Table of Contents

The Angel in the Window

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December the twenty-fifth, one bell in the middle watch

December the twenty-sixth, six bells in the forenoon watch

December the twenty sixth, three bells in the afternoon watch

December the thirty first, seven bells in the first watch

January twenty fifth, three bells in first dog watch

January twenty sixth, three bells in the last dog watch

January twenty eighth, three bells in first dog watch

February third, one bell in first watch

February fourth. Six bells in the morning watch

February fifth. Seven bells in the forenoon watch

February fifth. three bells in the first watch

February sixth. middle and morning watches

February seventh. seven bells in the morning watch

February seventh. First watch

February twentieth. three bells in the forenoon watch

About the Author

MLR Press Authors

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The Angel in the Window

Charlie Cochrane

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Alexander Porterfield may be one of the rising stars of Nelson’s navy, but his relationship with his first lieutenant, Tom Anderson, makes him vulnerable. To blackmail, to the exposure of their relationship—and to losing Tom, either in battle or to another ship.

When sudden danger strikes—from the English rather than the French—where should a man turn?

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright 2012 by Charlie Cochrane

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

Published by

MLR Press, LLC

3052 Gaines Waterport Rd.

Albion, NY 14411

Visit ManLoveRomance Press, LLC on the Internet:

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Cover Art by Deana C. Jamroz

Editing by Kris Jacen

Ebook format ISBN# 978-1-60820-804-3

Issued 2012

This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.

December the twenty-fifth, one bell in the middle watch, weather clear and dry

Hampshire, England, 1803

“The bells, listen to the bells, Alexander!” Tom Anderson’s eyes shone with reflected starlight and snow as he and his captain made their way back from the church to the Anderson family home.

The midnight service had been enchanting, his hosts full of goodwill to all men, even a sombre heathen like Alexander Porterfield. Although the man was never really sombre when he had his first lieutenant at his side, like now.

He looks just like the dark-haired angel in the stained glass window. Beautiful and pure.

An especially wicked grin from Tom broke the illusion, recalling to mind all the occasions when his behaviour—their behaviour—would have made the most broad-minded of angels blush.

“I still don’t know how you can believe in God.”

“Oh, that old chestnut again.” Tom waved away the comment with a flick of his hand.

Alexander snorted. “It’s an old chestnut because you never give me an answer I can accept.”

“Maybe that’s because you don’t want to accept it.” Tom smiled. “Try this one. Perhaps I believe because God sent me my very own angel to deliver me from prison.”

Alexander reserved his answer. There’d been no stone walls, nor iron bars, just a cage of Tom’s own self doubts. Releasing him from that had been a pleasure.

“I think the last thing I resemble is an angel, but I’m glad you believe I was sent especially for your own service.” He immediately regretted using those words, the lascivious grin on Tom’s face suggesting thoughts of beds and hammocks they had known. And used. “So how do you reconcile our particular relationship with what you are taught in church? Is not what we do against God’s laws?”

The bells of the church slowly ceased their peals as the friends continued the long walk back to the big house.

“Captain Porterfield!” Tom punched his friend’s arm. “You have the nerve to ask that, when you stand as bold as brass and read the Articles of War to the ship’s company. How you have the audacity to recite number twenty-nine without flinching is beyond my understanding.”

“And how you have the audacity to say that when you’re just as hypocritical is beyond mine.”

On one memorable occasion, Alexander had been sick of a fever and Tom had read the Articles in his stead. According to the ship’s surgeon, he’d orated in such a harsh manner it made the captain look like a simpering maiden.

“I was talking about God’s laws, not man’s.”

It was Tom’s turn to snort. “We break God’s commandments all the time at sea. Do you not know that thou shalt not murder? And yet we kill our enemies because we believe it is right to protect our country. The matter is between me, my conscience and God himself, as is the matter of us.” He stopped, dark eyes twinkling below a fringe of unruly curls. “Take my arm and walk with me on this perfect night—do not spoil it with talk.”

“Aye, aye.” Alexander smiled, took his lieutenant’s arm and retreated into silence.

They reached the house tingling with cold and welcomed the glasses of hot mulled wine thrust into their hands. Mr. Anderson—a wrinklier, balder version of his son—bounded over and embraced them both.

“About to set the dogs out to look for you. Stargazin’ and daydreamin’ again, was he?”

“No, but not for want of trying.” Alexander nodded, stray auburn wisps from his queue escaping to frame his face. “I’m amazed he hasn’t driven us all to grey hairs.”

“Why do you think I have so little of mine left?” Mr. Anderson, beaming, ran his hands through his thinning locks.

“What are you boys up to?” A deep, pleasant female voice announced the arrival of the Mrs. Anderson. “Talking about the sermon? Or was it Drury Lane?”

“Discussing my faults, Mother. We could be here till Lammas.”

She grinned. “The next Lammas but one. Now, tomorrow. No hunting.”

“Oh, Mother, surely...”

She stifled her son’s argument with a wave of her hand. “I’ve been keeping the local young ladies at bay for you, as you’d wish. Had to use the tactic ‘Injured in action, ship’s surgeon insists on complete rest’. What will they and their mothers think if they see you cavorting on a horse?”

“But...”

“No ‘buts’. If you wish to chase the fox, you must risk being chased by the vixens and I’ll offer you no place to go to ground, my boy.” She narrowed her eyes. “And watch what you wear. If you’re done up like a spinsters’ delight you’ll have to live with the consequences.”

“We should have you leading the fleet,” Alexander, emboldened by wine and warmth, bowed to his hostess. “Not even Sir Edward Pellew could show such dash.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Mr. Anderson said, raising his glass and proposing the first of many toasts.

After what seemed an age of “wives and sweethearts” and “confusion to Napoleon”, the post-church party dispersed, and everyone could creep away to bed. Although Alexander had the distinct, disquieting impression his host had said something like, “Those boys. Think of the quantity of feminine guile that will be wasted on them over the years,” as he and Tom had ascended the stairs.

Once out of sight of the company, past the curtained alcove on the stair where—as snotties and still wet behind the ears—they’d shared their first kiss on English soil, Alexander whispered, “I hope you’re not too tired from the cold air and the hot wine?”

“Too tired?” Tom squeezed the hand then let it go. “What did you have in mind at this late hour, apart from sleep?”

“Our talk regarding the Articles of War has made my mind run to broaching one or two of them.” Mr. Anderson’s chance remark still rang in his ears, but they’d learnt absolute discretion. Nobody in the house had a room within three of theirs.

Tom grinned. “I suppose we could always start with the one about stripping officers of their clothes and see how far we can make it.”

As it was, they didn’t even make it to Tom’s bed.

Afterwards, they managed to find the energy to reach the piece of furniture in question and curl up under the goosedown quilt.

Tom sighed contentedly. “We should count our blessings. If I were your wife I might not see you for months—years—on end. We have spent more time together in the last six months than most captains have with their wives in the last ten years.”

“I know. But I worry about how long our luck will last. They’ll give you your own command soon.” Alexander rubbed the back of Tom’s hands with his thumb, an habitual, nervous habit.

“Then we must hope we’re made brother captains in a fine squadron set for the Indian Ocean. Imagine the sun on our backs and the fine spices in the air.” Tom clearly refused to worry now about any possible separation. They would manage; they had always managed.

“Perhaps they would make me the commodore and I’d have to consult you in my great cabin. Often.” As often as I could decently get away with.

“And after that, you’ll be made Admiral and I could be your flag captain and we wouldn’t have to give a tinker’s dam about anything. You could kiss me each and every time we met on the quarterdeck should you wish.”

Alexander refused to rise to the bait, burrowing deep into the downy quilts. Tom snuggled close and squeezed his hand.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Porterfield.”

“Merry Christmas, my cherub.”

December the twenty-sixth, six bells in the forenoon watch, weather dry, cloud building

As per local custom from time immemorial, the local hunt met on the broad expanse of gravel at the front of the Anderson manor.

Alexander was pleased Tom had been banned from riding to hounds as it meant that he could be excused from it too. Horses—he disliked them, they hated him and they demonstrated it at every opportunity. He had dressed in his normal uniform and wasn’t prepared for the grand appearance of Tom in full hunting pinks.

The man strode down the steps of the house looking like a Greek god. Alexander felt the colour rising up his face until he was sure he must be the same shade as his friend’s coat. Spinsters’ delight? He was the captain’s delight, and tight breeches were no means of hiding one’s feelings.

Tom had been accosted by a young lady, one who was clearly trying to stand so as to best display her elegant figure. They both turned to face Alexander, the girl no doubt assuming that the handsome Captain Porterfield’s blush was aimed at her. Tom must have known it was for him and returned the compliment with an elegant bow.

A hand touched Alexander’s shoulder. He turned to find Lieutenant Clovis—a relative of one of the local landowners—at his side.

“Is Imogen to hand?” Clovis would be riding with the hunt and clearly wanted everyone, especially the daughter of the Anderson household, to be aware of both his beautiful new costume and excellent horsemanship.

Alexander bridled. “I couldn’t say,” he replied, coldly. None of the Andersons liked the man and he couldn’t see any reason to go against the flow. It didn’t help that Imogen seemed to favour him.

Clovis inclined his head, with an oily smile. “I thought she might be with her brother. And where he goes, you’re usually to be found.”

A cold, prickly sensation slithered up the back of Alexander’s neck. How much did Clovis know? How much did any of them know? Mr. Anderson’s overheard remark of the night before still rankled.

When he’d first visited the family, a year ago, he’d been under the impression he was being shunted in Imogen’s direction, but that situation had swiftly changed. Had Tom said something? The vigour with which his mother seemed to keep eligible females at bay suggested she wished to save the family the embarrassment of admitting possession of a stallion who’d brook no mares. They said that every man was a bachelor past Gibraltar, but lifelong bachelors at home were often a matter of comment—and many a man had taken a wife to further his career. One day somebody would enquire too closely why neither he nor his friend had done so.

Alexander caught Clovis’s eye. That beady stare seemed ready to penetrate his thoughts and condemn him. Or was that just his own guilty conscience doing the same? Tom looked over the girl’s shoulder, suddenly concerned at his captain’s discomfort. Alexander smiled—he’d not have the man worried unduly. Tom had suffered enough in the past.

“I’m sure Imogen will—” Alexander began, to be interrupted as Mrs. Anderson bounded up, clapping her hands.

“Mr. Clovis, my head lad has found you the most spirited mount—just suited to your dash in the saddle. Shall we go and find them?” She beamed at the others and spirited the man away.

“Miss Logan, I believe that your father is trying to catch your attention,” Tom motioned with his hand.

“Oh, I am sorry to have to break up our tete-a-tete, Mr. Anderson,” the girl simpered. “I do hope that we will be able to talk again later.” Tom bowed low.

“Tete-a tete my elbow,” he hissed once she was out of earshot, “it was like a full broadside from a ship of the line. I am such a poor rider, Mr. Anderson, I wish that I had you by my side to reassure me. I’m afraid this riding habit does not suit my colouring as much as I would like. My hair shall be quite ruined in this wind. I hope she lands in a ditch.”

“Are we to actually watch the hunt, Tom?” Alexander was quite enthusiastic to see the spectacle, so long as he was out of the saddle.

“Of course! Come and see what Mother has rigged up.”

