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Authors: Alex Beecroft
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and then—had the offer been taken up—gloated at the knowledge that Hughes really was the despicable wretch he’d thought. He would have lied and then hated Hughes for not seeing through the lies. So who was the shallow bastard, the monster here? Truthfully?
He searched the decks again for Hughes’s figure. Didn’t find it—as he’d known he would not, Hughes being below deck, in charge of the guns. It would have been a comfort to see him, and that thought was an extra twist in the seasickness of his mind. Hughes had been avoiding him lately, and Hal found he’d never wished for the man’s company more than he did now it had been withdrawn.
Oh, God, how he wanted to talk this over. Apologise first, of course, tell Hughes, “I concede. You could not have just wanted to take advantage of my misery, that first time, if—during the second—I tried to thrust myself on you, and you refused.”
But conceding such a thing would mean…it must mean admitting that Hughes really did love him. And he was…he was scared of that. This thing with William, it was noble, pure, sacrificial…it was safe. No risk of a return, no need to struggle with the messy realities of life in the flesh, of lust and intimacy and the day-to-day threat of exposure and disgrace. If he could have had something with Hughes, it would certainly not have been safe.
“Morgan?”
But how could he? How could he be such a terrible lover as to waver in his affections now, when he had given his whole life to William? And—the final nail in the coffin of his despair—even if he did waver, Hughes hadn’t looked at him twice since. Hughes had proved himself the better man, and in doing so, perhaps he had come to his senses. He had realised Hal was too much trouble, and the chance had gone before Hal had the wit to value it.
“Mr. Morgan?” The concerned question made it through his sleepless daze only when the captain was already leaning down from his patrician height—and Lord, but he was still so beautiful. Why was he still so beautiful? What kind of mocking fate was this?—to say firmly “Mr. Morgan? Are you well?”
What a question. No, I think someone has cut out my lungs and replaced them with stones. No, I am in hell, and it’s your fault. No, don’t talk to me. Hal shook himself, swallowed back bile and smiled. “Forgive me, Captain. I have not slept well recently, and I am very tired.”
Dear God, yes. I am so tired.
Hamilton’s smile raised only one corner of his mouth, but that was enough to shift the shadows over his eyes, make them look warm. Hal looked away, his teeth meeting in the inner flesh of his cheek.
If I’d met Hughes first… Maybe I hated him so immoderately because I saw in him something I could have wanted, had I not already set my heart on the impossible. I hated him so I could stay faithful, even in my mind, and now that looks less like virtue and more as though it was cowardice all along.
“A good fight will wipe all that away,” said the captain. “Nothing like it for purging all the dross of daily life, making you see the glory of life clear. Like a refiner’s fire, am I not right? I’m sure you will sleep better, after.”
Hal looked up again at the oncoming ship just as the white and gold arms of France broke out on her flagstaff. A distant rumble sounded as she ran out her guns, and something of relief did come over him then. He dropped his tensed shoulders, opened his hands and let go, for she could be the end to everything. She could be the answer he sought. He’d driven Robert away. William he’d never had at all. But if he could not have love, why not have death instead? Glorious, honourable death in battle.
Perhaps Hughes would understand it was a kind of apology? And Hamilton would mourn, at least. Say one or two pleasing things over his corpse and write a gracious letter back to his mother, telling her that they had been the best of friends, telling her that he would remember Hal with
He searched the decks again for Hughes’s figure. Didn’t find it—as he’d known he would not, Hughes being below deck, in charge of the guns. It would have been a comfort to see him, and that thought was an extra twist in the seasickness of his mind. Hughes had been avoiding him lately, and Hal found he’d never wished for the man’s company more than he did now it had been withdrawn.
Oh, God, how he wanted to talk this over. Apologise first, of course, tell Hughes, “I concede. You could not have just wanted to take advantage of my misery, that first time, if—during the second—I tried to thrust myself on you, and you refused.”
But conceding such a thing would mean…it must mean admitting that Hughes really did love him. And he was…he was scared of that. This thing with William, it was noble, pure, sacrificial…it was safe. No risk of a return, no need to struggle with the messy realities of life in the flesh, of lust and intimacy and the day-to-day threat of exposure and disgrace. If he could have had something with Hughes, it would certainly not have been safe.
“Morgan?”
But how could he? How could he be such a terrible lover as to waver in his affections now, when he had given his whole life to William? And—the final nail in the coffin of his despair—even if he did waver, Hughes hadn’t looked at him twice since. Hughes had proved himself the better man, and in doing so, perhaps he had come to his senses. He had realised Hal was too much trouble, and the chance had gone before Hal had the wit to value it.
“Mr. Morgan?” The concerned question made it through his sleepless daze only when the captain was already leaning down from his patrician height—and Lord, but he was still so beautiful. Why was he still so beautiful? What kind of mocking fate was this?—to say firmly “Mr. Morgan? Are you well?”
What a question. No, I think someone has cut out my lungs and replaced them with stones. No, I am in hell, and it’s your fault. No, don’t talk to me. Hal shook himself, swallowed back bile and smiled. “Forgive me, Captain. I have not slept well recently, and I am very tired.”
Dear God, yes. I am so tired.
Hamilton’s smile raised only one corner of his mouth, but that was enough to shift the shadows over his eyes, make them look warm. Hal looked away, his teeth meeting in the inner flesh of his cheek.
If I’d met Hughes first… Maybe I hated him so immoderately because I saw in him something I could have wanted, had I not already set my heart on the impossible. I hated him so I could stay faithful, even in my mind, and now that looks less like virtue and more as though it was cowardice all along.
“A good fight will wipe all that away,” said the captain. “Nothing like it for purging all the dross of daily life, making you see the glory of life clear. Like a refiner’s fire, am I not right? I’m sure you will sleep better, after.”
Hal looked up again at the oncoming ship just as the white and gold arms of France broke out on her flagstaff. A distant rumble sounded as she ran out her guns, and something of relief did come over him then. He dropped his tensed shoulders, opened his hands and let go, for she could be the end to everything. She could be the answer he sought. He’d driven Robert away. William he’d never had at all. But if he could not have love, why not have death instead? Glorious, honourable death in battle.
Perhaps Hughes would understand it was a kind of apology? And Hamilton would mourn, at least. Say one or two pleasing things over his corpse and write a gracious letter back to his mother, telling her that they had been the best of friends, telling her that he would remember Hal with
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