An Officer's Honour

by Vivienne Cox

  Vivienne Cox

  An Officer’s Honor

  A M/M Historical Romance

  Copyright © 2020 by Vivienne Cox

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  First edition

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  Contents

  Foreword

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Also by Vivienne Cox

  Foreword

  “You’re going to have to let me go at some point, Admiral.”

  James gritted his teeth at the title, “And what makes you so sure that I’m not sure fattening you up for the slaughter?”

  Cruise looked at him with something like pity, “Because you’re a good man, Captain James Thomas.”

  ***

  When Alexander Cruise has taken ill, his care is taken over by the most unlikely person.

  Preface

  This is the eighth novella in the Pirates and Play series. It’s strongly advised that you read the first novel to become familiar with the characters and their relationships.

  Chapter 1

  James Thomas made his way up the gravelled path to the baker’s small cottage. It was set a little way back from the street at the south end of Rosedale, but close enough to the sea to hear the sound of the tide pulling at the shore. It was a small non descript building that was just out of the way of the road, partially shielded by the trees.

  It was late enough that he carried a lantern, having forgotten the time as he sat in his office studying the near illegible script of the Devonshire’s quartermaster. His steward had thinned his lips but made no comment when James had elected to walk the short journey to his office that morning. He was sure his staff thought him an oddity, travelling here and there on foot as if he were not a gentleman of some standing, but he found he had less and less need to keep up appearances.

  Before James had departed his office, he had held a quiet and fierce debate with with himself. He had received a mysterious tip that the baker had received a visit from an unsavory figure and that the guest was yet to depart. James who was a childhood acquaintance of the baker, knew that at this time of year the man should be away from home, trading his wares further south of the isles in the Winter Market.

  The front doors and shutters were locked up tight when James rattled them. Although it was a little late to be wandering around in Port Merrian’s alleys, he walked around the house to make sure that the back was equally undisturbed. Oddly the gate was unlocked, so he let himself through the side gate and into the dark of the walled garden.

  It was now near 10 o’clock at night and he had forgotten to take lunch again, so of course it should follow that one of the shutters on the kitchen window was loose, and the window itself had been smashed. It was only a small hole, just enough to put one’s arm through to unlatch it. He briefly entertained the idea of fetching a Night Watchman but he had both his pistol and sword and, even if there was anyone within, it was doubtful that they could match him at either.

  He let himself in though the back parlour door, locking it carefully behind him, then made his way from room to room. All seemed well downstairs, so he stopped at the bottom of the narrow staircase that lead to the next floor and debated the relative need to check upstairs against the intrusion into privacy it would be.

  He experimentally put a foot on the bottom stair and when the proprietor did not immediately appear out of thin air to scold him, started to ascend. A familiar smell pulled at him as he reached the top step: sweet, but unpleasantly so. Like rotten fruit on a long voyage: half mouthwatering and half repulsive.

  He checked the guest quarters, water closet, and finally stood outside the master bedchamber, where the smell was decidedly strongest. He took his pistol in one hand, sent up a brief prayer that he was not about to find the rotting body of the man on the bed, and slowly opened the door.

  He stood for a moment in the doorway as if struck dumb, pistol dangling from his hand and breath caught in his throat: it couldn’t be. He was not sure if he meant that the pale, motionless figure on the bed could not possibly be Alexander Cruise, or that he could not possibly be dead.

  He shook himself a little and re-holstered his pistol before creeping forward, as if the man were merely sleeping and not deathly still.

  His heart beat a quick tattoo against his breast as he reached out and laid a hand on the other man’s neck before jerking back. He was hot, burning up in fact, and from this close he could see that Cruise was taking fast shallow breaths. The sheets under his back were stiff with pus and blood.

  He took a step back and sat down heavily on the chair under the window, leaving the lamp on the floor beside him.

  James Thomas considered himself a moral man: he was loyal to crown and country, but he also understood that on occasion one must do as God willed and set aside immediate, earthly concerns. He had let Cruise and his crew go free in the name of that greater good on a few occasions. Although there had been no solid evidence against him he had been reprimanded and grounded to shore, which had been a far more lenient punishment than he thought he deserved.

  His duty was clear: the dying man in front of him had committed so many crimes that to not turn him in would be an act of treason itself. And yet, and yet…

  A part of him wished to lock up the house and leave Cruise to his fever and sickly wounds, but that was the coward’s way out. He briefly leant forward and put his head in his hands, allowing himself a moment of terrible resignation, before getting up to do what must be done.

  The nearest water pump was shared by the row and only a short walk away. The streets were deserted this far from the dock, so he was able to carry half a bucket of water back to the townhouse undetected. The water was warm, of course, but there was nothing to be done about that: everything in Port Merrian was either warm, hot, or murderously hot.

