He gasped, 'Who did this to you?'
Her right shoulder was cruelly discoloured, one of the worst bruises he had ever seen.
But she reached up with one hand and dragged his mouth down to hers, her breathing as wild as his own.
She whispered, 'A Brown Bess has a fearsome kick, like a mule!'
She must have been firing a musket when the pirates had attacked the schooner. Like the pistol.
The kiss was endless. It was like sharing everything in a moment. Clinging to it, never wanting it to finish, but unable to hold on for a minute longer.
He heard her cry out as he threw the robe on the floor, saw her fists clench as he touched her, then covered her in his hand as if to prolong the need they had for each other.
She watched him tear off his clothes and touched the scar on his shoulder, remembering that too, and the fever she had held at bay.
She said huskily, 'I don't care about afterward, Richard.'
He saw her looking at him as his shadow covered her like a cloak. She said something like 'It's been so long -' Then she arched her body and gave a sharp cry as he entered her, her fingers pulling at him, dragging him closer and deeper until they were one.
Later, as they lay spent in each other's arms and watched the' smoke standing up from the guttering candles, she said softly, 'You needed love. My love.' He held her against him as she added, 'Who cares about the tomorrows.'
He spoke into her hair. 'We shall make them ours too.'
Down on the jetty Allday seated himself comfortably on a stone bollard and began to fill his new pipe with tobacco. He had sent the barge back to the ship.
Bolitho would not be needing it for a bit yet, he thought. The tobacco was rich, well dampened with rum for good measure. Allday had dismissed the barge but found that he wanted to remain ashore himself. Just in case.
He put down a stone bottle of rum on the jetty and puffed contentedly on his new clay.
Perhaps there was a God in Heaven after all. He glanced towards the darkened house with the white walls.
Only God knew how this little lot might end, but for the present, and that was all any poor Jack could hope for, things were looking better for Our Dick. He grinned and reached down for the bottle. An' that's no error.
Gibraltar
1805
His Britannic Majesty's Ship Hyperion heeled only very slightly as she changed tack yet again, her tapering jib-boom pointing almost due east.
Bolitho stood by the quarterdeck nettings and watched the great looming slab of Gibraltar rise above the larboard bow, misty-blue in the afternoon glare. It was mid-April.
Men moved purposefully about the decks, the lieutenants checking the set of each sail, conscious perhaps of this spectacular landfall. They had not touched land for six weeks, not since the squadron had quit English Harbour for the last time.
Bolitho took a telescope from the rack and trained it on the Rock. If the Spaniards ever succeeded in retaking this natural fortress, they could close the Mediterranean with the ease of slamming a giant door.
He focused the glass on the litter of shipping which seemed to rest at the foot of the Rock itself. More like a cluster of fallen moths than ships-of-war. It was only then that a newcomer could realise the size of it, the distance it still stood away from the slow-moving squadron.
He looked abeam. They were sailing as close as was prudently safe to the coast of Spain. Sunlight made diamond-bright reflections through the haze. He could imagine just how many telescopes were causing them as unseen eyes watched the small procession of ships. Where bound? For what purpose? Riders would be carrying intelligence to senior officers and lookout stations. The Dons could study the comings and goings with ease here at the narrowest part of the Strait of Gibraltar.
As if to give weight to his thoughts he heard Parris say to one of the midshipmen on the quarterdeck, Take a good look, Mr Blessed. Yonder lies the enemy.'
Bolitho tucked his hands behind him and thought over the past four months, since his new squadron had finally assembled at Antigua. Since Catherine had taken passage for England. The parting had been harder than he had expected, and still hurt like a raw wound.
She had sent one letter in that time. A warm, passionate letter, part of herself. He was not to worry. They would meet again soon. There must be no scandal. She was, as usual, thinking of him.
Bolitho had written back, and had also sent a letter to Belinda. The secret would soon be out, if not already; it was right if not honourable that she should hear it from him.
He moved across the quarterdeck and saw the helmsmen drop their eyes as his glance passed over them. He climbed a poop ladder and raised the glass again to study the ships which followed astern. It had kept his mind busy enough while the squadron had worked up together, had got used to one another's ways and peculiarities. There were four ships-of-the-line, all third-rates which to an ignorant landsman would look exactly like Hyperion in the van. Apart from Obdurate, the others had been new to Bolitho's standards, but watching them now he could feel pride instead of impatience.
Holding up to windward in the gentle north-westerly breeze he saw the little sloop-of-war Phaedra, sailing as near as she dared to the Spanish coast, Dunstan hoping possibly for a careless enemy trader to run under his guns.
Perhaps the most welcome addition was the thirty-six gun frigate Tybalt, which had arrived from England only just in time to join the squadron. She was commanded by a fiery Scot named Andrew McKee, who was more used to working independently. Bolitho understood the feeling even if he could not condone it. The life of any frigate captain was perhaps the most remote and monastic of all. In a crowded ship he remained alone beyond his cabin bulkhead, dining only occasionally with his officers, completely cut off from other ships and even the men he commanded. Bolitho smiled. Until now.
They had achieved little more in the Caribbean. A few indecisive attacks on enemy shipping and harbours, but after the reckless cutting-out of the treasure-ship from La Guaira all else seemed an anti-climax. As Glassport had said when the squadron had set sail for Gibraltar. After that, life would never be the same.
In more ways than one, Bolitho thought grimly.
It had been a strange feeling to quit Antigua. He had the lurking belief that he would never see the islands again. The Islands of Death, as the luckless army garrisons called them. Even Hyperion had not been immune from fever. Three seamen employed ashore had been taken ill, and had died with the disbelief of animals at slaughter.
He stepped from the ladder as Haven crossed the deck to speak with Penhaligon the master.
The latter remarked confidently, The wind stands fair, sir. We shall anchor at eight bells.'
Haven kept very much to himself, and apart from a few fits of almost insane anger, seemed content to leave matters to Parris. It was a tense and wary relationship, which must affect the whole wardroom. And yet the orders when they came by courier brig had been welcome. The storm was still brewing over Europe, with the antagonists watching and waiting for a campaign, even a single battle which might tip the balance.
The captured frigate Consort, renamed Intrepido, had slipped out of port unseen and unchecked. It was said that she too had left for Spain, to add her weight to His Catholic Majesty's considerable navy. She would be a boost to public morale as well. A prize snatched from the English, who were as ever desperate for more frigates.
Bolitho stared at the towering Rock. Gibraltar for orders. How many times had he read those words? He looked along the busy maindeck, the hands trimming the yards, or squinting up at the restless sails. It had been in Gibraltar that he had first met with Hyperion, when this endless war had barely begun. Did ships wonder about their fates? He saw Allday lounging by the boat tier, his hat tilted down to shade his eyes from the hard glare. He would be remembering too. Bolitho saw the coxswain put one hand to his chest and grimace, then glance suspiciously around to make sure nobody had noticed. He was always in pain, but would never rest. Thinking about his son, of the girl at Ac Falmouth inn; of the last battle, or the next one.