There were no lights in the windows opposite. Forbes had gone to dine with the army; the staff had probably been left to do as they pleased until Bethune’s return.
He felt his muscles contract. Voices now, very low, the sound of glasses. And when he closed the shutter and turned he saw her facing him from the other side of the room, her eyes very clear in the glow of candles which must have been arranged here earlier.
She said, “A little wine, Adam. It is as cool as can be expected. Some food can be sent for later.”
She watched him cross the room, and turned slightly so that the piece of silver at her breast shone suddenly like a flame. She wore a plain white gown which covered her from her throat to her feet, now bare on the marble floor.
He put his hands on her arms, and said, “You kept it. I thought you’d thrown it away.”
He touched the small silver sword and felt her stiffen as she answered, “I am wearing it for you. How could I not wear it?”
He lowered his mouth to her shoulder and kissed it, feeling the smoothness of her skin beneath the gown.
“The wine.” She pressed him away. “While it’s cool.”
He brought the glasses from the table and held one to her lips, and they looked at one another over the rims, all pretence gone, all reason scattered.
She did not resist or speak as he kissed her shoulder again, and each breast in turn until she gasped softly and put her arms around him, holding him there, her head moving from side to side as if she could no longer contain herself.
He stood, and held her at arm’s length, seeing the darker patches on the silk, where he had kissed and roused the points of her breasts.
There was a tall mirror on the wall and he turned her towards it, his hands around her waist, seeing the reflection of her eyes in the glass, then deliberately he unclipped the little sword, and opened and removed the gown. He looked over her shoulder, his face in her hair as he watched with her, as if they were onlookers, strangers. Exploring her body, feeling every response like his own, until she twisted round in his grip and said, “Kiss me. Kiss me.”
He lifted her as he had the night aboard Unrivalled, holding her tightly as they kissed again. And again. He laid her on the broad bed and threw off his coat, and the old sword slid unnoticed to a rug by his feet.
She propped herself on one elbow, and said, “No! Come to me now!”
He knelt beside her, his mind and reason gone as she struggled to free him from his clothes, pulling him down to kiss her mouth once more until they were breathless.
He gazed at her, hungry for her, the hair disordered across the pillows, the hands, suddenly strong, gripping his shoulders, one moment holding him away and then drawing him down to her body, her skin hot and damp as if with fever.
He felt her nails breaking his skin as he came against her, and she moved still further, arching her body until they were almost joined. Then she opened her eyes, and whispered, “I yield!” and gave a small, soft cry as he found and entered her.
It was like falling, or being carried along by an endless, unbroken wave.
Even when they lay exhausted she would not release him. They clung to one another, breathless, drained by the intensity of their congress, their need.
Hours later, after they had explored every intimacy, she sat on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chin as she watched him pulling on his breeches and shirt.
“A King’s officer. To everyone else but me.” She reached out impetuously and touched him again, held him, while he bent to kiss her. She had found and touched the old wound and had kissed the jagged scar, her passion roused again. No secrets, Adam…
When he looked again she was dressed in the thin robe, the silver clasp in place, as if the rest had been a wild dream.
A chapel bell was ringing tunelessly; someone was already awake. She opened the door, and he saw that fresh candles had been brought to light the stairs. Hilda, ensuring that nothing would go amiss.
He held her, feeling the supple limbs through the silk, wanting her again in spite of the risks.
She said, “No regrets.” She was still looking after him when he reached the courtyard.
Her voice seemed to hang in the warm air. No regrets…
The guard at the gate was being changed, and a corporal was reading out the standing orders, too tired or too bored to see the naval officer striding past.
He paused in a deserted alley, which he thought was the one where he had purchased the little silver sword. He could still feel her, enclosing him, guiding him, taking him.
He might never see her again; if he did, she might laugh at his desire. Somehow he knew that she would not.
He thought he heard the creak of oars, the guard-boat, and quickened his pace.
But regrets? It was far too late for them now.
17. The Family
ADAM BOLITHO sat at his table, a pen poised over his personal log, the sun through the stern windows warming his shoulder. Another day at anchor, and the ship around him was quietly alive with normal working sounds, and the occasional shouted order.
He stared at the date at the top of the page. 30 TH September 1815. So much had happened, and yet at moments like these it was as if time had been frozen.
He thought of his conversation with Captain Forbes earlier in the evening he had ended in the room above the courtyard. That, too, was like a dream. But Forbes had been right in what he had told him, or rather what he had not told him. It had broken over the squadron just two days ago when Bethune had returned from his inspection of coastal defences with Sir Lewis Bazeley. It was no longer a rumour, but a fact. Bethune was leaving as soon as he was relieved. And that was today.
The two third-rates of which Forbes had also spoken had already been sighted by the lookout post ashore.
Adam laid down the pen and recalled his last meeting with Bethune, who had seemed pleased at the prospect of a new position at the Admiralty as assistant to the Third Sea Lord, with all the promise of advancement it would carry for him. But he had been on edge, evasive, although Adam had not known why. And then, with all the other captains and commanders of the squadron, he had partly understood the reason. The new flagship was Frobisher, which had been Richard Bolitho’s own, and now it was returning to Malta where so much had begun and ended.
The other arrival would be the eighty-gun Prince Rupert, which Adam had seen and boarded at Gibraltar. The big twodecker was no longer Rear-Admiral Marlow’s flagship, although Pym was still in command, and he had heard the flurry of speculation as to why the new flag officer, a senior admiral, should hoist his flag over the smaller of the two ships.
He was convinced that Bethune, better than anyone, would know the answers. Lord Rhodes had been Controller at the Admiralty when Bethune had been there, and those who understood or were interested in such matters had been convinced that Rhodes had been put forward for First Lord, supported by no less than the Prince Regent. Then the appointment had been suspended, quashed, and now it was obvious that Rhodes had been given the Mediterranean station as an honourable demotion. Rhodes would not need reminding that Lord Collingwood, Nelson’s friend and his second-in-command at Trafalgar, had been given the same command. For some reason Collingwood had neither been promoted to admiral nor allowed to return home, even though illness had forced him to apply many times for relief. He had died at sea, five long years after leading the Lee Division against the combined fleets of France and Spain.
And now Frobisher was here again. Different faces perhaps, but the same ship. New compared to most ships of the line, she would be about nine years old now, French-built, and taken as a prize on passage to Brest some five years back. He turned it over in his mind warily, like a hunter looking for traps. James Tyacke had been his uncle’s flag captain, and his predecessor had been a Captain Oliphant, a cousin of Lord Rhodes, a favour which perhaps had
