UNIS ALLDAY paused and brushed a stray hair from her eyes and listened to some of the customers in the “long room,” as her brother called it, laughing and banging their tankards on the scrubbed tables. The Old Hyperion had been busy today, busier than she could remember for some months.

She scraped the slices of apple into a dish and stared out of the kitchen window. Flowers everywhere, bees tapping against the glass, the sun warm across her bare arms. The news of the great battle “over there” had been brought to Falmouth by courier brig and had gone through the port and surrounding villages like wild-fire, eventually reaching this little inn which nestled on the Helford River at Fallowfield.

It was not a rumour this time; it was far beyond that. The people who worked on the farms and estates in the area could only speak of victory, and no longer when or if. Men could go about their affairs without fear of being called to the Colours or snatched up by the hated press-gangs. The war had levied a heavy toll; there were still very few young men to be seen in the lanes or around the harbours, unless they held the precious Protection. Even then, they could never be certain how some zealous lieu-tenant, desperate for recruits and fearful of what his captain might say if he returned to his ship empty-handed, might interpret his duty if the chance offered itself. And there were cripples a-plenty to remind anyone who might believe that the war had kept its distance from Cornwall.

She thought of her brother John, who had lost a leg when he had been serving with the Thirty-First regiment of foot. She could not have managed without him, when she had taken this inn and had made it prosper. Then her other John, Allday, had come into her life, and they had been wed here in Fallowfield.

Her brother had said very little since the news of the French collapse had been shouted around the villages, and had seemed to distance himself from the customers. Perhaps he despised the lively banter and the steady sale of cider and ale which kept it close company, remembering now more than ever what the war had cost him, and all those who had stood shoulder to shoulder with him on the right of the line.

Maybe he would get over it, she thought. He was a kindly man, and had been so good with little Kate when she had been born, with John away at sea. She inspected a pot on its hook without seeing it, and then turned to look at the model of the Hyperion which John Allday had made for her. The old ship which had changed and directed the lives of so many, hers among them. Her first husband had served in Hyperion as a master’s mate and had been killed in battle. John Allday had been pressed in Fal-mouth and put aboard a frigate commanded by Captain Richard Bolitho; Hyperion had later become their ship. She would always think of them together, although she knew little of men-of-war, except those which came and left on the tide. It had seemed only right that this inn should now bear Hyperion’s name.

John Allday was not very good at hiding things from her, nei-ther his love for her and their child, nor his grief.

People who did not understand always wanted to know, were always asking him, despite her warnings, about Sir Richard Bolitho. What he was like, truly like as a man. And always asking about his death.

Allday had tried, and was still trying, to fill every day, as if that was the only way he could come to terms with it. As his best friend Bryan Ferguson had confided, “Like the old dog losing his master. No point any more.”

And Unis knew that the old wound was troubling him, although if she had asked him he would have denied it. Ferguson had said that he should have quit the sea long ago, even as he had known, better than anyone, that John Allday would never leave the side of his admiral, his friend, while they were both still needed.

Unis saw the pain in his face more frequently now, as he made himself useful about the inn, especially when he was lifting barrels of ale on to their trestles. She would get some of the other men to do it in future, if she could manage it without Allday finding out.

She knew that he went occasionally across to Falmouth, and this was something she could not share, nor attempt to. The ships, the sailors, and the memories. Missing being a part of it, not wanting to become just another old Jack, “swinging the lamp,” as he put it.

Unis often thought of the ones who had become close to her. George Avery, who had stayed here several times, and who wrote her husband’s letters at sea for him, and read hers to him. John had told her that Avery never received any letters himself, and it had saddened her in some way.

And Catherine, who had called here when she had needed to be with friends. Unis had never forgotten that, nor would she.

Nothing was the same, even at the big grey house below Pendennis Castle. Ferguson had said little about it, but she knew he was deeply concerned. Lawyers had been to the house from London, pursuing the matter of a settlement, he had said. The estate had been left to Captain Adam Bolitho; it had been signed and sealed. But there were complications. Sir Richard’s widow and his daughter Elizabeth had to be considered. No matter what Sir Richard had wanted, nor what Catherine had meant to him.

Where would she go now? What would she do? Bryan Fer-guson would not be drawn on the possibilities. He was worried about his own future; he and his wife had lived and worked at the estate for many years. How could lawyers from London know anything about such things as trust and loyalty?

She thought, too, of the memorial service at Falmouth. She had heard of the grander services at Plymouth and in the City of London, but she doubted they could match the united bond of pride and love, as well as sorrow, that day in the crowded church.

Her brother walked into the kitchen, his wooden leg thump-ing heavily on the flagstones.

He reached for his long clay pipe. “Just spoke with Bob, the farrier’s son.” He took a taper from the mantel and held it to the flames, careful not to look at her. “There’s a frigate in Carrick Roads. Came in this morning.” He saw her fingers bunch into her apron, and added, “Don’t fret, lass, none of her people will come this far out.”

She looked at the old clock. “He’ll be down there, then. Watching.”

He studied the smoke from his pipe, almost motionless in the warm air. Like that day when he had been struck down. All in a line, like toy soldiers. The smoke had lingered there too. For days. While men had called out, and had eventually died.

“He’s got you, and young Kate. He’s lucky. Luckier than most.”

She put her arms round him. “And we’ve got you, thank God!”

Someone banged his tankard on a table and she dabbed her face with her apron.

“There now, no rest for the wicked!”

Her brother watched her bustle out of the kitchen, and heard her call out to somebody by name.

Hold fast there, John. He did not know if he had spoken aloud, or to whom he had been speaking, himself, or the sailor home from the sea.

He heard a gust of laughter and was suddenly proud of his neat little sister, and even perhaps ashamed that he had given way to his bitter memories. It had not always been so. He squared his shoulders and tapped out his pipe in the palm of his hand, care-fully, so as not to break it. Then he strode in to the adjoining room and picked up an empty tankard. Like the old Thirty-First. Stand together, and face your front.

He was back.

Lady Somervell gripped a tasselled handle and leaned forward as the carriage with its matching greys turned into the imposing gate-way. The sky over the Thames was clear, but after several days of thunderstorms and heavy rain nothing seemed certain.

She was alone, and had left her companion Melwyn to pay the men who were repairing the front door of her Chelsea house.

Sillitoe had sent his carriage to collect her, and she had seen several people in the Walk turn to watch, some to smile and wave.

It was still hard to accept. To come to terms with. To understand.

Some had left flowers for her; one had even placed an expen-sive arrangement of roses on her doorstep with the simple message, For the Admiral’s Lady. With admiration and love.

And by contrast, last night, probably during the thunderstorm, someone had scratched the word whore on the same door. Mel-wyn had been outraged, the affront sitting strangely on one so young. Because she felt a part of it.

She watched the horses’ ears twitching as the carriage rolled to a halt. She could see the Thames again. The same river, but a world apart.

As speculation about the war had hardened into fact, she had wondered how the news would affect Adam. She had written to him, but she knew from bitter experience that letters took their time reaching the King’s ships.

Once, when she had been passing the Admiralty, she had realised how complete her isolation from Richard’s world had become. She knew no one in those busy corridors, or even “by way of the back stairs,” as he had called it. Bethune was in the Mediterranean, in Richard’s old command, and Valentine Keen was in Plymouth. She thought of Graham Bethune’s concern for her, and his furious estrangement from his wife. He was an attrac-tive man, and good company. It was probably for the best that he was so far away.

A boy in a leather apron had opened the door and was low-ering the step. He, at least, should be spared the suffering and the separation of war.

She climbed down and looked up at the coachman.

“Thank you, William. That was most comfortable.” She sensed his surprise, that she had remembered his name, or because she had spoken at all. She saw his eyes move to her breast and the diamond pendant there, and just as swiftly move away. Like the men painting the front door. She had seen their expressions. Their curiosity.

She thought of the blind lieutenant and the crippled sailors at the cathedral. It made the others seem lower than the dust.

A servant opened the doors for her, a man she did not know. He gave a quick bow.

“If you will wait in the library, m’ lady. Lord Sillitoe will join you presently.”

She walked into the room and saw the chair where she had sat, waiting for Sillitoe on the day of the memorial service. Only two weeks ago. A lifetime.

And now she was here again. Sillitoe had taken it upon him-self to deal with the legal complications; she had seen another carriage in the drive, and somehow knew it was that of the City lawyer, Sir Wilfred Lafargue. Sillitoe seemed to know everyone of consequence, friend or enemy. Like the private article some-one had shown her in the Times news-sheet, a very personal appraisal, a dedication to the one man she had loved.

Sir Richard practised total war, and inspired others to seek a total victory. To the Navy, his will remain an abiding influence. We shall never forget him, nor the woman he loved to the end.

Her name had not been mentioned. There was no need.

Sillitoe had said nothing about it. There had been no need for that, either.

The door opened and he strode into the room, his quick, keen glance taking in the dark green gown, the wide-brimmed straw hat with its matching ribbon. Perhaps surprised to see her out of mourning; the hooded eyes gave little away, but she recognised approval in them.

He kissed her hand, and half-turned as horses clattered across the drive.

“Lafargue can make even a single word into an overture.” He waited for her to sit and arrange her gown. “But I think the way has become clear.”

She felt the eyes upon her, the power of the man. An inten-sity which so many had found cause to fear.

She had only once seen him off guard, that day at the cathe-dral, when he had pushed through the silent crowd to be at her side. As if he believed he had failed her in some way, something which he was unable to conceal.

And other times. When he had arranged passage for her to Malta ... For that last time. She clenched her fist around her parasol. She must not think of it. She had often found him watch-ing her, like this moment, in this great, silent house overlooking the Thames. Perhaps remembering yet again the night he had burst into her room, and had held her, shielded her, as his men had dragged away the madman who had attempted to rape her.

He had made no secret of his feelings for her. Once, in this house, he had even mentioned marriage. But after that terrible night, how did he really regard her?

She thought of the lightning over the river last night, proba-bly while the unknown pervert had been scratching his poison on the door. It had all come back to her. Melwyn had felt it too, and had climbed into bed with her, holding her hand, a child again, until the storm had abated.

Sillitoe said, “Lady Bolitho will have the right to visit Fal-mouth. A lawyer acceptable to Lafargue,” he almost smiled, “and, of course, to me, will be present. Certain items . . .” He broke off, suddenly tired of evasion. “It would not be advisable for you to be present. Captain Bolitho is the accepted heir, but in his absence we may have to make allowances.”

She said quietly, “I had no intention of returning to Falmouth.” She raised her chin and regarded him steadily. “There would be some who would say that the mare was hasty to change saddles!”

Sillitoe nodded. “Bravely spoken.”

“Time will pass. I shall become a stranger there.”

“Adam will ask you to visit or take up residence, whichever you choose. When he eventually returns.”

She was on her feet without knowing that she had left the chair. She looked down at the river: people working on barges, a man walking his dog. Ordinary things. She bit her lip. Beyond her reach.

She said, “I think that might be dangerous.”

She did not explain. She did not need to.

And she spoke the truth. What would she do there? Watch the ships, listen to the sailors, torture herself with memories they had shared with no one?

Sillitoe waited, watched her turn, framed against the sun-dap-pled window, her throat and shoulders as brown as any country lass working in the fields, the pendant glittering between her breasts. The one woman he truly wanted; he had never consid-ered it as a need before. And the only one he could never have.

He said abruptly, “I have to leave London. Tomorrow or the next day.” He saw her hand close into a fist again. What was trou-bling her? “To Deptford. I was going to suggest that you stay here. You would be well taken care of, and I would feel safer.”

She looked at the river once more. “That would do your rep-utation injury, surely?”

“It is of no consequence.” He was standing beside her, like that day at St Paul’s. “After this duty I shall be spending more time in the pursuit of my own affairs, unless . . .”

She turned towards him, unnerved by the realisation that this was the true reason for asking her here. “Unless?”

“The Prince Regent seems to feel that my work as Inspector-General has run its course.” He shrugged. “He is probably right.”

She could feel the beat of her heart, like a hammer, and said again, “Unless what?”

“I think you know, Catherine.”

“Because of me. What they will say. How it would look. They would pillory you, just as they tried to destroy Richard.” She repeated, “Because of me.”

“And do you think I care what people say about me? What they have always been careful to conceal to my face?

Power is like a fine blade—you must always use it with care, and for the right purpose!”

A bell was ringing somewhere, another visitor. But she could not move.

It had been wrong, stupid, to allow herself to become depen-dent on this hard, remote man. And yet she had known it was there. As at St Paul’s, when he had risked the stares and the con-demnation.

She said softly, “You should have married someone suitable.”

He smiled. “I did. Or I thought she suited. But she went with another. Greener pastures, I believe it is called.”

He said it without anger or emotion, as though it were some-thing forgotten. Or was that, too, another form of defence? There were voices now, probably the secretary Marlow or one of his burly servants.

He put his hand on her arm and held it, and she watched, detached, as if she were watching someone else.

She said, “Would you have me as your mistress, my lord?”

She lifted her eyes and looked at him. Angry, wanting to hurt this unreachable man.

He took her other arm and turned her towards him, holding her only inches away.

“As I said before, Catherine. As my wife. I can give you the security you need and deserve. I loved you at a distance, and sometimes I fought against it. So now it is said.”

She did not resist as he pulled her against him, did not even flinch when he touched her hair and her skin. A voice was screaming, what is the matter with you? But all she could see was the

damaged door. Whore.

She whispered, “No. Please don’t.”

He held her away and studied her face, feature by feature.

“Come with me on this last duty, Catherine. Then I will know.” He tried to smile. “And so will the Prince Regent!”

Again it came to her. When she had met Richard at Antigua, so long ago, it seemed, she had told him that he needed love, as the desert craves for rain. She had been describing herself.

She thought of all the rare, precious times they had spent together. As one. And the endless waiting in between. And the finality.

Don’t leave me.

But there was no reply.

John Allday rested against the iron railings at the top of the jetty, so well-worn throughout the years that they were quite smooth, and stared across the crowded anchorage. One of the local carri-ers had given him a ride into Falmouth; he would doubtless be calling at the inn later on for some free ale.

Allday was glad he had come. It was something he could not explain to Unis, to anybody. It was probably bad for him, hold-ing on to the past. Was it that? . . .

She was a frigate of some thirty-eight guns, although he had noticed that some of her ports were empty, as if her main arma-ment had been cut down for some reason. She was named Kestrel, and even without a glass he had seen her figurehead, the spread wings and curved beak. As if it were alive. He did not know the ship, and that troubled him. Before long, there would be many more ships coming and leaving which were strangers to him, in name and reputation. No reminders.

He studied the frigate with a critical eye. A fine-looking ves-sel, freshly painted, and her furled or brailed-up canvas all new from the sailmakers. There were few local craft around her, so she was not in Falmouth to take on stores. He had heard someone say that Kestrel was already armed and provisioned, in readiness for a long voyage. Not Biscay or the Mediterranean this time; somewhere far away, perhaps. There were scarlet uniforms at the gangways and forecastle; her captain was taking no chances on last-minute desertions. A change of heart caused by the news of more advances across the Channel, the end finally in sight.

But the navy would still be needed. And there would always be deserters.

He heard some old sailors discussing the ship, their voices loud, as if they wanted to be noticed. In a moment they would try to draw him into it.

He moved a few paces along the jetty, and looked down at the water lapping over the stone stairs which had seen so many thousands arrive and depart. It was as if his life had begun here, when he had been taken aboard Bolitho’s frigate Phalarope. With Bryan Ferguson, and some others who had not been quick enough to avoid a landing party. An unlikely way to begin something so strong. It was not as if he had been a green recruit; he had served in the fleet before. He frowned and glanced down at his good blue coat with the buttons which Bolitho had had made for him. The Bolitho crest, for an admiral’s coxswain. He sighed. And friend.

Unis was doing all she could to make his life comfortable. She gave him encouragement, and she gave him love. And there was little Kate. He recalled how pleased Lady Catherine had been when she had heard their decision to name her Kate. The same name Sir Richard used for her.

And now she was gone from the old grey house. It seemed so empty without her; even his best friend Bryan had said as much. He went there when he could, if only to share a wet with him, or to yarn about old times.