December the twenty sixth, three bells in the afternoon watch, storms on the horizon

Mrs. Anderson summed up the situation eloquently. “When they were handing out brains, Thomas, did you think they meant drains and say ‘Oh no, I don’t require any, thank you’? How can you be the only person injured today and not even have been on horseback?”

Her younger son lay on the sofa, his leg bandaged and his pride bruised. They had followed the hunt in a splendid open carriage; when it had stopped to view the kill, instead of opening the little door he had leapt theatrically over it, misjudging the height and ending up in a heap on the ground.

The injury, while bloody and painful, was insufficient either to threaten his return to his ship or to engender sympathy from anyone except Alexander, who had fussed over him like a mother hen, to the point of nearly being thrown out of the room by the patient’s real mother.

She had eventually left them alone with Tom’s medicine—a bottle of excellent wine and two glasses—and a piece of her mind. “If you’re ever going to learn your lesson, then an hour or two of being fussed over might prove an excellent tutor. How you two ever acquired your reputations in battle is a complete mystery to me.”

“I think you do it deliberately to upset me,” Alexander hissed as his hostess closed the door.

“Do what deliberately?”

“Get yourself hurt. Throw yourself off carriages and in front of swords.”

Tom sighed resignedly. “I hate to disillusion you, Alexander, but not all of my actions are performed with you primarily in mind. I am too fond of my own body to purposefully risk it just for the pleasure of seeing you put out.”

They sipped their wine in thoughtful silence until Alexander announced, “I don’t like Lieutenant Clovis.”

“No-one likes Mr. Clovis, except for Imogen. He’s only tolerated here because she’s taken such a fancy to him and because my parents indulge their children quite shamelessly.”

“He seems incredibly conceited about his attire. I have never seen a man so vain about a new suit of clothes.” Alexander sniffed.

The contents of Tom’s glass travelled rapidly from his mouth via the back of his throat and out through his nasal passages, showering the front of his waistcoat with, thank goodness, hock rather than claret.

“Don’t you remember what you were like when you were first kitted out in Lieutenant’s clothes? You were gorgeous and you knew it. Don’t deny it,” Tom held up his hand in command, “you also knew the effect it would have on me. I seem to remember the consequences making themselves known very shortly afterwards in your cabin and in the cable tier and—”

“Tom!” Alexander hissed through gritted teeth, afraid that anyone might walk in and hear. He walked over to the window, trying to work out whether they’d now be able to enjoy their shore leave in the usual way with Tom making such a fuss over his shin.

“You look like you’re trying to calculate our exact longitude. Are you planning how we’ll make our entertainment tonight, now that I can barely walk on this leg?” Tom raised one eyebrow.

How does he do it?

Alexander ignored the reading of his mind. “Can barely walk on your leg, my arse—you were up and about on it soon enough when Miss Logan offered you her ministrations. I think a night of ‘no entertainment at all’ might begin to cure you of your over exuberant behaviour.”

Tom, sighed, all facetiousness suddenly gone. “I’m truly sorry I’m such a fool on occasions. You would have to deny me all ‘entertainment’ for a long time to cure me of my idiocy.”

“I could never do that. It would punish me far more than it would you. I don’t find you indispensable just upon my quarterdeck, Mr. Anderson.” Alexander buried his nose in his glass, ashamed at his outburst of candour and frightened that they’d touch on things too deep—how Tom put on a blithe facade at times to cover the doubts and fears. Two years as a midshipman under a sadistic, unpredictable captain was enough to have left anyone scarred.

Tom drew himself up, slowly and apparently painfully. “Do you think that anyone in this house would have enough sympathy to ask the servants to draw me a bath? I feel stiff all over.”

I saw you look at me out of the corner of your eye; well, I won’t indulge your rough talk in your own home.

“Your mother certainly wouldn’t, you having disgraced yourself so mightily in front of all present. However I’ll try to intercede with your father if you wish.” Alexander rose to leave, trying to present a picture of resigned dignity.

Tom eyed him, sidelong. “I shall need someone to help me in and out of the tub—and scrub the places I can’t reach, of course.”

“Perhaps your father can spare one of the stable lads—they’re used to dealing with awkward brutes. I might advise him to bring his crop.” He favoured Tom with a severe look.

“Better if you asked him to lend you the crop, Alexander.”

The captain left the room, unable to stop the severe look turning into a huge grin.

December the thirty first, seven bells in the first watch

“Come on in here quickly, before we’re seen.” Tom bundled his captain into a dark storeroom, locking the door swiftly behind them.

“Where exactly are we?”

“It’s a room the family hardly use—by a strange chance of acoustics, you can hear the music from the ballroom clearly. We used to sneak in here when we were children, so that we could pretend to be grown up and join in with the dances.”

The New Year’s Eve dance was an abiding Anderson tradition. Not so grand as a formal ball, the family simply inviting the people they most liked, be they landed gentry or humble villager. A boisterous, joyous occasion and one that Alexander had dreaded—someone was bound to expect him to dance. But Tom, using his badly grazed shin as an excuse for his own non-appearance among the dancers, had at the first opportunity whisked his friend off down a seeming rabbit warren of passages at the back of the house and into this little room.

Mischief afoot, I suppose. But it didn’t turn out to be the type of naughtiness Alexander expected.

“You really need to learn to dance and while my leg would prevent me taking to the floor with anyone else, it’s recovered well enough for me to instruct you. Don’t look so horrified, no one will know what goes on here. It’s easy. Just go with the beat of the music—like the rhythm of firing a gun.”

Tom waited for the musicians to start up again and began to pace out an easy sequence of steps. “This is the first one we learned as children—not so complicated as what will be attempted in there,” he inclined his head to the source of the noise, “but it’s a start.”

Alexander closed his eyes and grimaced, opening them to find Tom grinning at him. “Come on, follow me. If you do well enough you can take Augusta for a turn.”

If this had been an instance of the captain following his first lieutenant through a gunnery exercise, then at least half his gun crew would have been maimed and the cannon left running amok on deck.

“I’d hate to cripple your younger sister in the cause of my education. Can’t we try something easier?”

“There isn’t anything easier.” Tom gave a theatrical roll of the eyes. “Although we could try something different. What if you pretended to be the girl,”—another grimace from Alexander—“and you could perhaps mirror what I do?”

Alexander had been convinced from the start that this was a stupid idea, but his friend had been so enthusiastic that he had continued to acquiesce. He’ll pay for it one way or another though; preferably in my cabin.

“Please pay attention! Mother says that my feet are one of my finest parts and I don’t wish to have them mangled.”

After their fifth stab at a dance, Tom gave up. “You really are completely hopeless, aren’t you? Come here.” He pulled Alexander close to him, his arms round his friend’s waist and his head resting in the curve of the man’s neck. They gave up attempting any sequence of steps and simply moved very slowly together to the beat of the music. Alexander felt that, at last, this was the sort of dancing he could happily take part in.

Tom always smelled wonderful, whether from sweat and powder after exercising the guns or from salt and spray after a dip in the sea. Now it was lavender soap and good Welsh wool that Alexander could take great gulps of in as they sinuously moved around the room.

“There’s not a couple in that ballroom who are dancing as closely as we are. Is it just me, or is the feeling not completely intoxicating?”

“I’ve been intoxicated these last ten days.” And worried too, but he’d not admit to that. They’d be back to sea soon and he wouldn’t spoil these last few days of leave with worries about whether they’d ridden their luck too far.

A furious knocking on the door and Tom’s sister Augusta’s voice hissing, “I know you’re in there, Tom, so don’t try and pretend otherwise,” interrupted the clinch.

“It’s almost midnight and time for father’s speech, so if you don’t want me to tell everyone that you and Alexander are too busily engaged in chasing the parlour maids to attend, you had better get your bodies into the ballroom now.” A swishing of skirts as she dashed away.

Tom sighed. “And just when I thought that you were beginning to enjoy dancing.”

“If I could always dance like this, with you as my partner, I would never object to the activity again.” Alexander kissed the side of his lover’s neck.

“Do you think that in the future some enlightened person will revoke certain of the Articles, Alexander? I know that the thought would horrify you, but is there any chance that one day we could dance like this in public?”

“Not in a million years. Men don’t dance with women like this in public.”

“Oh, you know I don’t mean that literally—I’m wondering whether we will ever be able to stand up and show the world how much we mean to each other? Sometimes having to hide in corners makes me so low.”

Alexander caressed Tom’s cheek. “We know. It’s all that matters.” He leaned down and stole a brief kiss.

“Promise of further rewards to come, Mr. Porterfield?”

“After the speeches, Mr. Anderson, after the speeches.”

§ § §

“Where have you been? Chasing the maids?” Mrs. Anderson thrust a glass into her son’s hand and another into Alexander’s. “You know how your father relies on the moral support of the family at these times. He hates making speeches,” she added, rolling her eyes at Alexander.

“We were only in the storeroom,” Tom replied, “where I was trying to teach Alexander to dance. Hopeless cause, of course.”

“Couldn’t he learn out here? I’d have lent a hand.”

“And risk three of the young ladies being sent home with wounds worse than mine and you being confined to a Bath chair for the next three months?” Tom laughed. “I think not.”

“How do you put up with him? I’d have put him in irons years ago if he were my officer,” Mrs. Anderson said, looking at Alexander with mock exasperation. “He’d try the patience of an angel.”

“Oh, I’m no angel,” Alexander began, echoing his words of the week before, “but—”

“Shh!” Tom interrupted, although not necessarily because he feared what his captain was about to say. It was time for the speech.

Mr. Anderson kept things mercifully brief, giving thanks for a good year past and the safe return of all loved ones from sea. It had been an exceptional year, Alexander reflected, if nobody present had lost one of their own. Then Mr. Anderson looked forward to the year ahead, to marriages planned and those still germinating, to more safe returns and—of course—an end to the war.

“Excellent,” Tom said, patting his father’s shoulder as the man joined them. “Shakespeare couldn’t have put it better.”

“He’d have used a lot more words,” Mrs. Anderson replied, handing her husband an invigorating and much needed glass of wine. “Most of which he’d have made up.”

“Can I propose another toast?” Tom lifted his glass. “The Anderson family and its adopted members. Safe cruising and calm waters.”

“Hear him, hear him!” Mr. Anderson inclined his glass in return.

As they drank, Alexander carefully studied his host and hostess, who were gazing from him to Tom and back again. The truth at last dawned.

They know. They’ve known a long time.

The very thing he most dreaded, the thing he’d been trying to put at the back of his mind since they’d arrived. He’d always thought that their old captain had suspected, but Tom had continually reassured him that, even if he did, he’s not going to do anything to sully the reputation of his favourite officers, is he?

But this family knew, for sure and certain, which could only mean disclosure and disgrace. Another affectionate smile from Mrs. Anderson brought him at last to his senses and the realisation that they weren’t going to tell anyone anything.

They treasure him; they treasure us. We will always be safe here as long as we don’t abuse their protection.

“We must talk to our guests, dear. Excuse us.” Mrs. Anderson whisked her husband away.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Tom hissed as soon as his parents were out of earshot.

“Not a ghost, Tom, so much as a light on the road to Damascus.” Alexander smiled. “The year five will be a good year.”

