Damn you, Marguerite. I am.
The terror must have shown somewhere in his face, because her expression changed. He took her hand. He had no time to hold it. No place on the quarterdeck for the absurd press of her fingers in his, but he took it anyway. Her hand fit too easily in his.
“Marguerite, I—”I love you.The words lined up on his throat. Too large. Too late. He stopped them behind his teeth. They struck there, trapped and dangerous, like a round shot that had failed to clear the muzzle.
Her eyes searched his. His chest felt as if a hand had closed inside it and twisted.
“Lock the cabin door,” he said finally.
She stared at him for one breath, then another. “And if you need me?”
Need her? Christ. He needed her already. He needed her breathing. Needed her below. Needed her safe. Needed her gone from his sight before fear made him useless.
He caressed her cheek. “If I need you, Maggie, the ship is already lost.”
Her lips parted, and he thought she would argue. Then she touched his sleeve.
“Then do not lose the ship.”
“I don’t intend to.”
He watched her go. Her skirts vanished first. Then the pale turn of her face. Then nothing. His eyes remained fixed on theempty companionway long after she had gone, as if the wood might be made transparent.
Enough. If he were to save her, he needed to stop acting the lovesick fool.
The deck around him sharpened cruelly—sun on brass, tar underfoot, the hot-metal tang of fear before gunsmoke, men waiting for him to become the Sea Wolf again.
Tristan lifted the glass again and fixed it on Sarkouf’s ship.
She was gaining. The privateer had the cleaner hull, the longer spars, the lighter burden, and a captain who knew how to spend wind like coin. She came on under a press of canvas, the white of her royals sharp against the blue, her bow lifting and falling with predatory grace.
“Shall I beat to quarters, my lord?” Vale asked.
Tristan heard the hunger behind the question. The beat began under the deck. Clear for action. Hammocks up. Guns cast loose. Powder monkeys down. Sand on the planks. The ship stripped of peace and returned to her true profession.
A pitched battle was possible. Tristan could shorten sail, run out the guns, and let Sarkouf come within reach. The frigate was old, but she was not helpless. His men were hard-trained. His officers knew their work.
But if Sarkouf disabled them, if one lucky shot took a mast, if the privateer came alongside and grappled, the matter would no longer belong to guns. The deck would be swarmed by Sarkouf’s men.
And below, behind a locked cabin door, Marguerite would be vulnerable.
His mouth went dry. The deck beneath his boots seemed to narrow until all command, all calculation, all glory led to that door. He could lose a mast. He could lose guns. He could lose men and carry their names afterward like a shot in the flesh. Hecould not think of her there with strange hands on the latch and still breathe like a captain.
“No,” he said.
Vale stared. “My lord?”
“We do not clear for action.”
The answer moved through the deck. They had expected the Sea Wolf to bare his teeth. He took the blow of their disbelief standing. Let them taste disappointment. Pride had weight. Reputation had weight. He would cut both if he must.
His grip tightened around the glass until the brass bit his palm. “We run.”
Vale’s brows drew together.
“We run. And we make him believe he can catch us. Sarkouf has the legs of us,” Tristan said. “He knows it. I want him to be certain of it. Hoist every sail the Resolute can carry. Courses, topsails, topgallants, royals. Studding sails if the wind will take them. Let him see us crowding canvas like frightened merchants.”
Vale glanced up at the spars. “She’ll strain hard. The foretopmast is not young.”
