Captain's Surrender Read online

  He paused, and his look of preoccupied business became gradually something shyer and less certain. It was astonishing how a face so hard in all its lines could hold such gentleness. The sun, falling unequally on him, brought out the green of one eye, left the other softly hazel, and Josh found himself studying his commanding officer’s eyelashes, wondering how soft they would feel against his lips.

  “Forgive me. Was that unfeeling? I’m…not sure how to talk to you in these circumstances.”

  “As you always do, sir,” Josh said, puzzled. “I’m your premier—I need to know these things.”

  “But are we not also…” Peter looked down, embarrassed, and then up again in a gesture of openness that seemed to take a great deal of bravery, “…lovers?”

  Having grown used to furtive meetings in back rooms with men who would not acknowledge his presence on the street, the word was a full broadside, and Josh was shattered by the impact of it. Lovers! Could Kenyon really be innocent enough to apply that term to this…arrangement? Could he conceivably mean that he saw no difference between this and the love he might feel for a sweetheart? Was he offering not only his body but his affections? It was too much—too much. It could not be true.

  The uncomplicated happiness with which Josh had entered the cabin fled, leaving something greater and more anguished in its place. Kenyon must have no notion what he was offering—he must have used the word lightly, not meaning to stir long-abandoned dreams, to torment with hope. And yet he had looked so vulnerable, tentative as a man addressing his new beloved. Josh wasn’t sure he could bear it.

  “What’s the matter?” Kenyon pulled out a chair and sat close, looking in Josh’s face as if he actually cared about the pain.

  Forcing out a curt laugh, Josh leaned his elbows on the table, unclenched his fists and tried to pull himself together. “Lovers? Did I pass out and miss that part? I must have been more overcome than I thought.”

  “No,” said Kenyon firmly, “sarcasm aside, you’ve gone white as a sheet. What is it? Give me a real answer.”

  Gritting his teeth, Josh breathed deliberately until the complex of disbelief and desperate yearning died down enough for his voice to stead, and his stupidly romantic thoughts to come back to earth. “I’m just being an idiot—you should ignore me until the fit passes.”

  Neither the mockery nor the evasion worked. Peter continued to sit there, gazing at him, and as the moments lengthened, the ship swayed, reflections of rippling light slid gently to and fro across the table, and eventually the worry, the intimacy wore him down. “Even if we were to…to…”

  “Become lovers.”

  “No!”

  Josh didn’t know what the word meant to Kenyon, but to him it recalled the classics. “Lovers” was the Iliad and a young boy’s dreams of glory. A book he had kept under his pillow, cherishing thoughts of war and death and timeless love. The talisman that assured him that once, once in history, even men like him had been allowed to be heroes. But that was the past, the Greeks; there was no place for such things in this modern world. If Kenyon would not be practical, then Josh must, for both their sakes.

  “Even if we were to become intimate, I don’t expect you to love me. We would be friends, and you would do me the favor at times, and I would do the like for you. No promises, no commitments. You will use me, sir, and I will be glad of it.”

  Kenyon closed his eyes in shock, opened them too soon to entirely hide a delicate distress. “Is that what you want?”

  Of course not. “It’s what I expect.”

  “But is it what you want?” Kenyon had edged closer, trying to seem reassuring, succeeding only in applying a moral pressure Josh had to brace himself not to buckle under. Despite the turmoil of his emotions, his body reacted enthusiastically to the delicious threat, and again, he was filled with disgust. What does it matter what I want? I am no Patroclus to match your Achilles. I would show myself an utter fool trying to be worthy of you and make you a laughingstock in the process.

  “It’s more than ever I hoped for.”

  Frustrated, Peter stood, looking down for a long heartbeat, his voice hardened by underlying anger. “Andrews. Is it what you want?”

  Damn it. Damn him! Josh looked away, almost ready to talk about heroes and public mourning and shared tombs, choking it back because one of them had to be the realist here. But damn, damn Kenyon for making it have to be him.

