Lewrie watched Pylades' gig and his own launch and cutter row away. So much luggage, chests and such Lord Peter and Clotworthy had brought aboard! And those mysteriously heavy wooden crates that had had to be stored on deck, too. Lewrie wished Commander Fillebrowne joy of their contents: those allegedly "Roman bronzes" of female acrobats that Clotworthy had had cast from a sketchbook, then antiqued in an acid-bath and a few days in the salt water of Venice 's Lagoon!
"Bloody ancient what?" Clotworthy had haw-hawed. "Old-hokin! at any rate. Heard he was anglin' for the very old. Just dug up from the Morea… Turk lands, and you know what they think o' images in human likeness. Why, 'twas a wonder they didn't melt 'em down for guns!"
"Think he'll bite, Clotworthy?" Lewrie had asked. To his untrained eye, they looked authentic; he'd have bit… if they had come from anyone else!
"Pay well for th' privilege, too, I'll warrant!" Clotworthy had roared with glee. "If not him, some other fool. If not them, I've an 'early' Canova, 'long with his sketches t'prove it. Best forgeries ever. We may not see each other after supper t'night, so… a quick departure on the Lisbon packet, right after the sale, hmm? So, good-bye, me old. I spect we'll be readin' 'bout ya in th' damn Gazette, hey?"
Lewrie shook his head in bewildered merriment, glad to see the back of him, though amused as always by Chute's scandalous antics. Just as long as it was others who got fleeced!
"Frolicsome pair, sir," Lieutenant Knolles commented, "what?"
"You didn't buy anything from him, did you? Play cards…?"
"Forewarned, sir… thankee." Knolles smiled.
"I'll go below for a moment, see the Shockleys to the deck."
He marveled all over again, as he entered his great-cabins, to see the pair of Venetian red-lacquered commodes-the geniune article, not lacca povera … at least Chute had assured him. He'd have to crate them back up, store them on the orlop. They'd never last a month, when his every furnishing was rushed below every gun-drill or call to Quarters. Free, he scoffed; free, gratis… from Clotworthy?
"Make up for th' tatties an' gravy, Alan, old son," he'd sworn. "Not pinched, neither. Made such a killin' an' expect such a killin', I could afford t'be magnanimous, hey? Yer wife'll love 'em."
And there sat Sir Malcolm and Lady Lucy, sipping tea with Mrs. Connor. Rather forbiddingly, Alan thought; rather frigid. Well, Sir Malcolm was all affable… but Lucy was a bit nose-high and snippish.
"Cap'an Lewrie!" little Michael cried, leaving off his games with the cats. He ran to hug Lewrie s leg and look up adoringly, making Lewrie cringe inside anew. "Look what! Whiskers can play ball!"
"Ah, that's marvelous, Michael," Lewrie enthused, kneeling to his level. "Did you teach him all by yourself? He's a clever kitten, isn't he? And you're a clever lad. Or did Toulon show him how?"
The first night aboard, shivering with fright, weeping and wailing most miserable from all he'd been forced to see and hear so young, little Michael had been inconsolable. 'Til Toulon had slunk up close and pressed against him, climbed in his lap and rubbed, bestowing cat-kisses and purring. Slept with him, too, in a hammock slung low in the chart-space, and never left his side. 'Til they'd come back from shore at Venice, of course, with Michael's present, a grey-and-black-striped tabby kitten of his very own-best of the thousands.
"No, I did!" Michael insisted loudly. "Come see!"
"I will, I promise. After supper tonight, we'll all have us a rare old romp, hey? But there's ship's business right now. Can't be a slack-hand captain, remember?"
"I 'member." Michael nodded, solemnly but impishly.
"Sir Malcolm… Lady Lucy, the boats from Lionheart are near, and your trunks and such are slung, ready to load," Lewrie told them.
"Ah, then we must be going. Come, my dear," Sir Malcolm said, finishing his tea and getting to his feet. "You'll join us on deck, Mistress Connor?"