There was talk that Sir Richard’s widow might return. No one seemed to know anything for certain. Lawyers and snotty clerks, what did they understand about this place and its people? Even the smell of it. Paint and tar, fishing nets hung to dry in the June sunshine, and the sounds. Winches and hammers, local dealers haggling with some of the fishing skippers who had come into the harbour earlier than usual. And always the sea.

He touched his chest, but the pain hesitated, like a warning at the door. Fallowfield was quiet, and usually peaceful. He knew that Unis got worried when sailors came so far out to the Old Hyperion. He had seen her watching, caring.

“Oars!”

The order rang out sharply, but a little too shrill for the occa-sion. Allday turned as a jolly-boat thrust around the jetty, the bowman scrambling to his feet to seize a boat-hook. There was a smart-looking midshipman by the tiller, his hat tilted against the sunlight.

“Up!”

The oars rose as one, like white bones, while the midshipman brought the hull against the wooden piles with barely a shudder.

Allday nodded. Rakishly done. So far. You never knew with the young gentlemen, ready to listen and learn one minute, tyrants the next.

One of the old sailors on the jetty cackled, “Look at ’im! Proper little ’ero, eh, lads?”

Allday frowned. The speaker would not be saying that if he was back in the perfect navy he was usually describing in one of the local taverns.

The midshipman was clattering up the stone steps, a shining new dirk pressed against his side. Allday made to move aside, but the boy, and he was little more than that, blocked his way.

“Mister Allday, sir?” He was gazing at him anxiously, while the boat’s crew looked on with interest.

Very new and very young. Calling him “mister” and “sir.” He would have to learn quickly, otherwise . . . It hit him like the pain in his chest. His was a different world now. He did not belong any more.

“That’s me.” The midshipman reminded him of someone . . . A face formed in his mind. Midshipman Neale of the Phalarope, who had eventually become captain of a frigate himself. Neale had died after being taken prisoner of war. With Richard Bolitho. He felt it again. And me.

The midshipman breathed out with relief. “My captain saw you, sir.” It was as if he were afraid to turn towards the anchored ship, in case he was being watched.

“He sends his respects, sir.”

Allday shook his head, and corrected roughly, “Compliments!”

The midshipman was equally firm. “Respects, sir. And would you come aboard, if you have the time?”

Allday touched his arm. “Lead on.” It was worth it just to see the idlers on the jetty staring down at them. The loud-mouthed one could put that in his pipe and smoke it!

He threw his leg over the gunwale and said, “So long as I’m not being pressed!”

Some of the oarsmen grinned. Because they think I’m too bloody old.

“Bear off forrard! Out oars! Give way together!”

Then the midshipman turned to stare at him, and said, “Never fear, sir, they’ll be up to your standard soon!” And he was proud of it.

Allday looked around, avoiding the eyes as the seamen lay back on their looms, unable to accept it. The midshipman knew who he was. Knew him.

Eventually he managed to ask, “And who is your captain?”

The boy looked surprised, and almost misjudged the tug of the tiller-bar.

“Why, Captain Tyacke, sir! Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag captain!”

Allday looked up at the fierce kestrel with its spread wings, at a seaman using a marlin spike but pausing in the middle of a splice to peer down at him. Captain James Tyacke. A face from yesterday. Or half a face, with that terrible disfigurement, his legacy from the Nile.

And the midshipman stood and removed his hat as the boat hooked on to the main chains, and Allday climbed up the “stairs” to the entry port. His mind was too crowded to record that he did it with ease and without pain.

It was like one of those things you think about, in a dream or a part-remembered story from someone else. A lieutenant greeted him, older than most for his rank, so probably from the lower deck. Come up the hard way. He had heard Tyacke speak of oth-ers like that. From him, with his qualities of seamanship and professional skill, there was no higher praise.

Beneath the quarterdeck, his mind trying to take in every-thing. Neat stands of pikes, and smartly flaked lines. The smell of fresh paint and new cordage. Just months since he had seen Bolitho fall, had caught and held him to the last. Tyacke had been there, too, but because of the close action he had been prevented from leaving his men. He nodded to himself, as if someone had spoken. Yesterday.

A Royal Marine sentry drew his boots together as the lieu-tenant tapped on the screen door. She could have been any ship ...He almost expected Ozzard to open the door.

But it was Captain Tyacke. He shook his hand, waved aside all formality and guided him into the great cabin. Through the broad, sloping stern windows Allday was aware of Carrick Roads, stationary masts and moving patches of sails. But, in truth, he saw none of it.

Tyacke seated him by a table, and said, “I called at Falmouth in the hope that I might see Lady Somervell. But when I sent word to the house I was told that she is in London.” He looked at the skylight, and made no attempt, as he had used to do, to turn aside to hide the hideous scars.

Allday said, “She would have wanted to see you, sir.”

Tyacke held up his hand. “No rank here. I shall write to her. I am under orders for the West African station. But when I saw you through the glass just now, I had to speak with you. Chance, like happiness, does not come so easily.”

Allday said, awkwardly, “But we thought . . .” He tried again. “My wife Unis was certain that you were to be married, if and when Frobisher was paid off. I thought you might spend some time ashore.” He tried to grin. “You’ve earned it more’n most!”

Tyacke glanced at the adjoining sleeping cabin, glad that his big sea-chest had at last been taken below. His companion for so many years. Thousands and thousands of miles logged, icy gales and blistering heat. Guns and death. The chest had been stand-ing near the door of Marion’s house, waiting for men to come and take it to his new command. This ship.

He said, “I always thought I’d like to return to Africa. Their lordships were good to me, and granted my request.” He looked up at the skylight again; maybe he could see the mainmast truck from there. No admiral’s flag any more. A private ship. His own.

Allday heard someone bringing glasses. He thought of Unis, how lucky he was to have her.

Tyacke was speaking again, with no discernible emotion in his voice.

“It would not have worked, you see. The two children . . .” He touched his scarred face, reliving it. “I can understand how they felt about it.”

Allday watched him sadly. No, you don’t.

Tyacke gestured to the unknown servant.

“Nelson’s blood, am I right?”

Allday saw the servant give him a quick glance, and was glad he had put on his best coat today. As if he had known.

“It will do me good to get away from all of it. There’s noth-ing for me here. Not any more.” Tyacke took a full goblet. “It’s something we shared, were a part of. Nothing can alter that.” He swallowed some of his drink, his blue eyes very clear.

Then he said, after a silence, “He gave me back my pride, my hope, when I had thought them gone forever. I’ll never forget him, and what he gave to me.” He smiled briefly. “It’s all we can do now. Remember.”

He poured another generous measure of the rum and thought of Marion, her face when he had left the neat house, the chil-dren hiding in another room. Another man’s home, another man’s children.

Then he stared around the cabin and knew it was what he wanted. It was the only life he knew, or could expect.

Back to the anti-slavery patrols where he had been serving when he had first met Richard Bolitho. The trade was more extensive and more lucrative than ever despite all the treaties and promises; the slavers would have the pick of the ships as soon as this war was finally ended. Like the ones which had been there that day. When he had seen him fall, and this big, shambling man with the goblet almost lost in one of his hands had held him with a tenderness which few could imagine. Unless they had shared it. Been there. With us.

He smiled suddenly. And he never had told Marion about the yellow gown which he had always carried in that old sea-chest.

Later in the afternoon they went on deck. There was a hint of mist below Pendennis Castle, but the glass was steady and the wind was fair. Kestrel would clear harbour before most good peo-ple were awake and about their business.

Allday stood by the entry port, feeling the ship stir slightly beneath his fine shoes. He was surprised that he could accept it, without pain and without pity. He would never lose it, any more than the tall captain with the burned and melted face would forget.

The jolly-boat was already coming alongside, and the same midshipman was at the tiller. For some reason Allday was glad of it.

They faced one another and shook hands, each somehow knowing they would not meet again. As was the way with most sailors.

Tyacke waved to the boat, and asked, “Where to now, old friend?”

Allday smiled. “Goin’ home, Cap’n.”

Then he walked to the entry port, and paused and touched his forehead to the quarterdeck, and to the great ensign curling lazily from aft. For John Allday, admiral’s coxswain, it would never end.

He climbed down into the boat and grinned at the young midshipman. The worst part was behind him.

The midshipman eased over the tiller-bar and said shyly, “Will you, sir?”

Allday nodded, and waited for the bowman to cast off.

“Bear off forrard! Out oars! Give way together!”

It would never end.

LUKE JAGO made his way unhurriedly aft, his lean body angled easily to the deck. Unrivalled was heading west again, steering close-hauled on the starboard tack under topsails and topgallants, the wind light but enough to hold her steady.

Here on the ship’s messdeck the air was heady with rum, and the smell of the midday meal. Unlike a ship of the line, there were no guns on this deck. Each mess was allotted a scrubbed table and bench seats, with hooks overhead where the hammocks would be slung when the ship piped down for the night. In larger vessels the guns were a constant reminder to seamen and marines alike, when they swung themselves into their hammocks, and when they were piped on deck for any emergency. Their reason for being.

Jago glanced at the tables as he passed. Some of the men looked at him and nodded, others avoided his eye. It suited him well enough. He recalled that the captain had said he could use the little store which adjoined the cabin pantry for his meals, but he had declined. He had been surprised by Captain Bolitho’s offer, and that he should even care about it.

He half-listened to the loud murmur of voices and the clatter of plates. The forenoon watchkeepers were already tucking into their boiled meat, and what looked like oatmeal. The new cook was far better than his predecessor; at least he was not so mean with his beef and pork. And there was bread, too. The captain had sent a working party to one of the garrisons in Malta: the army always seemed to live well when it was not in the field. And there was butter, while it lasted. When the purser had supervised the issue to all the messes, you would have thought he was part-ing with his own skin. But they were always like that.

To these men, experienced or raw recruits, such small items, taken for granted by those ashore, were luxuries. When they were exhausted it would be back to iron-hard ship’s biscuits, with slush skimmed off the galley coppers to make them edible. He grinned inwardly. A sailor’s lot.

He saw the glint of metal and scarlet coats, marine sentries, and, crowded together while the food was ladled out, the prison-ers from the ill-fated Tetrarch. Jago had seen them eating so voraciously when they had been brought aboard that it seemed they had not been properly fed for years. Now some were even working with the various parts of ship, under supervision of sorts. But Jago thought that no matter what lay ahead for these men, they were somehow glad to be back in the world which had once been their own.

The admiral at Malta, Bethune, had wanted to get rid of them as quickly as possible, the British ones at any rate. Someone else would have to decide their fate. Would anybody bother to inves-tigate the circumstances, he wondered? Mutineers, deserters, or men who had been misled? The end of a rope was the usual solu-tion.

He thought of the captain again. He had given orders that these men were to receive the same rations as the ship’s company. Troublemakers would be punished. Instantly. He could see Bolitho’s face as he had said it. Jago knew that most captains would have kept these men on deck in all weathers, and in irons. As an example. As a warning. And it was cheaper, too.

He paused by one of the tables and studied a finely carved model of a seventy-four. Unrivalled had been in commission for only six months, and during that time he had watched this superb carving take on meaning and life.

The seaman raised his head. It was Sullivan, the keen-eyed lookout.

“Almost done, ’Swain.”

Jago rested one hand on his shoulder. He knew the history of the model: she was the Spartiate, a two-decker which had been in Nelson’s Weather Division at Trafalgar. Sullivan kept to him-self, but was a popular man by any standard. Trafalgar: even the word gave him a sort of presence. He had been there, in the great-est naval battle of all time, had cheered with all the others when they had broken through the French line, only to be stunned by the signal that Lord Nelson, “Our Nel,” had fallen.

When Jago had watched the captain he had found himself wondering if he ever compared the death of his uncle, Sir Richard Bolitho, a man who had been as well liked and respected as Nel-son, but had been killed in what might have been an accidental engagement. In the end, it was the same for both of them.

He looked over Sullivan’s head at the next mess, where the ship’s boys were quartered. Signed on by parents who wanted to be rid of them, and others like Napier, who had been appointed the captain’s servant, living in the hope of outside sponsorship, and the eventual chance of a commission. He remembered the captain’s face when he had told him that the boy John Whitmarsh had been killed. He had intended to sponsor the boy as mid-shipman, and all the while Whitmarsh had wanted only to remain with him.

There was another boy at the mess table, the one called Paul, son of the Tetrarch ’s renegade captain. Had he continued the fight and faced one of Unrivalled ’s broadsides with his holds filled to the deckhead beams with powder ...at least it would have been a quick death, Jago thought.

Sullivan did not look up, but said, “What’ll they do with ’im?”

Jago shrugged. “Put him ashore, maybe.” He frowned, angry without knowing why. “War is no game for children!”

Sullivan chuckled. “Since when?”

Jago glanced around the partly filled messdeck, the swaying rays of sunlight probing down through the gratings and an open hatchway.

This was his world, where he belonged, where he could catch the feel of the ship, something which would be denied him if he accepted the captain’s offer.

His eyes fell on the burly seaman named Campbell, who had been sentenced to a flogging for threatening a petty officer. There had been two men brought aft for punishment, but the other had been killed during the opening shots of the engagement, and the captain had ordered that Campbell’s punishment should be stood over. He was sitting there now, his face blotchy with sweat from too much rum. Wets from others, for favours done, or perhaps the need to keep on the good side of this seemingly unbreakable troublemaker.

One of the hard men, Campbell had received a checkered shirt at the gangway several times. Jago knew what it was like to be flogged; although the punishment had been carried out unjustly, and despite the intervention of an officer on his behalf, he would carry the scars to the grave. No wonder men deserted. He had nearly run himself, twice, in other ships, and for reasons he could scarcely remember.

What had held him back? He grimaced. Certainly not loyalty or devotion to duty.

Again he recalled the day he had shaken hands with Captain Bolitho after they had driven off the big Yankee. A bargain, some-thing done on the spur of the moment while the blood was still pounding with the wildness of battle. It was something new to him, which he did not understand. And that, too, troubled him.

Campbell looked at him. “This is an unexpected honour, eh, lads? To ’ave the Cap’n’s cox’n amongst the likes of us!”

Jago relaxed. Men like Campbell he could handle.

“Far enough, Campbell. I’ll take no lip from you. You’ve been lucky, so make the best of it.”

Campbell seemed disappointed. “I never meant nuthin’!”

“One foot, just put one foot wrong and I’ll drag you aft myself!”

Somebody asked, “Why are we goin’ to Gib again, ’Swain?”

Jago shrugged. “Despatches, to land Tetrarch ’s people—”

Campbell said harshly, “Run ’em up to the main-yard, that’s what I’d do!” He pointed at the boy in the other mess. “’Is bloody father for a start!”

Jago smiled. “That’s more like it, Campbell. A ten-year-old boy. A fair match, I’d say!”

Sullivan said softly, “Officer on the deck, ’Swain!”

Someone else murmured, “Bloody piglet, more like!”

It was Midshipman Sandell, striding importantly past the messes, chin in the air and not bothering to remove his hat, a courtesy observed by most officers. Jago ducked beneath one of the massive deckhead beams and realised that the midshipman was still able to walk upright, even wearing the hat. Sandell was carrying a gleaming, and, Jago guessed, very expensive sextant, probably a parting gift from his parents. Earlier he had seen the midshipmen assembled on the quarterdeck taking their noon sights, watched critically by Cristie, the master, as they had tried to estimate the ship’s position for their logs.

Cristie missed very little, and Jago had heard him give Sandell the rough edge of his tongue more than once, to the obvious glee of the others.

Jago faced him calmly. It made upstarts like him dangerous.

“Oh, you’re here, are you?” Sandell peered around, as if he had never set foot on the lower deck before. “I want the boy, Lovatt. He is to lay aft, now.”

“I’ll fetch him, Mr Sandell.”

“How many times do I have to tell people?” He was almost beside himself. “Sandell! That’s easy enough, surely?”

Jago murmured, “Sorry, sir.” It had been worth it just to see the shot go home. As he had intended it would.

He beckoned to the boy, and asked, “The captain wants him, sir?”