  Did he really want to be the one responsible for turning this fine man into a monster like himself? Did he want to take Kenyon’s susceptible heart and keep it forever? Because, by God, if he once had it, he would never let it go. What then for Kenyon’s chance at happiness? For the family he obviously desired, for the esteem and honor and status he deserved?

  Everyone understood that—in famine, far from land, deprived for years from the company of women—a man might turn to his friend for ease. No one would pry too deeply into a captain relieving the loneliness of command by making a companion of his first lieutenant. But how could love be hidden? How could Kenyon hide it when he wore his feelings clear in his eyes as a summer sea? From love would come rumor. From rumor would come ruin, disgrace and the noose.

  No. No, though he was no Patroclus, to inspire a demigod to acts that would be remembered throughout history, he still had enough heroism to lie. One day, Peter would walk away from him. Peter would walk into the life that he truly wanted. And on that day he should not feel that he had ever been anything less than free.

  “I can’t…” And his courage failed in the light of the windows, the light of the frustration in Peter’s eyes. “What if someone’s listening?”

  “Come with me.” Kenyon lit a storm lantern, picked something out of a cupboard and put it into his pocket. Josh wasn’t sure what this mood was, but that it was daunting and desirable both at once. He followed, out of the cabin and below, down into pitch darkness, lantern light drawing lines of blued steel in Peter’s black hair, illuminating the coiled hawsers of the cable tier and the triangular room in the bow, where the barrels of rum were piled. The liquor’s rich smell seeped through the wood, so strongly that the oceanic slime and drying ooze of cable became only a dash of salt among the sweet.

  Kenyon gestured him to go inside. Coming close behind, Peter took the key from his pocket and locked the door after him. They were left confined together in a narrow space where to breathe was to become drunk. Heavy, underwater silence pressed on the walls and the lantern light was a sphere of gold about them, an almost palpable warmth. “Private enough?”

  “Yes,” Josh admitted, his ribs so tight with emotion he had no room for air, let alone speech. There were only a few paces between the piled barrels and the door, and wherever he turned he ran the risk of casually brushing against his commander. Even if he stood stock-still, Kenyon’s presence touched him like the light. While the privacy was appreciated, these were not the best circumstances for rational thought.

  Once he had hung the lantern from the hook overhead, Kenyon stood rigidly in the center of the space, hands locked behind him, shoulders square—nerving himself up. “Have you—an answer for me?” he said, formally. Then, perhaps feeling this was too intimidating, he softened slightly and smiled. “Tell me what you want, Josh. I know this sounds foolish, but I wish you joy. What can I do to make you happy?”

  Josh took a deep breath that made his head swim. “May I speak plainly?” His courage was as liquid as the sea, and though he held on to it in both hands, it poured out of his grasp. How could he reply to the tenderness of such a question with the ugly words he had prepared? Yet what else could he say? “Then, sir—” Hard to believe this had been the epitome of his ambition only yesterday, before his own expectations were so outstripped by Peter’s decency. “Then, sir, I should very much like you to fuck me now and again, as an addendum to our friendship. Nothing more.”

  Peter took in a deep breath, unclasped his hands and bowed his head into them, shielding his face. There was a doubtful, dreadful quiet.
<
br />   “I had always understood the act was—inseparable from at least a certain amount of affection,” he said at last. “I should not want to be able to separate the two.” Sighing, he brought the shielding hands down, to reveal eyes shaded darkly with decision and regret. “I’m not sure I can oblige you under those conditions.”

  The light above was mellow and comforting, the Seahorse’s rocking lulling, he was well fed and in the best of health, and yet Josh felt that he had never taken a worse wound. In battle, the din and the fury protected a man—dying beneath the most hideous of blows might yet be painless. But it was not so here, and it hurt.

  Of course. Had he not fallen in love with Peter for this very nobility? For this strange innocent and untouched spirit, utterly alien from the sordid world Josh had learned to inhabit. Why then should he be surprised?

  Counting down from twenty in poorly remembered schoolroom Latin helped him to smooth the perceptible shudder of his breathing. To make sure his eyes were dry and his face impassive, he turned away to examine a line of caulking in the deck above. He could do this with dignity, and he would—for Peter’s sake and his own. “Perhaps it is for the best.”

