Alexander Kent - Sword of Honour

She touched her breast as he had done, could still feel the depth of his embrace and his desire. As if he had only just withdrawn from her.

How quickly time had passed since their return from London. Riding, walking, and being alone with each other.

Now the house was so quiet, as if it was holding its breath. George Avery had visited them several times, and with Richard had gone through the canvas pouches which arrived regularly from their lordships. She had listened to them, trying to share it, to make it last. Like Richard's new flagship, Frobisher. They discussed the ship like the professional sailors they were, as a she were human, a living creature.

Avery had stayed at the inn at Fallowfield, perhaps to allow them as much time as possible alone together, and also to ponder over his rejection by Susanna Mildmay. She knew it had saddened Richard; he had blamed himself, because Avery had put loyalty before his own personal happiness. If she was really the woman for him…… She watched a pair of wagtails darting amongst the flowers. Is that not what society said about me?

She pressed her hand to her side, feeling the ache, the heaviness, the pain which today would bring.

They had dined alone last night, although neither of them remembered the meal which had been so carefully prepared.

She had told him she wanted to ride with him all the way to Portsmouth, where Frobisher lay waiting to receive him. Like the other times, like the last time when she had climbed up Indomitable's side. It was not to be. Richard had said that he wanted to take his leave of her in this house. Where I always think of you.

How could she do it? How could she let him go like this, so soon? She knew he hated the idea of her making the long journey, some one hundred and fifty miles, back from Portsmouth. Even with the roads in good condition and the coming of better weather, there was always the risk of footpads, or deserters from the army or navy who robbed or even killed if resisted. He would not be alone. He would be among friends when he saw his flag hoisted above his new flagship. Avery, Allday, Yovell, and of course Ozzard, who had given no hint of what he thought about leaving yet again. And perhaps the strongest of all, James Tyacke, who had cast aside his idea of returning to Africa. Or perhaps he had decided that there would be no escape and no solace even there.

Yes, Richard would have friends, but he needed memories also. Like last night. It had not been a last, desperate passion, an act which if missed would haunt them as something lost. It had been a need; she had felt it when they had come to this room, when he had turned her towards the finely carved cheval glass, and had undressed her while she had watched his hands, knowing they explored her, and yet sensing that it was happening to someone else. A stranger.

He had taken her to the bed and had said, "Do nothing."

He had kissed her from her throat to her thigh, from her breast to her knees and then, very slowly, back again. She could not believe that she had been able to contain her desire for him, and when she tried to pull him down to her, he had gripped her wrists and held them while he had looked down at her, wanting her, but needing it to last. Lovers, as if for the first time.

And then he had smiled at her. Even though the light had been from a single candle only, she thought it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

He had entered her without hesitation, and she had cried out his name while she had arched her body to receive him.

She felt a tear fall on her breast, and wiped her skin angrily with the lace of her gown.

Not now. Not now, of all times.

She walked to the bed and pulled the curtain aside. His face was relaxed, even youthful. More like Adam than most of the other faces in those ever-watchful portraits. His hair still black across the crumpled pillow, except for the one rebellious lock above his right eye. It was almost completely white, and she knew he hated it. It concealed the savage scar which ran deeply into his hairline… so close to death even then.

She sat on the bed and realised he was awake, watching her. She did not resist as he released the gown from her shoulders, nor flinch when he touched what he had kissed and teased so often. She understood. It was another memory. When he was able to be alone sometimes, to be free from the demands of duty, when he might perhaps be reading the leather-bound sonnets she had given him, he would remember, and would be with her, as she was with him.

She said, "It is a lovely day, Richard."

He caressed her hair, which hung loosely over her bare shoulders.

He smiled, searching her face. "You lie. It is an awful day!"

"I know."

He raised himself on one elbow and looked at the clock, but said nothing.

There was no need. She thought of their walks by the sea, following a receding tide, their foot marks spread in the sand like molten silver. Holding this day at bay. They had visited his sister, and had found her strangely calm, able and willing to talk about her late husband, Lewis, 'the King of Cornwall'.

She had been very definite about one thing. "I'll not let the estate go. The people always depended on Lewis. He'd expect it of me." She had glanced around the huge, empty house, and had said, "He's still here, you know."

She realised that she had taken his hand. "I'm sorry, Richard… it becomes more difficult to accept."

They heard the discreet clatter of dishes, the soft murmur of voices beyond the door.

"Not for so long this time, Kate."

She smiled, and wondered how it was possible. "I shall come to Malta and torment you. Remember what Prinny said about that?"

Grace Ferguson, the housekeeper, nodded to the maid. "Give a knock." She smiled. "Sounds all right."

She thought of the barely touched meal of the previous night, the unopened champagne, which always seemed to take their fancy for some reason. But you could never be sure, especially with her ladyship. She had never forgotten when her husband had told her about that terrible day when the girl Zenoria had jumped to her death from Trystan's Leap. He had described how Lady Catherine had lifted the slight, broken body and held her like a child while she had opened her clothing to find the one mark which would identify her. Where a whip had laid open her back; the mark of Satan, she had called it… The maid came out and smiled. "Good as gold, ma'am. Nothin' worries they much."

"You mind your manners, girl!" She turned away. That's all you know.

Then she walked to a window and stared down at the yard. Young Matthew, as he was still called and probably always would be, was giving the carnage a wipe with his cloth. Heads would turn when they saw the Bolitho crest on the door; people would wave, but, like the maid, they would never understand.

Another Bolitho was leaving the land. She remembered her own bitterness when Bryan had returned home after the Battle of the Saintes, with one arm gone. As she had nursed him over the months and watched him slowly restored to life, she had been almost grateful. He had lost an arm, but he was still her man, and he would never have to leave her again.

Later, when she went downstairs, she saw that Sir Richard's cocked hat lay beside his sword. Ready.

She peered up at the nearest portrait, Rear-Admiral Denziel Bolitho. He had been the only other officer in the family to attain flag rank. He had been with Wolfe at Quebec, probably near to where Sir Richard and John Allday had last been, she thought. But it was not the face or the rank she noticed; it was the sword. The artist had even caught the light on it, exactly as it was falling now. The same old sword.

For some reason, she shivered.

John Allday watched the boy lead the pony and trap around the stable yard, and tried to come to terms with his feelings. All his life he had seemed to be waiting for ships, or coming back to this place from one vessel or another. In the past he had been able to face it squarely, hope for fair winds, and what Mister Herrick had always referred to as Lady Luck.