Chapter 18
Eighteen
Three hours by Vitaliy’s hack watch, ’til the warship would be close enough to engage; a forenoon confrontation.
Not much time at all.
Abovedecks, they’d found every man of the fourth bell watch had been murdered sometime in the predawn.
León had found the foretopman as dead as Marcus, similarly garroted.
They had a hasty funeral, and René turned up three more infiltrator unknowns from her sweep, three more infiltrators that someone had let aboard.
Two and one-half hours.
All three gun decks had been cleared for action. The crew hammocks had been rolled, lashed, and stacked into the rail stanchions as a canvas parapet against musket sight. Even the guns in Vitaliy’s greatcabin had been run out and pointed.
Vitaliy had the infiltrating Spaniards gagged and tied to the mainmast while he held council on what to do with them.
It wasn’t a long discussion; mostly, the question was whether they had the time to coerce information from them, and what use it would be.
It was only at René’s anticipatory gleam at the suggestion of torture that Everard fully understood the strange, conflicted look that had come over Vitaliy earlier, because it came down over his brows like a shadow again.
Everard thought of León’s comment. Not even Vee crosses her.
In the end, the verdict was almost unanimous: given the little time, and since the fourth bell watch had all been garroted, the pirates kept to their infamous code of reciprocity.
They hauled the infiltrators up in tight nooses, the loose end of each threaded through a block and winch that was cranked much too slowly for mercy.
They were hung from the bowsprit, better to be seen by the advancing enemy.
Everard had seen worse in the name of what the Crown called justice. He tried to keep this in mind, observing Vitaliy as the sentence was meted out: his straight back, flattened lips, and slight, troubled frown.
But reciprocal violence was written into his articles, the pirate code of law. His hands were tied.
How are you truly a pirate, Vitya? he wondered. How is this the man Vitaliy Gray became?
Two hours.
The Spanish ship—named by the three dead instigators as San Telmo—crept closer, sending up signal flag after signal flag, until finally they raised the inevitable: surrender or face death.
To this, the Sévère raised the massive black, with Varfolomey’s signature calligraphic V upon it in stark white; beneath it, the deadly red. No quarter made in battle.
No point not to. The Sévère could not flee if they wanted to keep course, and the crew wouldn’t want her to even if she could.
They wanted recompense. Justification for losing five men, for the backbreaking trouble of sailing a massive, slow meregildo.
They wanted battle, the thrill of another Spanish warship prize.
One and one-half hours.
“They are holding back. I don’t think they will try and destroy her outright,” Vitaliy said. “Though five years ago, Spain would have scuttled her.”
He was seated high up in the foremast ratlines again, fully dressed in a plain but effective uniform of navy blue breeches, white linen, brown herringbone waistcoat and leather bandolier.
His hair was plastered back in the tight queue it had been the day of the coffeeshop, when Aedd the butler had received them with unexpected violence.
“They may also want you,” Everard said quietly.
He received a deep scoff. “I am not so important.” Vitya squeezed Everard’s hand.
He’d learned this about Vitaliy: before a battle, he wanted little talk, and almost no contact but touch.
Today he’d settled for Everard’s hand loosely in his as they sat up high, alternating the spyglass and mugs of cold Haitian coffee between them, watching the Spaniards crawl over their lines in preparation for battle.
It was hard to be still, but Everard had realised over many previous battles that pacing the decks only agitated everyone else, and didn’t help his own state of mind that much anyway.
“What about Alarie?” he asked.
Vitaliy hesitated. The way the morning light glanced off the flat, golden planes of his face, curved over his parted lips was devastating. “Maybe they want him, yes.”
“Will he keep to his cabin?”
“Louis-Michel?” Vitaliy’s eyebrows rose. “No. He may act above us all, but he is a sailor. A fighter. Bolívar appointed him commodore not for nothing.” He slid over a glance. “Don’t underestimate him.”
One hour.
Everard’s arse was numb and cold from leaning on tarred hemp line, his face hot and dry from the beating sun.
The southeast wind had picked up drastically two points forward to starboard, inhibitory to the Sévère’s tack but advantageous to the enemy.
The mood on the Sévère was muted vibration, anticipatory held breath.
