Second to None

14. Destiny

VICE-ADMIRAL Sir Graham Bethune pushed some of the unopened despatches to one side and got up from the ornate desk.

“Deal with these, Grimes. My head is too full for much more at present.”

He felt the clerk’s eyes following him to the window, which looked across the small, sun-drenched courtyard.

The day had started badly with the guard-boat’s officer reporting that Unrivalled’s arrival meant more than simply the delivery of despatches or letters-there were visitors to accommodate and entertain. Bethune felt the same resentment returning as he heard a woman’s voice, and saw the gleam of colour from the opposite balcony. His flag lieutenant had insisted that that particular room was the obvious choice for guests who had come with the full blessing of the government and the lords of the Admiralty. He could hear Bazeley’s voice too, loud, demanding, authoritative. Full of himself.

He sighed, and walked back to the desk. There was a letter from his wife as well, asking about the possibility of joining him in Malta, or of his coming back to London. She made it sound like the only civilised place to live.

He glanced at Adam Bolitho’s report. Two more prizes. Surely their lordships would offer him extra ships now. There was proof enough that the activities of the Dey of Algiers and his equally unpredictable ally in Tunis required swifter, sharper measures. He almost smiled. It would also make an impressive spearhead for his return to another post in London.

Bethune enjoyed the company of women, and they his, but he had always been discreet. The prospect of his wife joining him in Malta made him realise just how far they had grown apart since her attempts to humiliate Catherine, perhaps even long before that. Of course, he thought bitterly, there were always the children…

He looked at the other window, thinking of Lieutenant Avery standing beside him, sharing it, remembering it. And now he was dead. The Happy Few were only ghosts, only memories.

Bazeley’s young wife would turn a few heads here when her presence became known. She had probably married the great man for his fortune, which, allegedly, was considerable, but if any of the young bloods from the local garrison got the wrong ideas, they had better watch out. He wondered how Adam had managed to resist her very obvious charm on the passage here from Gibraltar. He was reckless. But he was not a fool.

The flag lieutenant was back. “Captain Bouverie is here, Sir Graham.”

Bethune nodded. It was even harder to recall Onslow as he had been on that last night together, lying on his back, snoring and drunk. But almost human.

“Very well.”

Onslow smiled, as always apologetic. “And Captain Bolitho is due shortly. His boat was reported a few minutes ago.”

Bethune turned away and looked across the courtyard.

“I will see them.” He added abruptly, “Separately.”

Onslow understood, or thought he did. He would do it by seniority.

Bethune was well aware of the peculiar rivalry between Adam Bolitho and Emlyn Bouverie of the frigate Matchless. They scarcely knew one another, and yet it had leaped into being. He thought of the successes his small squadron had achieved, despite, or perhaps even because of this personal conflict. It might even be used to greater advantage if he could enlarge his chain of command here. He smiled again. He could never go back to being a mere captain, and he wondered why he had not noticed the change in himself before.

Adam Bolitho stood aside to allow two heavily laden donkeys to push their way through the narrow street. When he glanced up at the strip of blue sky overhead, it seemed the buildings were almost touching.

He had deliberately taken a longer route from the jetty where he had landed from the gig, perhaps for the exercise, maybe to think; his mind was only vaguely aware of the babble of voices around him. So many tongues, so many different nationalities crammed together in apparent harmony. Plenty of uniforms, too. The Union Flag was obviously here to stay.

There were stairs across this part of the street, and he felt the stabbing pain, when earlier he had all but forgotten it.

He paused to give himself time and heard the gentle tap of a hammer. Here the open-fronted shops were as varied as the passers-by. A man selling grain, another asleep beside a pile of gaudy carpets. He ducked beneath a canopy and saw a man sitting cross-legged at a low table. The sound was that of his hammer against a miniature anvil.

He looked up as Adam’s shadow fell across shallow baskets full of metal, probably Spanish silver like the chain on Catherine’s locket, and asked in faultless English, “Something for a lady, Captain? I have much to offer.”

Adam shook his head.

“I may return later…” He hesitated, and bent to examine a perfect replica of a sword. “What is this?”

The silversmith shrugged. “Not old, Captain. Made for a French officer who was here,” he gave a polite smile, “before you came. But never collected. The war, you understand.”

Adam picked up the sword, so small, but heavy for its size. A brooch, or a clasp of some kind. He smiled; he was being ridiculous, and he knew it.

