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Authors: Alex Beecroft
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his injuries—that he was sprawled like sand over the thin mattress, his voice slipping towards sleep, heavy and soft. "And as I'd rather neither of us were hanged, whether for mutiny or anything else, I'll try to hold the crew together until we reach Bermuda."
With evident effort, he opened one eye. "Should that not be possible, I entrust the women and the boys to your care. Get them out of here before the men can lay hands on them. But if the worst does not happen, and we reach Bermuda, I'm to be made commander of a sloop there. If it doesn't distress you to accept the patronage of a mere lieutenant, I will take you with me."
"Distress me?" The foolish laughter came crawling up Josh's throat, throttling him, breaking his ribs. He smothered it behind his hand and snorted, unwilling to shake Peter out of his desperately needed rest. Did you not notice that I offered you my life? Did I not make it plain that you owned me? You may cause me as much distress as you like, and I will still be yours. "I would be inexpressibly obliged."
"May we talk later? I'm a bit ... tired."
"Whatever you like, sir," said Josh, still finding it hard to believe he was not now in irons. He hitched himself a little closer, so he could lean his shoulder against the cot's wooden side and sit there like a guard dog, watching while his friend fell asleep. "If you want to pretend in the morning that it never happened at all, I'll understand."
Kenyon, he thought, as his breathing calmed in sympathy with the lieutenant's, and he admired the way sleep restored a boyish softness to that stern face, must have known men of Josh's sort before. Nothing else could explain this reaction. He must have had cause to learn they were not all vile, time to come to terms with the thought. Had he not, he would not have been able to slumber at ease in the same room with one, afraid the taint might spread or his virtue be assaulted, or that God's wrath might strike him down for mere proximity.
As the shame fell away, taking the mad hilarity with it, Josh wondered who it had been, the person for whose sake Peter had won this composure. Not a lover—for there had been no recognition and little response to his kiss—but clearly someone he trusted. Someone he thought well of, who had perhaps soothed him to sleep in his youth, making Josh's touch seem expected and familiar. A beloved elder brother? A tutor? If allowed to reopen the subject, Josh would ask.
Leaning across, he snagged his drink and sipped it, becoming aware of the Nimrod around him, the tremble of her decks, the comfortable small creaks of her timbers. His mouth was full of the taste of Peter, and he resented the wine for displacing it, even as he edged slightly closer to feel the warmth of the sleeping man on his cheek.
His hands still shook, and small tremblings raced through his body, the aftermath of terror. He wished he could thank God, thank someone, whatever kindly force had taken the moment he had dreaded for a month and turned it into something luminous and beautiful. But he doubted that God would appreciate his thanks on this subject.
Instead he thought carefully, trying not to let the bittersweet hope rise to his head, that while there may have been no response to his kiss, neither had there been any disgust. And if Kenyon was a man made for women—as it seemed—he was also just a man. After months at sea, even he might be prepared to put up with a willing, nay an ardent second best. I would sell my soul if he would only kiss me in return, Josh smirked at his own drama. Though that might be because it's worth so very little as it stands.
But that was the future. More likely when Kenyon woke he would come to his senses, put Josh aside with dismay and move on. Even if he did not, it was likelier that they would both die in an uprising of the crew than that they would survive together long enough for starvation to make him seem an acceptable prospect to Peter.
No, he should stop tormenting himself with
With evident effort, he opened one eye. "Should that not be possible, I entrust the women and the boys to your care. Get them out of here before the men can lay hands on them. But if the worst does not happen, and we reach Bermuda, I'm to be made commander of a sloop there. If it doesn't distress you to accept the patronage of a mere lieutenant, I will take you with me."
"Distress me?" The foolish laughter came crawling up Josh's throat, throttling him, breaking his ribs. He smothered it behind his hand and snorted, unwilling to shake Peter out of his desperately needed rest. Did you not notice that I offered you my life? Did I not make it plain that you owned me? You may cause me as much distress as you like, and I will still be yours. "I would be inexpressibly obliged."
"May we talk later? I'm a bit ... tired."
"Whatever you like, sir," said Josh, still finding it hard to believe he was not now in irons. He hitched himself a little closer, so he could lean his shoulder against the cot's wooden side and sit there like a guard dog, watching while his friend fell asleep. "If you want to pretend in the morning that it never happened at all, I'll understand."
Kenyon, he thought, as his breathing calmed in sympathy with the lieutenant's, and he admired the way sleep restored a boyish softness to that stern face, must have known men of Josh's sort before. Nothing else could explain this reaction. He must have had cause to learn they were not all vile, time to come to terms with the thought. Had he not, he would not have been able to slumber at ease in the same room with one, afraid the taint might spread or his virtue be assaulted, or that God's wrath might strike him down for mere proximity.
As the shame fell away, taking the mad hilarity with it, Josh wondered who it had been, the person for whose sake Peter had won this composure. Not a lover—for there had been no recognition and little response to his kiss—but clearly someone he trusted. Someone he thought well of, who had perhaps soothed him to sleep in his youth, making Josh's touch seem expected and familiar. A beloved elder brother? A tutor? If allowed to reopen the subject, Josh would ask.
Leaning across, he snagged his drink and sipped it, becoming aware of the Nimrod around him, the tremble of her decks, the comfortable small creaks of her timbers. His mouth was full of the taste of Peter, and he resented the wine for displacing it, even as he edged slightly closer to feel the warmth of the sleeping man on his cheek.
His hands still shook, and small tremblings raced through his body, the aftermath of terror. He wished he could thank God, thank someone, whatever kindly force had taken the moment he had dreaded for a month and turned it into something luminous and beautiful. But he doubted that God would appreciate his thanks on this subject.
Instead he thought carefully, trying not to let the bittersweet hope rise to his head, that while there may have been no response to his kiss, neither had there been any disgust. And if Kenyon was a man made for women—as it seemed—he was also just a man. After months at sea, even he might be prepared to put up with a willing, nay an ardent second best. I would sell my soul if he would only kiss me in return, Josh smirked at his own drama. Though that might be because it's worth so very little as it stands.
But that was the future. More likely when Kenyon woke he would come to his senses, put Josh aside with dismay and move on. Even if he did not, it was likelier that they would both die in an uprising of the crew than that they would survive together long enough for starvation to make him seem an acceptable prospect to Peter.
No, he should stop tormenting himself with
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