Sandell stared at him, as if astonished that anyone should dare to question him. But, angry or not, some inner warning seemed to prevent another outburst. Jago’s demeanour, and the fine blue jacket with gilt buttons, appeared to make him hesitate.

He said loftily, “The captain, yes.” He snapped his fingers. “Move yourself, boy!”

Jago watched them leave. Sandell would never change. He had shown no sign of fear during the fight, but that meant little; his kind were usually more afraid of revealing their fear to others than of fear itself. He winked at Sullivan. But if Sandell wanted to climb the ladder of promotion, he would be wise not to turn his back.

Unrivalled ’s wardroom, which was built into the poop structure on the gun deck, seemed spacious after other frigates George Avery had known. Unlike the lower deck, the ship’s officers shared the cabin and dining space with six eighteen-pounders, three on either side.

The midday meal had been cleared away, and Avery sat by an open gunport watching some gulls diving and screaming along-side, probably because the cook had pitched some scraps outboard.

Two days out of Malta, on passage for Gibraltar, as if every-thing else was unreal. The dinner with Vice-Admiral Bethune and Adam Bolitho, then the excitement at being a part of something which he had begun with Sir Richard, had all been dashed by the arrival of another courier vessel. Unrivalled would take Bethune’s despatches to the Rock and pass them on to the first available ship bound for England. Whatever Bethune really thought about it, he had made himself very clear. His latest orders were to contain the activities of the Dey’s corsairs, but to do nothing to aggravate the situation until more ships were put under his flag.

Adam had been quietly resentful, although Unrivalled was the obvious choice: she was faster and better armed than any other frigate here or anywhere else in the fleet. There had been reports of several smaller vessels being attacked, taken or destroyed by the corsairs, and communications between the various squadrons and bases had never been so important. There was still no defi-nite news of a total victory over Napoleon’s army. Waterloo had broken his hold over the line, and it seemed as if all French forces were in full retreat. Even Marshal Ney’s formidable cavalry had been defeated by the red-coated squares of infantry.

And he, Lieutenant George Avery, had received orders which countermanded all others. He was to return to England and pre-sent himself to their lordships, perhaps to add his report to all those which must have gone before. He laid his hand on the gun, warm, as if it had been recently fired. Perhaps he was too close. It was not another report they wanted. It was a post-mortem.

He looked around at his companions. It was a friendly enough wardroom, and he was after all a stranger, a temporary member of their small community.

And it was always in the air. It was only natural, and he knew he was being unreasonable to expect otherwise. I was there. When he fell.

Galbraith, the first lieutenant, understood, and confined his questions to the subject of Avery’s visit to the Dey’s stronghold, and if there was any real risk that the attacks on shipping and the seizure of Christians would spark off a bigger confrontation. The war with France would soon be over; it probably already was. Gal-braith would be thinking of his own future, thankful that he was at least in a stronger position than many, in a new and powerful frigate, with a captain whose name was known because of his famous uncle as well as his own past successes.

Massie, the second lieutenant, remained scornful, if not openly critical of Bethune’s change of direction.

“When Boney surrenders this time, their lordships will cut the fleet to the bare bones! We’ll have less chance than ever to top-ple these would-be tyrants!” To recover from such a costly war every nation, former friends and enemies alike, would be seeking fresh trade routes, and would still need the ships and men to pro-tect them.

He saw Noel Tregillis, the purser, poring over one of his ledgers. He rarely stopped work even in here.

Captain Bosanquet of the Royal Marines was asleep in his chair, an empty goblet still clasped in his fingers, and his secondin-command Lieutenant Luxmore had gone to share a drink with his sergeant.

The portly surgeon, O’Beirne, had made his excuses and had gone aft to the great cabin, leaving his food untouched. The pris-oner, Lovatt, was unwell; the wound was not healing to O’Beirne’s satisfaction.

He had said sharply, “He should have been put ashore in Malta. All this is quite unnecessary.” The severity of the com-ment was uncharacteristic of this generally quiet, affable man, who Avery knew took his work very seriously.

Even O’Beirne had touched on the subject, on their first night at sea. He had known Lefroy, Frobisher’s bald surgeon. It was to be expected: the fraternity of fleet surgeons was even more close-knit than the family of sea officers.

But once more it had all come back. The surgeon rising from his knees, from the bloodstained deck where Allday had held his admiral with such terrible anguish, and saying, “He’s gone, I’m afraid.” In so few words.

Through a skylight he heard someone laugh. It was young Bellairs, sharing the afternoon watch with Lieutenant Wynter. What must it be like to be seventeen again, with the examina-tion for lieutenant anticipated with every despatch satchel? A boy to a man, midshipman to officer, and Bellairs would deserve it. Avery thought of Adam, and how he had changed, confidence and maturing tempering him like the old sword he now wore. He smiled. A man of war. Perhaps . . .

And me? A passed-over luff with memories but no prospects.

He thought of Sillitoe, his energy, his manipulations, and of the last time they had met and parted. He had never believed that he could have felt something like pity for him.

Feet scraped outside the screen door, and Galbraith looked up from an old and much handled news-sheet.

“What is it, Parker? D’ you want me?”

The boatswain’s mate nodded towards Avery and said, “The cap’n’s compliments, zur, an’ ’e’d like you to step aft, directly.”

Galbraith stood up. “The prisoner?”

The boatswain’s mate gazed curiously around the wardroom. Just another part of the same ship. But so different.

He said, “Dyin’, I thinks, zur.”

The purser glanced up from his ledger, his face trained to give nothing away. One less mouth to feed.

Galbraith reached out and took the empty goblet from Bosan-quet’s limp hand. He said, “If you need me . . .”

Avery picked up his hat. “Thank you. I know.”

He walked into the deeper shadows of the poop and saw the Royal Marine sentry standing outside the screen door of the great cabin. The seat of command, which he himself would never know. Also the loneliest place in any King’s ship.

The sentry straightened his back and tapped his musket smartly on the deck.

“Flag lieutenant, sir! ”

Avery glanced at him. A homely, unknown face.

“Not any more, I’m afraid.”

The marine’s eyes did not even flicker beneath his leather hat.

“You always will be to us, sir!”

Afterwards, he thought it was like a hand reaching out to him.

So let’s be about it.

Adam Bolitho put a finger to his lips as Avery began to speak.

He said quietly, “Come aft,” and led the way to the sloping stern windows. With the sun directly overhead, the panorama of blue water and cloudless sky was like some vast painting.

“Thank you for coming so quickly.” He turned his head as he heard Lovatt’s rambling voice again. More like a conversation than one man. Questions and answers, and, just once, a tired laugh. And coughing. “He’s dying. O’Beirne’s done all he can. I’ve been with him, too.”

Avery watched the dark profile, the strain around the eyes and mouth. He could feel the energy too, refusing to submit. When he had entered the cabin, his mind still clinging to the sentry’s words, he had taken in the coat tossed carelessly on to a chair, one of Cristie’s charts weighed down on a table by the bench seat, some brass dividers, the master’s notebook. An untouched cup of coffee and an empty glass beside it. The captain was driving him-self again; perhaps in truth he did resent the change of orders. Avery knew well enough that there were few bonds as strong as the one he had enjoyed with Richard Bolitho anywhere in the navy. Rank and responsibility did not allow it.

Or did he blame himself in some way? What captain would tolerate a prisoner, even a wounded one, in his own quarters?

Adam said, “He’s delirious for much of the time. Young Napier’s in there with the surgeon—he’s a good lad.” He added with some bitterness, “Lovatt believes he’s his son!”

Avery had seen Lovatt’s son on the way here, waiting with one of the midshipmen as escort. He could guess the rest.

When Adam turned, he was calm again.

“I asked you to come here because I think you can help me.”

Why had he sent for him, and not the first lieutenant?

Adam said, “In your original report to Sir Graham Bethune, you made mention of a Captain Martinez, whom you described as adviser to Mehmet Pasha, the governor and commander-in-chief in Algiers. Spanish . . .”

He broke off as Lovatt shouted, “Helm a’ lee, man! Are you blind, damn you!” It was followed by a bout of coughing, and Avery heard O’Beirne’s resonant voice for the first time.

Adam continued, “A renegade, you said?”

Avery forced himself to think, aware of the controlled urgency in the captain’s tone.

“Yes, sir. He changed sides several times, but is useful to the Dey. He has or had connections in Spain when we met him. But the Dey is a hard man to serve, and Martinez will be very aware of it.”

Adam said, “Lovatt spoke of him this morning. He said that the powder and shot, and other supplies not listed, were provided by Spanish sources, the whole of Tetrarch ’s cargo to be exact.”

Avery tried to shut his ears to the pitiful muttering and retch-ing from the sleeping compartment. This was important, it had to be, and yet it made no sense.

Adam said, “He also told me that a second supply ship was to follow Tetrarch.” He gestured impatiently to the chart. “Tomorrow we shall be north of Bona. The hornets’ nest, eh?” He almost smiled. “You will doubtless remember it well?”

Avery was silent for a moment, seeing it in his mind, as he had done in the past.

“It would make sense, sir. Our patrols, such as they are, would be less likely to sight them, and even then . . .”

Adam touched his sleeve. “And even then, supporting ships would be required, and the admiral would have to be informed, and consulted—it is an old and familiar story!”

So he was bitter about Bethune’s change of heart. Avery said, “News travels fast in these waters, sir. Tetrarch ’s capture, and your cutting out of La Fortune, will put an edge on things.”

The door opened slightly, and O’Beirne peered into the cabin.

“If you still wish it, sir, I think this might be the time.”

Adam acknowledged it. He meant, the only time.

“So be it.” He looked briefly at his coat, hesitated and then slipped his arms into the sleeves. Then, to Avery, he said softly, “Captain to captain, remember?”

To Avery the scene was nightmarish. Lovatt was propped up in the surgeon’s makeshift trestle, one hand gripping it as if it was moving, his arm around the waist of the boy called Napier. O’Beirne was wedged into a corner, fingers interlaced on his knees, as if he had to force them to stay still.

“Aha, Captain! No urgent matters to keep you occupied?”

Lovatt’s voice was stronger again, but that was all. His face seemed sunken, and his hazel eyes very bright, like somebody else looking out from a feverish mask.

Avery saw his hand tighten around the boy’s body, and noticed that Napier had removed the noisy shoes, and his feet were bare on the checkered deck covering.

“Young Paul here is a comfort!” He contained another cough, and Napier dabbed his forehead with a damp cloth, gently and without hesitation, as if he had been trained for it.

But he was nothing like Lovatt’s son in appearance, being taller and about four years older. Was Lovatt really deceived? Or perhaps it was a need, a desperate need.

Adam rested his hands on the trestle. “You spoke earlier of the other supply ship, Captain Lovatt?”

Lovatt twisted his head from side to side, as if he could hear something. Or someone.

“Mercenaries! War makes us all hunger for something!” He was quiet again as the cloth moved gently over his brow. “I could not offer my men a reason for dying, you see? It was a gesture. A final conceit!”

He seemed to see Avery for the first time.

“Who is this? A spy? A witness?”

O’Beirne moved as if to restrain him but Adam shook his head.

“This is George Avery. He is a friend.”

“Good.” Lovatt closed his eyes and O’Beirne gestured quickly to another basin. It contained a folded dressing, soaked in blood.

Avery watched a thin tendril drip from Lovatt’s mouth, like red silk against his ashen skin. The boy dabbed it away, frowning with concentration as Avery had seen him do when he had poured the captain’s wine.

“Thanks, Paul. I—I’m so sorry ...”

Avery had seen many men suffer, and had endured great pain himself. And yet still he thought, with immense bitterness, why did death have to be so ugly, so without dignity?

Pain, suffering, humiliation. A man who had once hoped and loved, and lost.

“Where lies the land, Captain?” Stronger again.

Adam said quietly, “We are nor’-east of Bona. Ship’s head, west-by-south.”

The eyes found and settled on his face. “You will see to his safety, Captain?”

“I will do what I can.” He hesitated. Where was the point? “You have my word on it, Captain Lovatt.”

Lovatt let his head fall back and stared at the white deckhead. Adam saw the boy Napier show fear for the first time, and guessed that he thought Lovatt had died.

He must not leave it now. Could not.

“There were two other frigates in harbour.” He repeated the question, and saw the hazel eyes focus again.

“Two. Did I tell you that?” He looked at Napier and tried to smile. “So like your mother, you know? So . . . like ...her.”

Adam leaned over the trestle, hating it, the despair, the pain, the surrender. The very stench of death.

He asked sharply, “Will they sail?”

He could feel O’Beirne’s disapproval, his unspoken objections. Avery was very still, a witness; it was impossible to guess what he was thinking.

Something thudded on the deck overhead, and there were sounds of tackle being hauled through the blocks. Normal, every-day shipboard noises. And there were men up there too. Who depend on me.

I must not care what others think.

He persisted, “Will they sail?”

“Yes.” Lovatt seemed to nod. “So run while you can, Captain.” His voice was failing, but he tried once more. “But promise me . . .” He gave one small cry and more blood choked the words in his throat. This time it did not stop.

O’Beirne dragged the dead man’s arm from Napier’s waist and pushed him away, knowing that any show of sentiment would make a lasting impression.

Adam laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“That was well done. I am proud of you.”

Napier was still staring at Lovatt’s contorted, bloodied face. Although he seemed quite calm, his body was shaking uncon-trollably.

Adam said, “Send for the first lieutenant.”

He kept his hand on Napier’s shoulder. For his sake or for mine?

O’Beirne said, “I shall have my people clean up in here, sir.” He studied the captain, as if he was discovering something he had previously missed. “He should be buried soon, I think.”

“Tell the sailmaker. Did he have any possessions?” Did. Already in the past. Not a man any more. A thing.

As if reading his thoughts, O’Beirne said bluntly, “It were bet-ter he had been killed outright!”

Galbraith was already in the great cabin, grim-faced, reassur-ing.

Adam said, “We shall bury him at dusk.”

Avery listened intently, afraid something had eluded him. Some seamen were here now, accustomed to death, and to con-cealing their feelings in its presence.

Galbraith said, “He had nothing but the sword, sir.”

Adam looked at him, his eyes distant. But promise me . . . What had he been going to say? He turned and saw the dead man’s son standing just inside the door, his eyes wide and unblinking. He stared at the trestle bed, and may have seen Lovatt’s face before one of the seamen covered it with a piece of canvas. The same boy who had refused to come to his father’s side when he was dying, even at the last . . . His anger faded as quickly as it had flared. The boy was quite alone. As I once was. As I am now. He had nothing left.

He turned away, aware that Avery was watching him. There was so much to do. Lovatt had called it a final conceit. Was that all it meant?

The boy said, “I would like the sword, capitaine.” His voice was very controlled, and clear, so that even his mother’s French inflection was noticeable.

Adam said to Napier, “Take him forrard and report to my cox’n. He will tell you what to do.”

Then, to the boy, he said, “We will speak of the sword later.”

He walked to the stern windows and stared at the sky, feel-ing the ship around him. Second to none.

Galbraith was back. “Orders, sir?” Once again, the lifeline. To normality. To their world.

“Sail drill, Mr Galbraith. See if the topmen can improve their timing.”

Galbraith smiled.

“And tomorrow I thought we might exercise the eighteen-pounders, sir.”

Adam looked back at the sleeping compartment. It was bare but for his own cot, which he had been unable to use. There was only Lovatt’s sword leaning against the hanging wardrobe. Final.

He recalled Galbraith’s remark.

“I think not, Leigh.” He saw Avery clench his fist. So he already knew. “I fear that tomorrow it will be in earnest.”

GALBRAITH stifled a yawn and walked up to the weather side of the quarterdeck. Another morning watch, when a ship came alive again and found her personality. A time for every competent first lieutenant to delegate work, and to discover any flaws in the pat-tern of things before his captain drew his attention to them.

He felt a growing warmth on his cheek, and the ship sway to a sudden gust of wind. He saw the helmsmen glance from the flapping driver to the masthead pendant, licking out now across the larboard bow, easing the spokes with care to allow for it.