  There was wine in the cellar and clean linens in the cupboards. He mixed the wine and water in a bowl, and then drew a cup of water and set it on the side in the most likely vain hope that Cruise would wake to drink it.

  He had expected that manoeuvring Cruise out his clothing would rouse him at least a little, but he didn’t so much as twitch. The only thing he left was his shirt as it was stuck fast. He went about soaking the whole mess in water, easing the shirt away from skin in small increments. Despite his care, pus and blood flowed freely, and he grimly noted that Cruise owed the Turners new bedding at the very least. Finally the shirt came free and he was able to see the damage clearly for the first time: four deep lash marks, swollen with ill humours.

  He washed them out with the wine and water, and cut into them until the blood ran clean. He knew he should bleed the wound some more, but he had watched too many men fade away under the tender mercies of a ship doctor to see Cruise lose any more blood, ill humours or not.

  Finally, he changed the bedding and washed down the rest of Cruise as well as he was able to, checking him for lice and fleas as he went, which he was remarkably free of. He dripped a small amount of water into Cruise’s open mouth and was temporally hearted to see him swallow, until he remembered that a living pirate captain would cause him a lot more trouble than a dead one.

  And with that uncharitable thought, he took his leave, locking the house behind him.
>
  ~

  Chapter 2

  For the next three days he visited the baker’s house and its unwelcome guest: washing Cruise’s wounds and feeding him water drop by drop. He rehung the shutter and arranged for a glassmaker to replace the broken window pane. Thankfully, no-one questioned his right to be in there, and the young constable who came to see about the possible break in took James at his word and did not ask to enter.

  He had bought a little laudanum but as long as Cruise remained stubbornly unconscious there was no need for it. He had taken to going home and eating supper first, then waiting for his servants to leave for the night before walking through the deserted streets to the baker’s.

  On Saturday evening his schedule finally caught up with him, and he fell asleep in the chair under the window only to awaken with a start just as the sun had began to feather the sky. He pushed a hand through his hair, he would have to get back to his house before the street began to wake.

  He stood to stretch, but froze instead: Cruise was awake and watching him through slitted eyes.

  He realised abruptly that he hadn’t considered this eventuality. He had been resigned to his role as carer for an unconscious man, and thought perhaps that the baker would be present to deal with the difficulties of the conscious version. Which was preposterous, of course, the baker had been absent and James had begun to wonder if the man was living or dead.

  He gathered himself as best he could under the circumstances.

  “Welcome back, Captain Cruise, I had not expected you to wake so soon.”

  Cruise licked his lips, but no sound came out. James was aware that his cheeks had started to heat at the forced intimacy ahead, but there was nothing for it. He sat on the side of the bed and avoided Cruise’s eyes as he got an arm around him and supported him to sit upright, propping him up with pillows, and then bought the cup to his lips so he could drink. Cruise swallowed eagerly, and James found himself saying steady, steady quietly, as he would to a sailor under his care. He looked up and caught Cruise’s eye briefly before looking away.

  When Cruise had drank his fill he eased him back onto his side, picked up his Alexanderet and addressed the wall above Cruise’s head.

  “I have things I have to attend to but I will be back after dark.”

  He strode out of the room before he could discover if the pirate was fit to reply.

  * * *

  When he returned that evening he was determined to remain in control of the situation. He had spent the morning sermon lamenting his own stupidity, and had scowled so fiercely after the service that for once he had been able to escape the church grounds without being invited to a game of cards, asked to dinner, or introduced to anyone’s daughter.

  He carried a small pot of plain porridge, which he had made himself and therefore was only slightly burnt, and the laudanum so at the very least he could drug Cruise into quietude. But when he arrived Cruise was asleep on his side, snoring softly. He went to check his fever as usual, putting the back of his hand across Cruise’s brow and noting that his fever had lessened. Of course, Cruise chose that moment to wake up, jerking back from James’ hand and then moaning through gritted teeth as he jostled his wounds.

  “Be careful!” James snapped.

  Cruise looked up at him, eyes comically widened, as James got a hold of himself.

  “My apologies, but I did not spend three days washing pus from your wounds for you to undo it all.” He scolded. “Would you like some water?” He added in what he hoped was a slightly less accusatory tone.

  Cruise’s eyes darted to the door and then back again, but as he was currently wearing only his smallclothes and couldn’t sit up without help, James was sure he would be staying put for the moment at least.

  “Rum?” he croaked.

  James sighed again and bent to help him sit up.

  Chapter 3

  “There is also the danger of you being implicated in the circumstances of the missing baker.”

  Cruise turned a disbelieving look at him from his place on the bed, then shouted a laugh.