Beneath them, a glint of impeccably kept pistol caught Everard’s eye, and he glanced down.
D’Arcy had come jogging up the hatch. Bright sable curls blew wild in the wind as he stood on the main deck and looked unerringly up to where Everard stood in the ratlines.
Then he put hands in pockets, set his shoulders, and strode determinedly in their direction.
Everard inhaled. “Oh, God.”
He knew that look. That beeline. That intent.
Vitaliy lowered the glass. “Hmm?” He followed Everard’s attention, and made a low, amused noise. “Ah.”
“He wants…” Everard trailed off, cleared his throat.
Vitaliy found his hand and squeezed it. “I know what he wants.” Heart-shaped lips quirked. “Do you want the same?”
Everard flushed all the way to his first waistcoat button, despite the sun.
“He’s accustomed to… We may have—er… before a conflict. On occasion. So, I can see where he might think—”
“Not what I ask,” Vitya murmured. “Do you?”
It sounded like a trap, a trick question, gammoning. But it didn’t feel like that. He still had not the least idea what to say. “I…”
D’Arcy came beneath the shroud. “Ever?” he called up.
It was all he said. All he had to say. Fearless, fearless D’Arcy.
“Oh, lord.” Everard’s breath felt netted, caught somewhere beneath his stomach. “All right, yes, I do. But… I don’t understand.”
Vitaliy squeezed his hand once more, then pulled free, retrieved his pocket watch. “He left it late, but you’ve a little time.” He nodded to the San Telmo. “Too much wind yet to engage. Not without risking us raking her through.”
That was true.
“But you truly don’t mind?” Vitya’s indifference towards D’Arcy had been one thing when he and Everard hadn’t been sleeping together regularly. Now, though…
But Vitaliy shook his head. “No, matelot. Not significantly.” He smiled. “Options are always good.”
“Right,” Everard said, baffled. “I don’t know if…” Options. Was that what D’Arcy was? “Well. I’ll… take you at your word, then.” He detached himself from the lines and about-faced to climb down. He acknowledged D’Arcy, who nodded and bounced on his heels once, straight-faced.
Was he an option? Or was he inevitable?
Everard made one last look over. Vitaliy’s attention was vigilant and workmanlike again, already back on the glass.
Everard stepped sideways, straddling, invading space. “Vitya.”
Vitaliy pulled aside the glass with a grunt of surprise, caught Everard by the waist as he leaned in, and let the lines take their weight. Everard kissed him, full on the mouth.
After a moment, Vitya broke off, biting gently. He mumbled, “Go.”
Everard went before he lost his nerve entirely.
On deck, D’Arcy looked up at him from under tumultuous curls. “Braggart. Peacock. Bull. What a display.”
Everard smoothed his waistcoat. He was already breathing as though he’d climbed four sets of ratlines, up and down.
“You are the very devil, Preston. I cannot believe you.”
D’Arcy grinned like a fool. “Yes, you can. You’ve done this before.”
Oh, he had. “Come on.”
He led the way.
Three-quarter hours.
In the Navy, nobody had much read into their disappearing on the cusp of battle. Even if Everard looked out of his wits with anticipation, D’Arcy had a dissembler’s effortless nonchalance, an ease that usefully deflected attention.
Too, he was very good at remaining quiet under duress.
D’Arcy followed him, calm and hands-in-pockets.
But as they swung round aft to the teniente’s quarters, surrounded by pirates and cannon and all the preparations of battle, D’Arcy pulled him against the partition wall and kissed him, leant the whole of himself against the whole of Everard, chest and hips and knees.
Everard gulped as his stomach swooped in shuddering leaps. He glanced round—
“Ever.” D’Arcy drew his attention gently back, and the look on his face—no dissembling today, no, sir—Everard’s mouth went dry. D’Arcy’s eyes were dark, long-lashed, mischievous beneath arched brows, almost villainous in their knowledge: You know what’s to come, and you can’t stop it.
No. Not if it killed him.
D’Arcy pushed his hips in close once more—making Everard gasp louder than he meant—and reached for the latch of the apartment door.
“You’ll have to be gentle,” D’Arcy murmured against his lips as their steps tangled, as Everard was pulled across the threshold. “Careful. Quiet.”