The silversmith watched him calmly. “There is an inscription, very small. It must have been important. It says Destiny, Captain.” He paused. “I have other pieces also.”

Adam turned it over in the palm of his hand. “You speak very good English.”

Again the shrug. “I learned in Bristol, many years ago!” He laughed, and several people who had paused to observe the transaction joined in.

Adam heard none of them. “Destiny.” Like the horizon which never got any nearer.

Somewhere a bell began to chime, and he clapped his hand to his empty watch pocket. He was late. Outwardly at least, Bethune was tolerant enough, but he was still a vice-admiral.

He said, “I would like to have it.”

The silversmith watched him take out his purse, and when he was satisfied held up one hand.

“That is enough, Captain.” He smiled as Adam held it to the light. “If the lady declines it, sir, I will buy it back from you, at a consideration, of course.”

Adam returned to the sunlight a little dazed, amazed at his own foolish innocence.

He touched his hat to a Royal Marine sentry and walked into the courtyard.

An unknown French officer, and a silversmith from Bristol.

Then he saw her on the balcony, in the same gown she had been wearing when she had left Unrivalled. She was looking down at him, but she did not smile or wave to him.

He felt it again, like a challenge. Destiny. The horizon.

And he knew it was already too late for caution.

Adam was surprised by the warmth of Bethune’s welcome, as if he were genuinely pleased, relieved even, to see him.

“Sit here.” He gestured to a chair far from the reflected glare. “I saw you come through the gates just now-limping, I thought. I read the full report.” He glanced at the dour-faced clerk at the other table. “Most of it, in any case. I am glad it was nothing worse.”

“The shot struck my watch. Which is why I was late, sir.”

He saw Bethune look meaningly at his flag lieutenant. So they had noticed.

“You are here and you are safe, that’s the main thing. I am so damned short of vessels I am beginning to think that nobody cares in the Admiralty.” He laughed, and Adam saw the young officer again.

Bethune said, “We shall take wine in a moment. I would ask you to stay for a meal, but I have matters which require prompt action.” The easy smile again. “But you’ve heard all that before, eh? We all have!”

Adam realised for the first time that Bethune was adrift here in Malta. Perhaps high command was even lonelier than the life of a captain.

“No matter, sir. I have to return to my ship. But thank you.”

Bethune walked to the window, one hand tapping against the flaking shutter.

“Captain Bouverie of Matchless was here.”

“I saw him briefly, sir.”

“Not a happy man, I fear. His ship badly requires an overhaul. She has been the longest out here, as far as I am aware.”

Adam thought of something he had heard Jago say. Like a man who’s found a penny but lost a guinea. It fitted Bouverie well.

And Adam did not need to be told. If Matchless was sent to a dockyard in England she might be paid off, laid up, her company disbanded.

It could happen to me. To us.

He saw Bethune step back from the shutter, and knew he had been watching the balcony. Watching her. The revelation surprised him, and he began to see him in quite a different light, recalling that Catherine had spoken of him favourably in her letters. Rank had its privileges, and its drawbacks too, apparently.

Bethune said, “We have received information from what is judged to be a reliable source.” He waited for Adam to join him at the other table where Onslow had arranged a chart, weighed down with carved ivory figurines. “These islands to the south-west of Malta. Owned by nobody, claimed by many.” He tapped the chart. “Almost midway ’twixt here and the coast of Tunis. They are useless for trade or habitation except for a few fishermen, and not many of those, with the corsairs so active in these waters.”

He stood aside as Adam bent over the chart.

“I know them, sir, but at a distance. Dangerous shoals, not even safe for an anchorage. But small craft,” he looked up and saw Bethune nod, “they would find the islands useful.” There was a sudden silence, broken only by the scratching of the clerk’s pen.

Even the sounds of the street did not penetrate to this room.

“Some of the islands have high points of ground.” He touched the chart as if to confirm it. “When this one was last corrected, it stated that two of them could be three hundred feet or more above sea level.”

Bethune rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I believe the corsairs are sheltering their chebecs among these islands. The high ground rules out any kind of normal approach. A blind lookout would see our t’gallants before we got within five leagues of the place!”

“And the information is good, sir?”

Bethune glanced towards the window again, but seemed to change his mind.

“Two traders have been attacked in the past week, another is missing. A Sicilian vessel saw the chebecs-her master has given us some useful information over the years. Us and the French, of course!”

