Seize the Fire

  He'd thought that meant something. That was love, that was the only name he had to give it. Last night, when in the midst of his whining concern for his own skin she'd said she loved and trusted him, he'd been so certain of it. He would have died for her then, he would have killed every man on board to protect her—except this was civilization, not a battle, and all he'd been able to do was make some brainless joke to cover the raw surge of emotion and then retreat before he embarrassed himself beyond recovery.

  She loved him.

  It had been hard to believe that; it had gone against every instinct built up in years of solitude, but he'd convinced himself.

  Aye. And he was wrong.

  "You know," she was saying shyly, "I never thought to be married on the deck of a ship."

  Fitzhugh patted her hand. "I think we can make it quite lovely and memorable, with a little effort. You didn't have your heart set on a church wedding, did you?"

  She hesitated. "Well," she said, stroking her fingertip against the edge of her cup. "No. Not really, I suppose."

  "'Not really'?" Fitzhugh gave her an indulgent smile. "That has an equivocal sound. Aren't you sure?"

  "It's silly," she said with a faint blush. "I've always dreamed of—" She shrugged. "But it's not worth mentioning. A childhood fancy."

  "Tell me," Fitzhugh insisted, like the simpleton he was. "What did you dream?"

  "Oh—I daresay you'll think me a hopeless romantic." She gave him a little sideways glance.

  "But that's what I love about you," Fitzhugh said, leaning toward her. "You've such an intelligent grasp of worldly matters like politics, and yet sometimes you can be so…"

  Arousing, Sheridan thought. Tantalizing breasts, hips, sweet ankles— Oh, God. I know what you're looking at, you randy little goat.

  "…so innocent. Tell me what you've dreamed of, and I'll give it to you if I can."

  "Oh, no," she said. "It would be impossible. It would be asking too much."

  "Nothing is too much. If it's in my power."

  She took a breath. "Well—you'll think me silly. But ever since I was a little girl and read about the Seven Hills, I've always wished…to be married…" She glanced up timidly. "In Rome. At Santa Maria—in the moonlight."

  The sounds of the ship seemed to grow loud in the pause.

  "Rome," Fitzhugh repeated in slow surprise.

  Sheridan just stared at her.

  Rome.

  Of course.

  Rome was where she'd intended to go, and Fitzhugh would be her new ticket to get there.

  Sheridan had let down his guard, and he'd been conned. Neatly, wholly and properly conned. There were lessons he'd learned the hard way, and he'd forgotten them; neglected to be wary and not ask too much of fortune.

  He was barely aware of Fitzhugh's fumbling answer. As the young captain stammered that he'd have to consider going as far as Rome, Sheridan stood silent.

  He felt unreal. It was strange and frightening: he thought he should be angry, but instead he felt displaced, as if he were there and yet not there. He looked at Olympia and she seemed like someone he had never seen before. He looked at his cup and his own hands were strange to him. He felt himself quietly exploding, like glass that shattered and made no sound.

  Very carefully, he set down the cup. He had to think of each move—hand here, foot there—he had to plan his turn like a battle as he shifted and walked toward the door. Fitzhugh asked him something, but Sheridan ignored it. He could not have answered if he'd tried. He left, closing the door behind him, and stood in the passage.

  He looked around uncertainly. There was a weird skewness to everything—as if that door wasn't where it should be, that ladder out of place. He felt peculiar. A voiceless panic hung at the back of his throat. He forced himself to walk forward.

  His head hurt. He could hear his own pulse in his ears.

  The panic in him rose suddenly to cold-sweat terror. He clenched his teeth against a moan of dread and walked on—down the ladder and out into the open cavern of the gun deck.

  There were two sailors and a midshipman working at the tackle on a cannon. He looked at the sandy hair of the boy bent over the gun carriage.

  "Harland," he exclaimed.

  All three looked up. "Sir?" asked one of the older men in surprise.

  "For God's sake, Harland—" Sheridan felt excited irritation rising in him. His belly tightened and the throbbing sound in his head intensified. He scowled at the boy with the sandy hair. "What the bloody devil are you doing down here? Where's the signal book?"

  The boy stared at him. "Sir," he said. "Excuse me. I'm Stevenson, sir."

  Sheridan glared at the boy. It was hard to orient himself amid the pounding in his ears. He put his hands to his head, wanting to block out the noise. It hurt his brain, it made him angry and it would not stop. He squeezed his eyes shut and then recognized the sound. "The shore battery!" They were firing, they were close—and Sheridan wasn't ready. He turned sharply. "Harland! Pass the word to Mr. Wright. All hands clear for action!"