“Right.” Everard stamped down disappointment, ashamed at himself. It didn’t matter. “Of course.” Then he paused. “Really?”
D’Arcy laughed. He kicked the door shut; it creaked and then banged. Resolute.
“Hell, no. Absolutely not.” He’d at some point undone all Everard’s buttons, and now spread clothing aside for exquisite access. He leaned in to nip at Everard’s ear. “Like the first time, hmm? But loud.”
Everard groaned.
“Yes, precisely that loud,” D’Arcy said approvingly, and kissed him.
The first time. Too long past. Everard had known that First Lieutenant Preston D’Arcy wanted him. Despite Everard’s best efforts, D’Arcy had known he was wanted in return.
And so, with a Frenchie bearing down on them, mere minutes away, D’Arcy had given him one significant look as he handed over an impeccable diagram of the ship’s maneuver. A rueful smile.
“Now, Everard,” he’d said softly. “If you want it—now, or not ever again.”
A hell of a thing to say, especially as the first time he’d used Everard’s given name. Not particularly nice, either, to give him an ultimatum under the influence of the strain of battle.
Of course, Everard had then found himself pushing D’Arcy against the perforated companionway door—the only standing room in the place; it wasn’t a large greatcabin—and before Everard really understood what was happening, emotionally, had had D’Arcy with arms splayed, back arched, holding the worked-filigree door shut.
D’Arcy kept watch and held his body taut as Everard screwed into him like he had never before done to a man, hard and fast, dizzying with the effort not to breathe.
He hadn’t even once got himself fully inside; it should’ve been unsatisfying.
But D’Arcy had left a bite mark the size of a doubloon through his lieutenant’s uniform sleeve, and Everard had remembered nothing of the battle afterward, just that it’d got them promoted.
And the guilt. He’d remembered the guilt, too.
Now D’Arcy spun round against the door, shoved down pantaloons. Like the first time.
Everard had made a choice then. He’d made a choice today, on deck, with Vitya’s urging him on. Now, or not ever again.
Maybe not an ultimatum. Perhaps a warning.
But I could have died.
Why was he so—goddamn—fearless?
D’Arcy jerked. “Fuck, oh, fuck.” His fingers on the wood spasmed.
It wasn’t like the first time. Perhaps a little bit, in the lack of space. In D’Arcy’s taut, locked muscles. In the positioning, in the shape of Everard’s hands grasping his hips.
Otherwise…
Everard sheathed himself fully, nudged them forward. D’Arcy put his weight on his forearms, banged a fist on the door, took hiccupping breaths. Everard began anew.
“Shit, oh, Jesus Christ, ohhh, Ever. Keep talking. D-don’t stop.”
Was Everard speaking? To him, the loudest thing was his breathing; it kept coming back to him reflected from D’Arcy’s skin, hot and damp.
When did they get so close? There was no space between them. D’Arcy’s fingertips now only grazed the door in faint, just-in-case support. Everard had gathered the rest of him in, and he was no longer taut, no fight left in him, no resistance, no demand.
Everard’s face felt wet alongside D’Arcy’s, and he didn’t know what from, sweat or tears or both—or whose.
“Bed?” he gasped.
“Bed,” D’Arcy agreed.
One quarter-hour.
“If that was the last time—if I die today—top marks,” D’Arcy slurred.
“You won’t d—but you are ridiculous.” Everard pulled on his stockings. “You said that in York.” He nudged an oil-shiny arse cheek with a finger. “And on the Wanderer. And—”
“Did I?” D’Arcy huffed. “You and your memory. I don’t remember what I said after. I do remember that prick.” He rolled, stretched, and yawned; when he opened his eyes, their hazel was bright and alert. “Now I can fight.”
Buttoning his waistcoat, Everard shook his head. He leaned down, squinted presumptuously, and kissed him on the forehead. “Was I sufficiently loud?”
“Mm-hmm.” D’Arcy ran his hands through curls. “I’ll say.” Stark naked, he launched up like a man ten years younger. “This is a delightful tradition. Let’s keep it.”
“You know,” Everard said with a laugh, “I rather think we have.”