by Lee Rowan
“They’re afraid we’ll leap out and shave them,” Marshall said scornfully, but in truth the caution was reasonable. A razor could be a vicious weapon, and neither of them would hesitate to use it as such.
“What about Lt. Marshall?” Archer asked.
“’E stays ’ere. Only one o’ you out at a time.”
“Then why don’t you give the Captain my regrets. I prefer to stay here.”
“Then you both misses supper.”
“Go on, Davy,” Marshall said, too quietly for the guards to hear. “You might learn something about our position.”
He really didn’t want to go. “Is that an order?”
Marshall looked exasperated. “Davy. Go. At least you’ll get out of here for a bit.” Of course, it was William himself who was chafing at the confinement. It was typical of his generous spirit that he would want to give what he couldn’t have himself.
Archer nodded. “All right,” he told the guard. “It may take a little while.”
“Sing out when you’re done.” Footsteps clumped away.
The water was warmish, the bit of soap in it nearly dissolved. Marshall held the pan for him, angling the mirror to catch the uncertain light from the air vent. “This Adrian must be a fastidious bastard,” he said as Archer scraped at three days’ worth of beard. “At least regarding his guests. He looks like he’s not shaved in years.”
“I wonder if Captain Smith will be there.” It would be heartening to see him.
“I doubt it. If he won’t face the two of us together, I doubt he’d risk the Captain. Be careful, Davy. He may try to get information that he can sell to the French.”
Archer glanced up in alarm. “You think so?”
“I don’t know. Come to think of it, I don’t suppose we really know much that isn’t public knowledge. But a man who’ll interfere with naval officers in wartime could do anything.”
“I’ll remind him that this is treason, if you think it’ll help—”
“No.” Marshall frowned as if worrying a toothache. “Just—be careful.”
“That will be my watchword.” Archer rinsed the razor. “Damned if I’m going to be thorough. D’you want to use this?”
Marshall rubbed his chin. “I may as well.” They traded places, and he made a quick job of it, gazing thoughtfully at the razor when he finished. “Too bad we have to give this back, it could be useful.”
“The edge would be gone long before we could cut our way out,” Archer said pragmatically. The timbers of the hull were at least a foot thick. Even the walls of their compartment would be an inch or better.
“I know.” He handed it back, and Archer dumped the razor in the basin, slid it back out, and pounded on the door.
Boots thumped in the companionway. “Stand away from the door.” A guard looked in to see that they had obeyed; a bolt was drawn back outside, and the door swung open to show three pistols aimed inside. “Aw’right, you come out, you stay back.”
As soon as Archer was outside, the door was shut again. The bolt thrown home. His hope of seeing anything helpful was dashed immediately. One of the guards tied his hands in front of him while another shook out the folds of a huge, hooded gray cloak. He had one glimpse of Marshall looking out the barred window, frowning in chagrin, before the heavy wool fell over his face. The free end of the rope that bound his hands was wrapped around the outside of the cloak, and he was pushed forward.
Someone warned him of steps going up but neglected to say how many, and he staggered onto a deck, was turned and taken fourteen paces, then back down a shorter set of steps. Fourteen somewhat hampered paces from the hatchway to the quarterdeck. Not much, but a start.
A door creaked. “Please be seated, Mr. Archer,” a cultured voice invited. “I believe you will appreciate the change of scenery.”
The guards who’d brought him here pulled the enveloping cloak away and loosed Archer’s wrists as they pushed him into the Captain’s cabin. It was furnished as grandly as any fine home he had ever visited: a small but elegant dining table, china dishes, crystal goblets. The meal looked sumptuous: roast fowl, green beans, a pie, and two covered dishes. The only concession to shipboard life was a plate of the ubiquitous biscuit.
And at the head of the table sat Captain Adrian, in a suit of unrelieved black, cut in a parody of a Royal Navy uniform. A strange costume, made stranger by the black silk mask concealing his upper face. David understood what Will had meant about Adrian’s not shaving—between the mask and a short reddish beard and moustache, very little of him was visible.