January twenty fifth, three bells in first dog watch, wind westerly, variable

The Channel, January 1804, aboard the frigate Priam

Tom sipped from his glass of claret. “I often wonder whether you keep your own private log, Mr. Porterfield, and what the Admiralty would make of it were the thing ever to be submitted. You can imagine the entries. Engaged enemy frigate at noon; took her as prize. None killed, four wounded. Engaged Mr. Anderson in his cabin at eight o’clock; he took me as prize; none killed, only wounds to my—”

“I cannot believe that ever a captain was so plagued with a first lieutenant as I am with you.” Both officers grinned and Alexander refilled their glasses.

Spithead was two days behind and the Mediterranean—business to be done at Gibraltar and reporting for duty at Malta—an unpredictable number of days ahead. The great cabin was dark despite the early hour and they sat in their usual places, companionably sharing some of the finest vintage the Anderson estate could provide.

“Did you know that our Mr. Fowler sailed with Cochrane, when he took the Gamo with his little sloop?” Tom asked.

“I do. For once I knew something before you.”

“And how did you manage that? I thought you’ve spent all your time since we weighed anchor dealing with this bloody storm?” It had been a fierce blow, taking down one of the yards, and they’d feared for the foremast.

“Do you think I’d take any man as one of my officers? Even in a crisis?” Alexander smiled. Crisis it had been, their previous master being struck down with gout, two days before they’d sailed. Fowler had come as a Godsend. “I found an old friend who sung his praises.”

“You kept that quiet.” Tom narrowed his eyes. Unlike Alexander not to tell all. “Unless...unless this old friend was the cause of that awful headache you had the day before you sailed. The one you said came from being struck by a loose end of rope.”

“Ah. I may have been less than candid.” Alexander smiled, leaning back and holding up his glass to catch the light. “This is truly excellent.”

“Don’t change the subject. You’d imbibed too much,” Tom said, grinning. “Mr. Fowler strikes me as an excellent officer.”

“Why do I think there’s a ‘however’ hull up on the horizon?”

“Because there is.” Tom leaned forwards, elbows on the table and voice lowered. “I was busy in Pompey, too. You can get a long way if you keep your ears open and your mouth shut. And the other man’s glass full.”

Alexander swept his glass up, as though Tom was about to try to ply him with drink. “And you heard...?”

“That our Mr. Fowler might just be too fond of his own sex. Nothing proven, but it might explain why we were able to pick up such an able officer so easily.”

“Ah.”

“Ah, indeed. Still, I won’t condemn him.” Tom watched his captain carefully. Alexander might be fearless in battle, but anything which touched on their relationship, even obliquely, made him skittish.

“Is he discreet?”

“My informant couldn’t say. He felt the man had been unjustly labelled, so perhaps the whole thing is no more than a mare’s nest. So long as he keeps his hands off the foremast jacks...” Tom suddenly struck the table. “Alexander, this wine has completely addled what little wits I still possess. I’d completely forgotten about something. Please bear with me while I fetch it from my cabin.”

“But of course.” Alexander was left alone with his thoughts while Tom, with his usual cheery word for the marine at the door, fetched a small sheaf of papers which, on his return, he spread across the great cabin table.

“Augusta gave me these, the morning that we left.” Tom ran his finger along some of the lines. “They read extremely strangely—no language that I recognise. Welsh, do you possibly think?”

Alexander had spent part of his childhood in the Principality; he might know. “Not as far as I can tell. It looks like a sort of code—wherever did she find these?”

“In Phillip Clovis’s room.” Chin in hand, elbow on table, favourite thinking position assumed, Tom carried on the tale. “I should have guessed it was serious when she called me Thomas. That always means trouble.”

“I should remember that.” Alexander smiled, although his eyes looked uneasy. “Carry on.”

“She said that Clovis must have dropped these letters. She’d gone in his room—says she thought she’d mislaid her prayer book there when she was supervising the maids.” Tom snorted. “But I suppose she was actually moping around sighing and sniffling or whatever it is that girls do.”

“Then why didn’t she just give them back to him?”

Tom smiled. “That’s what I asked her. She doesn’t lie well. Reading between the lines, she found them on the floor under his bed and didn’t want to admit the fact that she’d been prying.”

“How on earth can you just find something under the bed by accident?” Alexander’s face darkened. “Does your father know he’d enticed her into his boudoir? He’ll have his pistols drawn.”

“Wash your mouth out! It was nothing like that. She can’t stand the man any more than we can.” He picked up his glass again. “I like the thought of Clovis being shot, although I suppose that would upset Imogen, so I’ll have to forgo the pleasure.”

“Is it possible,” Alexander seemed to be choosing his words carefully, “that she was looking for evidence of some sort of impropriety? She’d love to see your father drum Clovis out of the house.”

“I think that’s entirely possible. Which is why she gave them to me and not to him. But I didn’t press her.” Tom sighed. “My sisters never tell me the entire truth. Still, these papers looked so odd, she thought that we should have them. ‘You and your clever Captain Porterfield will know what is to be done with them’.” He broke into an uncanny impersonation of his sister’s lisping tones.

“Odd indeed.” Alexander held up the papers to the light. “And you’ve been sitting on them since then?”

“Guilty as charged. I remember stuffing them into my coat pocket and promptly forgot all about them. It was the day before we left. Too busy with packing and goodbyes.”

“We’ll need to look at these closely.” Alexander knitted his brows into a frown. “Perhaps we’ll be able to work out what they say—although why a fourth Lieutenant of a ship of the line should have such things about him, I could not guess. Thank God he isn’t one of my officers.”

“Maybe our friend—I use the term with my tongue in my cheek—is spying upon Bonaparte for the benefit of King George—he seems the sort of oily type who would be attracted to that sort of service.” Tom drained the last of his wine. “Maybe...”

But any further speculation was cut short with the appearance of Midshipman Lowell, piping, “Master’s compliments, sir and there is a fair old storm coming up from the west and would you be so kind as to come on deck and bring Mr. Anderson with you if he is with you and I am to find him if he is not and…”

The rest petered out with the lad’s clearly dawning sense that he hadn’t really delivered this message as he should have done.

Alexander favoured the youth with his “why am I plagued with midshipmen like this?” look, so Tom naturally took pity on the lad and rose from the table.

“I must find my greatcoat, Mr. Lowell, then I’ll see Mr. Fowler.” Tom looked over his shoulder as he left the cabin, but Alexander still had his eyes fixed on the papers. That troubled expression couldn’t just be at the prospect of the storm ahead.

January twenty sixth, three bells in the last dog watch, wind veering southerly westerly and easing

The tempest lasted till the next day, leaving all on board cold and exhausted. It also left a beautifully calm sea and a fine sailing wind in its wake.

It seemed right for Alexander to invite his key officers to a late dinner that evening; they’d worked hard and well together to get the frigate through intact. Mr. Weekes, the second lieutenant, would need to be content with having his meal sent to his berth, being unfortunate enough to be hit by a falling block at the height of the storm.

Those called to the captain’s table included Fowler, Grady the surgeon and young Lowell, who’d unexpectedly proved to have a sensible head about him in a crisis.

“Do you remember the first time you were invited to dine with Captain Gallian?” Tom adjusted his stock into a perfect knot. Even if he had no need to impress Alexander, old habits died hard.

“I do.” Alexander pursed his lips in thought. “I dreaded anyone talking to me at the table. It was only the thought of the food kept me from passing out altogether.”

“Ah yes. Such delights as only to be dreamed of in the middies’ mess.” Tom grinned.

Hell. He’s thinking of other delights we first dreamed of as our hammocks swung side by side. Not for the first time, Alexander thanked whoever invented tables, and the way they screened a man’s britches. “The best advice I’d been given was to say nothing and to say it respectfully. I hope Lowell’s been told the same.”

“I wonder if he’ll have washed his neck?” Tom brushed down his own immaculate jacket with the back of his hand. “I suspect his nanny always did it for him and he’s not developed the art. He did well last night, though.”

“He did. We’ll make a sailor of him yet.”

The table was laid, the guests assembled, the wine opened and both it—and the sense of relief that they’d survived the night relatively unscathed—began to loosen tongues.

“There is a persistent rumour that, when you were junior lieutenants, you drank your way around Portsmouth celebrating your promotion to Prometheus.” Grady always spoke just as he thought. He might be a more than competent ship’s surgeon and valued greatly by his captain, but the man had no idea of subtlety.

Tom stepped in to handle this engagement. “So I believe, Mr. Grady, but let me assure you there is no truth in it.”

Alexander glanced along his shoulder at his first officer. He’d heard Tom relate the story many times before, often sailing close to the wind. Anything which touched on their life ashore worried him, so Tom would have to steer a vigilant course. The innocent look on the man’s face filled his lover with dismay. What mischief was brewing now?

“When he was younger, Captain Anderson’s idea of drinking his way around Portsmouth was being daring enough to open a second bottle of wine.” Tom’s face was a picture of honesty, the angel in the window expression. “So, as you can imagine, we spent an entirely blameless evening.”

Well, thought Alexander, we were fairly blameless as we walked from the sally port to the Ship Inn.

“Lieutenant Porterfield, as Alexander was then, insisted we take in several sites of historical local interest.” Tom, warming to his theme, paced the route out on the tablecloth with his fingers.

Ah, that would be The Lamb and The Keppel’s Head, then.

“We had a light meal…”

Alexander an affectionate smile behind his wine glass. You had at least three trout and a whole apple pie to yourself.

“…and, I will admit, a glass or two of wine.”

A glass or two—Alexander only just stopped himself from snorting with indignation—a bottle or three. That’s why you tried to kiss me over the dinner table.

“We then attended a lecture designed to improve young men’s morals.”

Oh, very clever. We listened to some old sot raving at the bar about how the navy was full of mollies and what he would do to rid it of them.

“And we listened to some delightful church music.”

Now that’s the truth, at last. They’d stood near the Garrison Church, heard the organ being practiced and both ended up weeping, for the simple joy of being young and alive and still together.

“I can assure you that we had no dealings with Portsmouth brutes or any other ladies of similar inclination.”

That was true as well. We needed no women, for we had all the company we needed, which was each other. And a small but clean set of rooms rented for three days. And a landlady who didn’t seem to mind that we hardly left the bedroom for the first two.

“So I wish that whoever persists in circulating this rumour about drunken debauchery,”—that would be yourself, I suspect—“would stop doing so.” Tom ceased his tomfoolery with a particularly fierce glance at Lowell, as if he suspected the young lad of spreading the slander through the fleet. The midshipman blushed from his scrubbed neck to the very roots of his hair. Fowler and Grady, producing great gales of laughter, were clever enough to recognise the truth when it was in evidence (which was not tonight).

Coffee was drunk and the cloth cleared.

Tom yawned, immediately apologising. “I have not seen my cot for nigh on thirty-six hours, gentlemen, you will forgive me.”

To the evident disappointment of Lowell, who eyed the remnants of nuts on the table sadly, the party broke up, leaving only the first lieutenant lingering with his captain. To receive the last orders of the day, no doubt.

“You will excuse me if I retire to my berth now, sir.” Alexander hoped Tom would show no inclination to indulge in their common pleasurable pursuits. They rarely did so aboard, unless want and distress drove them to it—the risks were too great.

“Of course.” Tom smiled tenderly. “We have all done enough for today.”

“Our duty and more.” Alexander reached for a bundle of papers from the locker.

“Are those Clovis’s mysterious communications?”

“Indeed. I intend to turn some attention to them tonight—a little exercise of the brain to help me sleep.”

Tom couldn’t resist a leer. “Not always the part you choose to exercise when you need to relax.”

