdeck.
“Monsieur?” The girl knocked again. “An Admiral is here to see you.”
“Come,” a voice from within answered. For a brief moment, Pellew realized avoidance was possible. He could hand over what he had come to give to the French girl and turn away. The written words would speak for themselves. But it was too late; the girl opened the door and ushered him inside.
Pellew immediately scowled at how warm the room was, the air almost thick. Here he had walked two miles in the snow while this fool sat toasty with the hearth ablaze. Heat spread easily through such a small space. Sunlight poured in the through the small window, adding an extra bit of warmth, but Pellew dismissed the temperature altogether upon turning his eye to the steward himself.
The man sat in his shirtsleeves, scratching away with a quill with his boots crossed on the desk. He must have been overwarm; the top buttons of his shirt were undone and his hair – bright gold where the sunlight hit him – pushed back from his face. Pellew drew in a breath despite himself.
Kennedy.
He was the last man Pellew had expected to face today. Like Hornblower, he simply thought of Kennedy as having disappeared to some Elysium where those unbound to the sea or Whitehall lived out their lives. Still, Pellew hoped this was the last surprise for the day. He was growing too old for such things.
Setting his quill down, Kennedy looked up, his expression almost fierce. He blinked and something that Pellew took for relief softened his features. But of course it would be relief; a visit from an admiral would be alarming for an undead mutineer. Kennedy brushed his muscular thigh to smooth a wrinkle above his boot and then rose to his feet.
“Cap . . . Admiral Pellew sir.” He offered his hand.
The slip filled Pellew with embarrassment for taking the younger man’s hand as stiffly as he would a stranger’s, reminding him that Kennedy had once been one of his officers, accustomed to addressing him and thinking of him as his captain. Captain and lieutenant should have a warm reunion after so long, but when the door closed, leaving them alone, Pellew felt trapped and at a loss. Despite having spent four years as his commanding officer, Pellew realized he knew only three things firsthand of Lieutenant Archie Kennedy: he liked to read, his marksmanship was exemplary, and he had acted with real balls on Hornblower's behalf in Kingston.
Kingston. Pellew recalled that particular Friday unnervingly well. He recalled his own fear that Hornblower would utter the words to damn himself that day and the intensity of his own prayers for a miracle before Hornblower could re-enter the courtroom.
His miracle had come in the form of Lieutenant Kennedy. Kennedy’s almost inhuman strength in dragging himself forward had made it easy to convict him – one did not spit at God’s providence. Pellew recalled the sweat on Kennedy’s face and the determination shining out of his eyes. He had glowed then, so ethereally golden that in that desperate moment it had been easy to believe him a heavenly savior in recognizable form come down to spare Hornblower and not a man for whom there would be monstrous consequences.
That delusion had faded when it came time to officially render the verdict. The justifications had begun then. Still, Pellew had felt that, though he knew little of Kennedy, they had understood one another perfectly in that courtroom. Kennedy held Hornblower as dearly as he and clearly valued nothing so much that he would not sacrifice it to save him.
How strange. Pellew had always viewed Kennedy as something of a pitiful creature, not lacking or incapable by nature but pitifully damaged and unsuited for the hardships aboard a man o’ war. There were rumors concerning what had happened to him aboard he and Hornblower’s first ship, and his stint in prison had no doubt taken a harsh toll on him. Pellew had once told Hornblower he judged men on their actions, not heresay, but with Kennedy he had never been able to do so. Simpson. Prison. Looking at Kennedy was an uncomfortable reminder of all the worst that could befall a man. Disgrace was not the least of those things, despite how little it had seemed to matter to Kennedy, given the determination with which he had sought it.
Kennedy showed none of that presently, only watched him from the other side of the desk, waiting for him to speak. The man had an unnerving way of looking him in the eye, just as he had in court. Pellew cleared his throat, the most obvious and courteous words coming to mind only now.
“You’re in better health than when I last saw you, sir.” He had in fact not seen Kennedy in the hospital in Kingston, not even after the surgery to confirm that he was alive, but what Bracegirdle had described of Kennedy’s waking that Sunday afterward made it plain the man was lucky to live. Pellew had never expected him to survive the operation, let alone the homeward voyage.
Wetting his lips, Kennedy looked down at himself and then shook his head. “I did not expect you’d taken notice, sir, but it took long enough.”