Adam said quietly, “My uncle always had the greatest respect for the chebecs, sir. His flagship Frobisher was attacked by some of them. Lieutenant Avery told me about it.”

They both looked at the empty chair, and Bethune said, “He saw what many of us missed.”

Adam walked a few paces. “A landing party. At night. Volunteers.”

“Royal Marines?”

“I think not, sir. They are fine fighters, but they are foot soldiers at heart. This would require stealth, men used to working aloft in all weathers, sure-footed, eager.”

A door opened and he heard the clink of glasses. No wonder Bouverie had looked so depressed and so angry. His ship was too slow. By the time Matchless was restored to her proper trim it might be too late. For him.

Bethune said, “I can offer Halcyon in support. I cannot spare my flagship, and the rest of the squadron is deployed elsewhere.”

He banged the table with his fist. “God, I could find work for ten more frigates!”

Adam knew the other frigate, half Unrivalled’s size, twenty-eight guns, with a youthful and zealous captain named Christie. The family again… Christie had been a midshipman under James Tyacke at the Nile. They had both been scarred, in different ways, on that terrible day.

Adam could feel Bethune watching him, perhaps seeing himself already there, confronted by an operation which at the best of times could spell disaster. But if the corsairs were using the islands they could not have chosen a more effective lair. A thorn in the side; no. Far deeper than any thorn.

Hazardous or not, Captain Bouverie would perceive it as an act of favouritism. As I would. He felt the piece of silver inside his shirt, and wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it.

He recalled a captain who had once said to him after a bitter hand-to-hand engagement, “You might have been killed, you young idiot! Did you ever pause to consider that?”

He straightened his back and took a goblet from the hovering servant.

“I think it can be done, sir.”

“I hoped you might say that.” Bethune could scarcely conceal his relief. “But no unnecessary risks.”

Adam smiled tightly. Bethune had never lost his ship, witnessed her agony, and that of her people who had trusted in him.

Perhaps it made it easier for him.

Onslow ventured, “The reception, Sir Graham?”

Bethune frowned at him. “It would be better if you weighed at first light. I will have your orders prepared immediately, Christie’s too.” He looked at the pile of documents awaiting his signature, and said abruptly, “Sir Lewis and Lady Bazeley, were they any trouble?”

“We had a fast enough passage, sir.”

Bethune looked at him and smiled. It was not what he had asked.

“There is a reception for them this evening. Short notice, but they are used to that in Malta. I am not.”

He walked with him to the door, while Onslow made a display of folding the charts, probably in readiness for the next visitor.

Bethune said, “Captain Forbes will give you all the help he can. He has served in these waters for many years.” Then, at a complete tangent, “I am truly sorry that you cannot join us this evening. Everything must appear normal.” He paused, as if he had gone too far. “A king once said, if you tell your best friend a secret, it is no longer a secret!”

The mood did not last, and he said almost brusquely, “I will see you when you sign for your orders. No matter what I am doing, I want to be told.”

Adam descended the marble stairs, his mind already on the details of his mission. Total responsibility. He had heard it from his uncle several times. If you succeed, others will get the reward; if you fail, yours is the total responsibility.

He saw the flag captain’s stocky figure by the entrance. Ready to play his role.

Unrivalled had arrived that morning; tomorrow she would weigh and proceed to sea once more. And suddenly he knew he was not sorry to leave.

Leigh Galbraith stood by the hammock nettings and studied the boats alongside. One of them was Halcyon’s gig, her crew very smart in checkered shirts and tarred hats. He smiled. A ship shall be judged by her boats.

The other frigate’s captain had been down in the great cabin for more than an hour. Each seeing his own ship’s part in what lay ahead, the selection of men, and who would lead them.

A landing party. A raid, to flush out the corsairs so that the frigates could get amongst them before they could make good their escape.

He heard Lieutenant Massie, who had the watch, speaking sharply to a boatswain’s mate, a man not known for his quick response to anything beyond routine. Massie had little patience with anyone who could not keep up. He was a good gunnery officer, one of the best Galbraith had known, but he was not a man for whom it was possible to feel any affection.

Massie joined him now, breathing hard. “A bloody block of wood, that man!” Galbraith glanced at the open skylight. Soon now. He heard Bolitho laugh. A small thing, but reassuring.