It would be hot today, whatever the wind decided. The decks had been washed down at first light, and were now almost dry, and some of the boatswain’s crew were filling the boats with water to prevent the seams opening when the sun rose to its zenith. His eye moved on. Hammocks neatly stowed, lines flaked down ready for instant use, without the danger of tangling and causing an infuriating delay.

A brief glance aloft told him that more men were out on the yards, searching for breaks and frayed ends, another daily task.

He saw the cabin servant, Napier, making his way aft, a cov-ered dish balanced in one hand, and recalled the burial, Lovatt’s body sliding over the side after the captain had spoken a few words. A seaman, one of Lovatt’s, tugged off his tarred hat: respect or guilt, it was hard to tell. Napier had been there also, standing in the dying light beside Lovatt’s son. As the body had been tipped on a grating Napier had put his arm around the other boy’s shoulder.

Galbraith saw another gust crossing the heaving water, ruf-fling it like a cat’s fur. The large ensign was standing out from the peak, and beyond the naked figurehead the hazy horizon tilted to a steeper angle. In for a blow . . . He smiled. As the master had predicted. The wind had shifted, veered overnight, north-easterly across the starboard quarter.

He walked to the opposite side again and looked at the com-pass, the helmsman’s eyes noting every move. Due west. Gibraltar in three days, less if the wind increased. He watched a seaman on the gun deck splicing a rope’s end, his face stiff with concen-tration. Another, who had been applying grease to a gun truck, reached out and took it from him. The strong, tarred fingers moved like marlin spikes, there was a quick exchange of grins, and the job was done. One of the prisoners, helping a new hand still mystified by the intricacies of splicing and rope work. If only they were not so undermanned. He paced impatiently up the tilt-ing deck. There was still half the morning watch to run, and a hundred things he needed to supervise.

The lookouts had sighted a few distant sails, doubtless fisher-men. It was as well they were not hostile. What would happen if they could get no more men at Gibraltar? He looked towards the cabin skylight, imagining Captain Adam Bolitho down there, alone with his thoughts. No matter what orders the vice-admiral had given him, or any other flag officer for that matter, he had nothing with which to rebuke himself. So short a time in com-mission, and together they had welded a mixed collection of hands into one company, had cut out a frigate and had taken a supply ship. It could have gone against them if Tetrarch had fought to the finish; they might both have been destroyed. And yet, despite all this, Galbraith still found his captain impossible to know. Sometimes almost bursting with spirit and enthusiasm, and then suddenly remote, as if he were afraid to draw too close to any one person. He thought of Lovatt, and the captain’s determination to extract all available intelligence, even though the man was dying. What was Lovatt after all? A traitor, most would say; an idealist at best. Yet there had been compassion in the captain’s voice when he had buried that unhappy man.

He heard a step on the companion ladder and saw Lieutenant Avery staring at the sea and the sky.

“No breakfast, then?”

Avery grimaced and joined him by the compass. “Too much wine last night. It was stupid of me.” He peered aft. “The captain about yet?”

Galbraith studied him. Avery sounded depressed, and he guessed it had nothing to do with the wine.

“Once or twice. Sometimes I think he never sleeps.” Then, “Walk with me. Blow away the cobwebs, eh?”

They fell into step together. They were both tall men, and like most sea officers who cared to take regular exercise they were able to walk without difficulty among watchkeepers and working par-ties alike, their feet avoiding ringbolts and gun tackles without conscious effort, when any one of those obstacles would have sent a landsman sprawling.

Galbraith said, “You’ve known Captain Bolitho for a long time, I gather.”

Avery glanced covertly at him. “Of him. We have not met very often.”

Galbraith paused as a halliard snaked past his thigh. “I should think he’d be a hellish fine target for women, but he’s not mar-ried.”

Avery thought of the girl who had killed herself. He sensed that Galbraith was not merely seeking gossip to pass it on else-where. He wanted to know his captain, perhaps to understand him. But not from me.

Galbraith continued to walk, aware of Avery’s unwillingness to discuss it, and changed the subject.

“When all this is over, what do you intend for yourself?”

Avery winced at the pain in his head. “On the beach. There will be too many officers in better positions than mine for me to compete any more.” Like you.

Galbraith said, “You have a very famous uncle, I hear. If I were in your shoes—”

Avery halted abruptly and faced him. “I hope you never are, my friend!” He thought of the locket the admiral had been wear-ing when he had been shot down, which he had given to Adam. What would become of Catherine?

Midshipman Fielding said, “The captain’s on his way, sir.” He had been trying very hard not to look as if he had been eaves-dropping.

Galbraith touched Avery’s arm. “I did not mean to pry, George, but I need to understand this man. For all our sakes.”

Avery smiled, for the first time. “One day, when he is down there in his cabin, the man without the bright epaulettes, ask him. Just ask him. His uncle taught me that, and so much more.”

Adam Bolitho walked from the companion-way and nodded to the master’s mate of the watch.

“A promising start to the day, Mr Woodthorpe.” He looked up at the braced yards, the canvas full-bellied now, cracking occa-sionally in the breeze. Seeing the ship as Galbraith had this morning, but viewing it so differently.

“We shall set the main course directly, Mr Galbraith.” He shaded his eyes to look at the compass as it flashed in reflected sunlight. “Then bring her up a point. She can take it. Steer west-by-north.” He gestured at the midshipman. “And, Mr Fielding, after you have brushed the crumbs off your coat, you will note the change in the log and inform Mr Cristie!”

One of the helmsmen glanced at his mate and grinned. So little, Adam thought, and yet it was infectious. He walked to the rail and pressed his hands on it. Hot, bone-dry already. He looked at the boats on their tier, the trapped water slopping over the bot-tom boards as Unrivalled dipped her stem into a trough, and spray pitched over the bowsprit.

A wind. Please God, a wind.

He saw some seamen splicing, and one he did not recognise showing another how to twist and fashion the strands into shape. The man must have sensed it and stared up at the quarterdeck. Where might his loyalty lie? Perhaps like Jago, it was just another officer.

He said suddenly, “You have a key to the strongbox, Mr Gal-braith?” He turned his back to watch a solitary bird, motionless above the mizzen truck. “Use it as you will. Any letters, docu-ments and the like.”

Galbraith seemed uncertain, and shook his head.

“None, sir.”

Adam saw the master’s head and shoulders hesitate in the companion hatch. Cristie’s eyes were already on the masthead pendant.

Adam joined Avery by the nettings, sensing his isolation from the others. Knowing the reason for it.

“Think, George, it will be full summer when you walk ashore in England.”

Avery did not respond. He had thought of little else since his change of orders. He gazed at the working parties on deck, the sure-footed topmen moving like monkeys in the shrouds; even the greasy smell from the galley funnel was like a part of himself.

And the letters he had written for Allday, and the replies he had read from his wife. Belonging.

He tried to think of London, of the Admiralty, where there would be polite interest or indifference to what he had to say. And he did not care. That was almost the worst part.

Had he really lain in bed in that gracious house, with the tantalising Susanna Mildmay? Beautiful, faithless Susanna.

Adam said, “Is there something I can do?”

Avery studied him, memories stirring and fading like ghosts.

“When I reach England . . .”

They stared up as the lookout’s voice turned every head.

“Deck there! Sail, fine on the starboard bow!”

Galbraith shouted, “Mr Bellairs, aloft with you! Take your glass, man!”

Avery smiled, and reached out as if to take Adam’s hand. “I shall think of you.” The rest was lost in the sudden rush of feet and another cry from the masthead.

He said softly, “No matter.”

The moment was past.

Midshipman Bellairs’ voice carried easily above the sounds of sea

and flapping canvas.

“Deck there! Square-rigger, sir!”

Adam folded his arms and looked along the length of his command. The forenoon watch had not been piped, but the deck and gangways seemed to be crowded with men. And yet there was hardly a sound. Some stared ahead to the darker line of the horizon, others inboard at the ship, at one another.

Cristie muttered, “No fisherman this time, then.”

Adam waited, feeling the uncertainty. The doubt.

He said, “Frigate.”

Galbraith was peering up at the mainmast crosstrees, as if will-ing Bellairs to confirm or deny it.

“Beat to quarters, sir?” Even his voice seemed hushed.

“Not yet.” Adam held out his hand, remembering Avery’s despair. “There’ll be another out there somewhere.” He watched the low banks of cloud. “They will have had plenty of time to prepare. We’ve had the sun behind us since first light—a blind

man could see us.”

Galbraith moved closer, excluding all the others.

“We still have time, too, sir.”

Adam looked at him.

“To run?”

“We shall be hard put to stand and fight.”

Adam touched his arm, and felt it tense as if he had been expecting a blow.

“That was well said, Leigh. I respect you for it.”

He could see the two ships in his mind, as if they were within range instead of miles distant, visible only to the masthead look-out and Bellairs. He would learn something today. If he lived through it.

“How many extra hands do we have aboard?”

“Fifty-five, and two injured. I’ll clap the whole lot in irons if you think—”

What had Lovatt called it? A gesture. But too late.

He said suddenly, “Clear lower deck, and have all hands lay aft.” He attempted to smile, but his mouth refused. “Though it would seem they are already here!”

He walked to the compass once more, hearing the sound of his shoes on the deck, like that day at his court martial at Portsmouth. So impossibly long ago. He heard the trill of calls below decks, and a few idlers running to join the mass of figures already on deck.

Galbraith said, “Lower deck cleared, sir.”

Adam touched the compass box, remembering the brief moments of clarity before Lovatt had died.

I could not offer them a reason for dying.

He could have been speaking at this very moment.

Adam turned and strode to the quarterdeck rail and looked out across the sea of upturned faces. The others he had already seen, the afterguard, and the swarthy Lieutenant Massie who was responsible for the gunnery of this ship. And young Wynter, whose father was a member of Parliament. And the two scarlet-coated marine officers, standing a little apart from the others; the midshipmen and the master’s mates; men and faces which had become so familiar within six months.

“You will know by now that two ships are standing to the west’rd of us.”

There were some quick, uncertain glances, and he sensed the sudden understanding as Bellairs’ clear voice called, “Second ship, starboard bow! Square-rigged, sir!”

“They are not there by accident. It is their intention to engage, seize, or destroy Unrivalled.”

He saw some of them looking at the black eighteen-pounders, perhaps already considering the hazards—the older men would call it folly—of engaging two frigates at once. Heeling to the wind, it would require brute force to haul the guns back to their ports on the weather side once they had been fired.

“The war with Napoleon has likely been over for some time. We shall be told eventually. I hope.”

He saw old Stranace, the gunner, offer a dour grin. It was lit-tle enough, but it was all he had.

Adam pointed at the empty sea.

“These ships will respect no treaty, no pieces of paper applauded by old men in government. They are already outlaws!” He let his arm drop and recalled Lovatt’s words. We are all mer-cenaries in war.

He laid both hands on the rail and said deliberately, “I need trained men today.” He saw some of Unrivalled ’s people looking at those who had been thrust amongst them. None had forgot-ten the days, so recently passed, when men had been seized and dragged aboard King’s ships by the hated press-gangs with no less severity.

“I can promise you nothing, but I can offer the chance of a new beginning. If we lose the day, our fate at the hands of the enemy will be prolonged and terrible. If we win, there is the pos-sibility of freedom.” He thought of Avery, and said, “Of England. You have my word upon it.” What he had said to Lovatt . . .

Galbraith pointed. “That man! Speak up!”

It was a seaman who would not have seemed out of place in any ship, any port.

“An’ if we refuse, Cap’n? If we stands by our rights?”

There was a growl of agreement.

“Rights?” Adam patted a quarterdeck nine-pounder by his knee. “Speak to me of those rights when these are silent, eh?”

He nodded to Galbraith. He had made a mistake; the gesture had misfired. Galbraith joined him by the rail.

“Show of hands!”

The silence was physical. Crushing. Far worse than if they had jeered at his inability to reach them.

Then he heard Partridge, the massive boatswain, bawling out as if it were a part of normal routine.

“Right, then, you lot over ’ere. Lively, lads! Creagh, take their names, if you still knows ’ow to write!”

And somebody laughed. Laughed.

Adam turned towards them again. The crowd was breaking into groups, pushed and sorted into small parties, the blues and whites of warrant officers moving amongst them, taking control. He tried to remember; how many had Galbraith mentioned? Over fifty: not an army, but it might make the difference. Men who had been cheated, lied to and ill-treated for most of their lives, when loyalty to one another carried far more weight than flag or country, they had decided.

Galbraith was beside him again.

“I would never have believed it, sir.” He hesitated. “Would you tell me? How did you do it?”

Adam saw the one man who had challenged him. Their eyes met across the bustling figures and frantic petty officers, and then the man gave a shrug. Resignation, or was it trust after all?

He murmured, “Perhaps I offered them a reason for living.”

He felt spray dash across his cheek. The wind was still rising. The chance.

But all he heard was Lovatt’s mocking laugh.

He turned on his heel and said, “Now you may beat to quar-ters, and clear for action, Mr Galbraith.” He saw the boy Napier watching from beside the capstan, and called, “Fetch my coat, will you? My sword, too.” But Jago was already there, the old sword held casually, almost indifferently.

“Here, sir.”

Adam held out his arms and felt him clip the sword into place. Was this, too, a final conceit?

Jago stood back. “Scum they may be, sir, but fight they will. Like me, they don’t know nothing else!”

At that moment the drums began their staccato roll to beat to quarters.

Adam stared at the sea until his eyes misted over. He felt no fear. If anything, it was pride.

Adam Bolitho brushed a lock of loose hair from his eyes and used his sleeve as a shield against the glare from a lively sea, broken now by the strengthening wind.

One bell chimed from forward, and he saw Midshipman Fielding apparently jerk out of his thoughts and turn the half-hour glass before someone rebuked him.

So little time since the first hint of danger; two hours, or less. It was hard to remember, but it would all be noted in the log. He licked his dry lips. For posterity.

Even the ship had changed in that time. Cleared for action, Unrivalled was stripped, like the gun crews who had discarded their shirts but retained their neckerchiefs to tie over their ears against the roar of battle, of her main and mizzen courses and staysails, so that the deck felt open and vulnerable. Under top-sails and topgallants, with the big forecourse loosely brailed, she was making a fair speed through the water, spray constantly break-ing over the beak-head and forecastle. Nets had been rigged to protect the gun deck from falling wreckage. Adam faced each possibility like a challenge, the margin between winning and los-ing. And lastly the boats. He did not move from his place on the weather side of the quarterdeck but could see the boat tier, each hull already bailed and steaming in the hot sunshine.

It was always a bad moment when the boats were lowered and cast adrift on a sea-anchor, to await collection by the victors. Even seasoned sailors never accepted or became accustomed to it. The boats were their last hope of survival. Adam had seen some of them watching Partridge’s crew rigging the tackles in readiness for hoisting and then swinging each boat outboard. Abandoned . . .

But Adam had seen hideous casualties caused by splinters ripped from tiered boats, like flying razors when they cut into human flesh. It was the last task.

He took a telescope from its rack and trained it across the net-tings. It was no longer a suspicion, or a flaw on the dawn horizon, but brutal reality. The enemy.

Two ships. Frigates, their hazy silhouettes overlapping as if joined, a common illusion. They were probably some five miles away; he could see each sail, braced so hard round that they were almost fore-and-aft. Another trick perhaps, but each captain was hard put to hold his ship up into the wind, as close-hauled as any professional officer could manage.

Who were they? What did they hope for today, apart from victory? Perhaps it was better not to know your enemy, to see his face. You might recognise yourself in him.

He gazed across the deck. They were all present, the Royal Marines at the barrier of packed hammocks, extra hands on the big double-wheel, Lieutenant Wynter with the afterguard, his midshipman, Homey, close by. Cristie and his senior master’s mate, and Avery, arms folded, hat tilted over his eyes, observing. As he must have done so many times with . . .

Adam swung away. “Very well, Mr Galbraith, cast off the boats!”

He saw faces turn away from the guns to watch. This was the worst moment. Especially for newcomers.

Galbraith returned to the quarterdeck and waited for the gap left in the nets to be sealed. He did not look astern at the drift-ing cluster of boats.

“If I might make a suggestion, sir.”

Adam said, “I know. My coat, it troubles you.”

