by Lee Rowan
Marshall gave him no more time to think. “That’s all the important bits. I can tell you the rest of it later. Go pack your things, Mr. Archer. Now. The Captain has ordered you to go take that test, and if we aren’t away with all due speed, we could find ourselves becalmed.”
“You aren’t joking,” Archer said, the color finally coming back into his face.
“Do you think I could joke about this?” Trying to get through to Davy was finally making their situation real for Marshall. Two weeks in London! “I can hardly believe it myself, Davy. We will go to London. You will take your examination. Considering the circumstances of our return and how pleased the Admiralty is with us for stopping Adrian, I think you would have to exert yourself to fail. We will find ourselves a good tailor, and while he’s working on our uniforms, we can see the sights. We will do anything else you want to do so long as it doesn’t get us arrested. If you want to visit your family, I’ll even go along and meet your sisters, God help them. Just get your things together quickly while I ask Mr. Drinkwater how to arrange transportation.”
Archer nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “If speed is important, I suppose we could send our things by post, and hire horses.”
“Horses?” Marshall asked uneasily.
“Four legs, ears, tail, riding hacks. Faster than a coach. Riding can be fun, William.”
There spoke a son of the landed gentry. But Archer’s expression had gone unnaturally bland, and as Marshall stared in disbelief, he realized his friend was doing his best not to laugh. Well, if Davy was feeling good enough to indulge in a bit of teasing, all the better. “I would rather go to sea in a jollyboat than trust my neck to one of those oat-burning brutes. If we travel in a more civilized manner, we can review your navigation.”
Archer just nodded. His mouth twitched.
Wishing they were alone so he could kiss that mouth, Marshall conceded. “I suppose we can ride back, if you must.”
He did laugh, then. “Fair enough. William—thank you.”
“Thank the Captain. But first pack your things, Acting-soon-to-be-Lieutenant Archer. It’s time to weigh anchor.”
Chapter 26
“IF YOU are making eight knots on a strong wind out of the south-southwest with a following sea, and your latitude—”
“Will!”
“Mm?” Marshall looked up from the chapter of navigational problems, his own mind racing along the path of the question.
“Enough, please. My brain feels like a roast duck stuffed with breadcrumbs.” Davy smiled apologetically. “We should be stopping soon. Can we resume this torture after we’ve eaten?”
“I suppose so.” Davy couldn’t possibly mean it was torture, of course, but he was not fascinated, as Marshall was, by the clean beauty of the mathematics of position. To Davy, navigation was just part of the job of a naval officer, and not his favorite part. “We could review—”
“Yes, we could. But I’d rather not, for a little while. There is so much more to think about. London, William! London!”
“Yes, but….” Smiling at his friend’s enthusiasm, Marshall gave up and tucked the book back into his bag. They had been on the road since just after daybreak, and their hired post-chaise would not reach London until dark, including at least three more stops to change horses. They did have time. Even after they arrived, they would have a few days before Acting Lt. Archer was obliged to present himself at the Admiralty to take his examination for the rank of Lieutenant.
If Captain Smith’s hints had been anywhere near the truth, Archer would be facing an examining board that very much wanted to promote the young officer who had saved his Captain’s life in the midst of heroic action against insurmountable odds. But the Admiralty would never know just how much he had endured, those weeks that they were prisoner on that damned pirate’s ship.
And even the Captain would never know what had passed between his two junior officers, when Archer found a safe harbor from his nightmares in Marshall’s arms. Twice they had been lovers—the first time a confused grappling that followed a bad dream, both of them half-asleep, hardly anyone’s fault. But that second time….
Marshall shook his head. This was a thing he must not dwell upon, should not even think about. “Davy, we’ll have a whole week of London once you’ve passed. First things first.”
“Of course,” Archer agreed. “But once that’s done, even if I don’t pass—”
“You will.”
“I think I might.” He said it cautiously, as though expecting contradiction. “After Adrian, no Admiralty gargoyle will ever be quite as frightening again.”
“Just so long as you don’t admit that to their faces,” Marshall warned.