The captain had said to him while they had been waiting for Christie to arrive from Halcyon, “I want you to take charge of the landing party. I’ve a few suggestions which we can discuss later, but mostly it will be your initiative, and your decision when you get there.” His dark eyes had been intense. “Not a battle, Leigh. I need you as my senior lieutenant, not as a dead hero. But you are the obvious choice.” He had smiled. “The right choice.”

Massie said, “One man to be flogged, so why all the fuss?”

A seaman had been found in his mess, off duty and drunk. It seemed they had only just dropped anchor, and now they were leaving again… There will be danger. Aboard ship it was different. Faces and voices to sustain you, the strength of the timbers surrounding you.

Galbraith said, “A flogging helps no one at a time like this.”

“They’d laugh in your face without firm, strong discipline, and you know it!” Massie sounded triumphant when Galbraith did not respond. “They offer us scum to be made into seamen. Well, so be it!”

Galbraith stared at the other ships, their reflections less sharp now in a freshening breeze.

Massie seemed to read his thoughts, and said angrily, “I expect half of Malta knows what we are about! When we reach those damned islands the birds will have flown, and good riddance, I say!”

Is that what I was hoping? Galbraith thought suddenly of the gathering in the captain’s cabin when they had entertained Sir Lewis Bazeley and his young wife at supper. The wine, like the endless procession of tempting and distracting adventures with which Bazeley had dominated the conversation, disappearing bottle by bottle. Like most sea officers, Galbraith had little experience of fine wines. You took what was available, in a far different world from that described by Sir Lewis. But once or twice he had received the impression that Bazeley had not always known the luxury of good food and wine, or beautiful women. He was a hard man in more ways than Galbraith had yet fathomed.

Massie waved an arm towards the shore. “And a reception, no less! We should be there, after all we’ve achieved since we joined this damned squadron!”

Galbraith remembered most of all how the young woman had looked at the captain whenever he had answered one of Bazeley’s many questions. As if she were learning something. About him, perhaps…

He answered wearily, “Next time, maybe.”

Midshipman Cousens said, “The captain’s coming up, sir.”

Galbraith nodded, glad that the conversation had been interrupted, and that Massie would be quiet for a while.

“Man the side!”

The two captains stood together by the rail and waited for the gig to grapple alongside.

Christie turned and smiled at Galbraith. “My second lieutenant will be supporting you on this venture. Tom Colpoys-he’s an experienced officer, so you’ll have no complaint on that score!”

So easily said. As if neither of these young captains had a care or a doubt in the world.

The muskets slapped to the present, a sword sliced through the dusty air, the calls squealed, and moments later Christie’s gig pulled smartly out from Unrivalled’s shadow.

Adam Bolitho swung on his heel. “A man for punishment, I understand?”

Galbraith watched his face as Massie reeled off the offences.

“Willis, you say?” Adam paced to the rail and back again. “Foretopman, starboard watch, correct?”

Massie seemed surprised. “Aye, sir.”

“First offence?”

Massie was out of his depth. “Of this kind, sir.”

Adam pointed towards the shimmering rooftops and battlements.

“Over yonder, a good many will be too drunk to stand tonight, Mr Massie. Officers, no less, so think on that too! They shall not be flogged and neither shall Willis. Give him a warning, this time.” He looked keenly at the lieutenant, as if searching for something. “And a warning for the one who brought him aft in the first place. Responsibility pulls in two directions. I’ll not have it used for working off old scores.”

Massie strode away, and Galbraith said, “I should have dealt with it, sir.” Massie had probably never been spoken to in that manner in his life. Few captains would have cared, in any case.

Adam said, “I shall be going ashore directly.” And smiled, at something Galbraith did not understand. “To sign for my destiny.” He looked along his command, and Galbraith wondered how he saw her. Only a captain could answer, and Bolitho would share that with nobody. Unless… “When I return offshore, you will join me in a glass.” The rare, infectious smile again. “Not claret, I think.”

Then the mood was gone, just as quickly, and he said, “The man Willis. His wife has died.” He paused, the memory stirring. “In Penzance.”

“I did not know, sir.”

“Why should you? But Massie is his lieutenant. He should have known, and cared enough to prevent this unnecessary affront.”

Bellairs was hurrying towards them, but he waited for the captain to leave before he produced a list of items he had been told to muster for the proposed landing party.

Galbraith put his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Later, but not now, my lad.” He shook the shoulder gently. “I wish you had been here just now. You’d have learned something which would have had your promotion board agog with admiration.” He thought of the captain’s expression, the dignity and the fire in the quiet voice. “About the true qualities which make a King’s officer. I certainly did, believe me!”