Pellew blinked, uneasy again. It was as if Kennedy were deliberately making plain that he knew Pellew had not seen him in the hospital. That was ridiculous. He could never imagine Kennedy desiring a visit from him – Hornblower, yes, but not Kennedy; he would have better appreciated Matthews or Styles. That it would have been courteous to visit only occurred to Pellew suddenly. In fact he could not think of why he had not, or why Hammond or Collins had never mentioned Kennedy serving under him.
“A wise man overlooks nothing.” Pellew said as good-naturedly as he could, despite how he wanted to speak his purpose here and go. The events in Kingston were beginning to make less sense the more that he thought on them. He was tired of thinking on them. But if he could withstand flattering fools at Whitehall then he could pass a few moments with Hornblower’s strange friend.
“Even Horatio scarcely recognized me at first,” Kennedy added after a moment with a small smile that could be called fond. He showed no compunction whatsoever for using Hornblower’s Christian name.
“Yet in your incapacitation you found the strength to get your hands around that Frenchman’s throat?”
Bracegirdle had described Kennedy as half mad during Eurydice’s capture, demanding a sword though he could scarcely lift one at the time. Such a scene had been difficult to imagine at first, but looking at him now Pellew could remember Kennedy as a boy. He had chosen him for a boarding party on a whim – Kennedy’s first experience of battle – and could remember being pleased that the boy had conducted himself with bravery, not to mention exuberance; if memory served, the boy had bounded right up to Hornblower sword in hand, happily stained in French blood.
Considering that Pellew had seen countless boys and officers tremble and cower from the enemy’s guns, he supposed some pattern of courage might have begun there. A man who showed no fear under fire might not fear facing an entire courtroom and confessing to a high crime to save his friend, that man might also not fear throttling an enemy endangering that friend’s life. Kennedy had saved Hornblower’s crew in the process, and perhaps Bracegirdle’s, but Pellew suspected that had mere been a consequence, not an aim.
“I believe desperation may substitute strength in some instances, sir,” Kennedy was saying. “But I thank you for your silence in Kingston.”
His silence? Pellew blinked, the words returning him to the present. How blunt to be thanked only for that and not Kennedy’s life. True, Bracegirdle had put forth the idea of calling a physician, and true Pellew had been reluctant, but once again it was as though Kennedy wanted it known that he knew exactly how little Pellew had done for him. It was devilish of him; Pellew had appeased his conscious with the fact that Kennedy was alive and now the man quite calmly robbed him of that absolution.
“Not at all, sir,” he answered curtly. “Mr. Bracegirdle seems to think highly of you.”
Kennedy made a face at that, apparently uneasy with others thinking highly of him, or perhaps unaccustomed to it living in Hornblower’s shadow as he had. Or perhaps that was not what Kennedy wanted to hear. Whatever the case, his displeasure passed and he looked abashed for the first time, realizing they were both standing. He was a well-mannered lad, if nothing else; sinking back down in his chair, he motioned for Pellew to take the armchair by the door.
The younger man was about to speak when the maid knocked again, entering with coffee at Kennedy’s word. Pellew took the cup, glad for the small distraction of drinking from it and setting it neatly down on the little table beside him – a man always felt better with something to drink, even if it were a bit early for spirits. Kennedy sipped from his own cup and then gave him a genuine smile from across the desk.
“Horatio wouldn’t stand for a house lacking in a decent supply of coffee.”
Pellew only nodded at this offhand bit of information, puzzled as to why it seemed so inappropriately intimate a thing to share. No doubt Hornblower visited Kennedy often then if their friendship had in fact remained intact. Pellew supposed he could not imagine otherwise.
Letting the remark pass, Kennedy seemed more at east in his chair. “What can I do for you?” He set his cup down beside the papers on the desk, stacked with surprising efficiency. Pellew had never thought of Kennedy as neat and well organized, though he supposed Kennedy had never given him cause to believe otherwise.
Yet Kennedy had given him an opening to at last approach what he had come to do. Whether it was because the younger man sensed his discomfort and had done it out of mercy or simply wished to be done with him as well was beside the point. With his free hand, Pellew absently touched the document inside his jacket, clearing his throat.
“Your father was not pleased with your conviction in Kingston,” he began at length. What father would be? Who wished to learn that their son had been branded with a high crime? The aristocracy were a proud lot to boot. It was surprising Cassilis had not challenged him to a duel over the matter; it would be like the man Clearing his throat a second time, Pellew went on. “You’ve relayed to him and the Earl of Edrington your account of what happened aboard Renown?”