"Your pardons, sir, but," Theoni replied, standing up and dipping him a short curtsey, "this close… I mean no discourtesy to you, but I have no wish to even have a glimpse of that island again, nor ever hear it mentioned. I hope you understand."
"I understand completely, ma'am, truly," Sir Malcolm said with sympathy. "Good-bye, then. And may I express to you my fondest wishes you may have a safe and tranquil journey to England. And find every contentment and joy once there, for both you and your fine little man. Come, Michael! A parting kiss! You're such a splendid young fellow. We'll miss you desperately, that's the boy!" And Michael complied.
"Good-bye, Lady Shockley," Theoni said, dipping her a departing curtsey as well. "A safe journey for you."
"Good-bye, my dear. Though we will see each other at supper?" Lucy answered, gushing so honey-sweet Lewrie almost winced.
"I'll see you out on deck, sir… ma'am?" he offered. "Want to come, Michael? Just you, not your kitten. He's not an old salt yet, not like Toulon."
"I'll mind him, Michael, you go on and watch the sailors and all," Theoni assured him.
"Why, d'ye know," Sir Malcolm suddenly announced, "we could all end on the same packet from Gibraltar. Certainly the same packet from Lisbon. See Commander Lewrie's things through customs, and make sure you arrive safe, Mistress Connor! Couldn't we, Lucy?"
"Why… yes!" Lucy replied, nonplussed for a moment at such an egregious notion, but recovering quickly. "How delightful a prospect!"
She shot Lewrie a glare; who took a squint to see what Theoni had made of that; receiving in turn a subtle arch of a perfect, artfully arched (and lovely, he thought!) brow, and a faintly amused cast to a forced-to-be-pleasant smile. The passage to Venice had become heaven. Passage from Venice had been all elbows and knees, grumblings and cattiness. No privacy, of course, not a jot; no chance to…
"Be back soon," Lewrie promised Theoni Connor. "I'll have Andrews or Cony keep a weather-eye on him, never fear."
"Then he will be in good hands," Theoni answered, a real smile playing at the corners of her lips; so full of hidden meaning and promise, he hoped. "None better," she added as she gathered up the kitten.
The second night of passage, Lewrie had been too fitful from his wound to sleep, despite Mr. Howse's infusion of laudanum in wine- enough, he'd assured Lewrie; to ease pain but leave him his wits should he be called on deck. Wakeful and tossing in a hammock in the dining-coach, too many years away from his midshipman days to be comfortable in it, he'd risen and stolen to his wine-cabinet, limping and wincing as the ship rolled and heaved her way north. He'd accidentally wakened Theoni, and she'd come to help him as he'd groped and stumbled to the settee. She'd fetched his wine and taken a measure for herself.
Their wine was in those heavy, ornate chalices that no one still living had claimed, once their property had been sorted out and returned to them. Those silver chalices that Clotworthy Chute had gasped over at first sight; he couldn't exactly swear, mind, but he thought them to be Cellini's work, or just as old and valuable, cast in his style. "What I say is, Alan, m'dear… were a fellow like you t'own 'em, he'd never leave someone th' likes o' me alone with 'em!"
They'd talked in low mutters, fearful they'd waken Michael, who had that night slept as if drugged, himself-his first real, refreshing night of rest after his satanic ordeal. They'd laughed a bit, softly, as the hours fled by with no call from above to summon him. Shared the parts of their pasts they'd cared to reveal. And, by the light of the single guttering candle, he'd been mesmerised by her tantalising, exotic beauty. Sitting so close together, a lonely…
Admit it, a randy man, too long without, he'd chid himself.
And a lonely, frightened widow, rescued from the very brink, the knife-edge of rape and murder, the butchering of her only child. Some gratitude she'd felt, perhaps; or hero-worship? After playing stoic and brave for so long, she'd broken down and wept on his shoulder, so quietly still, stifling her rasping, heaving, nigh-screaming terrors to spare Michael, burying her face in his neck and moaning into his shirt all she'd tried to suppress; including her widowhood, he'd imagined.
