by Lee Rowan
And himself. Was the man entirely out of touch with reality?
“I hardly think so,” Archer said, but an inner voice told him this was an opportunity, and he had better consider his words. Adrian’s weak point was his conceit. Play up to it, and he might be lulled. “I am… accustomed… to Navy accommodations.”
“But let us suppose you were not ransomed with your shipmates. You could accustom yourself to something more agreeable than His Majesty’s meager comforts, I’m sure.”
Not ransomed? Stay here permanently—was that really what he was hinting at? Did he imagine this docility would continue, without William and the Captain as hostages? Archer decided to pretend he had missed the suggestion. “Shipboard life has taught me to adapt to a variety of circumstances.” That was true enough. Adrian would supply his own interpretation. Strange, after twelve days of being denied physical integrity, that he was so reluctant to utter convenient lies. Perhaps it was that he had nothing left but his word.
“Only ‘adapt?’ I would have thought there was a time or two when you appeared to be rather enjoying yourself.”
Archer’s face burned. When I was on my knees on the floor, heaving my guts out? Oh, yes, that was delightful. He looked down, quickly, before Adrian could see that it was anger and not some other emotion. His hands were tight fists in his lap, but he said nothing.
Predictably—Will was right, the villain was so very predictable—Adrian laughed. “Ah, the truth will out. I thought so. It was when we used the ropes, wasn’t it? Not having to worry about keeping you in check allows me to be so much more creative.”
Oh, please, no…. The one thing they had not considered in their strategy, a detail Archer had put out of his mind. And trying to dissuade Adrian would only fix his intention more securely. How long had it been, last time? Hours. Even after he’d exhausted himself, Adrian had seemed to enjoy leaving him tied and helpless. Although Archer had altered details in what he told William, that part of it was true.
But Will would not leave the cell for three long hours, and Adrian bored easily. In time it should be possible to divert him to some other activity. It’s really not as though I have any choice. And he could escape, now, in a way. He could close his eyes, and his mind, and he could remember.
“Well, laddie, what do you say? Are you ready for dessert?”
He reached back to the night before, to William, to that incredible, invisible fire that had flowed between them… and found it was still there, swirling just within his skin like some magical shield. It did not matter what Adrian might do or make him do. His body could endure the insult; his soul was wrapped in an embrace that Adrian could never penetrate or even understand.
Archer stood, half in a trance. In a strange way, he almost pitied his captor. Adrian would never get what he wanted. Let the bastard convince himself he was irresistible. Let him deceive himself. Let him think whatever he liked… and, just for one moment, let him lower his guard.
Chapter 21
THE SHIP’S bell rang once. Marshall put the last touches on his sleeping straw figure, barely visible in the near-total dark, and sat down beside the door to wait. He had to give Davy time. It would be a waste of energy to spend an extra half-hour hanging on the shrouds in the chill night air.
If what he’d seen on deck the night before was the usual arrangement, there would be three men on duty. He had seen two on the quarterdeck, one in the forecastle—plus a pair of guards outside Adrian’s door. Archer would get those two into the cabin, and with luck, he might draw in the foc’sleman, as well. Someone would stay at the wheel no matter what, but if their luck held, the helmsman’s attention would be on the Captain’s cabin. To get down to the Captain’s cell, he would have to cover the ten or fifteen feet to the nearest ladder below and deal with whatever guards might be there. And then….
Then, God willing, Captain Smith would take command, and they could get back above, seal the hatches, and lower a boat. Adrian must have something in his cabin that would show their position. He was not likely to keep false charts just in case his unarmed prisoners overpowered his crew.
The attack would be completely unexpected; it might even be easy, unless the Captain intended to take the ship. In that case, things could get very exciting. But it would all depend on whether Archer could put Adrian out of commission, lure the guards into the cabin, and keep them all quiet for a crucial few minutes.
Could he do it? If asked, Marshall would have responded, “of course,” but he had to admit just a hint of doubt. If Adrian had not spent nearly two weeks overpowering Archer, beating him down mentally and physically, he would have felt surer.