It was Kennedy’s turn to be taken aback. Clearly this was the last subject he expected to approach today. Pellew frowned. What other purpose could Kennedy have possibly assigned to this visit? Something concerning Hornblower no doubt. .
“Yes, everything,” Kennedy answered after gathering his wits. “Well, almost everything – Kingston, you see?” He lowered his voice. “He would never approve.”
Hornblower, he meant. Pellew nodded with that feeling of understanding again. It left him somewhat bold. “If we have no other common ground, Mr. Kennedy, I know we both believe Hornblower did not deserve to hang that day. He is both a talented and admirable officer.”
He was prepared for Kennedy agree, to let that agreement stand as a truce, but he was not prepared for Kennedy to look down with that small, dreamy smile playing about his lips. “He doth teach the torches to burn bright,” he said softly.
Indeed, Pellew scarcely restrained himself from nodding, warming unwisely inside. How very odd to be estranged from the one person who loved Hornblower as dearly as he did.
“I trust he finds life ashore agreeable,” he heard himself saying in an unexpectedly unguarded tone. In truth, it hurt his pride to ask it. He had been the hero who had sunk two ships-of-the-line, everything the mids aspired to be, and yet he had to ask after his protégé via this possible catamite, this former prisoner of war, this man who for so long he had considered beneath Hornblower’s attention. But Pride was a sin; Pellew wondered if being humbled so were not fitting.
Kennedy evidently possessed the grace not to flaunt the fact that he had Hornblower’s regard while Pellew did not. He simply snorted, as if he would pretend that Hornblower were not worth such concern. “He’s reconciled his conscience now. God forbid we detour him from that.”
There went any chance of persuading Hornblower to return to sea, not that such a thing could be arranged easily. All the same, Hornblower’s conscience was not an easy obstacle to get around. Pellew had learned that in Portsmouth. He pushed that wound away and returned to the matter at hand.
“Your father, with the backing of the Earl of Edrington and the Duke of Clarence, offered considerable brides and threats to have the case re- evaluated by several admirals.” It took all of Pellew’s effort to relay this patiently. Cassilis had been less than civil on the matter. “He is convinced that fever led you into that courtroom and believes the fault for matters on that ship lay with none other than Dr. Clive for failing to remove Sawyer from command. You do understand the considerate effort of re-evaluating such a trial?” He met Kennedy’s eye. The boy could not be blamed for his father’s behavior, but he had to pin his indignation upon someone.
Kennedy nodded unsteadily, his lids fluttering as though suddenly nervous, though Pellew did not think nervousness had anything to do with his wide eyes now. Clearly Kennedy was not and had never been afraid of him or any other officer.
“It – it wasn’t what I wanted.” It was strange to hear him stammer; Kennedy was so clear spoken, almost haughty with his aristocratic accent. But now he straightened and leaned forward with both palms on the desk, both his expression and his words urgent. “If I were declared innocent, sir, the guilt would only be heaped upon Horatio and that would destroy the purpose of my being in this predicament in the first place.” Pellew nodded his approval. Good man. It was always comforting to know one was not dealing with a fool. Settling back again, Kennedy looked down “He didn’t come raving to you about Hammond as he promised, did he?” He sounded almost apologetic. Pellew almost pitied him, having to grow up with a pariah like Cassilis for a father.
“He threatened to expose Hammond’s treachery in order to demonstrate that the verdict in Kingston was invalid considering that a traitor had had a hand in it. With a third of Navy comprised of Irishmen it would have been a scandal.” Pellew frowned. How dare the man trap him with such an ultimatum – risk dividing the Navy or see Hornblower hang. “In any case,” he went on. “I believe these may by of interest to you sir.” Taking the documents from inside his jacket, Pellew handed them over to Kennedy.
The younger man unfolded them, his eyes carefully scanning the print. “My service record,” he announced in confusion. Pellew nodded, but waited for Kennedy to continue reading. As expected, Kennedy’s expression blankened. “I’ve been . . . Sir?” He looked up, taken aback.
The light in Kennedy’s eyes made Pellew look away, busying himself with straightening a wrinkle in his coat. If the younger man were so quick to call him on his inattention before than surely Kennedy did not think he had secured his acquittal single-handedly.
“The Earl’s bribes and threats went far, I must say,” he told Kennedy in a tight voice. It shamed him this time to admit that he’d had as little to do with the lad’s acquittal as he had with his rescue in Kingston, but it was better for Kennedy to know that his father loved him than to hold false gratitude for a captain he had never given a whit for.