Archer raised an eyebrow. “Do I look that witless?”
“Not at all.” He looked anything but. His blue eyes sparked with the excitement of the trip: the chance at promotion, a visit to his beloved theaters, and the beginnings of something—confidence?—that made his shoulders seem a little squarer, gave a challenging tilt to that blond head. “You look like you should be wearing a new uniform before the week is out.” He had to tear his eyes away from the brightness of Davy’s smile, and the road gave him an excuse. “It seems we’re almost there.” The horses slowed, and their coach rolled to a stop before an inn, not as big as some they’d seen back in Portsmouth, but bustling with activity.
“Take your ease, gentlemen,” the postilion said, opening the door. “Be the best part of an hour whilst I tend the beasts.”
“Thank you.” They climbed down from the coach, glad of the chance to stretch their legs after the unaccustomed inactivity. The inn’s little courtyard was crowded with travelers, horses, and vehicles of various description all trying to occupy too small a space. They found the necessary facilities without looking too much like fish out of water; Marshall found it a relief to clear the dust of the road from his face. Strange how one could forget the little discomforts of land travel.
And the little comforts. Their midday meal was a tasty rabbit pie, with a rough but refreshing house ale, followed by apples and cheese. By the time they were called back to their coach, both were replete and slightly drowsy. They would reach London sometime late at night; Drinkwater had suggested a few decent inns at which they might find a room. In the meantime, there would be one or two more stops where they could take a break while the postilion changed or saw to the horses. Even though he no longer had to, Marshall worried about the price of a room in London, consoling himself with the fact that they had to sleep somewhere and at least he and Davy would be sharing the room.
As though he shared the thought of that too-distant bed, Davy yawned as he settled into the opposite seat, facing the rear of the coach. “Will, would you mind very much if we let the schoolwork wait a little while?”
“No, not at all. You might as well rest now. I’m not sure I could stay awake to read the questions, myself.”
“Oh, good.” He took off his jacket and rolled it into a pillow. “The all-purpose naval uniform,” he joked. “Garment, cushion, and occasional blanket.”
“Just so long as you have it brushed and pressed for the big day,” Marshall said.
“Oh, there’ll be time, Will. Remember, we have prize money. There’s bound to be a tailor willing to relieve us of some of it.”
“I suppose so.” The idea of having enough money, for the first time in his life, was going to require some time and use to settle in. Their reward for their part in Adrian’s downfall had been an enormous beneficence—a quarter share each of the captured ship, an astonishing six thousand pounds apiece. Captain Smith had suggested they entrust their bounty to the prize agent he himself employed, and they would have been fools to do otherwise.
But, being young, they had each kept out fifty pounds—not that either expected to spend such an enormous sum. It was more than twice a midshipman’s annual pay, and six months’ pay for a Lieutenant. Such wealth folded in his pocketbook Marshall could accept, even th
ough he had no idea what he was going to do with it. The balance of it was more than his mind could accept.
He tried to doze as the coach settled into a regular pattern of movement. Davy looked sinfully comfortable, his waistcoat buttons undone, his face relaxed, hair spilling over his forehead. He had been working hard, the long hours they’d been on the road. And his body might still be mending from the concussion he’d suffered in their last fight. He likely needed the rest.
Sleep eluded Marshall, though he loosened his neckcloth and unbuttoned his own waistcoat. Finally he gave up and fished out one of his books instead, paging idly through it. Nothing caught his attention. He had pored through it so often he could probably recite parts from memory. The quiet wooded lane they drove through was peaceful and lovely, the afternoon sun flickering dapple-green, hypnotic with the vehicle’s movement and the steady thudding of sixteen hooves.
And then the coach hit a rut. Marshall took the jolt in stride with a mariner’s unthinking balance, but Davy’s head banged back against the coach wall and he pitched forward. Marshall caught his friend as he was flung half across his lap. “Steady there, Davy!”
He could read Davy’s reactions in his face: the first split-second of total surprise as he clutched instinctively at Marshall’s arms, a blink of puzzlement followed by recognition—and then a brief, glorious moment of contact as Davy relaxed completely, melting against him. Oh, yes.