Alexander looked up, ready to issue a whispered command to take care, saw his lover’s face and grinned. “I believe those components to which you allude received adequate employment during our leave. I’ll notify you immediately should they be in need of further assistance.”

“I hope I can wipe this smirk off my face before I leave the great cabin. What if Fowler sees me?”

“Then there’ll be the devil to pay.” Alexander replied, shivering. Of all on board, the master would be the one to recognize why Tom was leering. Please God he was as discreet as he was rumoured to be.

January twenty eighth, three bells in first dog watch, weather fine

The sunset over the Atlantic was breathtaking.

The captain and first lieutenant of the frigate Priam stood watching the sun slowly making her way to the horizon, quiet and content in each other’s company as they so often were on board. A lock of hair escaped from Alexander’s queue; Tom resisted the temptation to finger it, as he’d have done had they been on their own.

Alexander looked tired, too tired to be accounted for solely by their voyage so far. They had a neat little prize at their side, a French corvette that had suffered both from the same storm the Priam had negotiated and from having a lookout whose mind was more on his little mistress at home than the sail of an English frigate edging through the early morning mists. The action to take her had been swift and fairly bloodless; she was now under the command of Midshipman Lowell, Lieutenant Weekes’ arm still being slow to recover from the falling block.

Tom could clearly see the young man working the little prize crew efficiently, with great spirit.

By contrast, Alexander looked as if he had hardly slept for days. Tom had seen that look before, on leave, but this time it couldn’t be for the same reason—they’d not shared more than the briefest kiss or embrace since the last evening in Portsmouth.

“You need to get some rest, Alexander. You look awful,” Tom softly reprimanded him.

“I do not ask you to comment about my appearance on my own quarterdeck, Mr. Anderson,” Alexander snapped.

“It is part of my duty to ensure the smooth running of this ship, sir. That cannot be guaranteed if the captain of the vessel chooses to neglect his well-being.” And Tom was, as ever, taking his duties seriously. “Dear God, Alexander, don’t we have experience enough of the dangers of commanders who are not entirely fighting fit?”

Alexander raised his fist, then struck the weather rail. “You’re correct, as so often. It’s those letters—I’ve spent too long mulling over them. I’m sure I’m close to deciphering their code and the closer I come, the more uncomfortable I feel.”

“Are they that bad? No,” Tom raised his hand, “that was stupid. Of course they are, for you to be so concerned.”

Alexander turned his gaze out to sea, wishing to avoid his lover’s piercing green gaze. “It’s like seeing a strange sail on the horizon—you may get a distinct feeling you’re facing the enemy, even though you have no firm evidence to hand. I honestly wish your Augusta had not been so inquisitive.” He turned back. “I apologise for my rudeness and hope that you will allow me one more sleepless night. If I haven’t solved the riddle by tomorrow, I promise I will abandon it.”

“One night more, and then you must rest. We’ll see Gibraltar tomorrow if this wind stays—we can bring in the prize, deal with our business and find a berth for the night ashore if you wish.” Tom’s voice dropped to a murmur. “Or should we send the men ashore and find ourselves a quiet berth here?”

Alexander gazed upwards, as though checking the trim of one of the sails. I will not look at him, for he’ll either be wearing the angel look or the satyr one. I’m so tired that either will unman me.

“You may choose, as you believe I’m too tired to make any rational decision. I fear, indeed, that I may be too tired to appreciate the finer points of any berth.” He saw Tom’s sudden disappointment and smiled, an indulgence he rarely allowed on his quarterdeck. “Although they say every man’s a bachelor past Gibraltar. That thought may revive my flagging spirits.”

“Do you remember Plymouth?” Tom asked, from the corner of his mouth.

“Playing at long bowls?” Oh yes, he remembered. Sharing a room as middies, edging around the subject, neither saying what they meant. When Alexander’s mother had died, Porterfield senior had told his son, in a rare moment of paternal closeness, “Do not ever think that you know how much you care for something. You will not know until it is taken from you.”

So it had proved, when Tom had joined another ship, after a year in which they had shared the camaraderie of the middies’ mess. The yearning for a missing friend had been recognised then as the craving for a lost love.

“Aye, if you can call it that. At least the next time we met we had the courage to go for the jack.”

“I always thought of it in terms of battle.” Manoeuvre and counter-manoeuvre, until each ship knew what was the likely cost of coming to combat. “We could choose to engage or try to flee as we chose.”

“Such a romantic.” Tom laid his fingers on the rail, barely a hand’s-breadth from his lover’s arm. “At least you showed your true colours at last. One warning shot across my bows.”

“I was afraid you’d about ship.” Such a night. Alexander had for the first time in his life completely lost himself to passion and pleasure. A shocking and surprising experience, coupling immense satisfaction with tender feelings of affection and some moments that were truly startling.

“Never. You’d cut me out good and proper. Freed from a foreign harbour at last.” The harbour of his own self doubts which a year with an unstable captain had brought him to anchor in.

“Stone walls do not a prison make, not iron bars a cage.”

“You’ve changed your metaphor again,” Tom said, suddenly smiling. “From bowls to ships and now to allegorical prisons. You must be tired.”

“I am.” Alexander stretched. “What a fine pair of idiots we were. Living in our own prisons, without need of any walls to hold us.”

“We must never return there. Not on sea or land. We may not have freedom in our love here on Priam, but our souls are free and always will be.”

“Angels alone which soar above...” Enjoy such liberty. Neither of them needed to finish the verse.

Raising his voice to its normal quarterdeck pitch, Tom said, “Now, I respectfully request that you go below and finish your conundrum. Mr. Fowler and I can see us safely through this night. Be assured that we’ll alert you should the need arise.”

“I cannot leave my ship in more capable hands. The deck is yours, sir.”

Alexander turned and made his way back to his cabin, leaving his lieutenant to the fine evening and his memories.

February third, one bell in first watch, at anchor

Business was concluded, dispatches had been delivered and the prize registered.

The officers of the Priam had been busy, with the exception of poor Lieutenant Weekes. The surgeon at the naval hospital had insisted he remain in his care, which had made the workload even heavier for his comrades. Alexander resolved to make Lowell acting lieutenant for their run to Malta, although he had yet to tell the young man. Better to let him have some fun ashore before he had to face his new responsibilities. The captain also had some fun ashore lined up, at the instigation of his first lieutenant, who had got them an excellent room, with two beds for appearances sake but only one for intended use.

He’d also fended off several invitations to dine; it was normally an unforgivable thing to decline such a request but Alexander’s appearance was so haggard that no-one doubted Tom’s assertion that his Captain had been ill and Grady was insisting on a night of complete rest. It wasn’t just his mother who could fabricate such an excuse.

A night of rest wasn’t what either of them had in mind. A little stimulating exercise was exactly what was required to ensure Alexander got a good night’s sleep and Tom felt it was absolutely his duty to make certain that the man got it.

They took a light supper in their room—with a wine only slightly less grand than the Andersons could supply—and withdrew from the table in a glow of satisfaction.

“An excellent repast. You’re a fine judge of accommodation.”

“I would hope so by now,” Tom replied, stealing a glance at the enticing looking bed. “Now that we’ve benefited from the skills of the cook, I hope that we’ll similarly profit from those of the housekeeper.”

“I know it can be counted in days, but it seems a lifetime since we last lay together, Tom.” Alexander looked both wistful for past joys and hopeful for those of the future. “Well, in a bed at least—we came fairly close to it in the coach.”

“And would have succeeded, had you not been so skittish. We had every opportunity, being alone for miles on end. How you ever achieved your reputation for fearlessness in battle amazes me at times.”

Alexander ignored the comment. “Do you remember young Gough? On Prometheus?”

“Of course I do, I’ve not begun to lose my faculties.” Tom grinned. “You thought that he fancied me.”

Alexander laughed. “Thought it? I was absolutely certain of it! He stared at you with great puppy eyes, at times. I’m surprised you didn’t register the fact.”

“Of course I registered it, Alexander—I was neither blind nor insensitive. I liked the lad enormously. He’ll be a great captain one day, if he survives.” He stopped and looked sidelong at his lover. “You weren’t jealous, were you?”

“No, of course not,” Alexander answered, just a fraction too quickly.

Tom sighed, knowing he wasn’t being told the truth. “He was only a boy, and a subordinate.”

“We were little more than boys in Plymouth. And you were my subordinate officer.” Alexander looked genuinely worried.

Tom contemplated the man next to him, so familiar and yet such a mystery at times. “You know, he wouldn’t have been the first pretty boy whose advances I have rejected these past few years.”

Alexander stared at him with his mouth agape, speechless.

“I’ve had my fair share of opportunities for dalliance since meeting you, Alexander.” Tom was pleased to see his lover’s by now very evident discomfort. “The last time was when we were on the Trojan.”

They’d transferred to that frigate not long after Tom had been made lieutenant, recommended to a captain who was tired of dissent in his gun room and a pair of lieutenants who hated each other so much they’d taken their latest argument to a bloody fight. To have a new second and third officer who actually liked and co-operated with each other was good enough, but to find that they were capable was a bonus.

Captain Lapenotiere had recognised in them a particular synergy. Maybe their strengths counteracted each other’s weaknesses—or it was a reflection of their deeper, hidden bond—but when they served side by side, it was like having two and a half lieutenants working for you.

“I remember the Trojan well, Tom.” Alexander’s voice was hardly above a murmur. “The midshipmen were all particularly ugly.”

“Oh, you clown, it was at Port Mahon—don’t you recall the little inn where you played whist? You should remember, given how much you won.” Tom snorted and shared the last of the wine between their glasses. “A young man came and chatted to me. Do you recollect at all?”

“I can remember that the run of the cards was unusual that night.” Alexander frowned as if that was all he could bring to mind.

Tom grinned. “I don’t believe you. You can, no doubt, recollect the detail of every trump you played that night but you don’t recall the fact that your lover was being seduced before your eyes.”

Alexander looked sheepish—not an expression he often adopted. “Unfair! I wasn’t aware that your virtue was under threat. If I had been, the man in question would have felt the edge of my sword.”

“Would he? Really?” Tom chuckled at the ridiculous thought of Alexander calling a man out for attempting to seduce his fellow officer.

“Now you mention it, I do recall a rather striking looking young man.”

“I thought you couldn’t have failed to notice him. He reminded me of you when we first met—all gangling awkwardness and puzzled innocence. At least until he made his proposal.”

“What did he say to you?”

“I could not possibly repeat it. Not even here in private. But it was completely indecent and very anatomically detailed.” Tom snorted. “In return I made an anatomically exact suggestion as to what he could do with his idea.”

“And you say this has happened frequently?”

“Well, only if you count as frequent one admiral as well as the chap at Mahon. Now, are we to make use of that bed or not, sir?”

Alexander drained his glass. “And so to bed, my lord and master. I am entirely at your command.”

“At my command? Are we to play admiral and flag lieutenant again?”

“We’ve not played that since I was made captain.” Alexander leaned forward, tugging at Tom’s less than immaculate stock. “I’ll have to upbraid you for the slackness of uniform.”

“You’re not allowed to. I’m the admiral, remember?” Tom pulled his captain closer, for a kiss. “You’ll do what you’re told. This jacket of yours, for instance. It needs a good brushing. Take it off.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Alexander eased the offending item from his shoulders.

“And that shirt needs the attention of your steward. We’ll have that off, too.”