If he were to remove the mask and shave, he would be unidentifiable, if not for his eyes. They were an icy, nearly colorless blue, with such peculiar intensity that they made the mask useless. Archer would know those eyes again even if he saw them staring out of a block of wood. He wondered if Adrian knew how ineffective his disguise really was, or if he simply enjoyed the drama of it all. Archer had seen enough theater to recognize the trappings.
He nodded politely. “Captain,” he said and sat at the indicated chair. But the eating utensils beside his plate were at odds with the refinement of the table. They appeared to be carved from some sort of soft, spongy wood, and the knife had no point.
“You are not my first dinner guest, Mr. Archer,” Adrian said, observing his expression, “and I have had one or two who were quite inventive. I have found it simpler to remove the temptation to pilfer tableware. If any meat needs cutting, my cook attends to it in the galley.”
“I see.” This prison might have the trappings of elegance, but it was a prison nonetheless.
Adrian seemed to feel a need to elaborate. “Not that it would do you any good, but one of my men was once stabbed with a fork, and I was forced to have his assailant beaten. One of the rules aboard this ship is that any attempt to escape, however unsuccessful, is punished swiftly and severely. It would save us both a great deal of trouble if you would simply give me your parole.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Archer was mildly surprised that Adrian would make the suggestion. Not only would it be counter to Captain Smith’s very clear orders, the prospect of giving his word to this kidnapper was out of the question. He offered no further explanation, remembering his promise to be as noncommittal and uninformative as possible.
Silence proved easier than he had expected, so easy that it became unsettling. Adrian watched him closely with those blank-mirror eyes, saying little as they ate. Archer, for his part, felt no obligation to shoulder the burden of polite conversation with someone who’d kidnapped him.
Eventually, though, Adrian pushed his plate away. “You are no doubt wondering why I invited you to join me.”
Archer was tempted to point out that he’d received an order, not an invitation. No. Be careful. “Of course.”
“Curiosity, Mr. Archer. In my line of business, it is essential to research my subjects, but the bare facts really tell so little. I know of your Captain, of course—what Englishman doesn’t? But I was surprised to learn he had a nephew—or cousin, isn’t it? Were you aware of his relationship with Mr. Marshall?”
“I believe the Captain mentioned it, once,” Archer hedged. Never mind when he’d mentioned it or under what circumstances. “But I understand they both prefer that Mr. Marshall succeed on his own merits, rather than through connections.”
“How very noble. Most gentlemen would think it strange not to make full use of such an advantage.”
This certainly didn’t seem to be a fishing expedition for military information. “I do not believe that Captain Smith would keep any officer on board who was not prepared to earn his way,” he said honestly, “relative or not. Nor do I believe that Mr. Marshall wishes or requires an unfair advantage.”
“He has moved up more quickly than you have,” Adrian pointed out with an unpleasant smile.
“He has seen several years’ more active duty than I.” Archer began to see the direction this conversation was headed. Would it be useful to let Adria
n think there was a rivalry between him and William? Possibly, but not until they had discussed it between themselves, and even then it was an unpleasant prospect.
Archer knew he was not as ambitious as Marshall was. At first he had been a little envious of his friend’s success, but it was impossible to hold ill feelings toward Will. In the years they’d sailed together, he had grown fonder of the serious minister’s son than he was of his own brothers. Now, for the most part, he enjoyed being nearly neck-and-neck with Will, like runners pacing one another in a long-distance race.
And it wasn’t as though William would ever do anything to hold him back. As soon as Captain Smith told Archer to prepare himself for the examination, Will had done everything he could to help him. And being one step behind Will nourished Archer’s secret dream: when William was Captain of his own ship, he might take Archer with him as his Lieutenant.
“I am satisfied with my progress, sir. From what I have seen aboard Calypso, there is no shortage of opportunity to prove one’s ability.”
