Chapter 23 #2
All of them ready to help.
They had not come for Princess Serafina, Archer realized with a swoop of shock and giddy, fearful guilt.
They’d come for him.
It seemed that somehow these last years, while he’d been living at Pomeroy House and protecting his crew and scrabbling to keep them all fed and housed, he’d developed a kind of rootedness. A connection to St. Petroc’s that felt, dizzyingly, like home.
They believed in him. They thought that he could lead them. He’d told them in all confidence that he knew what to do, and somehow, through sheer force of will, he had to mold that prediction of success into hard reality.
He felt sick with gratitude and terror together. It was as if he’d convinced them they could walk upon water, and now he had to watch them all try.
His mind turned, again and again, upon the direction he planned to take his crew as they searched the ports along the coast for the Vulcano and the princess. Closer to London—closer to where he’d failed last time, as Quenby.
If he did not bring Ruby with them, there was no chance they might come face-to-face with her father. If he left her here, he could keep her safe. Keep all of them safe.
Keep his secrets from his crew.
If he fled now, he would not have to face Ruby’s disappointment. He could rescue the princess and come home in a shower of glory and pretend he’d never broken his vow to Ruby. Make believe he had not let her down.
He composed a note in his mind to excuse his flight. An apology. And as he did, the motto of House di Sangro came back to him, a shameful twist of truth.
Astra inclinant, sed non obligant.
The circumstances of his life—his own choices, for better and for worse—had set him on a path that seemed, at times, irrevocable. But he did not have to follow it. He could choose differently.
Since he’d been sent down from the Swallow and come to Pomeroy House, he had changed. He knew he had. He’d kept his crew together. He’d dug his hands into the earth and planted bulbs, and he’d hung on long enough to watch them bloom.
He’d become the type of man who wanted to stay.
And in the end, he found himself back at Pomeroy House.
Gerry met him at the door, two compact bags already packed: one for Archer and one for himself.
Archer’s gaze went to the bags and then to Gerry’s face. Gerry looked calm and steady; he was taller than Archer now by a head. Archer could see him in some strange double vision: the man he was now and the child he’d been. The thin angry face, seawater and tears on his cheeks.
Of course Archer had lied to protect his crew. Wasn’t that what adults did? Embroidered a fantasy and made it seem real, because life was fragile and fearsome, and it was better—far better—to keep the people you loved from the worst of it.
“I thought it best to be prepared either way,” Gerry said. “I’d like to go with you. But I’ll stay if you think it right, Cap. If you want me to remain with the ladies.”
“I do,” Archer said, “want you with the ladies.” Somehow he’d reached out to clasp Gerry’s shoulder. To squeeze tight. “There’s no one I trust the way I trust you. There’s not another soul on this Earth I would charge with the task of keeping them safe.”
Gerry’s throat worked. He had to look down, just a bit, to look into Archer’s face, and the movement made the water in his eyes threaten to spill over.
Is this what it’s like? Archer wondered, a little wildly.
Was this what his own father had missed?
The heart-shattering pride, the buzz of terror: The boy he’d once had a hand in raising was a man grown, honest and good, and Archer could no more keep him safe than he could capture the sea in his fist.
Behind Gerry, Ruby stepped into the parlor. Archer let Gerry go and had to blink hard to clear his own vision. Swallow against the ache in his throat.
“Ruby,” he said roughly.
She didn’t let him say anything more. She strode forward, clutching an overflowing valise before her like a beribboned shield. “No,” she said, in a tone of some command.
Ah God. His stubborn, plainspoken pirate queen. He almost wanted to laugh. “No? All I said was Ruby. Have you been rechristened in my absence?”
“My disagreement was preemptive.”
“Oh, well. Excellent to know that the cushion I had embroidered with your name is still useful.”
She scowled at him. “Be serious, Malcolm.”
“I am. In point of fact, I seem to be the only one thinking of the seamstress who’d have to unpick all that thread if you’d transformed yourself into . . . Myrtle, say. Or Jane.”
She strode forward and stuffed her valise into his arms. “Do not dimple at me. I am immune.”
“Are you?”
“And don’t cavil either.” She pursed her lips and lifted her chin as she stared him down, all ruthless gray. “We are going to your ship—together—to search for the princess and Tamsin. I will brook no disagreement.”
He felt his grin soften into something crooked as he looked at her. Something more anxious—more true. “Are you the captain now?” he murmured.
She reached out and put a hand on his biceps muscle, flexed from holding her shockingly heavy valise.
“I don’t know much of seafaring. I might even get in your way.
I realize that.” Her voice firmed, and her pointed chin went up even higher.
“But I do know London society. As the Earl of Hangleton’s daughter, I can call upon people who know Verdura personally.
If we cannot find him on the coast via ship, I can help us locate him another way. ”
It made sense. It made too much sense; he wondered if he believed her logic or if he merely wanted to, so he could keep her by his side.
She pushed her hand up to his shoulder, and then to the side of his face. “Let me stay with you,” she said softly. “Wherever you go. I can’t wish to waste a moment that we could be together.”
He shifted the valise to his right arm and used his left to draw her close. He pressed his face into her hair and smelled amber and cedar, the fresh scent of starch, the memory of his Delphinium. “It would be safer if you stayed.”
But he already knew he was lost. He’d given in the moment he’d seen her—the very instant he’d turned his gaze back to Pomeroy House.
“I’ll be safe with you,” she said fiercely.
His heart thudded against his ribs, a double beat of exhilaration and despair. She trusted him. Like all the rest, she trusted him, and he desired and feared it in equal measure.
He tightened his grip on her waist, his fingers biting into her flesh, but she only nestled closer, more secure. He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached and thought: Ruby. My love. My own heart.
She would be safe with him. Always. He could not let her down.
He looked up at Gerry over her head. “Hell,” he said. “Looks like we’re all going. Go tell the signore to pack.”