  The boy stood there, gaping at him.

  "Move, blast it!" he shouted. "We're in range. Mr. Wright—" The ship had to turn; they had to turn back. She pitched beneath him while the sound of the guns became thunder. "Mr. Wright!" he ordered. "Wear the ship." But she wouldn't turn; she wouldn't turn—with a nightmare alarm he felt them in the teeth of the guns, the blast growing louder and louder. "Mr. Wright!" he yelled over the sound of them. "Come about—that's an order! Wear ship, damn you—"

  The rush came up through him, the powerful surge of bloodlust and frenzy. He lunged at the first officer, furious at the way the man stood dumbfounded, ignoring his direct command as they lay under certain destruction. The noise was unbearable, terrifying; it exploded in his head as his hands closed in killing rage and excitement on the officer's throat. Someone grappled him from behind. Sheridan whirled, bellowing outrage. He went for his knife with enemies in a kaleidoscope around him, fighting for his life amid a rush of attack that sent him sprawling backward. His head cracked brutally against a barrier.

  White light flashed over his brain, drowning him in pain and panic.

  He came to awareness on the deck, flat on his back, with a burly form on top of him and a sailor holding down his wrists. The man on top was panting in his face. The dead weight made it hard for him to breathe.

  He stared at the face above him in slow confusion. The fury and terror ebbed away like the thunder of the guns, dissipating into the normal sounds of a ship under peaceful sail. His fist opened. He turned his head to the side and realized that the knife in it was imagination.

  The seaman held him in a tight grip, watching suspiciously. Sheridan closed his eyes. He made his body relax, suffering the painful vise of the sailor's rough fingers with what dignity he could muster. At length, the man softened his grasp.

  "Right in your head now, sir?" he asked.

  Sheridan took a breath. He nodded. The man let go. They both stood up slowly, the center of a silent crowd of onlookers. Sheridan glanced at the midshipman, a boy he'd never seen before. The youngster was watching him with round eyes, wary and curious.

  Hot shame washed over him. He tugged at his sleeves, refusing to look at the others. He wasn't sure what had happened, but his guts felt like jelly.

  "Is he crazy?" the boy asked hopefully.

  The man who'd been on top of Sheridan grabbed the young midshipman by the collar. "Listen, whelp—you'd better hope you make as good a man yourself when the day comes. He ain't crazy," he added gruffly.

  The boy looked puzzled. But he said, "Aye, sir," quickly enough when the other gave him a shake.

  "And don't let me hear this tale from nobody else, you got that?" the man demanded, and glared around. "Keep your mouths shut."

  The midshipman nodded. "Aye. I won't say anything, sir." Some of the others murmured.

  "There." The seaman gave the youngster a cuff. He was a midshipman himself, one of the old ones—older than Sheri
dan, a case of failed hopes and broken rungs on the promotion ladder. "You're a good 'un, then. Maybe you'll command a ship through a real action someday, and then you'll understand."

  The boy stood a little straighter at those words. He looked at Sheridan with a new respect. The familiar dawn of hero worship in those young eyes made Sheridan feel physically ill. He knew what he was expected to do; he ought to stand straight and nod commandingly and walk away with some of the image intact. But he could not. He felt helpless and shaky. He was afraid he could still hear the guns when he knew they weren't there; he was afraid the world around him was going to dissolve into something else again.

  He moved abruptly past the others and then came to a halt, his hand on a gun breech. He could see where he was, he knew the way to his cabin, but there was another ship hovering behind his eyes. His fingers slid on polished metal, seeking cold reality.

  Something warm touched his other hand. The boy slid his fingers around Sheridan's fist. "I'll take you to your cabin, sir," he said.

  Sheridan stared down at the tawny hair, so familiar and so strange. He jerked his hand away. "Let me be," he snarled. "Christ—oh, Christ, let me be."

  He plunged down the companionway, leaving them to think what they would. He found his cabin and shut himself inside. He sat down and stared at the door, breathing hard. With a low moan, he pressed his palms over his eyes to blank out the picture there.

  He could feel the anger; it moved like a living thing inside him. He fought it, but it was there. It terrified him. His heart hurt. His throat and his heart and his chest; he was so full of rage and pain. He wanted to kill. There was an old woman in a shattered town who'd cursed him in Arabic with her last breath, told him she'd send demons to consume him, and he hadn't believed it; his rational mind had rejected it, but with a sense of horror he felt them here—he felt them now, breathing in his soul. They would take him over if he let them loose.

