Chapter 4
Four
Present Day
HMS Brigitte
Kingston Harbour, Upper Canada
Everard walked across the Brigitte’s scrubbed deck and put his right hand carefully on Vitaliy Gray’s bare, restrained shoulder. The man didn’t flinch, but watched him, unconcerned; Everard leaned in close, as though to offer comfort to the wrongfully accused.
Vitaliy smelled surprisingly clean, like warm sun, golden hair, sweat Everard recognised quite acutely, low in his gut—with a definite base note of fear that made his heart falter and jerk.
Up close, he appeared physically unharmed, with few bruises; a relief, considering Halifax’s notorious prison hulks.
Everard had no idea how long his stay might have been: his prisoner’s beard was short and untrimmed, still longer than anything Everard could’ve grown given five years; no solid indication there.
And any amount of incarceration was too long, even just a day in Brigitte’s prison hold. For anyone, but most especially this man.
Speaking of which. The Brigitte: D’Arcy’s ship. How could he?
And so, “Did he recognise you?” became the first thing Everard happened to say to Vitaliy Gray.
Did Preston D’Arcy keep you there, knowing your face? Knowing what you’d meant to me?
Vitaliy blinked. “Who?” he murmured. “Oh, the lieutenant?” He smiled slightly. “No. I doubt so.”
Everard felt a rush of relief, both that D’Arcy wasn’t a total villain and that Vitaliy would admit it.
“Thank God,” he said. “I— You’re all right? Hale?”
Vitaliy looked up through eyelashes. “I’m married?” he rasped, very quiet. His smile grew.
There was that queer feeling again in his chest, a crackling kind of—
Vitaliy licked at his dry, abused lips. It broke Everard out of his thoughts. Of course.
“Boy!” he called over his shoulder. “Water for the wrongfully accused Lieutenant-Marine, please.”
The marines—still standing stiff to either side of their prisoner—both looked horrified to see one of their proverbial own so lowered. They were definitely new recruits.
But here came the water boy. As the silver dipper was brought up to Vitaliy’s lips, and water spilled down his chin and onto the broad, furred chest, Everard removed his hand from his shoulder and looked away.
Behind them, D’Arcy stood in close, casual conversation with the other captains of the court, all of whom seemed relieved the trial had adjourned.
D’Arcy shot them the occasional veiled glance but otherwise looked relaxed.
He was an expert dissembler, but maybe… maybe he really hadn’t recognised Vitaliy.
Admiral Johnson saw his attention and tromped over.
“Captain Anderson,” he said. “You’ve made a devil of a mess for me here. You affirm this is Henry Crause, Lieutenant-Marine of His Majesty’s ship Vittoria?”
Henry Crause. Yet another alias for Vitaliy Gray.
Everard cleared his throat. “It is, sir. Though Vittoria was only half-built, before… before York. Mr. Crause served on my Wanderer when she was wrecked. We’ve since been in correspondence.”
“Wanderer,” the admiral repeated wistfully. “Thirty-eight-gun? The recommissioned Frenchie, shot through by the Americans?”
“Indeed, at Christmas ’12,” Everard added helpfully—as though his fateful defeat hadn’t been widely publicised, as though the admiral hadn’t put his own voice towards Everard’s acquittal thereafter.
“And you’ve evidence to put forth for his defence on the morrow?”
“Yes, sir. Letters.” Letters, conveniently ending in Yours sincerely, C. Not Crause, not Henry, and not many of them, but they would do. The rest he might—might—be able to forge, hand be damned.
The admiral puffed up. “Tomorrow, then, de novo.” He looked to the marines, and the marine provost, who snapped up and saluted. “Take the pi—the defendant back to the hold.” To Everard, he tsked. “A captain, corresponding with a Lieutenant-Marine.”
Vitaliy lowered the dipper and met his eyes knowingly. Oh, if he only knew.
Everard said nothing; he’d wanted more time to speak to Vitaliy, make sure he was really unharmed, and the disappointment nearly crushed his throat.
But he touched his hat as the admiral took his leave, and, swallowing, turned to watch him walk over to D’Arcy and the other captains.
By their expressions, no one was happy to hear they’d be attending courts martial again come morning.
Only D’Arcy looked uncaring. But he bit at his thumb—a tell he hated, the habit of a child who’d had an ever-present someone to ensure their hands were relatively clean—which he did when thinking hard, or was distressed.
Or when he felt particularly guilty.
Maybe, maybe. Everard would deal with him later.
He turned back.
The leftmost marine was slowly raising the narrow, tooth-bitten gag up to Vitaliy, looking unsure about applying it.
“Do not you dare,” Everard snapped. The marine put away the gag.
But Everard could not stop the shackles going back on, the state of the prison hold below, or another night within it.
“I…” He looked to the deck, ashamed as a boy. “I’ll do what I can, on the morrow. It might not—”
“Everard,” Vitaliy interrupted him softly. “Enough. You’ve done enough.”
Everard looked up, astonished. Vitaliy hadn’t ever called him by name, not even in bed.
But Vitaliy’s eyes were closed; his abused lips were pressed tight. Before Everard could respond, the marines frog-marched him belowdecks, back and away and down.
Everard returned to the other captains, amazed at himself for every subsequent step he made without staggering or being sick.
But then, he was on a ship, and on the water he was never sick.