  “So you do have a sense of humour after all, eh? I’d always thought your pigtail was braided so tight it might’ve squeezed all the fun out of you.”

  James narrowed his eyes, “I was being perfectly serious.”

  Cruise was improving by leaps and bounds, and had progressed to being able to converse for more than five minutes at a time some days ago. James, when he made himself think about it, was a little ashamed at how much he was enjoying the company.

  They drank in silence for a moment, James his wine and Cruise the watered down version he’d finally pestered him into providing.

  “You’re going to have to let me go at some point, Admiral.”

  James gritted his teeth at the title, “And what makes you so sure that I’m not sure fattening you up for the slaughter?”

  Cruise looked at him with something like pity, “Because you’re a good man, Captain James Thomas.” And he raised his glass at James then tossed back the rest of his weak wine.

  James studied his own glass, unable to even say what he was thinking in response to such a statement.

  “Any chance of something stronger than this? I’d get drunker licking a sailor.” Cruise was holding his empty cup out imperiously, and shook it a little when James looked at him.

  “No. Two weeks ago you nearly died. Even if I had any rum, I would not be giving any to you.”

  “No rum? Dishonesty and falsehood, you’re a Navy man: you must have barrels of the stuff.” Cruise then proceed to make as if he was going to get up, before grimacing with pain and slumping back again.

  James wondered at himself, to think he had been looking forward to finishing his correspondence this evening so that he could hasten to the baker’s cottage. He had not been able to get the story of the injuries from Cruise, who had a tendency to claim lightheadedness when asked difficult questions, and the man was right in that his increasing wellness put James in an impossible position.

  It was something to think on later. Right now Cruise could barely stand long enough to piss, let alone cause any mischief.

  * * *

  James was as flummoxed by the lack of the man as he had been by his sudden appearance. When he had left Cruise last night he had been obviously weary but trying to hide it, telling tale after tall tale until he had begun to droop and James had bid him good night.

  He turned in a circle, as if the movement would somehow conjure Cruise from wherever he had disappeared to.

  Baffled, James checked the wardrobe and under the bed, where there was nothing but a little dust and a folded note written on what looked like the baker’s best writing paper.

  Dear Admiral James William Thomas,

  Thank you most kindly for your care, your conversation, and for the 3 shillings and 12 pence that happened to be in your coat pocket last week.

  A wise man once said, ‘gratitude is the greatest of virtues’, but I wager it is knowing when one has worn out their welcome.

  So it is with great sadness that I bid you adieu.

  Yours,

  Captain Alexander Cruise

  Upon finishing he felt almost sick with relief, then hated himself for it in the next instant. Cowardly, to be so pleased to have avoided such a terrible decision. He had no doubt that he would have handed over Cruise to the authorities once he had been well enough to stand trial: it had been the only possible conclusion to the situation.

  Cruise had left the room that had been his sickroom for nearly three weeks almost presentable. Nevertheless, James tidied and straightened until he could be sure that the baker would be none-the-wiser upon his return. He had not immediately turned the pirate in because Alexander Cruise should at least be done the courtesy of being allowed to face his fate on his feet. However there was a marked difference between the admiration for a skilled sailor that the Turners undoubtedly felt and tending to a wanted criminal, in their house no less. It was done now, however, and there was
nothing for it but to turn his full attention back to Port Merrian and to put this strange interlude out of mind.

  It took him a week before it occurred to him to wonder how Cruise had learnt his full name.

  Chapter 4

  Mr Thompson, the baker was singularly adept at giving the impression of having rolled his eyes without having actually done so.

  “You expect me to believe a notorious pirate walked several miles along the shore to take refuge in my home?”

  “I have several blood stained uniforms to arrest to that. Does that answer satisfy you?” He had quickly learnt that Mr. Thompson was immune to his ill tempers, and took his occasional sarcasm in his stride. A more forthright man he was yet to meet, and he was glad they had become friends.

  He tried to limit his visits to once a fortnight, despite the baker’s assurance that he was welcome anytime. He was aware that his friendship with his previous foster parent looked odd from the outside, but it had ended up being the one bright spot in an otherwise dismal run as Admiral. Lawrence Thompson could hold his own in any conversational topic he cared to introduce despite his poor education, and he was particularly skilled at impersonating certain, more absurd members of what passed for Port Merrian society, which he could be convinced to do after a glass or two of wine. James reflected occasionally that the only times he really laughed was within these four walls. Even with just Alexander here it had been something, something other than the endless trek between home and office and home and church and then back again.

  “James?” Mr. Thompson asked.

  He shook himself and reached for the question he had just been asked.

  “My apologies. Yes, we set sail for St Kitts in a week’s time. It is only a short cruise, so I will be back within the month.”