25. Chapter 25
Chapter twenty-five
Three days later, Gulf of Naples
Tristan stood on the stern gallery outside the captain’s cabin and watched Marguerite sleep in his bed for the last time.
Naples lay ahead. The night was warmer, the sea darker, the stars sharper over the Mediterranean.
For three days, Marguerite had not been in his arms, but everywhere else on this ship.
Tomorrow, if the wind held, they would raise the coast, and she would step into the future she had chosen before he understood what it would cost him to deliver her there.
His hands twisted around the gallery ropes, the hemp biting into his palms. At least pain stayed where a man put it, while longing crawled under doors, through locked windows, past every rule of command, and lodged behind the breastbone like shot.
He could open the hatch, climb inside like the pirate she had first believed him to be, fall to his knees beside the bed, and tell her that when Sarkouf came up on their quarter, the thought of losing her had made the ship tilt.
That breathing had become a luxury since she had asked him to leave.
He could tell her Naples was too close, the bargain too small, and he, too late.
But he didn’t. Silence was discipline, even if it felt like starvation.
Tristan set one foot on the lower rail. The sea ran black beneath him, streaked with broken moonlight. The frigate’s sails had been trimmed down for the night.
He swung his other leg over. Better the clean danger of water than walking into that cabin, falling at her feet, and begging for a mercy he had no right to ask.
He pushed off headfirst. Water closed over his skull, his shoulders, his chest, drowning every thought. He kicked downward, then twisted and drove for the surface. He broke through with a harsh gasp and began to swim. Stroke. Breath. Stroke.
A splash sounded to his right. Tristan’s head snapped around. Lorenzo surfaced, black hair plastered to his head, eyes wide.
“Madonna’s wet ankles,” he choked. “This water is freezing.”
Tristan stared at him. “What the devil are you doing?”
“What does it seem I’m doing?”
“Trying to kill yourself.”
“Certainly not! I quite enjoy the cold. An excellent opportunity to spend time with mio fratello.”
The ship began to draw away, the stern lifting, the wake widening between them and safety.
“Return your Italian arse to the deck, Lieutenant. That is an order.”
Lorenzo swam, but his strokes were uneven, too much splash, too little reach. “I am going back.”
“You are flailing in the general direction of Portugal.”
Lorenzo spat water and tried to grin, but the next swell struck him in the mouth, and the grin vanished.
The distance widened.
“Swim.”
They swam. Water struck their faces, breath dragged in sideways. The frigate’s crew had heard them now. Orders broke above. A line came snaking down the side, then another. Men hauled, cursed, and scrambled to bring two idiots back aboard.
Tristan reached the first rope and seized it, but Lorenzo was several yards behind. The sight punched through him. His brother’s stroke had shortened. His head dipped once, came up hard, mouth open, breath ragged. The swell lifted him, dropped him, and dark water rose between them.
“Lorenzo!”
Tristan pushed off from the rope and went back. Every man on deck shouted at once. The sea slapped his face, rolled him sideways, tried to turn him. He cut through it, blinded by the image of Lorenzo gone under.
Lorenzo’s hand broke the surface. Tristan caught it. His brother grabbed at him, clumsy with exhaustion, and nearly dragged them both down. Tristan got an arm under his chest and kicked, teeth bared, lungs burning.
“Hold still, damn you.”
“Go ahead, brother,” Lorenzo gasped. “Leave me behind. Throw the brother out with the bathwater.”
Tristan’s kick faltered. Then rage took him by the throat and hauled him forward.
“I’ll throw your tongue out first.”
They reached the rope together. Tristan shoved Lorenzo upward, caught the next line, braced one foot against the hull as the ship rolled, and climbed with the last of his strength.
By the time he gained the entry port and dragged Lorenzo over the side after him, half the watch stood white-faced under lantern light.
Lorenzo landed on his back with a wet thud, coughing as if the entire Mediterranean had taken lodgings in his lungs. Tristan dropped beside him, chest heaving so hard he could feel each breath tear at his ribs.
The watch withdrew by degrees under Vale’s silent direction, leaving a decent circle around their captain’s disgrace.
Someone brought blankets. Tristan refused his with a look, then rolled to one elbow and glared at Lorenzo.
“You pull something like that again, and I’ll cut you from the navy on half-pay. ”
Lorenzo kept his eyes shut. His lashes were wet and clumped like a child’s. “As you wish. I don’t need the money. I am fucking rich.”
Tristan sat upright. Water ran down his neck and spine. His hands had begun to shake. He curled them into fists against his thighs.
He saw the day Lorenzo had first walked into his life. One year ago. Portsmouth. Rain on the windows. Dispatches on Tristan’s desk. A young Italian count standing before him with too much pride for a supplicant and too much hunger in his eyes for a man who had come only to ask for work.
“Then why?” Tristan asked.
Lorenzo opened his eyes. He stared at the stars above the mast and took one careful breath, then another.
“Because I wanted to stay near my brother.”
Tristan looked away. Shame moved through him with a slow, corrosive heat. What sort of bastard was he that he could not accept his own blood unless it came with clear terms and an easy way out?
“Was it worth it?” Tristan asked, shutting his eyes.
Lorenzo turned his head toward him. “I thought I was making progress. What can I say? I’m an optimist. But it is hopeless, is it not? You cannot even bring yourself to call me brother. You will keep pushing me away. Just like you did with Marguerite.”
Tristan’s jaw locked. “Do not bring her into this.”
Lorenzo dragged the blanket tighter around his shoulders and rose unsteadily. “You let Marguerite come close enough to see you, then you jumped into the sea because drowning is easier than opening a door. I’m glad I’m only half English.”
The wind moved over the deck. Lorenzo looked at him for one last second, then shook his head.
“Buona notte, Captain.” He walked away, wet footprints marking the deck behind him.
Tristan watched him go.
The footprints were uneven. One heel dragged a little where Lorenzo’s strength had not yet returned, and the sight of that small weakness opened something raw beneath Tristan’s ribs. His brother had nearly drowned because he believed that following Tristan into danger was the only way to reach him.
For a year, the boy had filled Tristan’s life with wrong idioms, unsolicited advice, too much singing, and the maddening word fratello. Tristan had treated it as noise. The sort of sound a man could tolerate because it had no weight.
It had weight.
Christ, it had weight enough to pull a man overboard. Tristan’s hands shook, and he pressed them flat to the deck. So Lorenzo wanted in? Idiot. If he or Marguerite went any deeper into his heart, they would see through the other side of his lousy carcass. They were already five fathoms deep.