Kennedy’s expression soured as he continued to read. “Still dead in Kingston, am I?” He shook his head, but for all his cynicism did not seem particularly bothered by it. Bracegirdle had mentioned Kennedy’s desire to put aside the whole mess and live in peace. Perhaps on that account Kennedy even preferred his new identity and had no interest in reclaiming his rightful one.
“A necessary caution, Mr. Kennedy,” Pellew explained. There was still the danger the Admiralty would not be pleased that he had aided a man who at the time had been a criminal, and in case his efforts to overturn the verdict failed, the Earl apparently did not want his son’s life endangered by making his existence known. “Though when all of this has been laid to rest you will find it safe to reappear as yourself.” God willing that would be after Sir Edward Pellew died. He had no desire to be the center of a scandal. Let those curious think Archie Kennedy had returned from Kingston without high-ranking help, as a pirate or stowaway or whatever other wild fancy society liked to entertain.
But Kennedy was still studying his records, something wistful sweeping over his features. “It hardly seems worth the trouble to salvage such an uninspiring career, doesn’t it?” he said with a sigh
He was as modest as Hornblower. Pellew had always thought him haughty and cocky. Yet his modesty was of a different brand than Hornblower’s – born of pride and deep-rooted self-hatred. Kennedy’s was more matter-of- fact, as though he found humor in his own shortcomings.
“I would not scoff, Mr. Kennedy. There are many who lieutenants who never serve aboard a ship of the line.”
Pellew felt odd saying it. Kennedy had never looked to him for assurance before nor had Pellew ever thought to give it. Their interactions had been limited to the giving and accepting of orders. He had never bothered to ponder the younger man’s state of mind, that his lack of motivation might have stemmed from something that could be alleviated somehow. Pellew remembered that boarding party again, a brave young boy with a sword. Kennedy had never made any effort to advance himself. Pellew had held that against him as a lack of concern for his duty, laziness even. He had promoted him to acting lieutenant out of necessity, but it was Hornblower who had all but forced him to study for his examination. The other officers had joined in because Kennedy was likeable no doubt. Kennedy had not failed his exam as Hornblower had, indicating intelligence and a good head under pressure, but still he had lacked focus.
“I suppose “commander of the dung cart” is the best than can be said for me,” Kennedy said softly, as though speaking to himself.
There went that cynical self-depreciation again. He had courage, but courage was nothing in an officer without conviction. Was there something in Kennedy he might have nurtured? Pellew had always thought it more merciful not to call attention to the boy’s troubles – a man’s demons were a private thing – but should he have offered encouragement, paid Kennedy particular mind for the sake of the ship if nothing else? Was it not a captain’s duty to know his officers? Pellew sighed. Where Hornblower had been the sum of all his hopes Kennedy had been the sum of his failures.
“I don’t suppose my head was made for laurels.” Kennedy finished.
“Nor do I believe it made for thorns.” Pellew forced himself to look up and say it.
Kennedy shook off the subject of his blemished career. Obviously, he did not know how to be complimented. “Who will wear them now? Not . . . not Horatio.” Again, he faltered.
No. God forbid it at the cost of all else. That fear was what had entangled Pellew in this mess in the first place. “Doctor Clive,“ he answered plainly. “It is believed you were not in your right mind and that feverish paranoia led you to confess in order to save your shipmates. You wrote the report aboard Renown. You know very well what it described. Clive’s drunkenness, his drugging of the captain, and –“
The sound of boots mounting the stairs stopped them. Pellew scowled. He disliked interruptions, particularly when they involved the Earl’s fool business. The footsteps approached the door and a voice impatiently called, “Mr. Carlyle! Mr. Carlyle, a word with you!”
Something swirled in Pellew’s belly. He knew that voice, had heard it not long ago outside. For two years now it had echoed in his mind, sometimes calling orders from the quarterdeck, sometimes scorning him for an amoral collaborator. Hornblower was drawing near. God help him, the boy was right outside the door.
Kennedy was as calm as Pellew was tied up into knots, in fact, the younger man even seemed exasperated. “Your pardon, sir.” He got up and moved around the desk, opening the door.
Pellew’s heart sped foolishly, thinking that Hornblower would glimpse him in that moment. But Kennedy was too quick and evidently too smart; he slipped out of the room and closed the door again, leaning his back against it before Hornblower apparently approached.
“Horatio?” He sounded perfectly good-natured, almost sing-songing Hornblower’s name, but Pellew had the feeling he was ill at ease.