“You have me all aback, sir. But any marksman will be look-ing for the chance to mark down the captain. You know that well enough!”

Adam smiled, touched by the concern. Genuine, like the man.

“The enemy will know Unrivalled has a captain, Leigh. I want our people to know it, too!”

He raised the glass again. The frigate astern of her consort had hoisted a signal of some kind. Two flags, nothing more. A private signal, perhaps? It could also be a ruse, to make him believe it was the senior ship. He recalled Francis Inch, his first lieutenant in Hyperion, telling the midshipmen that in ship-to-ship actions beyond the control of the ponderous line of battle a good captain often survived by trickery as much as agility.

He considered it. Two frigates, neither as powerful as Unri-valled, but, used aggressively and with determination, they were formidable.

He said, almost to himself, “They will try to divide our strength. Tell Mr Massie to point each gun himself, no matter which side we engage first. The opening shots will decide.” He paused, and repeated, “Must decide.”

He walked from one side of the deck to the other, hearing Galbraith calling to Massie. If Unrivalled altered course away from those ships, they would gain the advantage from the wind. He imagined the two frigates, like counters on an admiral’s chart. From line ahead to line abeam, they would have no choice, nor would they want one.

He heard the spray pattering over the lee side, and thought,

no, Captain Lovatt, not running away.

When Galbraith returned he found his captain by the com-pass, his shirt and coat opened to the hot wind. There was no sign of the strain he had glimpsed earlier. He found himself think-ing of the woman again, the one Avery so pointedly had not discussed. What had happened, he wondered. What would she feel if she could see him now on this bright, deadly forenoon?

Adam said, “Pass the word to load. Single-shotted to star-board, double-shotted to larboard, but do not run out. At the turn of the glass, we shall alter course and steer south-west.” He almost smiled. “What the enemy intended, I believe. A lively chase with the wind under their coat-tails without too much risk to them-selves, and if all else fails they will hope to run us ashore on the African coast. What say you?”

Galbraith stared up at the rippling masthead pendant. “It would make sense, sir.” He sounded doubtful, surprised.

Adam said, “We will luff at the right moment and rake the nearest one. Tell Massie, each ball must make its mark.”

“I did tell him, sir.”

But Adam was not listening; he was seeing it. “We must get to grips, it’s our only way out. So get all spare hands off the upper deck. We are short-handed, remember? And they will know it!”

Galbraith saw him turn away and gesture urgently to the cabin servant, Napier.

“You! Over here!”

Napier hurried across, past grim-faced seamen and marines, a cutlass thrust through his belt, his shoes clicking on the sun-dried planking and bringing some unexpected grins from the crew of a nine-pounder. One called, “Look, boyos! We’ve nowt to fear now! We’re all in good hands!”

Adam said gently, “Your place is below. You know what to do.”

Napier faced him anxiously, with something like desperation.

“My place is here, sir, with you.”

There was no laughter now, and Cristie looked away, perhaps remembering somebody.

Adam said, “Do as I ask. I shall know where you are. I mean it.”

Jago heard it, too, feeling the handshake again, the strange sense of sharing what he could not contain or understand.

Galbraith watched the boy return to the companion-way, head high, the cutlass almost dragging along the deck.

Adam raised the glass once more, and remembered that Mid-shipman Bellairs was still at the masthead.

“Carry on, Mr Galbraith. Bring her about. Let’s see her fly today!” His hand was raised and Galbraith waited, remembering every phase, and each mood, like pictures in a child’s most trea-sured book.

And saw his captain suddenly give a broad grin, teeth very white against his tanned skin.

“And be of good heart, my friend. We shall win this day!”

Cristie’s voice was harsh, his Tyneside accent even more pro-nounced as he shouted, “Steady as she goes, sir! Sou’-west-by-south!”

Another bang echoed across the choppy water, the second gun to be fired. Adam clenched his knuckles against his thighs, count-ing seconds and then feeling the ball smash into Unrivalled ’s lower hull. He did not need the glass; he had seen the smoke from the nearest pursuer before it was shredded in the wind. The second shot, and both had come from the frigate on Unrivalled ’s starboard quarter. Not because the other, on almost exactly the opposite quarter, could not bear but, he suspected, because the ship which had fired was the senior, and probably mounted heav-ier bow-chasers.

The ship which had made that brief signal. No trick, then; she was the main danger. Unrivalled ’s stern was vulnerable to any shot, no matter how badly aimed. The rudder, the steering tack-les . . . He shut his mind to it.

“Stand by to come about, Mr Galbraith!” He strode to the rail again, and shaded his eyes. Two shots; it was enough. He dared not risk it any further. Disabled, Unrivalled would be destroyed piecemeal.

As he turned he saw the staring eyes of those at the gun tack-les along the starboard side, muzzles pointing at the empty sea. The breechings were cast off, the guns were loaded, and men with sponges, worms and rammers were already poised for the next order, their bodies shining with sweat, as if they had been drenched by a tropical rain.

“Stand by on the quarterdeck!”

Massie would be ready with his gun captains. All those drills . . . it was now or not at all.

“Put the helm down!”

Feet skidded on wet gratings as the three helmsmen hauled over the spokes. With her topsails filled to the wind Unrivalled began to respond immediately, her head swinging even as more men freed the headsail sheets, spilling out the wind, to allow the bows to thrust unimpeded into and across the eye. Sails flapped and banged in confusion, and as the deck tilted hard over the nearest enemy ship appeared to be charging towards the concealed broadside.

It must have taken the other captain completely by surprise. From a steady, unhampered chase to this: Unrivalled pivoting round, revealing her full broadside, and none of his own guns yet able to bear.

“Open the ports! Run out!”

All order had gone. Men yelled and cursed with each heave on the tackles until every port was filled, and there was no longer an empty sea for a target.

Massie strode past the empty boat tier. “Fire!” A slap on a man’s tense shoulder. “As you bear, fire!”

As each trigger-line was jerked an eighteen-pounder thun-dered inboard to be seized and sponged out, charge and ball tamped home.

Adam shouted, “Hold her now! Steer north-west!”

There were more yells, and he imagined that he heard the splintering crack of a falling spar, although it was unlikely above the din of canvas and straining rigging, and the last echoes of a full broadside.

The other frigate was falling downwind, her bowsprit and jib-boom shot away, the tangle of severed cordage and wildly flapping sails dragging her round.

Adam cupped his hands. “On the uproll! Fire! ”

It was a ragged broadside, some of the guns had not yet run out, but he saw the iron smash home, and bulwarks and plank-ing, broken rigging and men being flung like flotsam in a high wind.

It might have been us.

Galbraith was shouting, “The other one’s coming for us, sir!”

The second frigate seemed so near, towering above the lar-board quarter, stark in the hard sunlight. He could even see the patches on her forecourse, and the pointing sword of a once-proud figurehead.

He winced as more iron smashed into the hull, feeling the deck lurch beneath his feet, and hearing the heavy crash of a ball ripping into the poop. The enemy’s jib-boom was already over-reaching the larboard quarter.

He dashed the smoke from his eyes and saw a man fall on the opposite side, his scream lost in the report of a solitary gun.

He waved to Cristie. “Now!”

The wheel was moving again, but one of the helmsmen was sprawled in blood. Unrivalled turned only a point, so that it appeared as if the other ship must ride up and over her poop. The jib-boom was above the nettings now, men were firing, and through the swirling smoke Adam saw vague figures swarming out on the other frigate’s beak-head and bowsprit, cutlasses glint-ing dully in the haze of gunfire.

Going to board us. It was like another voice.

“Clear lower deck, Mr Galbraith!” Suppose it failed? He thrust the thought away and dragged out his sword, conscious of Avery beside him, and Jago striding just ahead, a short-bladed weapon in his fist.

Adam raised the sword. “To me, Unrivalleds! ”

She was a well-armed ship. He could remember the admira-tion, the envy. Apart from her two batteries of eighteen-pounders, she also mounted eight 32-pound carronades, two of which were almost directly below his feet.

It happened within seconds, and yet each moment remained separate, stamped forever in his memory.

Midshipman Homey slipping and falling to his knees, then being hit in the skull by a heavy ball even as he struggled to his feet. Flesh, blood and fragments of bone splashed across Adam’s breeches. The carronades roared out together, crashing inboard on their slides and hurling their massive balls, packed with grape and jagged metal, directly into the enemy forecastle.

Avery turned and stared at him, shook his sword, shouted something. But the stare did not waver, and he fell face down, and the packed mass of boarders surged across his body and on to the other ship’s deck.

It was useless to hesitate. Too many who depended upon . . . But for only a second Adam halted, looking for the man who had been his uncle’s friend.

Jago was dragging at his arm.

“Come on, sir! We’ve got the bastards on the run!”

A dream, a nightmare; scenes of desperate brutality, all mercy forgotten. Men falling and dying. Others dropping between the two hulls, the only escape. A face loomed out of the yelling, hack-ing mob: it was Campbell, the hard man, waving a flag and screaming, “The flag! They’ve struck!”

Now there were different faces, and he realised that, like Avery, he had fallen and was lying on the deck. He felt for the sword, and saw Midshipman Bellairs holding it; it must have been knocked out of his hand.

And then the pain reached him, a searing agony, which punched the breath from his lungs. He groped for his thigh, his groin; it was everywhere. A hand was gripping his wrist and he saw it was O’Beirne, and understood that he was on Unrivalled ’s gun deck; he must have lost consciousness, and he felt something akin to panic.

He said, “The orlop! You belong with the wounded, not here, man!”

O’Beirne nodded grimly, his face sliding out of focus like melt-ing wax. Then it was Jago’s turn. He had torn down the front of Adam’s breeches and was holding something in the hazy sunlight. No blood. No gaping wound. It was the watch, which he always carried in the pocket above his groin. A shot had smashed it almost in two pieces.

He was losing control again. The shop in Halifax. The chim-ing chorus of clocks. The little mermaid . . .

Jago was saying, “Christ, you were lucky, sir!” He wanted to lessen it, in his usual way. But the levity would not come. Then he said, “Just hold on.”

Men were cheering, hugging one another, the marines were rounding up prisoners . . . so much to do, the prizes to be secured, the wounded to be tended. He gasped as someone tried to lift him. And Avery. Avery . . . I shall have to tell Catherine. A letter. And the locket.

Somehow he was on his feet, staring up at the flag as if to reassure himself. But all he could think of was the little mermaid. Perhaps it was her way; the last farewell.

Then he fainted.

LIKE AN unhurried but purposeful beetle, Unrivalled ’s gig pulled steadily around and among the many vessels which lay at anchor in Gibraltar’s shadow.

It was a time of pride, and of triumph, climaxing when they had entered the bay with one prize in tow and the other in the hands of a prize crew. To the men of the fleet, hardened by so many years of setbacks and pain, it had been something to share, to celebrate. Ships had manned their yards to cheer, boats from the shore had formed an unofficial procession until the anchors had splashed down, and order and discipline was resumed.

And the war was over. Finally over. That was the hardest thing to confront. Napoleon, once believed invincible, had surrendered, and had placed himself under the authority of Captain Frederick Maitland of the old Bellerophon in Basque Roads, to be conveyed to Plymouth.

The officer of the guard who had boarded Unrivalled within minutes of her dropping anchor had exclaimed, “When you fought and took the two frigates, we were at peace!”

Adam had heard himself answer shortly, “It made no difference.”

He thought of the men who had fallen in that brief, savage action. Of the letters he had written. To the parents of Midship-man Thomas Homey, who had been killed even as the second frigate had surged into their quarter. Fourteen years old. A life not even begun.

And to Catherine, a long and difficult letter. Seeing Avery’s shocked and unwavering gaze, like an unanswered question.

Midshipman Bellairs was sitting behind him, beside Jago at the tiller.

“Flagship, sir!”

Adam nodded. He had taken a calculated risk, and had won. It was pointless to consider the alternatives. Unrivalled might have been caught in stays, taken aback as she tried to swing through the wind. The two frigates would have used the confu-sion to cross her stern and rake her, each broadside ripping through the hull. A slaughterhouse.

He stared at the big two-decker which lay directly across their approach, His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Prince Rupert of eighty guns, a rear-admiral’s flag rising and drooping at her mizzen truck.

He made to touch his thigh and saw the stroke oar’s eyes on him, and controlled the impulse. He had examined his body in the looking-glass in his cabin, and found a great, livid bruise, showing the force of the impact. A stray shot perhaps, fired at random as his men had hacked their way on board the enemy.

Even now, four days after the engagement, the pain was almost constant, and caught him unaware, like a reminder.

The surgeon, rarely at a loss for words, had been strangely taciturn. Perhaps when he had fallen unconscious again he had said something, revealed the despair which had tormented him for so long.

O’Beirne had said only, “You are in luck, Captain. Another inch, and I fear the ladies would have been in dire distress!”

He looked up now and saw the flagship towering above them, the gig’s bowman already standing with his boat-hook, and pre-pared himself for the physical effort of boarding. Seeing his eyes on the ship’s massive tumblehome, the “stairs” up to the gilded entry port, Jago said quietly, “Steady she goes, sir!”

Adam glanced at him, remembering his face when he had torn open his breeches to deal with the wound. Poor Homey’s blood and brains had made it look worse than it was.

He seized the handrope, gritting his teeth as he took the first step.

An unknown voice sang out, “Cap’n comin’ aboard! Stand by . . . pipe!”

Adam climbed, step by step, each movement bringing a shaft of pain to his thigh.

The calls shrilled, and as his head rose above the sill he saw the scarlet-coated guard, the seemingly vast area of the flagship’s impeccable deck.

The guard presented arms, and a duplicate of Captain Bosan-quet brought down his blade with a flourish.

The flag captain strode to greet him. Adam held his breath. Pym, that was his name. The pain was receding, playing with him.

“Welcome aboard, Captain Bolitho! Your recent exploits had us all drained with envy!” He looked at him more closely. “You were wounded, I hear?”

Adam smiled. It seemed so long since he had done that. “Dam-aged, sir, nothing lasting!”

They walked together into the poop’s shadow, so huge after Unrivalled. He allowed his mind to stray. Or Anemone . . .

The flag captain paused. “Rear-Admiral Marlow is still study-ing your report. I have had your despatches transferred to a courier—she will leave this afternoon. If there is anything else I can do to assist you while you are here, you have only to ask.” He hesitated. “Rear-Admiral Marlow is newly appointed. He still likes to deal with things at first hand.”

It was as good as any warning. Captain to flag rank; he had seen it before. Trust nobody.

Rear-Admiral Elliot Marlow stood with his back to the high stern windows, hands beneath his coat-tails, as if he had been in the same position for some time. A sharp, intelligent face, younger than Adam had expected.

“Good to meet you at last, Bolitho. Take a chair. Some wine, I think.” He did not move or offer his hand.

Adam sat. He knew he was strained and tired, and unreason-able, but even the chair seemed carefully placed. Staged, so that Marlow’s outline remained in silhouette against the reflected sunlight.

Two servants were moving soundlessly around the other side of the cabin, each careful not to look at the visitor.

Marlow said, “Read your report. You were lucky to get the bet-ter of two enemies at once, eh? Even if, the perfectionists may insist, you were at war with neither.” He smiled. “But then, I doubt that the Dey of Algiers will wish to associate himself with people who have failed him.” He glanced at his flag captain, and added, “As to your request respecting the son of that damned renegade, I suppose I can have no objection. It is hardly important . . .”

Pym interrupted smoothly, “And Captain Bolitho has offered to pay all the costs for the boy’s passage, sir.”

“Quite so.” He gestured at the nearest servant. “A glass, eh?”

Adam was glad of a chance to regain his bearings.

He said, “With regard to the prizes, sir.”

Marlow subjected his glass to a pitiless scrutiny. “The prizes, yes. Of course, their role may also have changed in view of the French position. I have heard it said that frigate captains some-times see prize-money as the price of glory. A view I find difficult to comprehend.”

Adam realised that his glass was empty, and said bluntly, “The Dey of Algiers had three frigates at his disposal, sir. With the re-opening of trade routes, those ships could have been a constant threat. That threat was removed, and at some cost. I think it fair enough.”