She'd cried it all out, round Two Bells of the Middle Watch… then turned her face up to his without a word. Kissed him with fierce need, fingers and hands, arms and mouth strong and beseeching hungrily. Breeches, shirt, bed-gown and chemise torn and flung aside. Then, into the hanging, swaying double bed-cot, making love to him so grasping and engulfing, so desperately exuberant, as if lovemaking could purge all the shrieks, the blood and terror away-banish fear and mortality, or the uncertainty of her future in a cold, alien new land; the grief of leaving her old one.
Fierce and strong, urgent and passionate, clasping him viselike to her, and Alan had responded with a fury of his own, to forget for a time just how close to murder he'd been, too. It had felt… holy!
Silent, she'd been, though, stifling the cries she might've made, moaning, whimpering and panting into his neck. Even when her bliss had come, she'd merely stiffened, shuddered, spasmed, with a long hitch of her exhausted breath before relaxing. Later, they'd dared to coo and to chuckle, deep in their throats, barely above whispers near each other's ears. Nestling spent, languidly stroking lovers, 'til her need came to her again, then his… then hers a joyful fourth and last.
They hadn't dared touch since, not with the others aboard to see or hear, not with Lucy peering at them so deuced sharp, as if she had divined all; nor with Peter and Clotworthy garrulous and yarning, still keeping their bachelor hours and sipping far into the night. A glance, two hands brushed as they passed, a demure smile of eternal mystery she bestowed upon him when no one was looking-that was all they managed. It had been so soul-shattering, Lewrie could almost put it down to some laudanum-induced fever-dream, and feared Theoni had used him for cleansing, for a personal Epiphany; one memorable night was all she'd needed, and should he approach her, she'd spurn him and blame it on weakness, a mistake never to be repeated.
'Til now, of course. That fondness in her voice, that smile, so secret and promising…! Perhaps this very evening, after Charlton and his supper. Or in the few days of privacy on-passage to Gibraltar?
Damn fool, damn fool! he sighed to himself, feeling the fork of his breeches go taut in spite of himself; here I nigh swore off, an' look what a mockery I made o' that! He recalled most happily, though, a sight of her slim, womanly form, her chestnut hair flowing down low to her waist, the scent of rosemary and thyme in that hair. So perfectly made, gliding on cat-feet in that candle s dim glow, four or five inches less than his height, and so enfoldable, so well-fit to him!
He came back to reality, and rocked on the balls of his feet on his quarterdeck, gazing out towards the island. A shrill cry, followed by the patter of feet came, as little Michael and one of the ship's boy-servants scampered about in the waist; Tag, it looked like, with Bosun Cony watching their every move, grinning a long-absent fathers grin at their antics, and thinking of his own little Will back in Anglesgreen.
Blocks creaked as the first net of luggage was slung over-side. Lewrie turned to see Sir Malcolm Shockley overseeing its transfer, with his manservant and Midshipman Hyde. And Lucy approaching; smirking!
"My word, Alan," she said, standing by the bulwarks, a tad too close for his liking. "Such a gay dog you've grown to be, sir. I see you're a doting father, the way you cosset that poor lad. But not much of a husband, in truth… do I read the signs aright?" she simpered as she tapped him with her fan and spread it artfully. "What horrid folk we've turned out. A Greek woman, my dear! Taking advantage of her in a fragile moment… though I must own she has a certain attractiveness, a… c'est-a-dire… an animal magnetism, n'est-ce pas? Why, I have a good mind to write your lady-wife to let her know what a lecherous Corinthian she really has for a husband!" She tittered quite gaily.
"You wouldn't dare!" Lewrie growled, though shivering; aye, she'd be the sort t'do it, too! All for bloody-minded spite!
She laughed at his discomfort, matching the pace he took to get a sociably acceptable distance away from her.