  Nothing had changed after all. He had got his hopes up—vainly as it turned out—but he had lost nothing. It was sheer folly to mourn something that had never happened.

  He wanted to look down, to meet Kenyon’s gaze and let him see just how sincerely he meant this, but he had reached the limits of his bravery. It was, therefore, while staring at the rat-gnawed lid of the topmost barrel that he managed to say, “It is of incalculable value to me that—even knowing what I am—you were still willing to befriend me. And what I most yearn for in all the world is your society and regard. So long as I retain them, I…I am happy.”

  Another breath—he could no longer taste the rum on the air, but there was a meager feeling of consolation nevertheless, enough to make the second part of the statement stronger. “I have no wish to repay your goodness to me by corrupting you, by ruining your reputation or perhaps even—God forbid—being the cause of your death.”

  Silence once more. A long silence and a slow change—like the loom of unseen land after months of blue water, something he could sense but could not explain. A quick glance showed Peter with the puzzled, inward look of a man chasing a revelation, hardly daring to move for fear of frightening it away. Strangely, despite the anguish and the ever-present desire, a stab of amusement pricked him—how absurd this whole situation was. Was it not the final proof of man’s ascendancy over nature, that his unnatural desires could be canceled out by his unnatural scruples? Would that I were not human then. He met Kenyon’s suddenly focused gaze with a resolute, mocking smile.

  But Peter’s thoughts had clearly gone in quite a different direction. He closed the gap between them, and after a moment of just looking, examining Josh’s face and figure with an open admiration that made heat boil into Josh’s face and every part of him tingle, he raised a hand and slid it through Josh’s hair. It came to rest at the nape of his neck, thumb stroking the curve of his jaw.

  Trying not to shake too much, trying not to believe the best, trying not to merely melt, he arched into the touch, unable to stop himself. “Oh.”

  “Josh.” The dark voice was smoky with intimacy, and he could almost have died happy, just hearing his name so caressed. Instead, he looked up to meet a green gaze equally private, laced with wonder and a certain amount of rueful amusement—the traces of an understanding that had changed everything. “It occurs to me that you and I are very alike.”

  There was unusual warmth in Peter’s face, a small, sweet smile that undermined every defense, and Josh could not help but smile back, the uneasy clamoring of his conscience temporarily forgotten.

  “You’re trying to protect me—and at the cost of your own happiness.”

  Reaching up, Kenyon took hold of the end of Josh’s cravat, pulled the bow undone and unraveled the whole, long length of it with a slow, steady pressure—a seemingly endless crisp slide of linen over Josh’s skin.

  Long fingers at his neck, easing open each of the buttons on his waistcoat one by one, and he could neither move nor speak for joy and lust and disbelief. If he tilted his head just slightly, he could feel Peter’s breath, warm against his bared throat, he could set his mouth against the bent head and feel the cool softness of hair against his lips. He did this now, lest delay allow the chance to disappear, closed his eyes and breathed in the scent.

  “So it seems to me that you already care for me, and your stipulations are intended entirely to prevent me from feeling affection for you in return. Is that right?”

  Peter seemed far too coolheaded, far too in control of the situation, while Josh was fast unraveling beneath his hands. Hands that were already lifting coat and loosened waistcoat off Josh’s shoulders, leaving him exposed—and so nervous that he wondered suddenly how much of his caution had been self-defense, not nobly motivated at all. Since he was being systematically bared, it seemed appropriate to surrender this, too. “Yes.”

  Kenyon folded the clothes and placed them carefully on the cleanest barrel. “Shall I tell you something?”

  “Please.”

  “It’s too late.”

  Josh needed a drink, something to steady his nerves, calm him down before he utterly committed himself to something he was persuaded was a very bad idea. What he got instead was Peter returning, having taken off his own jacket, in a shirt so worn and threadbare it was all but transparent. “W—What?”