Reason asserted itself. Oh, no.
But he didn’t have to say anything, and before he could object, Davy tightened up, pulled back, and resumed his seat. “Sorry, Will. Should’ve lashed myself to the thwarts, I suppose.”
“Except there are no thwarts.”
“There is that.” Davy bit his lip, looking down at his feet, at his hands, out the window. “Will, I am sorry, I didn’t intend—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, Davy, you were asleep. It’s all right.”
But it wasn’t, not really. He was aware of Davy now, achingly, physically aware. He knew how it would have felt if Davy had stayed there upon his knees, with their arms around each other, how easy it would have been to incline his head just a little so their lips might meet. How sweet those lips would taste.
“What are we going to do about this?” Davy asked. His face was strained and slightly flushed, and Marshall realized he was not alone in feeling that intense physical reaction.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “What I’d like to do—Davy, we can’t. Not now, not when things are getting back to normal on the Calypso—”
“The Calypso won’t be ready for the better part of a month,” Archer said. “And we are on our own for two weeks. But you’re right. On board, I know it wouldn’t be possible. I haven’t even thought of it these past weeks, under the Captain’s eye. But being so close, alone like this….” he shrugged helplessly. “Will, I’ve been wanting you ever since we climbed into this damn rig back in Portsmouth. I’m sorry.”
Marshall closed his eyes. He hadn’t wanted to hear this. His mind reviewed the Articles of War. His body refused to listen.
“I’m sorry,” Davy repeated woodenly as the silence spun out. “I—William, after I take the examination, I can ask the Captain to… to allow me to transfer to another ship. I would not wish to jeopardize your safety—”
Christ, he was blaming himself again. “Davy, stop. It isn’t you.”
“Oh yes it is,” Archer said quickly.
“It’s both of us, then. I feel the same way. All I want to do—” He was wholly unable to articulate his wishes. He still felt that strange schism between what his body and heart said, and what the rest of the world expected of him, and what it forbade.
He shook his head in frustration, glanced up to meet Davy’s anguished blue eyes, and the decision was made. He reached to undo the dust curtain above one of the coach’s tiny windows. If he let himself think about what he was doing, he would not do it at all. It was mad to even consider it. He knew that. But mad or sane, he was not going to court death or disgrace from sheer carelessness.
Once the curtains were tied closed, shutting out the world, he reached across the dim space and caught Davy’s sweet face between his hands. “I want to do this,” he breathed and covered Davy’s mouth with his own. Davy let out a small muffled sound and slid forward into the embrace, going to his knees in the cramped space between the padded benches. Marshall felt his lover’s arms wrap around his back, beneath the unbuttoned jacket, and he spread his knees and pulled Davy tight against him.
They stayed like that for a long time, greedy for the contact. It felt like drinking fresh spring water after weeks on stale short rations. He felt near to weeping with relief. Then Davy’s hands were tugging at his shirt, pulling it out of his breeches. “What—?”
“Want to touch you,” Davy murmured against his cheek. His mouth moved down, and Will let his head drop back to receive the delightful attentions upon his throat. Davy’s hands slid up his spine, skin to skin, and he arched back even farther. The thinking part of his mind simply gave up under the onslaught of sensation. He knew he should be returning the caresses, but blind pleasure held him in thrall. It was all he could do to run his hands along Davy’s back with the rhythm of the rocking coach. The rhythm was so comfortable, so regular—
He caught himself as he began to rub against the belly pressed so wonderfully close. Too soon. “Davy, wait—” He put his hands on Archer’s shoulders, intending to hold him off, but Davy pushed his shirt up and captured a nipple with his mouth. A current of pleasure shot right through him. Somehow, another hand was on his fly buttons, the intermittent pressure completing his distraction. With the little wit he had left, he wondered at the way that Davy, so respectfully subordinate on the quarterdeck, could take command so easily when they were together this way.