Captain Pym adroitly changed the subject.

“How long will your repair take, d’ you think?”

Adam looked at him and smiled thinly.

“We did much of it after the fight.” He considered it, seeing the dangling cordage, the limping wounded, the canvas bundles going over the side. “A week.”

Marlow waved one hand. “Give him all the help you can . . .” He pointed at the table. “That despatch from the Admiralty, where is it?”

Adam relaxed very slowly. The real reason for his visit. Not to congratulate or to crucify him. That was Bethune’s domain. Mar-low had not even mentioned his use of the prisoners to fill the gaps in Unrivalled ’s company.

Marlow put his glass down with great care and took some papers from his flag captain.

“You are instructed to take passengers when you return to Malta. Sir Lewis Bazeley and his party, of some importance, I gather. It is all explained in the orders.”

Captain Pym said hastily, “Because of the danger from corsairs and other renegades, a man-of-war is the only safe option.” He gave a tight smile. “As your own recent fight against odds has proved. I am sure that Vice-Admiral Bethune would have chosen your ship, had he been consulted.”

Adam found he could return the smile. He could understand why Pym was a flag captain.

“Anything else?” Marlow stared at him. “Now is the time to ask.”

“I have a midshipman named Bellairs, sir. He is due for exam-ination shortly, but in the meantime I would like to rate him acting-lieutenant, and pay him accordingly. He has done extremely well during this commission.”

He had not seen Marlow all aback before, and neither, he sus-pected, had Pym.

“Bellairs? Has he family? Connections?”

“He is my senior midshipman, sir. That is all that concerns me.”

Marlow seemed vaguely disappointed.

“You deal with it.” He turned away, dismissing him. “And, er—good fortune, Captain Bolitho.”

The door closed behind them.

Pym grinned widely. “That was damned refreshing! Leave it with me!”

He was still grinning when the calls trilled again, and Adam lowered himself into the waiting gig.

“Bear off forrard! Give way all!”

Bellairs stood to watch a passing trader, ready to warn them away if they came too near.

Adam said, “By the way, Mr Bellairs, you will be moving shortly.”

Bellairs forgot his poise in the captain’s gig, and said, “Move, sir? But I hoped to . . .”

Adam watched Jago’s face over the midshipman’s shoulder.

“To the wardroom.”

It was only a small thing, after all. But it made it seem very worthwhile.

Catherine, Lady Somervell, moved slightly in her seat and tilted her wide-brimmed straw hat to shade her eyes from the sun. With the windows all but closed it was hot, and her gown was damp against her skin.

The City of London had never featured largely in her life, and yet in the past few months she had come here several times. It was always busy, always teeming. The carriage could have been open, but she was constantly aware of the need for discretion, and had noticed that the coachman never seemed to use the same route; today, as on those other visits, the vehicle was unmarked, never the one Sillitoe had been using on the day of the service at St Paul’s. She had seen the cathedral this morning, dominat-ing its surroundings as it had on that day, which she would never forget nor wanted to relinquish.

She looked at the passing scene; the carriage was moving slowly in the congestion of the road. Grey-faced offices, one of which she had visited with Sillitoe when he had kept an appoint-ment with some shipping agent; she had been politely entertained in another room.

There were stalls here, flowers and fruit, someone elsewhere making a speech, another drawing a crowd with a performing monkey.

Now they were returning to Sillitoe’s house in Chiswick. Never once had he forced his presence on her, but he was always ready to help her, to escort her, or if necessary to give his opinion on her decisions for the immediate future.

She glanced at him now, on the seat opposite, frowning slightly as he leafed through yet another sheaf of papers. His mind was ever agile, ever restless. Like their last visit to Sir Wilfred Lafargue at Lincoln’s Inn. He was a lawyer of repute, but when he and Sillitoe were together they were more like conspirators than legal adviser and client.

She thought of the letter she had received from Captain James Tyacke, a concise, unemotional account of why marriage to the woman he had once loved had proved impossible. It had saddened her, but she had understood his reasons, and the sensitivity he would never reveal. A man who had been utterly withdrawn, almost shy, when he had been forced to leave the only world he understood; she was proud to call him her friend, as he had been Richard’s. Perhaps for him the sea was the only solution, but it was not, and never could be, an escape.

She realised that Sillitoe was looking at her, as he often did, when he believed she did not know.

“I have to go to Spain.” Calmly said, as was his habit, but not the same. This was a mood she had not seen or sensed before.

“You said that it was possible.”

He smiled. “And I asked you if you would come with me.”

“And I told you that there has been enough damage done already because of me. And you know that is true.”

She averted her eyes to look at a passing vehicle, but saw only her reflection in the dusty glass.

Sillitoe’s sphere of influence encompassed both politics and trade, although he was no longer Inspector-General. The Prince Regent, who was notorious for his infidelities, had feared what-ever stain a liaison between his adviser and confidante and the admiral’s whore might cast on his reputation as the future monarch. She felt the old, familiar bitterness. The men in power with their mistresses and their homosexual lovers were forgiven if their affairs were kept separate from rank and authority, and were not conducted where they might offend the royal eye.

She had rarely seen Sillitoe reveal anger. A week ago, a cruel cartoon had appeared in the Globe. It had depicted her standing nude and looking at ships below in a harbour. The caption had been, Who will be next?

She had seen his anger then. There had been apologies. Someone had been dismissed. But it was there all the same. Hate, envy, malice.

Perhaps even the Prince’s courtiers had had a hand in it.

She recalled Lafargue’s advice on Belinda, Lady Bolitho. Never underrate the wrath of an unloved woman.

Sillitoe said, “You need security, Catherine. And protection. I can offer you both. My feelings remain unchanged.” He glanced round, frowning as a gap appeared in the buildings and the river was revealed. Masts and loose, flapping sails. Arriving and depart-ing; sailors from every corner of the world. She wondered briefly if the coachman, who seemed to know London like the back of his own hand, had been ordered to avoid ships and sailors also.

She looked at him again. His face was tense, his mind obvi-ously exploring something which troubled him.

He said, “You could stay at my house. You would not be molested by anything or anybody, my staff would see to that.” As he had said when someone had carved the word whore on the door of her Chelsea house.

He said abruptly, “There is always danger. I see it often enough.”

“And what would people say?”

He did not answer her directly, but the hooded eyes seemed calmer.

“If you come to Spain, you may be yourself again. I go first to Vigo, where I must see some people, and then on to Madrid.” He laid the papers aside and leaned forward. “You like Spain, you speak the language. It would be a great help to me.” He reached out and took her hand. “I should be a very proud man.”

She gently withdrew the hand, and said, “You are a difficult man to refuse. But I must confront whatever future remains for me.”

She heard the coachman making his usual clucking sounds to the horses, a habit she had noticed whenever they were approach-ing the Chiswick house. The journey had passed, and now she must do something, say something; he had done so much to help, to support her in the aftermath of Richard’s death.

There was another vehicle in the drive. So he had known she would refuse; the carriage was waiting to take her to Chelsea, a lonely place now without her companion Melwyn, whom she had sent back to St Austell temporarily to help her mother with work for a forthcoming county wedding.

They would surely notice the change in the girl. She had become confident, almost worldly. As I once was at that age.

She was aware now of Sillitoe’s expression; ever alert, he seemed suddenly apprehensive, before he regained his habitual self-assurance. She followed his eyes and felt the chill on her spine. The carriage door bore the fouled anchors of Admiralty, and there was a sea officer standing beside it, speaking with Sillitoe’s secretary.

So many times. Messages, orders, letters from Richard. But always the dread.

“What is it?”

He waited for a servant to run up and open the door for her. Afterwards, she thought it had been to give himself time.

He said, “I shall not keep you. The Admiralty still needs me, it would appear.” But his eyes spoke differently.

Marlow accompanied her into the house and guided her to the library, where she had always waited for Sillitoe.

“Is something wrong?”

The secretary murmured, “I fear so, m’ lady,” and withdrew, closing the tall doors.

She heard voices, the sound of hooves; the visitor had departed without partaking of hospitality. Sillitoe drank little, but always remembered those to whom the gesture was welcome.

He came into the library and stood looking at her without speaking, then, without turning his head, he called, “Some cognac.”

Then he crossed the room and took her hand, gently, without emotion.

“The Admiralty has just received news on the telegraph from Portsmouth. There has been a fight between one of our frigates and two pirates.”

Without being told, she knew it was Unrivalled, and that there was something more.

Sillitoe said, “Lieutenant George Avery, my nephew and Sir Richard’s aide, was killed.” He remained silent for a moment, then said, “Captain Adam Bolitho was injured, but not badly so.”

She stared past him, at the trees, the misty sky. The river. The war was over. Napoleon was a prisoner, and probably even now being conveyed to some other place of internment. And yet, although it was over, it was not yet over; the war was here, in this quiet library.

Sillitoe said, “George Avery was your friend also.” And then, with sudden bitterness, “I never found the time to know him.” He gazed at the window. “I see him now, leaving to rejoin Sir Richard when I wanted him to stay with me. I do believe that he felt sorry for me.” He waved his hand, and the gesture seemed uncharacteristically loose and vague. “All this—and his loyalty came first.”

The door opened and Guthrie placed a tray and the cognac on a table, glancing at Catherine. She shook her head, and the door closed again.

Sillitoe took the glass, and sat in one of the uncomfortable chairs.

“He was coming home, damn it. It was what we both needed. What we both fought! ”

She looked around, feeling the silence, as if the great house were holding its breath.

Adam was safe. There would be a letter from him as soon as it was possible. In the meantime, he was at sea, in the one ele-ment he knew and trusted. Like James Tyacke.

She walked past the chair, her mind suddenly quite clear, with that familiar sensation of detachment.

She put her hand on his shoulder and waited for him to turn his head, to look at the hand, and then at her.

As she had been, defenceless.

She said softly, “My Spanish is not so perfect, Paul.” She saw the light returning to his eyes, and did not flinch as he took both her hands and kissed them. “Perhaps . . . we can both find our-selves again.”

He stood, and then held her fully against his body, for the first time.

He said nothing. There were no words.

Eventually there was a gentle tap on the door, and Marlow’s voice. Unreal.

“Is there anything I can do, m’ lord?”

She answered for him. “Tell William to put away the carriage, please. It will not be required again today.”

It was done.

Bryan Ferguson hurried into the kitchen and all but slammed the door behind him.

He looked at his friend, seated in the chair he always occu-pied when he visited them, the familiar stone bottle on the table.

“Sorry to have left you so long, old friend. I’m bad company today.” He shook his head as Allday pushed the bottle towards him. “I think not, John. Her ladyship might think badly of the

‘servants’ having a wet!”

Allday watched him thoughtfully.

“She changed much?”

Ferguson walked to the window and stared at the stable yard, giving himself time to consider it. The smart carriage was as before, and Young Matthew was talking to the coachman. He smiled sadly. Young Matthew, the Bolitho household’s senior coachman. Filling out now, and a little stooped. But he had always been called “young,” even after his father had died.

He said, “Yes. More than I thought.” It stuck in his throat. Like a betrayal.

Allday said it for him. “High an’ mighty, is she? Thought so, when I last seen her.”

Ferguson said, “She walks from room to room with that damned lawyer, making notes, asking questions, treating my Grace like she’s a kitchen maid! Can’t understand it!”

Allday sipped the rum. It, at least, was good. “I can remem-ber when Lady Bolitho was no more’n a paid companion to the wife of some bloody-minded old judge! She may have looked like Sir Richard’s wife, but it went no deeper. That’s it an’ all about it!”

Ferguson only partly heard. “As if she owns the place!”

Allday said, “Young Cap’n Adam’s away, Bryan, an’ there’s only the lawyers to fight over it. It’s nothin’ to them.”

Ferguson touched his empty sleeve, as he often did when he was upset, although he was not aware of it.

“She asked about the sword.” He could not stop himself now. “When I told her that Lady Catherine had given it to Captain Adam, like Sir Richard had intended, all she said was, she had no right!” He looked at his oldest friend. “Who had any better right, eh? God damn them, I wish she was back in the house where she belongs!”

Allday waited. It was worse than he thought, worse than Unis had warned him it might be. “She done the right thing to stay away while this is goin’ on, an’ you knows it. How would it look, that’s what a lot of people would say. A sailor’s woman, but she got pride too, an’ that’s no error! Look what happened to Lady Hamilton. All the promises and the smiles came to naught. Our Lady Catherine’s not like any of ’em. I know, I seen her in that damned boat after the wreck, an’ other times, the two o’ them laughin’ and walkin’ together, just like you have. We’ll not see the likes o’ them again, you mark me well!”

Ferguson felt the empty sleeve again. “Seemed to think I was getting past my duties here. That’s how it sounded to me any-way. God damn it, John, I don’t know anything else!”

“It’s all written down. Your position here is safe. Sir Richard took care o’ that, like he did for everyone else.” He looked away suddenly. “’Cept for himself, God rest him.”

Ferguson sat at the table. Sir Richard had always called All-day his oak, and suddenly he understood, and was grateful for it.

He said in a calmer voice, “An’ then she went into the big room, their room.” He gestured towards the house. “She told the lawyer that Sir Richard’s picture should be down with all the oth-ers of the family. The ones of Cheney and Catherine she said could be removed as far as she was concerned.”

Allday asked, “She stayin’ overnight?”

“No. Plymouth. With Vice-Admiral Keen.”

Allday nodded sagely, his head shaggy in the reflected sun-shine. He enjoyed his visits here. One of the family, he had always described it, until good fortune had offered him Unis, and the lit-tle inn in Fallowfield.

“I hopes that one’ll be on the lookout for squalls!”

A stable boy thrust his head around the door, but hesitated when he saw Allday, who had become something of a legend around Falmouth since Sir Richard Bolitho’s last battle.

Ferguson said, “What is it, Seth?”

“They’m comin’ now, Mister Ferguson!”

Ferguson stood up and took a deep breath.

“I won’t be long.”

Allday said, “We done a lot worse together, Bryan, remember?”

Ferguson opened the door, and smiled for the first time.

“That was then, old friend.”

He walked across the yard, so familiar underfoot that he would have known every cobble in the dark.

He considered Allday’s question. Has she changed much? He saw her now, on the broad steps leading up to the entrance, elegant in a dark red gown, a hat which he guessed was fashion-able in London shading her face. In her late forties, with the same autumn-coloured hair, like the young wife she had replaced when Cheney Bolitho had been killed in a carriage accident. It was hard to believe that he himself, with only one arm, had carried her, seeking help, when she and her unborn child were already dead.

It was one of fate’s cruellest ironies that Richard Bolitho and his “oak” had found Belinda in almost exactly the same circum-stances after an accident on the road.

Her face was unsmiling, the mouth tighter than he remem-bered it. He tried not to think of Allday’s pungent summing-up. High and mighty.

She was speaking to the lawyer, a watchful, bird-like man, while Grace waited to one side, her bunch of keys in her hand.

Ferguson saw her expression, and felt his own anger rising again. Grace, the finest housekeeper anyone could wish for, and a wife who had nursed him through pain and depression after losing his arm at the Saintes, hovering like a nobody.

“There you are, Ferguson. I shall be leaving now. But I expect to return on Monday, weather permitting.” She walked across the yard, and paused. “And I should like to see a little more disci-pline among the servants.”

Her eyes were amused, contemptuous. Ferguson said, “They are all trained and trustworthy, m’ lady. Local people.”

She laughed softly. “Not foreigners like me, you mean? I think that quaint.”

He could smell her, too. Heady, not what he might have expected. He thought of the delicate scent of jasmine in his estate office.

She said, “Are all the horses accounted for among the other livestock?”

Ferguson saw her eyes move to the nearest stall, where the big mare Tamara was tossing her head in the warm sunlight.

He said, “That one was a gift from Sir Richard.”

She tapped his arm very gently. “I am aware of it. She will need exercise, then.”

Ferguson was suddenly aware of the hurt, like that which he had seen in Grace’s eyes.

“No, m’ lady, she was ridden regularly, until . . .”