"Mean t say…" he amended. "What signs could you possibly read? Or find t'read? There's nought between…" Should've taken that tack first! he told himself.
"Alan…" Lucy cooed, significantly mystifying. "Women know." "I'm certain you're mistaken in this instance, Lady Lucy. Nor were you ever the sort to cause someone needless grief," he replied. She simpered over her fan for her answer, lashes fluttering. "Don't tease, Lady Lucy." He frowned. "Such letters are known to go both directions. Where was it? Can't recall the exact address, but there was this wine-shop on the Calle del Fabri. Right at a cross-street, the Monte delle Ballotte? First-floor balcony, lots of afternoon sun t'see by… blond lady and a naval officer the spittin' im-"
Her fan whisked to furious life, and her cheeks went crimson. "Point taken, my dear… Alan." She grimaced; quite prettily. "Could've sworn was Fillebrowne, to the life-" "Point taken! Ahem," Lucy repeated, fanning so vigourously she could have bellied out the furled main-course.
"Why?" Lewrie had to ask. Long ago, she'd been a brainless chit, a guileless, bedazzling, innocent nymph. "Your husband's a decent and solid good man. I'd think that'd-"
"As is your Caroline, I'm certain," she allowed. "But decent does not always excite. And you know as well as I what drew each together so long ago on Antigua, Alan. You saw my true, passionate nature and I saw… a bad'un! One of the damme-boys, who'd risked his life in my honour. I never shall be able to resist the bad'uns. There's nary a woman can, were they honest with themselves. I'm certain, too, you have profited from it. Oh, you're such a bad'un, Alan Lewrie. Take ye joy in it. Or… have you already, hmm?" She chuckled huskily.
"People change, we…" He shrugged.
"I'm still of half a mind about you, d'ye see?" she confessed. "There's unfinished business 'tween us. Someday, I feel sure-"
"I think not, Lady Lucy. Truly," he disabused her. "Not even on a lark, not once for curiosity. Imperfect sinner though I be, I'll never 'put horns' on a good man who thinks himself happily wed. We may laugh and jest… but we do not play, d'ye get my meanin'?"
"You fear him?" she asked, gazing at him as if she'd misjudged him all these years.
"I respect him and like him."
"Ah, well, then," she sighed theatrically. "My regards to your dear wife… and to your amour dujour. She really is quite lovely… I s6e why you're so smitten. Her, too. Of course, you'll break her heart. I'll be the soul of decorum at supper, Alan. Adieu!"
He choked off what he might have said to that, watching her go back to the entry-port, sashaying and smug before once more becoming a lash-battering, innocent minx.
And he was still fuming, staring out at the island a moment later, when Sir Malcolm Shockley came up to him, striding slow and formal with a long silver-headed ebony walking-stick tapping time on the deck. Lewrie stiffened as he joined him at the bulwarks, wondering had Lucy said something spiteful, put a flea in his ear 'bout them…
"So this is where it happened," Sir Malcolm said, though, with a grave sadness, as he rested his hands on the cap-rail to look out. "Aye, Sir Malcolm… just there," Lewrie replied. They were anchored two cables off this time, distanced from the horror. The brig was sunk to the level of her upper bulwarks, with only her lower mast-trunks standing, her jib-boom thrusting upwards from her submerged forecastle, and charred as black and crumbly as last year's Yule Log splinter. The two smaller boats had been reduced to blackened piles of kindling and ash, just on the edge of the beach. The reek of burning hung on the air from the stockade and the huts they'd fired, as well-but they still hadn't been quite able to conquer the foetid char-nel stench from that abbatoir, that sick-sweet, roasted odour of putrefaction.
Sir Malcolm had a small pocket-telescope that he brought up to his eye, giving the place about as close an inspection as Alan thought he'd care for. The wheeling gulls and terns, the flutterings…
"Odd emblem, there, Commander Lewrie. That placard on a pole," Sir Malcolm puzzled, lowering his telescope. "A piratical symbol?"