“If you insist.” Alexander was clearly trying hard to keep a straight face.

“And no undershirt!” Tom feigned shock as his lover’s chest appeared, bared before him. “Your sister would be appalled, as she spent so long sewing you that flannel one.”

“You forget, I have no sister.”

“Sir,” Tom grinned. “You forget I have no sister, sir.”

“Sir,” Alexander repeated, looking remarkably gormless. “I apologise for my lack of a female sibling. I shall endeavour to do better in future.”

“It would be as well for you to do better in your duty there,” Tom nodded towards the bed, “so get those britches off while you’re at it. Not fit to be seen on my quarterdeck. Let alone on my sheets.” Tom sat back in his chair, admiring the display. And if Alexander at any point complained, he’d have to be reminded that he’d played exactly the same card when he’d last been in the admiral’s role.

“Am I acceptable yet?” Alexander asked, turning from side to side and letting the light play across his torso. “Or shall I remove more?” His hands slipped to the waist of his drawers.

“Yes please,” Tom replied, adding quickly—and teasingly—“those shoes and silk stockings make a poor show. Off with them.”

Alexander perched on the bed, slowly baring his legs and feet. He looked at his ‘admiral’, suitably coyly. “Shoes and stockings off it is, sir.”

Still Tom sat in his chair, admiring. He’d have that flesh in his hands soon enough, so why rush? They weren’t callow youths anymore, all “run out your guns, discharge and reload”.

“I await your orders, sir.” Alexander rubbed his arms—the room wasn’t that warm.

“Then we’ll have it all bared, young man.” Tom was going to have to bare himself, soon. Parts of him refused to obey the order to make this a slow passage.

Alexander slipped his drawers off without a word, ranging his clearly excited body along the bed.

“That’s more like it. Spotlessly clean now. Not a smudge to be seen. Although,” Tom rose, slipping off his jacket and shoes, and moving to the bed, “I had better inspect every part, just in case a speck of dirt has eluded my notice.”

“You’re a hard task master, Admiral.” Alexander spread his limbs, to make the job easier.

“Hard’s the word.” Tom began his chore, starting at Alexander’s waist and working up to his face, every inch gone over with fingers or tongue. “So far so good.”

“Kiss me, please.”

“Do flag lieutenants give the orders now?” Still, the “admiral” obliged, not just one but a whole string of kisses, during which Alexander managed to get much of Tom’s uniform off.

“Glad to see—or should I say feel?—that even an old officer like yourself is still primed and ready to do his duty, sir,” Alexander said, loosening then pulling down Tom’s drawers. “Great gun run out and ready to fire.”

“Likely to be a premature discharge if you don’t move your hand.” Tom’s voice—hoarse, desperate—confirmed the truth of his words. “Unless you want to waste the shot? I’m not sure I can reload as quickly as when I was a midshipman.”

The hand was withdrawn, and put to use caressing Tom’s buttocks. “Take me now, here.”

“If that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll have,” Tom murmured, voice harsh and ragged. He reached for the little pot of salve that was usually by the bed when sharing favours was likely. Grease the gun, press closer, feel the way gently until the ultimate contact was made then push hard and fast.

Alexander shuddered, rocking slowly against his lover until they’d both reached the peak, the climax being all the sweeter and exhilarating for having been so long desired and so long deferred.

February fourth. Six bells in the morning watch, squalls

“I’ve cracked the cipher. I can read Clovis’s papers quite clearly now.” Alexander’s fingers drew lazy circles on his lover’s chest in the morning light.

“Indeed, Alexander? And how did you achieve such a prodigious feat?” The explanation might not be of paramount importance to Tom, but it would give him leeway to gather his early morning wits.

“It was a clever cipher—one that would prove almost impossible to break unless one had the keyword, but simple once that was known. I tried using the names of ships, admirals, places—but they were all useless.”

“You sound horribly smug. How did you work out the magic word?”

“Ah,” Alexander seemed suddenly reticent, “I wondered what I would employ as a keyword in the same circumstances. A word that no-one else would know, of course, and that thought gave me an answer instantly. One of the special endearments I use for you when we’re at our...hm...most intimate.”

“Oh-ho.” Tom ruffled his lover’s hair. “You don’t think Imogen and that odious wretch have been sharing the same kinds of favours we have? Father would keelhaul him.”

“Heaven forbid. I don’t think she would be so unwise. I just remembered his pet name for her.”

“And that unlocked the treasure?” Tom kept his voice light. If he thought Clovis had been interfering with Imogen, he’d keelhaul the man. “What revelations do they bring—the names of all Napoleon’s mistresses?”

“They list all the most confidential details from his ship’s last and next assignment, and some other things he’s evidently gleaned on leave before coming to your home. It seems that some of our fellow officers are not very discreet.”

“They’ve not had the practice we’ve had, have they?” Tom snuggled closer—the morning had a nip to the air. “What is the point of them? To whom were they bound?”

“That I don’t know, but I fear that your Imogen’s admirer may not be the most patriotic of men.”

“A spy, you mean?” Tom’s mind raced to visions of Clovis being hanged, with the entire Anderson family in attendance, all trying to hide gleeful grins behind tactfully sombre faces.

“That may well be so. I wondered at first if these papers were planted to entrap me—us—but I believe they would have been easier to decipher and contain more obviously salacious material if that were so. We must take them to the highest authority once we land in Malta.” Alexander shivered, not just from the cold. “Come, it’s time to be up and about our work.”

“Not time for once last kiss, then?”

“One kiss only and no more.” Alexander started to squirm as eager fingers began to make mischief. “And that is your commanding officer’s order, Mr. Anderson.”

§ § §

When they reached the quay, Captain Porterfield was keen to appraise young Lowell of his promotion; in the event, never had the wind been so soundly taken from his sails. Admiral George was waiting at the dock with Clovis himself at his side, and on catching sight of the Priam’s commanding officer, he beckoned him over.

“Bit of luck for you, Porterfield. Heard you were short of a lieutenant—Mr. Clovis here needs passage to Valetta to join his new ship. Kill two birds with one stone if he travels with you.”

Alexander thought that he’d never seen a man so secretly contented to be recommending an officer—as if George were relieved to be rid of a particular encumbrance.

“Always a pleasure to oblige you, sir.” He bowed to the admiral. “Mr. Clovis, please shift your dunnage to us forthwith.” He ignored Tom’s grimace of distaste. This might be the time for sharp, decisive action.

§ § §

Twelve hours later, Alexander felt desperately ill. Some element of his dinner, taken in the usual naval fashion of the early afternoon, had decided it didn’t wish to remain confined. By evening it had announced the fact. By the time he lay in his cot it had decided to make its escape.

Perhaps Tom had sub-consciously heard the noise of retching in his sleeping ears. Perhaps it was the strange linking of minds that he seemed to possess with his lover that had warned and roused him. Whatever it was, he awoke knowing that Alexander needed him.

He found the captain in his sleeping cabin, pale and nauseous—the unwelcome guest having finally broken out and lying with the rest of his meal in the chamber pot. Without a word, Tom began to rub the small of his back. “I knew that the fish looked dubious—I did try to tell you.”

“You ate it too, and yet you seem perfectly well.” Another wave of nausea racked Alexander and he heaved into the pot again.

“I have the constitution of an ox, as my mother always reminds me at the most embarrassing times.” He continued to massage cold and clammy skin through the thin nightshirt. “I’ll call for Grady.”

“You will do no such thing. There is nothing left for me to bring up—a little water and I’ll be fine.” Alexander’s slightly green expression gave the lie to his assurances.

“Rubbish,” Tom snorted. “The surgeon’s attentions and a day’s rest are called for. We only left Gibraltar this morning and even with this wind it will be days before we see Malta. Better to rest now than pay for it later.”

“But my place is on my own quarterdeck.” Alexander tried to straighten himself but soon gave up the effort.

Tom narrowed his eyes. “You want to keep an eye on our friend Clovis, don’t you?”

“No. Yes. Oh, Tom, I just want to die.” Another great heave, but there was nothing to bring up, as Alexander had said—and that made it all the worse.

“I’ll keep an eye on him, as will Mr. Fowler, at the subtlest of hints. Back in your cot, now.” Tom replaced the disgusting chamber pot with the water basin, ordered the marine at the cabin door to find the surgeon, went onto deck to dispose of his burden and took in plenty of the sweet night air to purge his nostrils.

He wished that he could be the one below, tending to his captain—not the surgeon or the steward. He had so rarely had the opportunity to perform the gentle ministrations of nursing, with the exception of when Alexander had gone flying on the steps—treacherously wet, as he’d kept saying—of the Round Tower.

The bruising had been spectacular. Tom, as a child, had seen a colour drawing of a mandrill—illustrating the male’s face and some other less savoury parts—which had impressed him with its spectrum of colours. Alexander had resembled that mandrill, a mandrill barely able to move for two days, and Tom was allowed to fetch and carry, tend and nurse, to his heart’s content.

“Is there anything I can help you with, sir?” the young midshipman on watch asked, in slightly awestruck tones.

“No, thank you,” Tom replied. “The Captain has eaten something that disagrees with him and will be temporarily indisposed. Please report to me in the interim should the need arise—and no unnecessary noise on deck for the next few watches.”

“Report to you and no unnecessary noise it is, sir.” The middie tipped his hat and resumed his station.

February fifth. Seven bells in the forenoon watch, clouds lowering

Alexander emerged on deck the next day just before the noon observation. He felt disgusting, his stomach empty and refusing all refilling except weak tea, his mouth tasting as he imagined a lump of wadding might. It was a pleasant morning, the temperature sufficiently mild at these latitudes to allow one of his favourite luxuries. A sail dropped over the side, filling itself with the warm, milky waters, provided a safe place in which to bathe and promote his recovery.

Tom was no longer either surprised or disturbed by this agreeable display. He could look, take pleasure and return to the task in hand—as he did this day, with a simple nod to his captain to acknowledge that he was satisfied that Alexander was getting better.

Mr. Fowler may not have been used to such displays of officer’s flesh, but the gun room banter must have forewarned him of his captain’s predilection for bathing. Tom noted that the sailing master had taken himself to the other end of the ship, with the young gentlemen and their sextants, to find noon. He’d also had the good sense and discretion to ensure that none of them were allowed a glimpse of the imperial anatomy.

Clovis appeared to be the most perturbed of the officers. He seemed to find this activity disgusting and his glance ranged from Alexander to Tom in turn, until the gunner interrupted him with a discourse on revising the make up of the gun crews.

§ § §

“Is the captain quite recovered?” Clovis asked Tom that evening, as the wardroom cleared and the other occupants had turned in for the night.

“He is quite himself, again, thank you.”

“Not seasickness, I hope?” A sneer crept over the second lieutenant’s pinched face.

“No, sir. A disagreeable item in his dinner.” And not half so disagreeable as you.

“I’ve seen the particular affection that you and Mr. Porterfield have for each other. A most extraordinarily close friendship.” Clovis spoke both confidingly and with seeming admiration.

“We’ve been colleagues since we were midshipmen. I’ve lost count of the number of times we have fought together.”

“But there is more to it than that—I would say that your relationship seems to be unique, in my experience.”

Tom didn’t like the way that the conversation was drifting; or, rather, the way Clovis was steering it. “We’ve saved each other’s lives on several occasions—I believe that gives us a special bond of brotherhood. You may think it unique, but I’ve seen it among others.” Tom prayed that the man would drop the subject.