“Ah, yes. Service on a frigate, the intrepid hunting-hawks of the fleet. Such an exciting life, while my own merchant’s lot is so routine. Have you any tales you might share?”
“Only what you might read in the Naval Gazette.” Archer shook his head. “I doubt I can tell you much about our latest catch. Your men captured us before we could unload the French ships, and I know nothing of the papers they carried.”
“I understand the Calypso was damaged. Will she be in long for repairs?”
There it was, a question of military significance. “I really couldn’t say,” Archer said. “Had your men waited an hour or two, I could have told you. Of course, if you were to put us back ashore so we might continue on our business, I would be happy to answer your question by letter.”
The masked Captain smiled. “No, I think not. Mere idle curiosity.” He rose and went to the sideboard to pour a glass of brandy for himself—odd, that he had no one waiting table—and David hastily rolled a piece of chicken into his napkin and tucked it into his pocket, unbuttoning the jacket to make his prize less visible. Unless they searched his clothes, Will would get a share of this bounty. And if they did catch him, it was unlikely even Adrian could consider poultry a dangerous weapon. “Would you care for some brandy, Mr. Archer?” Adrian asked politely. “Claret? Port?”
Archer weighed the possibility of alcohol dulling his wits against the tightly wound state of his nerves. “A little port, thank you.” How strange to be carrying on such a bland, drawing-room conversation with a pirate. A biscuit slid neatly into the other pocket as Adrian turned back to the sideboard.
The port was poured, the bottle returned to the bracket that secured it against the ship’s rolling. Adrian brought the glasses back and raised his own. “A toast?”
“My Captain’s good health,” Archer suggested. “And a speedy conclusion to our visit.”
“And a profitable one,” Adrian added. “Mr. Archer, I believe your presence with your Captain, while unexpected, will prove fortuitous.”
“How so?” Another trifle of information to store away. As Smith had surmised, he had been the target.
“I had expected only the Captain, or perhaps your First Lieutenant, Mr. Drinkwater. His family would no doubt have come well up to the mark as regards ransom. But Mr. Drinkwater, however worthy and well-funded, is rather stout. I do not believe that excess weight is becoming to an officer, do you?”
“Mr. Drinkwater is a fine officer,” Archer said, puzzled by the irrelevancy. “He is competent, intelligent, and has excellent rapport with the men. I have learned much from him.”
“And a loyal, well-spoken lad you are,” Adrian responded smoothly. “As well as a most attractive young man.”
If Archer had been a dog, his hackles would have stood on end. He reached for his glass, took a sip of the port, and said nothing. It could be simple, clumsy flattery, but Adrian hardly seemed the clumsy type.
“As I was saying, your presence here promises to make my evenings more interesting. Haven’t you served as a cabin boy, Mr. Archer? My instinct for such matters is unerring.”
The way he asked the question set off alarms. “I joined His Majesty’s Navy as a midshipman,” Archer said carefully. He stared into the wineglass, wishing he were back with Marshall in the dark, cramped safety of the cell.
“Lad, you know perfectly well what I’m talking about. There is no point in being so deliberately obtuse. I refer, of course, to a function that would require you be at least partly out of uniform.”
Archer wondered wildly if there was some sort of target painted on his back, but he forced his voice to coldness. “I take your meaning, sir. I also take offense.”
Adrian laughed. “And next I suppose you’ll ask for satisfaction. Well, laddie, that’s all I want, myself—but I expect to get it from your pretty little arse.”
Archer’s fingers spasmed, snapping the crystal cup from its delicate stem. Tawny port soaked into the crisp linen cloth. “If you are soliciting my cooperation, the answer is no.”
He laughed again. “I don’t require your cooperation, Mr. Archer. But I would prefer it. It’s so tedious when a poor fellow’s all trussed up, it dulls the enjoyment.”