"Grave-marker, sir," Lewrie answered levelly. "For the victims. We couldn't sort 'em out into Christian or Muslim, Albanian or Croat, Greek or Venetian… taken days, had we tried, and the survivors poor help in identifying them. Strangers to each other, and whole families erased? They needed to be in the ground, well… you understand."
"Yes." Sir Malcolm groaned. "Horrid. Horrid! And so savage, this part of the world. Wish to never hear of it again, lock-stock-and-barrel. At least Mistress Connor has good memories of living here in the Adriatic, 'til this. She has only the one island she'd wish to forget. Little-traveled as I am, sir… I do allow that I could quite easily abhor this region, entire. Get me home to good old England, that's world enough for me. And with this widening war, the only safe and sane clime I know left! Safe, behind the 'wooden walls' of our Navy, what? 'Cross our Narrow Sea?"
"Wouldn't mind a bit of that, myself, sir," Alan allowed. "Serving King and Country unrecognised for their valour, their unstinting devotion to hard Duty, yes," Sir Malcolm sighed. "Nearly three years you've been in this ship, now, Commander? Away from home and family, with Duty done and foes confounded your only satisfaction?" Well, I wouldn't say quite that. Lewrie tried not to smirk. "About three years, sir… next spring." He nodded gravely. "Once home, I mean to speak on the Fleet in Commons," Shockley pondered aloud. "This squadron, and all the gallant men who went into peril… and tedium, I'd imagine." He chuckled. "Gain for the officers and men some poor bit of acknowledgment for their efforts."
Lewrie smiled. "That'd be most welcome, Sir Malcolm, thankee." "Your gallantry, foremost, sir. Your courage and sense of honour. Your quick thinking," Sir Malcolm prosed on, looking noble.
"I… I did what needed doing, only, Sir Malcolm." Lewrie all but coughed in honest modesty. And chagrin. "Don't quite know what t say, sir… t'be so honoured. Though it's hardly deserved, really…?"
"Oh, tosh!" Sir Malcolm grinned. "Though your modesty becomes you, in addition to your other qualities. Know little of the sea, myself, can't begin to fathom the intricacies of a Sea Officers elaborate lore, but I must say I'm intrigued to learn more of it. Speak to Admiral Jervis, discover his appreciation of our situation, now Spain has come in and the French fleet rules the Mediterranean… why, my colleagues may find my information useful, once home, in expanding the Navy." "That'd be right-fine, Sir Malcolm." Shockley lifted his telescope once more and peered at the shore.
"Rather a lot of birds about, Commander Lewrie. Thousands. I'd think they'd shun such a… dare I say a ghastly, haunted place."
"They're uhmm… feeding, Sir Malcolm," Lewrie told him bluntly. "What sea-birds do, when they're lucky."
"Thought you buried…?"
"The victims, Sir Malcolm," Lewrie stated. "Not the pirates. We didn't think they deserved burying, so we let 'em lie."
"Ah!" Sir Malcolm gulped, looking queasy. "Well, quite right, too. Murdering bastards. Might put them off this place for good?"
"I doubt it, sir," Lewrie countered. "A year or two, someone will put in for wood and water. Knock the placard down, 'cause they hate what country, religion or people the dead were. Scavenge rusted weapons we missed and didn't toss in the sea. Pick round the bones…"
"Scare them off, by way of example, ah. Quite right."
Lewrie rather doubted that. Some might even find it majestic!
"Hard to say, Sir Malcolm, hard to say," Lewrie allowed. "Now we've created a Field of Sea-birds… a Kossovo.. . however it's said in Serbian. They'd understand this, d'ye see…"
He turned outboard to look at his field of slaughter.
" 'Now all is holy,' " he chanted softly. " 'Now all is honourable… and the goodness of God is'-again-'fulfilled.' "
"What's that, Commander Lewrie?" Sir Malcolm asked, giving him an odd look.
"Old Balkan… 'love-poem,' sir," Lewrie replied with a quirky grin.
"Just an old local poem."