Clovis’s voice fell to a whisper, barely audible beyond the vicinity of their chairs. “But I’ll wager that none of those others ever discussed the pleasures of stripping an officer of his clothes.”

Tom froze, glass in hand and halfway to his mouth. “I beg your pardon?”

“I saw you—I’m sorry, that is not entirely correct—I heard you. On the stairs at your parents’ house, early on Christmas morning. You were discussing the breaking of certain of the Articles and your eagerness to do so. Such a subject for a captain to discuss with his lieutenant.”

Tom realised, with a sickening lurch to his stomach, that Clovis must have been hiding in the small curtained alcove where the staircase turned. Probably to catch Imogen unawares, the devil. Despite the icy grip around his heart, he managed to stay calm. “Mr. Clovis. I don’t understand what you mean.”

“I believe you do, Mr. Anderson. I took especial care to observe the pair of you over the next two days. There were looks, faint touches, little smiles. Nothing that would raise the slightest suspicion unless someone was looking for evidence of possible impropriety—and I was looking for it. I believe I was very fortunate to have overheard your little tete-a-tete or else I would have had no...um...tool with which to bargain.”

Tom weighed his words with care. “Make yourself plain.”

“I have certain favours to ask you, Mr. Anderson. Most pressingly, I wish that you would intercede for me with your father—I would dearly like to make Imogen my wife and there seems to be a certain reluctance among the family to accept me. I would also like the return of some papers I lost at your home and which I believe may have come into your family’s possession. They are of sentimental importance, relating to an ancient affaire de coeur but I would dearly like them back. If you feel unable to oblige me, I would have to voice my suspicions of your liaison with Mr. Porterfield to your father. I know he is the sort of man who would be horrified at such revelations.”

That shows how little you do know him—but that fact alone may buy me a little time. “I find your proposal odious, but I’ll consider it and give you my answer at the same time tomorrow.” Before Clovis could answer, Tom dismissed the man with a curt nod of the head and entered his cabin, mind in utter turmoil.

February fifth. three bells in the first watch, a lull

In the adjoining cabin, the ship’s master sat quietly, reflecting. Fowler knew things that Tom did not. The first lieutenant never sought out the company of those with “like inclinations”—why should he, if he had all he wanted to hand? But in doing so, he missed out on a valuable supply of information. Fowler remembered his friends at a certain club discussing an officer who was said to associate with the wrong sort of person.

Not our sort, my dear—rather those whose allegiance may not be entirely to our king.

Someone—Fowler couldn’t remember who—implied that this man was mistrusted by the Admiralty, and another man had sworn that was why the officer had never exceeded the rank of junior lieutenant, although there was no clear evidence to accuse him. Fowler had thought little of this, the person telling that part of the story having impeccable sources, but being himself given to wild speculation.

Nonetheless, Fowler made a note of the name of the lieutenant in question, just in case. Clovis.

He’d been in his berth, almost asleep, when Clovis had first cornered Tom. Instantly alert, Fowler had manoeuvred himself into a position to hear almost every word that passed between the two men. The insinuation about the captain and his close friend was no surprise—any man of similar inclination would have been hard put not to have had suspicions. But he was loyal to his two superiors and blackmail he would not stomach, nor treason.

For though he didn’t know the contents of these ‘papers’, any intelligent man could make a fair guess.

February sixth. middle and morning watches, storms brewing

Tom slept very little that night.

He’d decided almost immediately that Alexander must know nothing of this; he alone must face the situation, although he could see as yet no way forward. When the two men had first become lovers, Tom had devised a strategy in the event of discovery. Thank God it had never yet had to be employed.

Those plans would be of no use now—there was no longer any chance of persuading the authorities that his friend was such an innocent that he’d been blameless in their relationship—a young man led astray by a wily older one. If they’d been junior officers that horse might have run, but nobody would back it now. Yet Tom would have grasped this straw if he could, willingly taking all the punishment if it meant protecting his lover. For he knew that Clovis’s threat wouldn’t stop at exposure to his family; it would be cranked up to include exposure to the Admiralty as well.

§ § §

The next morning Alexander was recovered and pacing his quarterdeck with evident pleasure, taking in great draughts of sweet, fresh air. Lieutenant Anderson eventually joined him—his glass had told him he was now the one looking pale and drawn.

“You look unwell, Mr. Anderson. Has the fish begun to affect you, too?”

“No, sir, I assured you before on the unnatural soundness of my constitution.” Tom managed a little laugh, hoping that the captain would not see his gritted teeth. “It’s simply that my old wound troubles me today. It will pass.”

Alexander looked so distressed at this reply that Tom thought he might as well have told his friend the whole truth there and then—it couldn’t have upset him more than the lie had done. Alexander still felt guilty about the blow from that French sword, even though he could have no possible part in the blame, but impeccable logic had never stopped him heaping sins on his own head before.

He drew Tom over to the rail where they could speak in whispers without fear of being heard. “Have you seen the surgeon?”

“No—and I don’t need to. This happens sometimes, but it will not last long.”

Alexander suddenly looked even more serious, if such a thing were possible. “Can it be...what we did at Gibraltar that has caused this? I’d never make any demands upon you again if I thought it could cause you such trouble.”

Tom smiled as reassuringly as he could manage. Alexander must have been distressed, to use such words out here. “I can assure you there is no link between any particular activity and the state of my scar. The surgeon warned me back on Prometheus that I might get jip from it at any time. Now, I ask your leave to return to my duties and to be able to take my mind off the discomfort.”

He saluted, turned and went about his business. This time, keeping busy didn’t take his mind off his troubles. The anguish of having no way to fight a nasty little blackmailer, short of calling him out—and that his captain would never allow. He cursed the day his ninny of a sister had taken it into her head to go snooping after those damned letters...until the truth dawned as clear as a mass of white sail on a clear horizon.

Thomas Anderson, you’re the ninny. Your sister has done you a great service—in those papers she’s given you a bargaining point of your own. Your father might have finally come to terms with the fact of his son having another man as his companion, but he would never accept a traitor as a son-in-law.

He took a deep inhalation, smelling sweet, fresh air for the first time since being cornered by his odious fellow officer. He adopted his best Sunday read-the-articles voice and barked, “Mr. Fowler, we need to discuss the state of that mainsail.”

At least part of the Anderson mind returned more fully to its duties, and the rest of it began planning a strategy.

§ § §

Fowler had his two-fold line of attack already. To keep an even closer eye on Clovis, as he wanted to witness the next conversation between the two lieutenants, and another element more devious and more dependent on an opportune moment arising. It transpired that the meeting seemed destined for the wardroom again—as soon as it emptied for the night—so he retired to his cabin and feigned sleep, making use of his unusually sharp hearing.

“Mr. Clovis, I have considered what you proposed.” Tom had clearly decided to come straight in on the offensive—any officer would want to have the weather gauge in a tricky engagement. “And if I have decided neither to return these papers, nor intercede on your behalf, what would you say?”

“Then your father will come to know that his son is a...is the word ‘catamite’ appropriate or would ‘cabin boy’ be better?” Clovis seemed to savour using the odious terms. Fowler risked turning in his cot—he could just catch a glimpse of the men by the lamp’s light.

Tom’s voice was calm, the tone frostier than Fowler had ever imagined he could produce. “And you, in return, will never have any chance of marrying Imogen, even if I stooped so low as to intercede with my family. I have less to fear from my father than you do.”

Clovis leaned forward, steepling his hands to his chin. He was enjoying this game. “Then perhaps it is to the naval authorities in Malta to whom I must speak, instead. Courts martial show no favouritism. It would be extremely amusing to see such a distinguished captain and his gallant first lieutenant flogged around the fleet—or do you think that it would be the yardarm straight away?”

“Oh, the yardarm straight away, I would have thought. Which is more mercy than they would show a traitor.” Tom leaned closer as he at last revealed his own colours.

The silence went on for just too long before Clovis responded, in a voice suddenly constrained, “We do not speak of traitors, Mr. Anderson. I would never imply anything concerning your undoubtedly loyalty to your King—only your breaking of his Articles of War.”

“I was thinking not of us but of you. The content of those love letters, as you termed them, the ones you wanted me to return, was extremely interesting.”

“I don’t understand...”

“Had you not counted on us being able to decipher your code? Well, the simplest encryptions are often the hardest to break unless one has the keyword. Does ‘bonny lassie’ sound familiar?”

Clovis took a sharp intake of breath, while Tom carried on the offensive. “I’ve heard of some of the methods employed by the French and Spanish, and met one of the men who suffered them. I don’t believe that our English inquisitors would be any less ingenious once they knew the sort of man they were dealing with.”

“Do you seek to threaten me, sir?” Clovis spat the words into his opponent’s face.

“I do indeed, sir. I suggest that you take this night to think over your own position. You would have no bargaining tool with His Majesty’s agents—they would not see any information you could give them about us as worthy of payment in return, not when they could have it for free. Free for them, I mean, as it would cost you dearly. I really think that a swift jerk up on the yardarm might be preferable.”

Fowler realised how much he had underestimated the first lieutenant’s fighting spirit. By God, I would not be his enemy for all the riches of Araby.

“You see,” Tom continued, “I will make my position clear. Should you try to expose any scandal about myself and Captain Porterfield, the Admiralty will be handed a nice, little traitor to amuse themselves with.”

This time it was the Clovis who broke line of battle, pushing over his chair and stumbling to his cabin.

Fowler shuddered. The nasty piece of work would need to re-group and he’d need to do it fast. And, like a wild animal, would he be all the more dangerous for being cornered?

February seventh. seven bells in the morning watch, set fair

A little French sloop appeared early the next morning, drawing near the Priam quite happily, probably seeing what must have looked like Danish colours from afar and feeling confidence in approaching a neutral frigate.

The commander might have even fancied his chances against a bigger ship in any circumstances—the example of Cochrane still rang in many a captain’s ear in the Med—although Priam’s sudden change of colours to English ones appeared to take him by surprise. Perhaps not everyone appreciated all the finer points of Cochrane’s tactics. Nonetheless, he and his crew put up a fierce and bloody fight; when he finally struck his colours, the decks of both ships were strewn with debris and blood.

Coming up from the gun deck, Alexander was met with a sickening sight—Tom sitting pale and breathless with his jacket half off and the breast of his shirt a mass of red. It seemed to take forever to cross the deck to his friend, afraid all the time to ask any questions, in case they brought the dreaded reply. Death was an enemy they’d always outrun before, but luck couldn’t last forever.

Tom pre-empted him. “Not my blood. It seems to belong to this unfortunate French officer.” He pointed to a body at his feet, gashed along the neck and still spurting blood.

“You’re truly not hurt?”

“Of course not. Just winded.” Tom smiled, although that seemed to cause him pain.

Alexander swallowed hard, hiding his relief in surveying the damage. “Please God, the rest of the crew have got off as lightly.”

“The butcher’s bill is always a heavy price to pay for any prize, even one as neat as this.” Tom seemed to be finding breathing easier. “Our Mr. Lowell may have another little command to play with.”

Alexander stopped, suddenly remembering something Tom’s injury had put from his mind. “As I came up, I saw Lowell being taken below, to the surgeon.”

Tom had been pale—he now turned deathly white. “I pray he’s no more than injured.”