An odd sense of detachment numbed Archer’s mind, as though this were some weirdly civilized dream that split appearance from reality. The tone of Adrian’s words was calm, even cheerful; the content was a threat. His heart was thumping, he wanted to run; there was nowhere to run. At least three guards waited outside. Archer could not guess what this bastard would do to Will or Captain Smith if he failed to follow the undefined rules of this game.
Formal speech seemed to be one of them, though it was difficult speaking politely through clenched teeth. “I think it unlikely that I would enjoy such an experience under any circumstances, so I must again decline.” No thank you, I’d rather not be violated today, if you don’t mind.
“Ah.” Adrian tilted his head to one side, a professor examining a curiosity. “Perhaps I was hasty. I thought you were a connoisseur, like myself.”
Archer frowned, not quite following.
“Of male beauty. I had thought perhaps that you and Mr. Marshall—?”
Ice touched his heart, started to seep down through his body. “No.” No. Leave him out of this, damn you!
“Are you certain? He seemed quite… solicitous of your welfare, when you first arrived.”
“Mr. Marshall is a—a conscientious officer. He would be equally concerned for any of his men.”
“Oh, of course.” A knowing smile.
No, no, no! He had to divert the bastard from William. “There was another officer aboard our former ship who labored under a similar misconception. Mr. Marshall called him out.”
“Oh, really? And—?”
“And shot him dead.” As he would you.
Adrian patted his lips with his napkin. “My word. Well, so much for Mr. Marshall, I suppose. But I notice you have said nothing of yourself. Poor lad, I expect all you’ve known is a brutal bit of buggery below decks—that ‘other officer,’ no doubt. We’ll have to do something to remedy that.”
Numbness began to give way to anger. Archer clutched at it, willing it to warm the frozen knot of fear in his chest. “Captain, this is preposterous. You are making an assumption about me—a very personal and offensive assumption—based on no evidence whatsoever. On that baseless assumption, you further assume my acquiescence to a proposal that I find repellent. This, in addition to the fact that I was violently abducted and am here entirely against my will.” He saw Adrian start to respond and finished quickly. “I am sure you have force of arms sufficient to impose your will, but you deceive yourself if you mistake coercion for cooperation.”
The cold eyes bored into him. “You have not denied the assumption.”
Terror and outrage balanced on a sword’s point. He knew Adrian could tell he was frightened. He didn’t care. He was a man now, not a boy. “I deny your right to m
ake the assumption.”
Adrian smiled thinly. “Sooner or later, laddie, you’ll find you want to cooperate. But for now, if my suggestion does not appeal, you can return to your cell. Perhaps things will look differently in the morning.” He rang a small handbell and stood, gesturing toward the door.
Weak with relief, hardly believing the ordeal was over even for the moment, Archer rose hastily and followed.
Then Adrian stopped, his hand on the knob. “Remember, Mr. Archer, any violence on your part will bring severe retribution upon your shipmates.” With that, he moved up close behind, pulling Archer against him and running his hands down the front of his body. Trapped between the trespassing hands and the hot breath against his ear, Archer froze, closed his eyes, and waited for what he knew must happen next.
But… it did not. Adrian’s fingers roamed across him for a horrible eternity, stroking, probing—and then he abruptly pushed the door open and thrust Archer out into the arms of the guards who’d brought him there. “Tell Mr. Brown to inform me when we are out of sight.”
“Aye, sir.”
Archer stood trembling with shock while they replaced the loop on his wrists, draped the cloak about him, and wound the line around. He managed to make it back to the cell, but his legs gave out as he stumbled inside. He dropped onto the straw and fell back against the bulkhead.
Marshall, who’d been lying out of the angle of light, rolled over and sat up beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Davy, what’s wrong? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
True enough. The ghost of George Correy. He shrugged away, afraid of accepting the comfort, afraid he’d go to pieces. “I’m all right.” Stay calm. Deep breaths.
He could not break down in front of Will. He had to hold himself together until the guards took away the lantern outside their door. Once it was dark, he could let himself feel. “I-I shouldn’t have had spirits, it went straight to my head when I stood up.”