He knew Bellairs was still gazing after him when he walked away to call the gig’s crew. And he was glad he had shared it with him.

Adam chose the same leisurely approach to Bethune’s house without truly knowing why. The narrow street was in deeper shadow now, and most of the stalls had been closed or abandoned for the night. He looked towards the low-canopied shop where he had spoken with the silversmith, but that, too, was deserted. As if he had imagined it.

He had left the gig at the jetty alone and had sensed Jago’s disapproval; he had even ventured to suggest that he should keep him company. The whole place is probably full of cut-throats an’ thieves. But he had remained with the boat’s crew when Adam had told him that there would not be a man left, hand-picked or not, when he returned.

Like that handshake; Jago had still come only halfway towards sharing his innermost thoughts.

But the old sword at his hip had been loosened in its scabbard all the same.

There had been a couple of small boys begging, and a savage looking guard dog, but otherwise his walk was undisturbed.

The air was cooler as evening lengthened the shadows, but not much. He thought without pleasure of the reception at Bethune’s headquarters, and imagined the press of sweating bodies, and the wine. Unrivalled would put to sea in the morning. He had to keep a clear head, to deal with any remaining problems before the two frigates were committed.

He turned the corner and saw the pale gates looming out of the dusk. Every window seemed to be ablaze with light. He could smell cooking, and felt his stomach contract. He had eaten nothing since breakfast; Jago probably knew about that, too.

He touched his hat to a sentry and strode into the courtyard, aware of vague shapes, murmured instructions, and the continuous clatter of dishes and glassware.

He recalled Bethune’s casual question about the passage from Gibraltar. Did he see his unwanted visitor as a burden, or a possible stepping-stone to some new appointment? He was welcome to it. His was a world Adam had never known, and had repeatedly told himself he would never willingly share.

There was music, hesitant at first, violins, seemingly at odds with one another and then suddenly sweeping through the courtyard in a single chord.

He stopped and listened as the music faded away, and somebody called out for attention. Short notice. Bethune had not approved of that, either.

“Why, Captain Bolitho, is it not? Standing alone and so thoughtful. You are very early!”

He turned and saw her in a curved entrance he had not noticed on his previous visit. In the deepening shadows her gown looked blue, perhaps chosen to match her eyes. Her dark hair was piled above her ears, Hilda’s work, he thought, and she was wearing earrings, shining like droplets of fire in the last sunlight.

He removed his hat and bowed.

“My lady, I am a visitor, not a guest. I shall be on my way as soon as I have met with Sir Graham or his aide.”

“Ah, I see. More duty, then?” She laughed and flicked open a small fan which had been dangling on a cord at her wrist. “I had thought we might see more of you.”

He joined her in the paved entrance and caught her perfume, her warmth. The same woman, and yet so different from the one he had held and restrained in her moment of nausea and despair.

“It seems you are well cared for, m’ lady.” He looked past her as the music began again. “I hope the reception is a great success.”

She took his arm, suddenly and deliberately, turning him towards the music, towards her, until they were only inches apart.

“I do not care a fig for the reception, Captain! I have seen so many, too many… I am concerned that you choose to blame me because of such…” She seemed angry that she could not find the word to express her displeasure.

“Necessities, m’ lady?”

“No, never that!” She calmed herself; he could feel her fingers gripping his arm, like the night Napier had brought him to her.

She said, “Walk with me. There is a view of the harbour on the other side.” Her fingers tightened as if to drive away his resistance. “Nobody will see us. Nobody will care.”

“I do not think you understand…”

She shook his arm again. “Oh, but I do, Captain! I am well aware of the rules, the etiquette of King’s officers. No talk of women in the mess. But a knowing nod and a quick wink betrays such chivalry!” She laughed, and the sound echoed in the curved archway. “Listen! D’ you hear that?”

They came out on to a paved parapet, beyond which Adam saw the sea, sunset already bronze on the water, the riding lights and small moving craft making patterns all their own.

The hidden orchestra was playing now, and the other sounds of preparation seemed to pause as if servants and orderlies had stopped to listen.

She said almost in a whisper, “It’s beautiful,” and turned to look at him. “Don’t you agree?”

He put his hand on hers and felt her tense. A woman one moment, a child the next. Or was he deluding himself yet again?

“As you have observed, my lady, I am somewhat aback when it comes to the finer points of etiquette.”