She smiled again; she had perfect teeth. “That has an amus-ing ring, don’t you think?” She glanced towards the carriage, as though impatient. “I might take her for a ride myself on Mon-day.” She was looking at the house again, the windows where the room faced the sea. “You have a suitable saddle, I trust?”

Ferguson felt that she knew, that she was enjoying it, mocking him.

“I can get one if you intend . . .”

She nodded slowly. “She used a saddle like a man, I believe? How apt!”

She turned away abruptly and was assisted into the carriage. They watched it until it was out on the narrow road, and then walked together to their cottage.

Ferguson said, “I’ll take John back to Fallowfield presently.”

Grace took his arm and turned him towards her. She had seen his face when they had been in the room with the three portraits, and the admiral’s bed. Lady Bolitho had got rid of Cheney’s por-trait before; it had been Catherine who had found and restored it. Bryan was a good man in every way, but he would never under-stand women, especially the Belindas of this world. Catherine would always be an enemy to Belinda, but Cheney’s love she could never usurp.

Allday made to rise from his chair as they entered, but Grace waved him down.

“Bad?” was all he said.

Ferguson answered sharply, “We shall have no say in things, that’s certain.”

Grace put down another glass. “Here, my love. You deserve it.” She looked from them to the empty hearth, the old cat curled up in one corner. Home. It was everything; it was all they had.

She remembered how Bryan had described those moments of Adam’s first visit here after his uncle’s death, when he had picked up the old sword and read the letter Catherine had left for him.

Like rolling back the years, he had said, like seeing the young Captain Bolitho again. Surely nothing could destroy all that.

She said with soft determination, “I must lock up,” and looked at them both, saddened rather than angered by one woman’s petty spite. “God will have His say. I shall have a word with Him.”

It was Tom, the coastguard, who found her body. A year or so ago, he would have done so earlier. He had been riding loosely in the saddle, his chin tucked into his neckcloth, his mind only half aware. Like his horse, he was so familiar with every track and footpath along this wild coastline that he had always taken it for granted. Behind him, his young companion was careful not to disturb him or annoy him with unnecessary questions and observations; he was a good fellow, inexperienced though he was, and should make a competent coastguard. He had been thinking, and he is replacing me next week. It had been hard to accept, even though he had known to the day when his service was to be ended, and he had already been offered employment with the mail at Truro. But after all he had seen and done on these lonely and often dangerous patrols, it would be something unknown, and perhaps lacking in a certain savour.

He had heard all about the comings and goings at the old grey house, the Bolitho home for generations. Lawyers and clerks, offi-cials, all Londoners and strangers to him. What did they know of the man and the memory? Tom had been there at the harbour when news of the admiral’s death had arrived. He had been at the old church for the memorial service, when the flags had been dipped to half-mast, and young Captain Adam Bolitho had taken his place with Lady Somervell. He had thought of the times he had met her along this same coast, walking or riding, or just watching for a ship. His ship, which would never come any more.

And at first he had thought that it was her, that patch of colour, a piece of clothing moving occasionally in the breeze off Falmouth Bay. It was one of her favourite places.

Like that other time when she had joined him in the cove below Trystan’s Leap and had cradled the small, broken body of the girl named Zenoria. All those times.

He had found himself dropping from the saddle, running the last few yards down the slope where the old broken wall stood half-buried in gorse and wild roses.

And then he had seen her horse, Tamara, another familiar sight on his lonely patrols above the sea.

But it had not been Catherine Somervell. He had thrust his hand into her clothing, cupping her breast, aware of her eyes watching him through the veil over her hat. But the heart, like the eyes, had been still.

He should have known; the angle of the head told him some of it, the riding crop on its lanyard around the gloved, clenched hand and the bloody weals on the mare’s flank told the rest.

Tamara would have known. Would have pulled back, even if beaten, from jumping the old wall. She would have known . . .

“What is it, Tom?”

He had forgotten his companion. He stared up at the dark outline of the old house, just visible above the hillside.

“Fetch help. I’ll stay here.” He glanced at the side-saddle, which had slipped when the woman had been thrown.

“It’s got a lot to answer for.” He had been describing the house. But his companion was already riding hard down the slope, and there was no sound but the wind off the bay.

EIGHT DAYS after her arrival at Gibraltar, Unrivalled was to all intents once more ready for sea. Pym, the rear-admiral’s flag cap-tain, had been true to his word, and had supplied as much as he could to speed repairs and replace standing and running rigging which was beyond recovery.

But it went far deeper than that. Adam Bolitho had seen and felt it from the first day. There was a new stubbornness in the men, and a kind of resentment that anyone should think Unrivalled ’s own ship’s company could not manage without out-side help or interference.

Some of the wounded who had been transferred ashore to more comfortable surroundings had returned on board, eager to help, unwilling to be separated from the faces and voices they knew.

Adam had imagined that he would be able to weigh and sail unimpeded by the passenger Rear-Admiral Marlow had described.

The written orders had explained little, merely emphasising the need for haste and, above all, safety. As Pym had said, “No more battles, Bolitho!”

Curiously, it had been the third lieutenant, Daniel Wynter, who had been able to supply more information. Sir Lewis Bazeley was well known in the political circles frequented by Wynter’s father. A hard-headed businessman who had been largely responsible for designing and building defences along England’s south coast from Plymouth to the Nore when a French invasion had seemed a very real possibility, he had been knighted for his efforts, and it was suggested that his next appointment was Malta, where the forti-fications had altered little since the first cannon had been mounted. If there had been any lingering doubts about Malta’s future, they had been dispersed. A fortress in the Mediterranean’s narrows, who commanded it held the key to Gibraltar and the Levant.

But Adam’s hopes were dashed by the arrival at the Rock of the Cumberland, a stately Indiaman; he had been with Galbraith the previous morning when she had dropped anchor. Like most of John Company’s ships she was impressively armed, and, he had no doubt, equally well manned. The H.E.I.C. paid generously, and offered other financial benefits to officers and seamen alike. Adam’s thoughts on that score were shared by most sea officers: if as much money and care had been lavished on the King’s navy, the war might have ended in half the time.

There was to be no ceremony, he had been told; the great man would transfer to the more spartan comforts of the frigate and be on his way.

The sooner the better, Adam thought.

He had visited the flagship this morning, and Pym had con-gratulated him on the appearance of his ship, and the speed with which the scars of battle had been hidden, if not removed. Tar, paint and polish could work wonders, and Adam was proud of the men who had done it.

The severe bruising to his groin had been given little oppor-tunity to improve, and inevitably the pain returned when he most needed all his energy and patience.

The greater, and far more pleasant, surprise had been at the twenty or so seamen who had volunteered to sign on, after his promise to do what he could for anyone who would fight for Unrivalled. Galbraith had not shared the surprise, and said only that he thought the whole lot should have put their names down without question. Ten of those same men had been killed or wounded in the fight.

Adam wondered what Lovatt would have made of it.

As he had written in his report to the Admiralty, “I gave them my word. Without them, my ship would have been lost.” It might blow a few cobwebs away from that place. He also wondered what Bethune might have done, given the same choice. A man between two separate roles. The one he had known as a young captain. The one he was living now.

Unrivalled ’s gig was turning in a wide arc as she returned from the flagship. Adam leaned forward, his eyes slitted against the glare, studying the line and the trim of his command. He had been pulled around the ship every day, making certain that the addi-tional stores, even the movement of powder and shot from one part of the hull to another, would in no way impede her agility under all conditions. He smiled to himself. Even in action again.

He thought of the noisy celebration to welcome Bellairs to the wardroom. He had made the right decision; Bellairs had all the marks of a fine officer. He recalled the rear-admiral’s interest. Has he family? Connections? But there were many senior officers who thought exactly like Marlow when it came to promotion; he could recall one post-captain who had been quite frank about his reluc-tance to promote any man from the lower deck to commissioned rank. “All you do,” he had insisted, “is lose a good man, and cre-ate a bad officer!”

Midshipman Fielding had the tiller, and Adam guessed it had been Galbraith’s decision. Homey, the midshipman who had been killed, had been his best friend. A good choice for two reasons.

Fielding said, “Boats alongside, sir!”

Sir Lewis Bazeley and his party had arrived in his absence. No ceremony, Marlow had said.

Adam said, “Pull right round the ship, Mr Fielding. I am not yet done.”

Jago was watching Fielding’s performance on the tiller, but his thoughts were elsewhere, on the day when the dead Lovatt’s son had been sent for. Told to collect his gear and report to the quar-terdeck. Just a boy, with a long journey before him, to caring people in Kent. Jago had heard the captain dictating a letter to his clerk. And all paid for out of Adam Bolitho’s pocket. There had been a sea-fight and men had died. It happened, and would continue to happen as long as ships sailed the seven seas and men were mad enough to serve them. Lovatt had died, but so had the flag lieutenant who had served the captain’s uncle. And young Homey, who had not been a bad little nipper for a “young gen-tleman.” He thought of the other one, Sandell. San-dell. Nobody would have shed a tear for that little ratbag.

He looked over at the captain now. Remembering his face when he had torn open his breeches, the dead midshipman’s blood and bone clinging to his fingers. Then the surprise when he had found the smashed watch, pieces of broken glass like bloody thorns. Why surprise? That I should care?

He felt the captain touch his arm. “Bring her round now.” They both looked up as the jib-boom swung overhead like a lance, the beautiful figurehead too proud to offer them a glance, her eyes already on another horizon.

He heard him say, “Fine sight, eh?”

But all Jago could think of was the small figure of Lovatt’s son, his father’s sword tucked under one arm, pausing only to hold the hand of the cabin servant Napier, who had cared for him.

Jago had felt anger then. Not even a word or a look for the one man who had tried to help his father. And him.

He stared over towards the two prizes. They had done it, together . . .

Adam was watching the Indiaman, already making sail, her yards alive with men, and imagined what Catherine must have felt, leaving Malta for the last time in such a vessel.

Midshipman Fielding cleared his throat noisily. “Bows!”

The side party was already in position. The captain was com-ing aboard. Adam tested his leg and felt the pain again. The decks of that same Indiaman were probably lined with rich passengers, observing the little ceremony about to take place aboard just another of His Majesty’s ships.

“Toss your oars . . . up!”

Jago winced, and saw the bowman thrust out to soften the impact alongside. But he would learn. He saw the captain reach for the first handhold, felt his muscles tighten in sympathy as if sharing his uncertainty.

Then the captain turned and looked down at him, and Jago saw the grin he remembered from that day when they had blown up the battery, before the attack on Washington.

Adam said, “Equal strain on all parts, eh?”

Jago saw the young midshipman standing in the boat, hat in hand but grinning up at his captain, all else, for the moment, forgotten.

Jago nodded slowly. “You’ll do me, sir!” Then he laughed out loud, because he found that he meant it.

Sir Lewis Bazeley was tall, but gave an immediate impression of strength rather than height. Broad-shouldered, and with a mane of thick grey hair which, although cut in the modern style, still singled him out from anyone else.

Adam strode from the entry port and extended his hand.

“I am sorry that I was not aboard to greet you, Sir Lewis.”

The handshake too was strong: a man not afraid of hard work, or of showing an example to others.

Bazeley smiled and waved vaguely towards the open sea.

“I knew this was not one of John Company’s ships, Captain. I’ll expect no special favours. A quick passage, and I can see for myself she’s a fine sailer, and I’ll ask no more of any man.” The smile broadened. “I am sure that the women will endure it for three days.”

Adam glanced at Galbraith. “Women? I was not told—” He saw the quick, answering nod; Galbraith had dealt with it.

Bazeley was already thinking of something else. “I promised to pay a private visit to the lieutenant-governor, Captain. If you can provide a boat for me?”

Adam said, “Mr Galbraith, call away the gig again,” and low-ered his voice as Bazeley moved away to speak with one of his own men. “What the hell is going on?”

“I took the women aft, sir, as you would have wished. And I’ve already told Mr Partridge to make sure all working parties are decently dressed, and to mark their language.”

Adam stared aft. “How many?”

Galbraith turned as Bazeley called out something, and said, “Only two, sir.” He hesitated. “I will happily vacate my cabin, sir.”

“No. The chartroom will suffice. I doubt I shall get much sleep, fast passage or not.”

He saw Bazeley waiting for him, feet tapping restlessly. He seemed full of energy, as if he could barely contain it. He appeared to be in his late forties, although possibly older; it was difficult to tell. Even his style of dress was unusual, more like a uniform than the clothing of a successful man of business. Or trade, as Rear-Admiral Marlow would no doubt describe it.

He recalled the discreet wording of his orders. To offer every facility. Bethune would know what to do; he was used to it.

He said, “Perhaps you would care to sup with me and my offi-cers, Sir Lewis. Once we are clear of the approaches.”

It would be a far cry from the Indiaman’s table, he thought, and expected Bazeley to make his excuses. But he said immedi-ately, “A pleasure. Look forward to it.” He saw the gig being warped alongside and beckoned to one of his party.

He paused in the entry port. “I shall not miss the ship, Captain.”

Adam touched his hat, and said to Galbraith, “Is everyone accounted for?”

“The purser’s due back on board shortly, sir. The surgeon is at the garrison—there are still two of our people there.”

Adam saw Napier hovering by the quarterdeck ladder. “Call me when you’re ready.” And grimaced as another pain lanced through him. “I’ll not be much of a host tonight!”

He made his way aft, where seamen were stowing away chests and some cases of wine which obviously belonged to Bazeley’s group. Something else for Partridge to keep his eye on.

The marine sentry straightened his back as Adam passed, then leaned towards the slatted screen with sudden interest.

Adam thrust open the door, and stared at the litter of bags and boxes which appeared to cover the deck of the main cabin. A woman was sitting on one of the boxes, frowning with appar-ent pain while another, younger woman was kneeling at her feet, trying to drag off one of her shoes.

Adam said, “I—I am sorry, I did not realise . . .”

The younger woman twisted round and looked up at him. Woman; she was no more than a girl, with long hair, and a wide-brimmed straw hat which was hanging down over her back. In her efforts to drag off the offending shoe some of the hair had fallen across her eyes, and one shoulder was bare and luminous in the reflected sunlight.

Adam saw all this, and that her eyes were blue, and also that she was angry. He made another attempt. “We were not fore-warned of your arrival, otherwise you would have been offered more assistance.” He gestured wordlessly at the disordered cabin. “Your father said nothing to me about all this!”

She seemed to relax slightly, and sat on the deck looking up at him.

“Sir Lewis is my husband, Lieutenant. That you should have been told.”

Adam could feel the other woman watching him, and, he thought, enjoying his discomfort.

“I am Captain Adam Bolitho, ma’am.”

She stood lightly and pushed the hair from her forehead, all in one movement.

“There now, Captain. We all make mistakes, it would seem!” She looked around the cabin. “Yours, I believe.” It seemed to amuse her. “We are honoured.”

The other woman had managed to remove her shoe, and was staring glumly at her swollen foot. Lady Bazeley said gravely, “This is Hilda. She takes care of everything.”

She laughed, and the other woman’s face responded as if she had never learned to resist the sound.

The girl moved just as swiftly to the stern windows and looked at the panorama of masts and colourful lateen sails, then she faced him again, her body outlined against the blue water. “And this is a man-of-war.” She sat on the bench seat, the hair falling across her bare shoulder. “And you are her captain.”

Adam wondered at his own silence, his inability to answer, to be himself. She was laughing at him, teasing him, and probably very aware of the effect it had on him and anyone else she cared to confront.

She pointed at the adjoining sleeping cabin. “I see you are not married, Captain.”

He said coolly, “You have a keen eye, ma’am.”

“And that surprises you? Perhaps you take a dim view of a woman’s place in the scheme of things!” She laughed again, and did not wait for a reply. “You have been in a battle, I understand, and you have been injured?”

“Many were less fortunate.”

She nodded slowly. “I am sorry for it. I have not experienced war at close quarters, but I have seen what it has done to people. Those close to me.” She tossed her head, the mood passing as quickly. “Now you really must excuse me, Captain. I must pre-pare myself.” She walked past him, and he could feel the impact of her presence as if they had touched. She was lovely, and she would know it, and that alone must act as a warning, before he made a complete fool of himself. Bazeley was not the sort of man who would forgive even a casual offence.