  “I already care about you, you fool. If I didn’t…” Peter frowned over the too-stiff little buttons of Josh’s collar, undid them with practical briskness and slid his hand under the material, watching it with curious, fascinated eyes. “If I didn’t,” he said, the hand closing hard, drawing Josh unresisting towards him, “would I be doing this?” He bent his head and kissed Josh’s exposed throat, mouthing from shoulder to ear. And there was…teeth and—God—tongue, and there might be a logical flaw in his argument, but Josh was too busy grabbing Peter by that worn shirt and shoving him hard into the wall to care. At the impact, Peter gave a little shudder of surprise, his breath caught and his eyes widened—Josh could feel the surrender under his hands, both of them a little taken aback by it. And delighted.

  Hauling the shirt out of Peter’s trousers, Josh got his hands under it. Pulling it over Peter’s head, taking his hair ribbon with it, Josh threw it into a corner. Such skin! Smooth, the muscles shuddering beneath his touch. As he brushed exploratory fingers over the pale belly, Peter wriggled, snorting with laughter, and Josh remembered with a poisonous blackness that he should not be doing this.

  He couldn’t walk away—desire had become demand in him, insistent and barely rational—but he could at least check his wandering hands, resist the need to crowd closer, rest his forehead on the hollow of Kenyon’s shoulder and try to behave less like an animal. “Your reputation? Your life!”

  Peter said nothing for a while, while his agile fingers finished unlacing Josh’s shirt. Then he took Josh’s hair and pulled until Josh had to raise his head and look at him.

  “Every day on the sea, I risk life and limb and reputation for my king. May I not risk them even a little for you?”

  For me? “No. Not even a little.”

  Kenyon caught Josh’s face in both hands and leaned in to kiss—no surrender in this; it was a hard, deep kiss that left Josh broken and consumed. “It isn’t your place to protect me from my own decisions, Lieutenant. It seems to have escaped your attention that I want this too. I have no intention of allowing my first action on this ship to end in failure because of rank cowardice over the consequences. Now, do you want me to fuck you or not?”

  And if this was what Kenyon wanted—if he wasn’t merely doing it out of the goodness of his heart, to relieve a friend’s pathetic need—then he should have it whatever the cost. Overcome, Josh lunged forward, wrapped his arms around Kenyon’s chest, nuzzled his face into that perfect neck and hung o
n, while the fear that someone or something would take this away from him even now ran riot behind his tightly closed eyes. “Oh, Peter, yes. Please, I do.”

  If Kenyon was alarmed by this childish clinging, he didn’t show it. Indeed, he sighed contentedly and explored Josh’s back with long, leisurely, affectionate touches a world away from the impersonal groping Josh was used to. Gentle, with the habitual gentleness of a man who is only used to dealing with women. God knows, I am behaving like one. Josh ruefully raised his head to find Peter looking at him with a fond, slightly shy gaze.

  “You’ll have to show me how.”

  And between exaltation and the impulse to burst into tears, it was a wonder Josh retained enough wits to say, “Aye aye, sir. At once.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Adam Robinson paused in his examination of the repair work to watch as the HMS Seahorse sailed into harbor, her courses backed and then furled, her speed decreasing gently, precisely, until she dropped both anchors and stilled with as little fuss and as much elegance as a swan. Behind her, at exactly spaced lengths came the more bedraggled forms of two prizes: a snow and a thirty-two-gun frigate, larger than she was herself.

  Beside him, on the harbor wall, Emily stood, and her expressive eyes clouded at the sight. “Bess!” she scolded, on the edge of courtesy. “Stop that. You make yourself ridiculous, and me with you.” For Bess was on tiptoe, waving to the incoming sailors who festooned the rigging, grinning and whistling and waving back.

  “I shouldn’t resent his success, I know,” said Adam slowly as Emily leaped down, clutching her skirts around her and pretending she was not hiding here in the shadow of the slipway. “But when I think that every prize makes his promotion more likely, and with it brings closer the day when he begins to take heed to your father’s hints, and addresses himself to you, I cannot help but wish him…”