She did not respond, but said a moment later, as if she had not heard him, “A waltz. D’ you know that some people still claim it is too risque, too bold, for public performance?”

He smiled. She was teasing him.

“I am thankful I am spared such hazards!”

She turned towards him again, and removed his hand from hers as if she was about to walk away. Then she took his hands once more, and stood looking at him, her head slightly on one side, deciding perhaps if she had already gone too far.

“Listen. Hear it now? Let it take charge of you.”

She placed his right hand on her waist, pressing it there, like the night when she had refused to release him.

“Now hold me, guide with your left hand, so.”

Adam tightened his grip and felt her move against him. Even in the uncertain light he could see the bare shoulders, the darker shadow between her breasts. His heart was pounding to match the madness, the pain of his longing. And madness it was. At any moment somebody would discover them; rumour could run faster than any wind. And jealousy could match and overwhelm any sense or caution.

But she was moving, taking him closer, and his feet were following hers as if they had always been waiting for this moment.

She said, “You lead,” and leaned back on his arm, her eyes wide. “Then I shall yield.”

And laughed again. The music had stopped, like the slamming of a single door.

How long they stood in the same position was impossible to know. She did not move, even when he pressed harder against her thighs, until he could feel the heat of her body, her shocked awareness of what was happening.

Then, carefully, firmly, he held her away, gripping the naked shoulders until she was able to look at him again.

He said, “Now you know, my lady, this is no game for tricksters. Bones mend, but not hearts. You would do well to remember that!”

She dragged her hand away and raised it as if to strike him, but shook her head when he seized her wrist. “It was not a game or a trick, not to me. I cannot explain…” She stared at him, her eyes shining with tears, and he felt her come against him again, without protest or amusement. He wanted to push her away, no matter what it might do to each or both of them.

Think what you are doing, of the consequences. Are you beyond reason because of a loss you could never have prevented, a happiness which was never yours to explore?

But there was no solution. Only the realisation that he wanted this woman, this girl, another man’s wife.

He heard himself say, “I must leave you. Now. I have to see the admiral.”

She nodded very slowly, as if the action was painful.

“I understand.” He felt her face against his chest, her mouth damp through his shirt. “You may despise me now, Captain Bolitho.”

He kissed her shoulder, felt her body tighten, shock, disbelief, it no longer mattered.

There were voices now, and laughter, someone announcing an arrival. She was fading into the shadows, moving away, but with one arm held out.

He followed her through the same low archway, and she said, “No, no-it was wrong of me!” She shook herself as if to free her body of something. “Go now, please go!”

He held her, kissing her shoulder again, lingeringly, and with a deep sensuality. There were more voices, closer. Someone looking for him, or for her.

He pressed the small silver sword into her hand and closed her fingers around it, then he walked through the archway and into the courtyard once more, his mind and body fighting every step, almost daring to hope she might run after him and prevent him from leaving. But all he heard was the sound of metal on stone. She had flung the little clasp away from her.

He saw Lieutenant Onslow peering out from the opposite doorway and felt something like relief.

“Captain Bolitho, sir! Sir Graham sends his compliments, but he is unable to receive you this evening. He is with Sir Lewis Bazeley, and before the guests arrived he thought-”

Adam touched his sleeve. “No matter. I will sign for my orders and leave.”

Onslow said lamely, “He wishes you every success, sir.”

Adam did not glance up at the balcony. She was there, and she would know that he knew it. Anything more would be insanity.

He followed the flag lieutenant into another room. While Onslow was taking out the written orders, Adam held out his hand and examined it. It should be shaking, but it was quite steady. He picked up the pen, and thought of Jago down there with the gig’s crew.

There were far more dangerous forces abroad this evening than cut-throats and thieves. Perhaps Jago had realised that also.

I wanted her. And she will know it.

He could hear her voice still. Then I shall yield.

Perhaps they would never meet again. She would know the perils of any liaison. Even as a game.

The gig’s crew sat to attention when he appeared, and the bowman steadied the gunwale for him to step aboard. Jago took the tiller.

“Cast off!”

Captain Bolitho had said nothing. But he could smell perfume, the same she had been using when they had carried her, almost insensible, below.

“Bear off forrard! Out oars!”

Jago smiled to himself. Get back to sea. Good thing all round.

“Give way all!”

Adam saw the riding light of his ship drawing nearer and sighed.

Destiny.