As to exactly how that had been done—and what was being done now—he dared not let himself think about it. If Davy felt shielded in any way, well and good, but Marshall felt more vulnerable than he ever had before, as though part of himself were up there. Whether it was true knowing, or just the memory of last night, of the enormous, terrifying trust Davy had given him—whatever it was, he had to find some way to block that connection. What they’d shared had been temporary and for just that once. It could not continue. Eventually, probably fairly soon, he and Archer would go their separate ways, be posted to different ships. The nature of life in the Navy was essentially solitary. Careers were unpredictable. Friends moved on. Sometimes, friends died.
Marshall closed his eyes and felt a phantom touch still lingering on his lips. He shouldn’t have allowed Davy to do that. He should have stopped him. He should have—but it had taken all his strength just to keep from locking his arms around Davy so tightly they couldn’t take him away.
But that was just a dangerous illusion. Circumstances had already taken him away. They had no future together as anything but friends, shipmates. That wasn’t so bad, was it? It had been enough until last night. It would have to be enough in the future.
And it’s time to get Davy out of there and stop that bastard, once and for all. Get on with it. Get moving.
He rose in the dark and worked the iron bar out of its track. He would take it with him this time, secured with that useful twine. It was a poor weapon, but he needed every advantage he could get. If Archer appeared to be having trouble, perhaps he could—
No. He had to get the Captain free as quickly as possible so he would not be a hostage if the belowdecks crew were alerted. No need to worry about Davy’s ability. If that incredible burst of murderous rage that exploded out of him last night was a sample of what he’d been bottling up, Marshall would not want to be standing anywhere near Adrian when Davy unleashed it. As long as it wasn’t blind fury, which could get him killed….
He stilled the inner debate. Davy knew what was at stake; he had chosen to go this course. He knew what he was doing, and he would be all right.
Pray God he would be all right.
ARCHER WIGGLED his fingers slightly, then rubbed them together, and was rewarded when the tingling in the fingertips diminished. Good. As long as he kept moving his hands, they didn’t go to sleep. And his arms were all right. If only the rope were just a bit longer, he might be able to untie it. But it was a single length, run through a couple of eyelets screwed into the bulkhead—moving a hand in one direction pulled the other hand out of reach.
Eight bells had sounded at least twenty minutes ago. Midnight. In just a little over half an hour, William was going to be out on that rigging, expecting his shipmate to have done his part.
He had done nothing. Adrian was lying draped half across him, deep asleep. Too much brandy. The bastard had an unerring ability to do the worst possible thing, under every circumstance—such a nap would have been a godsend at any other time, Adrian asleep being infinitely preferable to awake.
I wonder what would happen if I just kicked him off the bunk. Tempting but not practical. The way my luck’s been running, he’d break his damned neck—that would be all right—but I’d be lying here like this when Will comes back with the Captain. There truly were situations worse than death, and t
hey would certainly include being found by one’s commanding officer trussed up like the leavings from a Roman orgy. And even though Will knew what had been going on, just telling him about it had been humiliating enough. To be seen by him, like this—
A single bell sounded on the quarterdeck above. Well, whatever he was going to do, he’d better do it now. William would be sitting in the cell, ready to go, counting the minutes. In an hour he’d expect the deck to be cleared of the guards, and knowing Will, he would try something even if they were still there. And what Adrian would do to him if this attempt were to fail—
No. It is not going to fail. Not on my account. If he had to crawl, then, damn it, he’d crawl. He could scrub the filth off later. And why worry? There probably wasn’t going to be a “later.” Not for him.
Into the muck, then. He took a deep breath. “Captain—” He had not used that title before, nor any other respectful address. It had been the only way he could retaliate for the utter absence of respect with which he’d been treated. He nudged Adrian with his knee. “Captain?”
Adrian’s eyes opened. Archer could tell by his expression that he’d noted the formality. “Yes, laddie, what is it?”
Archer licked his lips. “Could… could we try something else now, please? My hands have gone numb.” It sounded horribly contrived, but that was Adrian’s style.