“If you will excuse me also, m’ lady, I must prepare the ship for leaving harbour.”

She regarded him steadily, her eyes much darker in this con-fined space. Violet.

He glanced at the sleeping cabin, where his cot had already been folded away. Where he had dreamed, and remembered. He turned away from it. Where Lovatt had coughed out his life . . .

“My servant will assist you. He is a good lad. If you require anything else, my officers will do their best to make your stay aboard as comfortable as possible.”

“In the Cumberland, the captain said I was to ask him. Are the King’s ships so different?”

She was playing with him again. Was she so young that she did not understand what she could do, was doing? Or did she not care?

He answered, “Ask me, m’ lady, and I shall try to oblige you.”

She watched him, one hand resting on the empty sword rack, her eyes thoughtful.

“A duty, then?”

He smiled and heard the sentry move away from the door. To offer every facility.

“I hope it may also be a pleasure, m’ lady.”

He turned to the door and the pain hit him again like a bullet.

A reminder; if so, it was just in time. He walked quickly to the companion ladder, his mind clearing as the pain retreated.

Galbraith was waiting for him, with one of his lists already in his hands.

He said, “I’ve spread Sir Lewis’s people as evenly as possible amongst the warrant officers. Two will be in the wardroom.”

Rank and status. Always separated, no matter how small the ship. He heard her voice again, mocking him. Are the King’s ships so different?

Galbraith said, “Lady Bazeley is a very striking woman, sir. I shall endeavour to make certain that she is not offended by some careless word or deed.”

He was so serious that Adam wanted to laugh, and did, at the sheer absurdity of it.

“And that includes the captain, I take it?”

Acting-Lieutenant Bellairs heard him laugh, and saw the sur-prise and bewilderment on Galbraith’s face.

He thought of the lovely woman in the cabin; she had smiled at him.

And he was a part of it.

Adam Bolitho tried to ease the discomfort in his legs on the makeshift mattress and stared at the spiralling lantern above the chart table. It was an effort to think clearly, to determine each sound and movement. Here, in the chartroom, it even felt dif-ferent. Like another ship.

He rubbed his eyes, and knew he would get no more sleep. He

He heard the muffled sounds of blocks, the stamp of bare feet somewhere overhead; even that seemed strangely distorted.

It was useless. He swung his legs over the side of the mattress and felt the ship rising, rising, before ploughing down again. He could see it in his mind, as clearly as if he were up there with Massie. He licked his dry lips. The middle watch. How much wine had they had?

The three lieutenants, and O’Beirne the surgeon, sitting around the table in his cabin. Lady Bazeley’s servant Hilda had supervised the flow of dishes and wines, assisted by young Napier. Bazeley himself had been in good form, recounting his various trips, visits to other countries, and, in passing, his building of for-tifications and harbour facilities under government contract. Most of the wine had been his, and he had insisted that they should try whatever they fancied.

Adam had been very conscious of the young woman opposite him, her eyes giving little away while she listened to each officer in turn. He had been conscious, also, of the lack of personal com-forts in the great cabin; no wonder she had guessed he was unmarried. The women had probably laughed about it when they had been left alone together.

He felt for a beaker of water but it was empty. And there would be more incidents like the one which had so unreasonably disturbed him. Bazeley had left the table to select a particular bot-tle of wine, and had paused by one of the cabin lanterns to show them his own name, engraved on the medallion around its neck.

“A Château Lafite, 1806. Now this will appeal to you, Captain.”

The ship had been close-hauled, the deck rising and shud-dering to the pressure of sea and rudder. Adam had seen Bazeley put his other hand on his wife’s shoulder as if to steady himself as he had stressed the significance of that particular château or vintage, Adam could remember neither. He had been watching the hand gripping her naked shoulder, the strong fingers moving occasionally like a small, private intimacy.

And all the while she had been looking at him across the table; her eyes had never left his. Not once did she glance up at the man by her chair, nor had she responded to his touch. Perhaps it meant nothing, although he had heard that they had been mar-ried for only six months.

He had tasted the claret; it meant nothing to him. It might as easily have been cider.

He had seen her hand move only once, to readjust the gown across her shoulder. And even then she had looked at him.

He saw the old sword hanging beside his boat-cloak, swaying with the heavy motion. Was he so stupid that he could not recog-nise the danger? A single wrong move, and he would lose everything. He reached out and touched the damp timbers. The ship was everything.

He stood slowly, waiting for the pain, but it did not come. He spread his hands on the chart table and stared at Cristie’s scrib-bled notes and the soft cloth he used to polish the ship’s chronometer, something he entrusted to no one but himself. A man who had grown up in the same streets as Collingwood; what would he think of his captain if he knew his weakness? Like a false bearing or sounding on a chart. Not to be trusted.

There was a tap on the door: someone needing to examine the chart, to make some new calculation. If in doubt, call the captain. That, too, seemed to mock him.

But it was the boy Napier, his shirt soaked with spray, carrying his shoes in one hand.

“What is it?” Adam seized his wet arm. “Where have you been?”

Napier said quietly, “I—I thought I should call you, sir.” He swallowed, perhaps already regretting that he was here. “The lady—”

“Lady Bazeley? What’s happened?” His mind was suddenly quite clear. “Easy, now. Tell me—take your time.”

The boy stared at him in the swaying light. “I heard some-thin’, sir. I was in the pantry, like you told me.” He stared out into the poop’s inner darkness. “She were out there, sir. I tried to help, but she wouldn’t move. She was sick, sir.”

Adam snatched his boat-cloak and said, “Show me.”

Once outside the chartroom the sound of sea and banging canvas was almost deafening. The deck was streaming with water, shipped each time Unrivalled ploughed into the heavy swell.

“Here, sir!” His voice was full of relief, that he had told his captain, that she was still where he had left her.

She was below the quarterdeck ladder on the leeward side of the upper deck; seamen on watch could have passed without see-ing her. She could have fallen against one of the tethered eighteen-pounders, broken a rib or her skull. It happened even to experienced sailors.

Adam crouched under the ladder and gathered her into a sit-ting position. She felt very light in his arms, her hair hiding her face, her feet pale in the darkness. She was wet to the skin and her body was like ice.

“Cloak, here! ” He held her again, feeling her shivering, with cold or nausea, it could be either.

He dragged the cloak round her shoulders, wrapping it with great care as more spray rattled against the ladder and drenched his shirt. He felt her body contract in another spasm and saw Napier with a sand bucket under the ladder.

“Easy, easy!” He did not realise he had spoken aloud. “I’ll bring some help.”

She seemed to understand then what he had said. Who he was. She tried to turn, to struggle round, one hand pushing the hair from her face. As he restrained her he felt the coldness of her skin. She was naked under the dripping gown.

She gasped, “No.” But when he pulled away she shook her head and said, “No! Don’t go.”

He said, “Get someone, fast!” But Napier had already disap-peared.

Slowly and carefully, he began to drag the girl from beneath the ladder. At any second now someone would come, perhaps call Massie, who was in charge of the watch. And then Bazeley.

She lolled against him and he felt her grip his hand, pulling it against her, across her. She would remember none of it. The rest did not matter.

He felt someone kneel beside him, caught the rich tang of rum. It was Jago, the boy Napier hovering behind him like a nervous ghost.

Jago said between his teeth, “Trouble, sir?” He did not wait for or seem to expect a reply. “All women is trouble!”

They guided and half-carried her into the poop again, the sounds becoming muffled, insignificant.

The wardroom door was closed, and there was no sentry at the cabin screen. Jago muttered, “Just to be on the safe side, sir.”

They found the woman Hilda in a state of anxiety and dis-belief.

Adam said, “Dry her, and get her body warm again. D’ you know what to do?”

She took the girl in her arms and led her to the couch which had been prepared in the sleeping cabin. There was no sign of Bazeley, nor were his clothes anywhere to be seen.

She said, “Too much wine. I tried to warn her.” She combed the wet hair from the girl’s face with her fingers. “You should go now. I can manage.” She called after them, “Thank you, Captain!”

Outside, it was as if nothing had happened. The sentry had reappeared at the screen, but stood aside as they passed. A ship’s boy was climbing the companion ladder, carrying a tarpaulin coat for one of the watchkeepers.

Adam stared at the deckhead, measuring the sounds of rig-ging and canvas. They would have to take in a reef if the wind did not cease.

“In for a squall.” He had spoken aloud, unconsciously.

Jago thought of the girl sprawled on the couch, the gown plas-tered to her body, hiding nothing.

Half to himself, he murmured, “It’ll be a bloody hurricane if this little lot gets out!”

Adam reached the chartroom and paused. “Thank you.” But Jago was already melting into the darkness.

He closed the door and stared at the chart, and then down at his shirt and breeches, dark with spray and probably vomit, still feeling the fingers, cold on his wrist where she had pressed his hand against her. She would not remember. And if she did, her shame and disgust would soon change to affront and worse.

He heard footsteps clattering on a ladder: the midshipman of the watch coming to tell his captain that the wind was rising, or it had veered, or it was lessening. And I shall deal with it.

He sat on the mattress and waited. But this time the footsteps scurried past.

He lay back and stared at the lantern. And just as they had left the great cabin he had heard the woman Hilda speaking qui-etly, firmly.

Lifeline or death wish, it no longer seemed to matter.

Her name was Rozanne.

Tomorrow, today, it would be all through the ship. And yet, he knew it would not.

A dream then, soon over, and best forgotten.

When Galbraith came aft to relieve the middle watch, he found his captain fast asleep.

The echoes of the gun salute rolled across the crowded harbour like dying thunder, the smoke barely moving while Unrivalled crept to her allotted anchorage preceded by the guard-boat, and let go.

Adam Bolitho tugged at his shirt beneath the heavy dress coat and watched the pale buildings of Malta’s shoreline shimmering in haze like a mirage. How different from the brusque and fickle winds on their passage from the Rock, and the exhilaration of changing tack in time to outwit every trick.

And then, almost becalmed, they had crawled the last miles to this anchorage, with courses and topsails all but flat against the rigging.

The guard-boat was pulling for the shore now, to warn Bethune of his visitors, he thought. Bethune was welcome to this part of it.

He walked to the opposite side of the quarterdeck and saw a few traders already idling nearby, holding up their wares, proba-bly the very same oddments they had offered Unrivalled on her first visit here.

Chests and baggage were already being hauled on deck, and cargo nets were laid out in readiness to lower them into the boats. Partridge and his men were swarming around the boat tier, doubt-less speculating on their chances of getting ashore, being free from routine and discipline, perhaps to lose themselves in some of the island’s more dubious attractions.

He saw the cabin skylight open and remain so. Lady Bazeley would soon be leaving. He could see it now as it was, in its true perspective, as he might assess the evidence of some offender brought before him for sentence. He had scarcely seen her since that first night. She had been on deck once or twice, but always with the woman Hilda, and once the surgeon, for company.

She had remained for the most part in the great cabin, and had had all her meals sent there. Napier confided that very little had been eaten.

Their eyes had met only once, when he had been standing by the foremast discussing some final repairs with Blane, the car-penter. She had seemed about to raise her hand to him, but had used it instead to adjust the brim of her hat.

Bazeley had spoken to him hardly at all, and then only on matters relating to their progress, the ship’s time of arrival, and aspects of her routine. He had made no mention at all of his wife’s behaviour, or her illness. Galbraith had solved one mystery. Baze-ley had been drinking with some of his companions in the warrant officers’ mess when she had left the cabin in her night attire, apparently the worse for drink.

Whenever Bazeley did mention her it was as though he were speaking of a possession. Like the hand on her shoulder that night at the table, it was deliberate. He could not imagine Baze-ley doing anything on a whim.

He moved into a patch of shade, angry at himself. Like some moonstruck midshipman . . . It was unlikely that they would ever meet again, and it was just as well. He had been mad even to think about it. And it was dangerous.

Bellairs called, “They’re about to leave, I think, sir.”

Adam watched her stepping through the companion hatch; she even did that gracefully, in spite of her gown. For a moment she stood alone by the untended wheel, looking around, at the men working on deck and up in the yards, and then towards the land, veiled in its dusty heat. And then, finally, at him.

Adam crossed the deck and removed his hat. “I hope you are feeling well, m’ lady?”

He saw her eyes flash. Then she said, “Better. Much better. Thank you, Captain.”

He relaxed a little. Either she did not remember, or she wanted only to forget.

She said, “So this is Malta. A place worth fighting and dying for, I’m told.” There was no contempt or sarcasm; if anything, it was resignation.

“Shall you be here long, m’ lady?” A voice seemed to warn him. Stop now.

“Who can tell?” She looked at him directly, her eyes chang-ing again. Like the sea, he thought. “And you, Captain? Some other port, perhaps? Some new adventure?” She tossed her head, impatient with the game. “Some adoring woman?”

Galbraith called, “Sir Lewis insists that our boats will not be required, sir.”

Adam stared at the shore, and saw several boats pulling smartly towards them. Bazeley was obviously a man of influence. Even Vice-Admiral Bethune was apparently eager to make his acquaintance.

Galbraith strode away to rearrange his preparations for the passengers’ departure, and Adam said, almost to himself, “I have learned that gratitude in a woman can be harmful. To her, m’ lady.” He saw the sudden uncertainty on her face. “I had hoped to escort you ashore.” He smiled. “Another time, maybe.”

Bazeley was here now, calling over his shoulder to one man, beckoning impatiently to another.

He said, “We take our leave, Captain. Perhaps one day—” And swung round again. “Be careful with that, you clumsy oaf!”

It was then that she thrust out her hand, and said softly, “Thank you, Captain Bolitho. You will know what for. It is some-thing we will share with no one.”

He kissed her hand, feeling her eyes on him, and imagining that her fingers closed very slightly around his own.

A bosun’s chair was already rigged, and she allowed herself to be settled in it, her gown protected from grease and tar by a can-vas apron.

“Hoist away, ’andsomely! ”

Every unemployed hand turned to watch as she was hoisted and then guyed out with great care to be lowered into a waiting boat. Bethune had even sent his flag lieutenant to assist.

Bazeley glanced around, patting his pockets as if to be sure he had left nothing personal below.

Adam thought of the mattresses and bedding strewn across the sleeping cabin. Where they had lain together. Where Baze-ley had taken and used her like a plaything.

Bazeley said, “Good sailing, Captain.” He glanced briefly at his wife in the boat alongside. “I was told you were reckless.” He held up one hand. “You get results, that’s all important in my view!” Then he laughed, and Adam saw her look up, shading her eyes. “But you know caution when you see it, eh? And that’s no bad thing, either!”

Adam watched the boat bearing off, and said, “I shall be going ashore in one hour, Mr Galbraith.” He sensed the unspoken ques-tion, and added flatly, “To see the admiral. Perhaps we may be given something useful to do!”

Galbraith watched him walk to the companion-way before picking up the duty midshipman’s telescope.

Sunlight on her cream-coloured gown, a scarlet ribbon on her wide-brimmed hat which matched the other one in her hair. All compressed into one small, silent picture. There could be noth-ing between them. How could there be? But today, she had dressed with obvious care, and he had seen her expression when the captain had pressed his lips to her hand.

Wynter had told him what he knew of Sir Lewis Bazeley. A man who had forced himself to the top, offering and no doubt receiving favours on the way. People less accustomed to deception might describe them as bribes, but one thing was certain: he would be a ruthless man to cross. Galbraith had lost his own com-mand because of another’s malignant influence and dislike. Unrivalled was his only chance of obtaining another.

He smiled grimly. And yet, all he could feel for Adam Bolitho was envy.

Below in the great cabin, Adam looked around; the place was suddenly spacious and bare again, the quarter gallery open as if to clear away the last vestige of their presence here. The bedding had vanished, his own cot was in its place. No wonder she had played with him, when all the time . . .

He saw his boat-cloak hanging from the deckhead, where it was never kept. He took it down and folded the collar. The entire garment had been sponged and cleaned, the stains from that night gone completely. He felt inside the deep pocket, although he did not know why.

It was a small, sealed paper. He carried it to the quarter gallery and opened it.

There was no note. But there was a lock of her hair, tied with a piece of scarlet ribbon.