Hornblower lowered his voice, as though leaning very close to him. “I’ve forgotten to inform you . . .” He paused. Pellew could almost see his keen dark eyes flicking about. “What are you hiding?”
Kennedy only attempted to pacify him. “I’ve nothing to hide, Horatio.” His tone was falsely sweet. Hornblower indulged him and played along.
“My dear Mr. Carlyle, you’re hiding something. Has your father returned? I . . .”
Pellew stopped listening, caught off guard by Hornblower’s overtly affectionate tone. It was hardly unusual to address another man as “my dear” yet Pellew had never expected the reserved Hornblower to be so fond. His eyes had always been fond, staring long into Kennedy’s to the point of indignity on more than one occasion. With no family and no shipmates, Kennedy was likely all Hornblower had left in the world.
The thought faded when the door opened. Pellew went still, his eyes trained on Hornblower as he pushed past Kennedy, ready to make his apologies to the Earl no doubt. Yet when Hornblower’s eyes fell upon him he straightened as though a sword were held to the small of his back, growing taller, his eyes growing wider, angry dark pools threatening to swallow Pellew up.
It was ridiculous that an admiral’s heart should pound apprehensively at the sight of a flustered boy whose mouth worked like a fish’s to gulp down whatever outrage or shock had taken hold of him, but Pellew could not help it when that boy had once looked to him with innocent and admiring eyes, seeking answers and approval.
At last Hornblower found his tongue. “Admiral Pellew, sir.” His voice was rough and cold like frost on stone.
“Mr. Hornblower . . .” Pellew returned a little more warmly. Warmth did not avail him, however. Hornblower regarded him from behind an invisible wall. Warmth did not melt stone; stone must be chiseled away.
It was Kennedy who broke the silence, snatching up his service record from the desk. “Look, Horatio.” He held it up for Hornblower to see in the way one would hold up a piece of meat to pacify a snarling animal, or a toy to quiet a bawling child.
Hornblower did no more than glance at it, his affection for Kennedy frozen over as well. “Some other time, perhaps. I won’t be home until later. Pardon me.” He ducked his head and turned out of the room with his shoulders squared and his hands clenched at his sides.
When he was gone, Pellew allowed himself to breathe again, his mind churning with a new understand of Kennedy and Hornblower’s circumstance. They lived here together, Kennedy as his father’s steward and Hornblower as who knew what. Again, it was not unusual for men to live together, but Pellew found it unpleasantly surprising all the same.
Only mildly ruffled, Kennedy returned to his chair. ”You were saying, sir . . .?” he prompted.
Blinking away the image of Hornblower retreating from him a second time, Pellew forced himself to return to the present, belatedly surprised that Kennedy had remained in the room with him instead of trotting off after his friend.
“Dr. Clive,” he managed after a moment. “He’s been relieved of his position. It was decided that his recollection of declaring the Captain unfit could not be trusted on account of his drunkenness. In short, there are no need for scapegoats now that the man at fault has been held accountable.”
Kennedy’s mouth tightened. “Why wasn’t this decided in court in the first place?” He almost snapped.
Pellew knew the answer, but did not care to admit to it. Sentimentality was a weakness in a high officer, yet nothing more than that had consumed him in Kingston. He had been so caught up in the fear that Hammond’s scapegoat hunt would put a noose around Hornblower’s neck that he had not paid sufficient mind to the senselessness of the larger picture. He knew it. Kennedy knew it. There was no need to speak further on the matter.
“What will you do with yourself now, Mr. Kennedy?” Pellew asked instead.
This, Kennedy found all too easy to answer. “Horatio and I will be off to Scotland soon. My father has business for me there. I also have a mind to own a theatre when we return, or perhaps to dabble in politics if I might. I often find it difficult to keep silent on how this world is often lacking in justice.”
Now that was something Pellew had not expected. How odd to discover that a man who had shared your ship all these years also shared two passions dear to your heart. It was about as odd as discovering that one of your officers had never liked you and had hidden it all these years, as Kennedy had.
“There is courage in standing for something, Mr. Kennedy,” he said. “No doubt you’ll do well.”
Kennedy’s smile became a little less forced, and after the younger man had attempted to step between him and Hornblower Pellew realized that he no longer felt so awkward in this room with him. Politics. Now there was something he could caution Kennedy about. Neither of them had touched their coffee beyond a sip. Perhaps they could manage enough polite conversation until their cups were empty.