He took the bait, too, with a self-satisfied smirk. “You want more, do you? I expected you would come around. You are very like… someone I once knew. Stubborn but malleable.” He sat up and trailed a hand along Archer’s arm to the rope, letting his fingers linger on the knots. “Very well. What would you like? I’ll untie this as soon as you tell me.”
Archer’s mind went blank for a moment as he tried to find the least objectionable possibility. Or the quickest. “The… the French thing from the second night?”
“Frottage? Rather tame, don’t you think? And you were really very dull that evening.”
“I’d never done anything like that before. Wasn’t sure what to do.” Archer realized he was speaking in fragments, still dancing around an actual lie, trying to hold out in that last stronghold.
Adrian laughed. “I’ll wager you’ve never done most of what you’ve done this past week. But since you ask….” He started to undo the knot, then turned those pale eyes on Archer’s, like a hound catching a scent, holding the look with a knowing smile. “If you can ask politely.” His other hand stroked up the inside of Archer’s thigh. “Is that what you want, laddie? Say it.”
You son of a bitch. Averting his eyes, Archer made his face as bland and ingenuous as he could; he couldn’t simulate desire to save his life—or even William’s. But he could lie. “Yes. Please?”
“That wasn’t so difficult, was it? Keep still, now. There.” The rope came free, sliding through the eyelets, and Archer let out the breath he’d been holding, relief making him nearly oblivious to Adrian’s hand on his body. “I do expect you to be a little more active this time.”
“Of… of course.” He rubbed his wrists, loosening the rope still fastened to the left. “What would you like me to do, sir?” That last was an effort, but he was past pride, now, and even past fear. This was war.
“That’s more what I want to hear. What would I like you to do? Let me consider that most excellent question.” He reached lazily for the brandy he’d left on the little bedside table.
As he half-turned, something clicked in Archer’s mind, like a pistol’s hammer being drawn back. He lunged, reacting almost before he consciously recognized his chance. His world narrowed into immediate focus: the scrape of beard against the inside of his elbow, the startling splash of brandy on the side of his face as Adrian flung it backward—a crash as the glass broke somewhere—the tremendous resistance of shoulder muscles as Adrian struggled to dislodge him.
But he had the angle right, the chin up and back, and a slight advantage of leverage since his adversary was on the wooden edge of the berth. Archer locked his right arm with his left, counting the seconds.
Pain shot up his arm. Adrian was digging his fingers into the muscle, raking with nails, desperate now. Archer closed his eyes and hung on, ignoring his right arm, holding tight with the left. In a little while, Adrian was still. Sixty seconds—seventy—eighty. It was too easy; it must be a trick.
Archer glanced up, and past Adrian’s shoulder, he could see a reflection in the mirror bolted to the wall opposite the bed. His own face was a mask of rage, ugly and frightening, and Adrian’s lips were blue above the neatly trimmed beard.
No trick.
He let go apprehensively, nonetheless, and was wholly astonished when his erstwhile tormenter slithered to the floor like a loose halyard. He stared in disbelief, but his body was already moving, tugging the end of rope from his own wrist, freeing his feet, heaving Adrian back up, tying the bastard—still breathing—just as he’d been tied himself minutes earlier.
It was not until he had the rope secure and Adrian gagged with his own silk cravat, that he allowed himself a deep breath and noticed that his foot was wet. Blood? The broken glass on the carpet. Superficial cuts; he hardly felt them. He rolled up the little carpet and put it beneath the chest of drawers.
The mirror caught his eye once more, and he realized why William had been so appalled the other day. The bruises were several days old now and turning colors. He looked like Jonah’s whale had swallowed him, chewed awhile, and spat him back out. How could Will have wanted me, looking like this? It hadn’t felt like pity. No, he’d forgotten. It had been dark. Will must have forgotten how horrible his body looked. Thank God.