“I genuinely do not know.” They held each other’s gaze, until another one of the midshipmen hove into view, obviously bearing a message but far too scared to interrupt them. Tom beckoned him to speak.

“Mr. Porterfield, sir, Mr. Grady sends his compliments and requests that you will attend him.” After Lowell’s botched efforts of what seemed weeks ago, word must have got round the snotties about the right way to deliver a message.

“Very well, Mr. Wright.” Alexander nodded. “Mr. Anderson, please would you see to the prize, when you have your breath back. I’ll notify you of our losses once they’re established.”

“Aye, sir. I would be very grateful for that.” Tom saluted and turned away, in search of a boat to take him over to the sloop.

His captain watched him, for just as long as he could get away with, then headed for the sick bay, relieved that they’d both survived another engagement, although concerned about Lowell, not least for the effect the lad’s injury would have on Tom.

The lieutenant would be worrying, as he’d worried about every little snotty he’d had under his wing. If Lowell had met his death, even a valiant one, Tom would be heartbroken.

§ § §

Tom kept his thoughts on the prize, and on the stitch in his side which was slow to abate. When he was sure Alexander wouldn’t be looking, he slipped over to the far rail, to ease his shirt out and inspect the damage. A belter of a bruise, the result of an impact with the butt of a sword, one which might well have been from a fellow Priam, was developing at the bottom of his ribs, although the bones themselves felt as if they’d suffered no damage. If all of the ship’s company had got away as lightly, he’d be content.

He caught sight of Alexander striding the deck of the frigate, made good his clothes, and hailed him. “With basic repairs the sloop can make Malta, sir—how goes it with Priam?”

“Well enough, Mr. Anderson. Likely to be ready within this watch.” He was clearing trying to suppress a smile. “The surgeon says that Mr. Lowell has lost at least an armful of blood but should make a good recovery.”

Tom didn’t even try to hide his relief. “I am very pleased to hear it, sir.”

“I do have one significant loss to report,” Alexander had no trouble maintaining a serious countenance for this news. “I’m afraid that you will need to write your sister a distressing letter. Our new second lieutenant did not survive the engagement.”

Tom felt as if every prayer he had anxiously muttered these last two days had come to fruition. He steadied himself on the rail, shaking his head and asking God to forgive him for the lies he was about to utter. “I’m sorry you have such news to bear sir. I will write to his family, too, if you would wish. I know them quite well.”

Alexander nodded. “I believe that would be the correct course of action. I’ll also require you to take command of the prize. I have at present no other officer I could trust so to do while we sail these hostile waters. Please attend me in the great cabin before we make sail.”

“It would be my pleasure, sir.”

And it was a pleasure to him, later, as they shared a glass of red wine. “I’ll have a draft of the letter ready before we make Malta, Alexander. It can be dispatched once it has your approval.”

“I needn’t authorise anything that I delegate to you, Tom.” A smile was allowed to soften the captain’s face now that he was alone with his first officer.

As well that you do, for you know not how close we have come to ruin these last few days.

Tom smiled in return, sending up another prayer of repentance at being so thankful for a French blade. “Permission to rejoin the prize, sir? I know you’re anxious to make all speed.”

“I am that, Tom. Keep close course until Malta.” A nod of heads, a salute, a shared look that spoke volumes and the lieutenant left the cabin.

February seventh. First watch, calm

That night, Lowell felt decidedly euphoric from the loss of blood and, despite his pain, was ready to drift off. He had received visits from both the captain and the first lieutenant, both tapping him appreciatively—but gently—on the shoulder and calling him a brave young man. One day he’d be a proper officer, like Mr. Porterfield and Mr. Anderson were, and he’d have a string of girls dancing attendance on him. The thought of regaling his sisters’ friends with tales of his wound and derring do was a much better soporific than even the drop of laudanum he’d had.

§ § §

Alexander lay in his cot, reflecting for the umpteenth time that the most important thing in his life was not the Priam, nor the fine, attractive prize at her side, but the fine, attractive prize at present occupying the French captain’s cabin.

He felt guilt over Clovis, not just the usual remorse he felt over any man he lost in action, but self-reproach because he’d disliked this officer so very much. He reached under his pillow roll, fingering a small piece of cloth stitched into the material and kept hidden from everyone—even from Tom, whose acquaintance with that pillow was exhaustive. It was a fragment of the midshipman’s coat that Tom had worn when they’d first met—surreptitiously cut out by Alexander before the disgusting and elderly garment had been consigned to the fire—and subsequently sewn onto a successive number of hammock and cots. And if I die at sea then I will always have a little piece of him by me, even at the bottom of the ocean.

§ § §

Tom mouthed silent prayers as he lay in his bunk. He would not lie to God about how he felt; no point, as He would know already. But he was grateful for Lowell’s survival and that the butcher’s bill, though heavy, had been no greater on either side.

Please find that young midshipman an agreeable young lady to fall in love with, one who’ll not revert to being a spinster when he goes beyond Gibraltar. And, as for Alexander, you and I both can picture his thoughts; guilt and gratitude, in equal measure if we are fortunate. Grant him more gratitude than guilt tonight.

§ § §

Fowler cleaned the remains of French blood from his sword; it had seen much action this day, as he fought side-by-side with Clovis and several doughty hands against a vigorous counter-attack. Once the blade was to his satisfaction, he laid the weapon down and picked up a dirk—small, but absolutely deadly if used with enough force in the right place. When Fowler was a young master’s mate, he had seen one of his ship’s lieutenants killed during an engagement with just such an enemy sloop as the Priam had fought. The officer had been buried at sea with full honours, his colleagues appearing to mourn him as much as the others committed to the deep that day.

But the man had been highly unpopular, both with the jacks and his fellow officers and Fowler was convinced that in the melee of the boarding party it had been an English knife he had seen enter the lieutenant’s back, the distinctive neckerchief tied round the arm that held the blade confirming his suspicions. He had never forgotten.

In the scuffle on the Priam’s deck the press of men had made it difficult to tell friend from enemy. It had been a furious tangle of arms and weapons and many a limb had been nicked by the sword of an ally. Fowler felt no remorse over any of the lives he had taken—it was his solemn duty to his King, country and most of all to his captain. And so it was English blood Fowler wiped from his dirk—English traitor’s blood.

February twentieth. three bells in the forenoon watch, clouds building

The approach of the admiral’s boat brought Priam’s commander to a fever pitch of tension. This was no doubt the arrival of his orders—action in the eastern Med, maybe—and he was desperate to make an exemplary impression. A shrill of pipes and the small, chirpy dignitary was aboard.

“Captain Porterfield—splendid.” The admiral swept off to the great cabin in a blaze of gold and blue.

“I am sorry that my first lieutenant is not here to attend you sir. He’s dealing with ship’s business ashore.” Alexander dearly wished that he could have his right hand man with him now.

“Ah, Mr. Anderson—no doubt I shall see him anon.” The admiral seemed about to add something, but turned instead to the reports Alexander had prepared for him. “Will read these at my leisure, sir. Please give me a résumé of events.” The admiral listened attentively as the voyage from Spithead was summarised, asking only the occasional but very pertinent question. When the account was finished he nodded his head as if to indicate complete satisfaction and, quite unexpectedly, chuckled. “Seem to be a bit prone to losing lieutenants, captain. Are you sure you haven’t mislaid Mr. Anderson somewhere?”

Alexander thought the joke in poor taste, but managed a smile.

He hadn’t mentioned Clovis’ papers. These had been carefully enclosed in a package—with the damning translation and a full report—and were bound via Tom’s hand for the highest government authority on the island.

“Now to your orders, young man. Been looking forward greatly to having you serve with us here. However,” the admiral stopped and eyed Alexander closely, “it appears that I will have to wait a while longer for that pleasure.”

“I do not understand, sir. I had been told that my orders—”

“Were to report to me here—correct. But fresh orders from England were hot on your heels.” He waved a packet of papers. “These just missed you at Gibraltar, but managed to beat you here by fast tender. You are ordered to the Indies, Commander—along with the sloop Cassandra—to join Sir Robert Gallian’s squadron there, keeping the passages safe for our ships.”

“The Indies, sir?” Alexander parroted the words, thinking suddenly of Tom’s remark on Christmas morning about the sun on their backs and spices in the air.

“Aye, Mr. Porterfield. But are you ready for the passage or did the Frenchie knock you about too much? Eh?”

“Just some spars and canvas lost, sir. All made good—although we are not supplied for a long voyage.” Alexander’s mind raced at the strategic implications of this new development.

“Soon see you fitted out. Tell the dockyard myself to pull their fingers out.” The admiral made to leave but was forestalled.

“The Cassandra, sir. May I ask who has her at present?”

“No commander at this moment but one in place soon.” The admiral smiled again and escaped, Alexander seeing him off in a complete daze, his mind furiously calculating what would have to be embarked over the next few days and calling for his purser and clerk.

§ § §

Tom had insisted that the officers dine together to celebrate Priam’s receipt of orders, and at his expense. The outburst of generosity was matched by Alexander’s insisting he would pay for the wine, although he and his lieutenant imbibed sparingly. Opportunities to share a bed had proved sparse and a man couldn’t risk impairing his performance. By now they’d developed a perfect strategy in terms of departing any party separately—the correct timing, no significant looks or words nor a studied indifference.

This night Alexander was first to rise, leaving Tom and the rest in mid glass and insisting they all stay on and enjoy themselves. Several of Priam’s best had taken rooms at the inn and if two officers chose to take a glass of port together as a nightcap, who’d suspect anything was amiss? Especially now that Clovis’s beady eye was no longer there to observe them.

Alexander, halfway through his bedroom door, stifled a shudder of guilt at his own happiness when somebody—Imogen at the least—would be already mourning the loss of a loved one, wind and a safe journey for the despatches allowing. He dabbed his face with water then attended to some correspondence, keeping one eye on his timepiece. The usual interval between his leaving the company and his lover following suit approached, passed and was left behind. Why was Tom dawdling?

Familiar footsteps on the stairs made him leap to his feet. Without knocking, Tom poked his head round the door. “Package for Captain Porterfield,” he said in a low voice. “Choice English rump.”

“Ass. Come in here right now—that’s an order. And close the door.”

“As though I would forget to do so.” Tom loosened his stock, drew it off and placed it, with his jacket, on the back of a chair. “I’m sorry I was delayed. I have something important to tell you.” He took deep breath. “I cannot sail to the Indies as your first lieutenant.”

“Has somebody said something amiss? Have we been smoked?” It had to be an event equally world shattering.

“Let me finish, Alexander.” Tom took his lover’s face in his hands. “I cannot be your lieutenant because the admiral has just this last hour offered me a ship of my own.”

“But that’s marvellous—are you made commander?”

“I am that. It seems our cutting out of the French frigate and corvette last November has at last been noticed. I’ve always suspected that you exaggerated my role in the action when you wrote your despatches and the Admiralty, based on their unwarranted notion of my ability, have promoted me. Or maybe Father put in a word.” Tom gave his captain a smacking kiss.

At which point the reality of what had happened suddenly dawned.

He has been made commander, as I always said he would. He’ll no longer be there every day waiting on my deck; he could be half a world away and all I’ll have of him is a scrap of blue cloth that I stole.

“Whatever is the matter?” Tom’s hands were on Alexander’s face again, caressing and soothing.

“Nothing. I’m pleased for you.” Every word stung, but he couldn’t be selfish in Tom’s hour of triumph.

