Chapter 24
“Wherein trouble brews and storms gather.”
Lawrence braced himself against the hull and stared up at the beam as the ship lurched and bucked.
He could hear the snap of canvas as Alex’s deep voice yelled to strike the royals.
They were heading into the Bay of Biscay and the wind was already tossing the ship about like a careless child with a toy.
Guilt layered thicker upon everything he was already feeling as he knew what a risk Alex was taking in sailing into the bay in the winter.
Calm and gentle enough in the summer months, from the autumn onward the weather in the bay was treacherous, raging out of nowhere and wrecking ships with ease.
He’d done everything he could to dissuade Alex from his course, but the pigheaded fool would hear none of it.
Lawrence didn’t fancy his chances of causing a mutiny, despite the fact that his quartermaster would have repeated every reasonable argument that Lawrence had put forward if he had an ounce of sense.
As Alex never employed fools he could only imagine the man’s frustration matched his own over the worm that had got into his captain’s head and addled his brains.
The familiar tune of a song the children had sung back home when a storm approached circled in his head, making his skin prickle with foreboding.
“Blow wind, rise storm, ship ashore afore the morn’.”
A wreck on the Cornish coast was something to be prayed for and welcomed. It meant goods washed ashore, casks of wine and exotic fare from far-flung places.
For some it was the difference between starvation and survival, so he’d well understood his countrymen’s glee and the children’s excitement.
He’d watched them himself, out on the Lizard, as a ship smashed itself to bits in a raging storm on the treacherous rocks of the peninsula.
Being one of the poor bastards on board, though, that was another matter.
He got to his feet and paced as well as the rolling ship would allow, itching to go up on deck and feel the cold, dark heart of the storm closing in around them.
Anything rather than remain stuck down here with only the rats or his own thoughts for company, both of which he had become heartily sick of some time ago.
It was two days since he had caught Henri and Alex on deck, looking ... comfortable with each other. He gritted his teeth and tried not to think about it. But like a tongue returning to a troublesome tooth, his thoughts inevitably returned a bare moment later.
He had been allowed to walk the deck twice a day since then, and had come across them more than once, talking quietly, their heads together.
He had noticed Alex’s solicitous attitude, a gentle hand on Henri’s arm, the touch of a fingertip to her face and the pretty blush that flushed her cheeks at his attentions.
It was all very gentleman-like on his brother’s part and perfectly in keeping with the actions of a fiancé getting to know the lady he intends to marry.
And Lawrence had never wanted to knock his brother’s damn head off more than he had over the past few days.
Jealousy and impotent rage burned through him no matter how hard he tried to tamp the feelings down.
He made himself relive every argument with Alex, repeat every reason why he could not stay, why he had to leave, why they should marry and try to make the best of things.
Every time he satisfied himself that yes, he was indeed in the right; he had chosen the best course for everyone.
There was no doubt in his mind. His heart, however, refused to accept cold, hard logic.
His heart was full of envy and misery, and he hated himself for hating Alex.
He was making the best of the situation after all, trying to put Henri at her ease, trying to make the girl happy.
Because of course it would be best all round if she fell in love with Alex.
Of course it would. And what wasn’t there to love?
He was handsome, powerful, incredibly wealthy, not to mention titled . ..
His fist connected with one of the barrels that formed the wall of his prison cell and a dull, ringing thud echoed around the confined space as the liquid inside shuddered.
He brought his hand away with the knuckles bleeding, but it didn’t take the pain from his chest or ease his frustration.
With disgust he sat back down on the pallet of his bed and put his head in his hands.
He looked up again at shouts from topside.
Moving as far as his chains would allow he strained his ears over the continuous surge of the waves against the hull and the roar of the wind as it gained strength.
Alex had called for all hands to shorten sail, and Lawrence could see in his mind’s eye the crew battling to bring down the topgallant as the wind tried to snatch it away.
“Damn you, Alex!” he swore and yanked on the chains that held him captive. Pointless as it was he pulled and yanked and turned the air blue with rage and frustration and every filthy curse he could think of.
If not in answer to a prayer, surely in answer to his cursing, one of Alex’s men hurried towards him, keys in hand.
“Cap’n said to free ye. All hands on deck,” the man shouted over the noise of the storm as thunder cracked overhead.
“About bloody time!” Lawrence yelled back, snatching his hands free and running to find his brother.