Two bells sounded overhead. William was on his way. Archer surveyed the cabin. Weapons. He needed to find where Adrian kept weapons. Before doing that, though, he took a few seconds to pull on his breeches. He would have dearly loved to don the rest of his uniform, but he had no time—and he could not be fully dressed when he called in the guards.
Weapons. None in the drawers under the berth, though some of the things he recognized there made him glad he was leaving. He went through the chest of drawers, glancing at Adrian every few seconds to be sure he was still unconscious. In the third drawer, under some shirts, was a case containing a brace of pistols, complete with shot and powder. Archer charged the pistols and stuck them into his waistband. Now it looked like foresight. Of course he’d had to put his breeches on—where else would he keep the pistols?
He found another pair of guns in one of the sea chests, and he loaded them too. They weighed down the back of his waistband. Boarding party, indeed. But he could not go to the door arrayed like this.
His eye fell on Adrian’s dressing gown, black silk with some sort of China dragons picked out in gold. Yes, that would serve, it would look as though he’d snatched up the first thing that came to hand—but it could wait. He found his shirt and tied it around his waist, in case of a hasty exit. He wanted no part of that bastard’s clothing, but he had to cover the damage, hide it from the Captain’s eyes, and William’s, until he had time to heal.
Time? Adrian’s watch said 1:21 a.m. Will might be at the rail even now, though he wasn’t due for another nine minutes. A furious sound from behind made him jump—Adrian, awake and glaring.
Archer felt a small, spiteful surge of triumph. “What’s the matter, Captain? Aren’t you enjoying yourself?” He pulled out one of the pistols; Adrian’s eyes took on a new look.
Fear.
It occurred to Archer that he probably ought to take some pleasure in this moment, but it only disgusted him. He reversed the gun and rapped Adrian sharply on the skull, managing to use just enough force to knock him unconscious. That should keep the bastard out for a little while. He wouldn’t need long.
His arm throbbed dully, and he dabbed at the gouges. They were bleeding a bit, but the dressing gown was dark enough to hide the stains, and the brightly lit cabin would dazzle the eyes of men coming in from the night.
He removed Adrian’s gag, for appearances, and chec
ked the watch. One twenty-five. If William said three bells—one thirty—he would be hanging on the shrouds just below the deck by now. The plan was working, so far. Time for the next step.
Archer pulled the dressing gown over his armamentarium, checking in the mirror to see that the pistols weren’t making any unnatural bulges. He had to draw the guards in, and anyone else he could get, and hold them while William found the Captain.
At least the indignity of his position would work in his favor. He shouldn’t seem much of a threat. He took a deep breath, then crossed to the door, counting down the minutes. Just as the watch rang three bells, he pounded on the door. “Guard! Guard! Anyone out—”
The door swung open, one of the guards stood scowling, pistol ready.
Archer held his hands up, away from his body, which also kept the dressing gown out and away from the hidden pistols. “Don’t shoot! Please come in, it’s the Captain. He’s… he’s had some kind of fit, I think.” He stood well back as the guard entered.
A second man stayed in the doorway. “What the hell’s going on here?” the first demanded, seeing Adrian tied.
Archer didn’t have to try to look nervous. “He—I know this sounds mad, but he—he wanted me to tie him like that and… and he… started to flop around—” They’d had an epileptic midshipman on the Calypso, for a short time. Captain Smith had sent the boy home, but Archer knew what a fit looked like “—and then he went unconscious. He’d had a lot to drink,” he added as he realized the smell of brandy was heavy in the air. “I didn’t know what to do.” He backed away as far as he could, until he stood just beside the door.
“Oh, bugger,” the first guard growled. “The crazy bastard’s really done it this time. Get Brown down here.” The prosaic reaction was reassuring. Adrian was clearly not beloved by his crew.
The second guard took a couple of steps back and called out to someone up on the quarterdeck. Footsteps thumped across and down the stair, and another man came in, better-dressed than the first two, hastily tying a mask over his face. “What am I supposed to—” He went over to Adrian’s bunk, followed by the second guard, and gave a variation on the first guard’s theme. “What the hell is this all about?”