“Alexander, my dear idiot,” Tom shook his head, “you haven’t even asked me the name of my command.”

Alexander looked up. “I’m sorry, that was inconsiderate of me.” He wiped his face and nose with his sleeve, like the worst of midshipmen.

A green twinkle flashed through Tom’s eyes. “I’ll have the sloop Cassandra.”

Alexander stopped, stunned. “You bastard, you complete and utter bastard. You knew all along and you made game of me.”

“I did not. I would have told you right away if you had given me the chance. I would never be so cruel to you.” He smiled a glorious, beaming smile and then Alexander was cuffing him and kissing him and cuffing him again until they both collapsed into laughter and onto the bed.

“Almost equal again. I didn’t realize that it meant so much to me until this night. I’ve been happy to serve under you—will be happy to do so again when you are commodore or admiral or first sea lord—but it’s meat and drink to be just about on a par with you once more.”

“I have not taken you to my bed except as your superior officer for such a long time.” Alexander felt awed by the prospect.

“Do you remember the last occasion? It seems a lifetime away. Two lieutenants without a ship and a peace that looked like it would last forever. And you too proud to use any Anderson money to support you.”

Alexander huffed. “Remind me—how pray did we come to be talking about this?”

“Because I was thinking on when you last tumbled me and were not at the time my superior officer. It was in the May of ‘03—I remember so clearly that the hawthorn blossoms were in great profusion that year and their scent was intoxicating. You used to pick them and bring them to our cottage—”

“Your cottage, Tom, and you let me stay there lest I ended up sleeping in a garret.”

Tom kissed him again. “You would bring them to our cottage and strew them over the bed.”

It had driven Tom mad, because they would stick to everything, but Alexander had thought it romantic. “Part of me used to hope that the peace would never end and part was desperate for war again so that we could go back to sea and you would be truly happy once more.”

“I was not unhappy all the time.”

“No, I will grant you that. Especially the day all Portsmouth was abuzz with the news that the peace had at last been broken.”

“You have a most impressive memory.” Alexander didn’t wish to be reminded of those days. “But if we are to reflect upon all the occasions when we have shared a bed previously then one of us will have hoisted his flag before we get to share a bed again.”

“Then we’d better be smart about it and hoist something else.”

Alexander drew his lover closer, murmuring against his neck. “Then there are some rules to establish first. No more playing ‘admiral and flag lieutenant’ or anything else that smacks of rank.”

“Then there must be no orders and demands in our bed. Only may I please, Mr. Anderson? Or Tom, would you be so kind as to?” Tom’s face wrinkled into a grin.

Bugger, he hadn’t counted for that. “Might I not give you the occasional command if we were to find ourselves in my cabin on the Priam?”

“Only if I can give the orders if we find ourselves in my cabin on Cassandra.”

Alexander nodded. “And if we are on shore?”

“Strictly please, thank you and I would be obliged, sir, if you could.”

“Then, at this precise moment, I would be extremely obliged sir, if you could…” he whispered in Tom’s ear.

“Hell’s teeth! I don’t believe that two ship’s commanders have ever done that together.”

“Then let us make history.”

“Do you think we will really make history, Alexander? Will people talk of our exploits in two year’s time? Two hundred years’ time?”

“I hope so, Tom—as long as they confine themselves to the nautical and not what we are about to embark upon”

“Amen to that.” Tom undid the buttons on his lover’s britches and slipped his hand inside. “Ah, now this is the prize I always want to take.”

“You always seem to regard me as a prize to be taken,” Alexander said, breathlessly. How could he carry on any sensible conversation with Tom’s fingers doing that?

“And why shouldn’t I?” Tom carried on causing havoc down below. “You’re the ultimate prize, worth more than a Spanish three decker loaded with gold and ambergris.”

“Which I suppose means that you’ll board me?”

“Unless you’d prefer to do the boarding?”

“Not this time.” Alexander nuzzled his lover’s neck. “Come here.” He eased himself onto the rug, drawing Tom with him. “I’m ready to offer you my sword.”

“I think I’ve already got it, poking into my stomach.” Tom smiled. “Drop your colours then. Or at least drop your britches. How’s a man to enter the gun port when there’s a mass of sailcloth over it?”

“Any sailor worth his rum would deal with the sailcloth himself.” Despite his words, Alexander helped Tom clear the way; there were two sets of britches and draws to be discarded before either boarder or gun port were prepared. “Ready and waiting now.” He drummed his fingers along the bottom of Tom’s spine.

“Don’t do that or else I’ll never make it through the gun port.” Tom said, fighting back a laugh, after which there was no more said until he’d boarded Alexander and both the big guns had been discharged.

About the Author

As Charlie Cochrane couldn’t be trusted to do any of her jobs of choice—like managing a rugby team—she writes. She lives in England, but has yet to use her local town Romsey as a setting for her stories. Maybe one day...

Charlie’s Cambridge Fellows Series of Edwardian romantic mysteries was instrumental in her being named Author of the Year 2009 by the review site Speak Its Name. She’s a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association, Mystery People and International Thriller Writers Inc.

You can find Charlie on the internet at:

http://www.charliecochrane.co.uk

http://charliecochrane.livejournal.com

MLR Press Authors

Featuring a roll call of some of the best writers of gay erotica and mysteries today!

Derek Adams

Z. Allora

Maura Anderson

Simone Anderson

Victor J. Banis

Laura Baumbach

Helen Beattie

Ally Blue

J.P. Bowie

Barry Brennessel

Nowell Briscoe

Jade Buchanan

James Buchanan

TA Chase

Charlie Cochrane

Karenna Colcroft

Michael G. Cornelius

Jamie Craig

Ethan Day

Diana DeRicci

Vivien Dean

Taylor V. Donovan

S.J. Frost

Kimberly Gardner

Kaje Harper

Alex Ironrod

Jambrea Jo Jones

DC Juris

AC Katt

Thomas Kearnes

Sasha Keegan

Kiernan Kelly

K-lee Klein

Geoffrey Knight

Christopher Koehler

Matthew Lang

J.L. Langley

Vincent Lardo

Cameron Lawton

Anna Lee

Elizabeth Lister

Clare London

William Maltese

Z.A. Maxfield

Timothy McGivney

Tere Michaels

AKM Miles

Robert Moore

Reiko Morgan

Jet Mykles

William Neale

N.J. Nielsen

Cherie Noel

Gregory L. Norris

Willa Okati

Erica Pike

Neil S. Plakcy

Rick R. Reed

A.M. Riley

AJ Rose

Rob Rosen

George Seaton

Riley Shane

Jardonn Smith

DH Starr

Richard Stevenson

Christopher Stone

Liz Strange

Marshall Thornton

Lex Valentine

Haley Walsh

Mia Watts

Lynley Wayne

Missy Welsh

Ryal Woods

Stevie Woods

Lance Zarimba

Mark Zubro

Check out titles, both available and forthcoming, at

www.mlrpress.com

GLBT Resources

RAINBOW ROMANCE WRITERS

Raising the Bar for LGBT Romance

RRW offers support and advocacy to career-focused authors, expanding the horizons of romance. Changing minds, one heart at a time. www.rainbowromancewriters.com

THE TREVOR PROJECT

The Trevor Project operates the only nationwide, around-the-clock crisis and suicide prevention helpline for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and questioning youth. Every day, The Trevor Project saves lives though its free and confidential helpline, its website and its educational services. If you or a friend are feeling lost, alone, confused or in crisis, please call The Trevor Helpline. You’ll be able to speak confidentially with a trained counselor 24/7.

The Trevor Helpline: 866-488-7386

On the Web: http://www.thetrevorproject.org/

THE GAY MEN’S DOMESTIC VIOLENCE PROJECT

Founded in 1994, The Gay Men’s Domestic Violence Project is a grassroots, non-profit organization founded by a gay male survivor of domestic violence and developed through the strength, contributions and participation of the community. The Gay Men’s Domestic Violence Project supports victims and survivors through education, advocacy and direct services. Understanding that the serious public health issue of domestic violence is not gender specific, we serve men in relationships with men, regardless of how they identify, and stand ready to assist them in navigating through abusive relationships.

GMDVP Helpline: 800.832.1901

On the Web: http://gmdvp.org/

THE GAY & LESBIAN ALLIANCE AGAINST DEFAMATION/GLAAD EN ESPAÑOL

The Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD) is dedicated to promoting and ensuring fair, accurate and inclusive representation of people and events in the media as a means of eliminating homophobia and discrimination based on gender identity and sexual orientation.

On the Web: http://www.glaad.org/

GLAAD en español: http://www.glaad.org/espanol/bienvenido.php

SERVICEMEMBERS LEGAL DEFENSE NETWORK

Servicemembers Legal Defense Network is a nonpartisan, nonprofit, legal services, watchdog and policy organization dedicated to ending discrimination against and harassment of military personnel affected by “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” (DADT).The SLDN provides free, confidential legal services to all those impacted by DADT and related discrimination. Since 1993, its inhouse legal team has responded to more than 9,000 requests for assistance. In Congress, it leads the fight to repeal DADT and replace it with a law that ensures equal treatment for every servicemember, regardless of sexual orientation. In the courts, it works to challenge the constitutionality of DADT.

SLDN Call: 800-538-7418

PO Box 65301 or (202) 328-FAIR

Washington DC 20035-5301 e-mail: sldn@sldn.org

On the Web: http://sldn.org/

THE GLBT NATIONAL HELP CENTER

The GLBT National Help Center is a nonprofit, tax-exempt organization that is dedicated to meeting the needs of the gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender community and those questioning their sexual orientation and gender identity. It is an outgrowth of the Gay & Lesbian National Hotline, which began in 1996 and now is a primary program of The GLBT National Help Center. It offers several different programs including two national hotlines that help members of the GLBT community talk about the important issues that they are facing in their lives. It helps end the isolation that many people feel, by providing a safe environment on the phone or via the internet to discuss issues that people can’t talk about anywhere else. The GLBT National Help Center also helps other organizations build the infrastructure they need to provide strong support to our community at the local level.

National Hotline: 1-888-THE-GLNH (1-888-843-4564)

National Youth Talkline 1-800-246-PRIDE (1-800-246-7743)

On the Web: http://www.glnh.org/

e-mail: info@glbtnationalhelpcenter.org

If you’re a GLBT and questioning student heading off to university, you should know that there are resources on campus for you. Here’s just a sample:

GLBT SCHOLARSHIP RESOURCES

http://www.hrc.org/resources/entry/tell-us-about-an-lgbt-scholarship

Syracuse University

http://lgbt.syr.edu/

Texas A&M

http://glbt.tamu.edu/

Tulane University

http://tulane.edu/studentaffairs/oma/lgbt/index.cfm

University of Alaska http://www.uaf.edu/woodcenter/leadership/organizations/active/index.xml?id=61

University of California, Davis

http://lgbtrc.ucdavis.edu/

University of California, San Francisco

http://lgbt.ucsf.edu/

University of Colorado

http://www.colorado.edu/GLBTQRC/

University of Florida

http://www.multicultural.ufl.edu/lgbt/

University of Hawaii, Mānoa

http://manoa.hawaii.edu/lgbt/

University of Utah

http://www.sa.utah.edu/lgbt/

University of Virginia

http://www.virginia.edu/deanofstudents/lgbt/

Vanderbilt University

http://www.vanderbilt.edu/lgbtqi/