And then Davy had Will’s breeches open and his cock out, holding it tight, polishing the tip with his thumb while he cradled the balls in his other hand. Davy didn’t move his hand. He didn’t need to. The jolting of the coach was movement enough. Reason fled, replaced by need. It felt so good…. Davy had done this once before, but it seemed magnified now. Or perhaps Davy was bolder, laving the shaft with his tongue, sucking gently on the balls.
“Shhh,” Davy whispered suddenly. The cool stream of breath against sensitive flesh was maddening, but Will realized he was making a low moaning sound. He muffled his own mouth with one hand, digging the fingers of the other into that golden hair, squeezing his eyes shut, and gulping back a cry as his world contracted into the narrow focus of that mouth as it drew him into a perfect caress… and released, and pulled again….
He held his breath. Had to keep silent. Had to. Must be careful of Davy too, mustn’t confine him, never hurt him, make him feel forced. He ordered himself to open his hand, letting it rest without pressure on Davy’s head as his hips jerked forward almost with a will of their own, and then he had to breathe as his body released itself into Davy’s throat, over and over until it seemed as though his soul was somehow flying out of his body.
Then he was utterly limp, drenched in sweat, with a tousled Davy there between his legs, grinning like a debauched angel. “Davy….”
“Mmm?” He swarmed up William’s body and reclaimed his mouth, tongue darting inside like a diver after pearls.
Marshall’s needs might be satisfied, but he could taste Davy’s still-urgent desire. He reached down, tipping Davy back and getting an arm behind his knees. With one effort, he swung him up onto the seat, legs across his lap.
“What—?” Davy’s eyes were unfocused.
“We must attend to you, now.”
“Oh. Yes. Lovely.” He leaned back into the arm William had around him and slipped a hand under the rucked-up shirt. William’s breath hissed in as the searching fingers found a nipple and pinched it lightly. His jacket was suddenly too confining—Davy helped him pull it off. Kissing and laughing softly, they peeled each other out of their waistcoats and tossed the clothing on the seat opposite
.
“We’ll need to keep the rest on,” Marshall decided. “What if the coach were to stop?”
“I’d no idea you were such a bedchamber strategist,” Davy said, fumbling with the buttons of his own breeches. “We’ll have to undo these, at least a little….”
William pushed his hands away. “Let me.” He let his hand rest there a moment, marveling at the way Davy’s body followed his slight movements like a compass finding true north. “What shall I do?” he asked, opening the first button and letting his fingers slide between the others. “Is this—oh, Lord, you have drawers on, don’t you?” he said, as he found another row of buttons inside. “No matter, I shall overcome all obstacles.” He wiggled his fingers, teasing.
“Williammm….” Davy drew out the last syllable, writhing against his hand, and Marshall had to kiss him again as his lips rounded into a shape perfect for it. He took the opportunity to finish opening the fly buttons as he did so, rubbing Davy’s cock through the drawers and giving it a small promissory squeeze before starting on the smaller buttons of the underclothes.
Davy’s hips moved upward in response. Eyes half closed, he seized Marshall’s wrist, pushing the hand against his body. “Yes. Now.” His free hand caught the back of Marshall’s neck and pulled him close for another kiss. “Now, Will. Please.”
He had intended to take his time, prolong the pleasure as Davy had done for him, but the urgency of that entreaty changed his mind. He pushed the drawers down, got hold of Davy’s cock, smooth and hot, alive in his hand—and was suddenly at a loss. It felt so different from when he did this for himself. Not that they were that different, physically—Davy was not quite identical, perhaps a bit shorter, a little bigger around—but for all that they’d tried before, he hadn’t done this for more than a few seconds.
Well, when in doubt, improvise. He squeezed carefully, and Davy shuddered in his arms and bit the side of his neck. Good enough. He moved his hand slowly up and down, falling into a rhythm as Davy thrust into his grasp. A little longer, and he felt confident enough to try another kiss. Davy sucked at his tongue as though he’d been starved, both arms wrapped around Marshall’s neck now. He felt so warm, so good, and he was so close to spending. “Davy, you’ll have to let go so I can—”