  "No," he moaned, pressing his arms to his head and rocking back and forth. "No." He couldn't let that happen; he didn't want to hurt anyone; he'd do anything to not hurt anyone again.

  He wanted peace. He wanted it so badly. For a little while, he'd had it. His princess, sweet mirage of happiness—he reached out for her, touched her, and she changed like the silver promise of water turned to desert. It made the demon inside him scream for blood.

  He sat on the berth with his head in his hands. He could feel himself shaking. He concentrated on control, and when he felt he could stand up, he went to the door and locked himself inside.

  Olympia struggled between reason and guilt. She knew she ought to feel guilty about Captain Fitzhugh; it was beneath contempt to manipulate him the way she was doing. But she would keep her promise—she would marry him…if he still wanted her after she told him the truth.

  It seemed unlikely. Francis Fitzhugh was upright and conservative; he would never understand the sequence of events that had brought her to this. He would never understand how she could stoop to lies and subterfuge to accomplish a worthy goal, how she could put practicality before ethics, how she could make a commitment she didn't plan to keep…in short, how much she'd become like Sheridan.

  Somewhere, so slowly that she hadn't noticed it herself, she'd lost her innocence. It was odd, but she felt infinitely older than her fiancé. She didn't want to hurt him, but he made himself such an easy victim that she found herself taking advantage before she could stop. He seemed so naive—everything was black or white, and he never caught the undercurrents that moved around him. He'd stood in the cabin with Sheridan, spoken with him, and never even noticed the play of emotion on that dark face as Francis gushed about their coming marriage.

  Olympia had.

  Her fingers twisted as she thought of the way Sheridan had looked when she'd announced the engagement. Stunned. Disbelieving. And then miserably hurt.

  But she couldn't let herself fall for that. She'd expected him to be angry, to try to bully her out of her chosen course and back under his control. But Sheridan was a master manipulator, and much too smart for that. Instead of heavy-handed outrage, he instantly chose a far more effective method to reach her—playing on her deepest emotions—and the power of that alone was enough to arouse her distrust.

  He wasn't hurt. He probably wasn't even all that surprised.

  It's a game, Princess, he'd told her once. There aren't any rules.

  No—there weren't any rules. And if Francis got hurt, it was because he was foolish enough to give his heart in blind trust. The same way Olympia had been, before she'd learned better the hard way.

  It had been almost a week before Francis had agreed to take her to Rome to be married. He'd promised to ask for a matrimonial shore leave as soon as he completed this mission to Arabia. He was being brave and noble about it, but Olympia detected a slight increase in his demands to see her, and just a trace of stiffness in his manner if she said something he didn't quite approve of. She hadn't seen Sheridan since he'd left the state cabin so abruptly. He didn't come to meals, and never walked on deck. He was sulking, down in his own lair—no doubt expecting her to think he was devastated, waiting for her to come begging forgiveness and hot kisses.

  But she would not go. No matter how much she wanted them.

  When Sheridan closed his eyes, he would dream. So he didn't close them—except when he passed out cold on Fitzhugh's brandy.

  Being awake wasn't much of an improvement. He thought of corpses in a Burmese mudbank, or of his father's vicious amusements, or of an old man the thugs had murdered while he stood by and watched. There seemed to be something splintered inside him, some barrier that had kept these things at a distance and let them rush in on him now.

  He tried to drink himself senseless, but it didn't help. He dreamed, bad dreams, and every time he woke the images were there, more vivid than before. He kept seeing the broken remains of Midshipman Harland on a shattered gun deck, and hearing the soft ceaseless mutters of Mr. Wright, who'd been all night and another day dying. Bring me some water, Mama. Mama, I'm so thirsty. Please, Mama, please—I won't cry.

  Sheridan wanted to cry. He wanted to kill. He seemed to have disintegrated into bewildering pieces of a man: someone he didn't know…and yet he did know.

  Oh, yes…he knew.

  This was himself, yes—this was the part of him that lived below the surface, the wolf that answered everything with slaughter. He embraced death. He was good at it. He survived.

  He didn't dare leave the cabin. He made Mustafa lock it from the outside. He drank and stared and huddled in his borrowed berth in confusion and misery. He despised himself; he was lost; he couldn't put these pieces into a person anymore. He could not understand what was happening to him.

  Sometimes he thought disjointedly about his life, bits and fragments of hopes and illusions. All he'd ever wanted was his music. It was comical, the way he'd clung to that for so long. He'd waited and waited for the moment, the day he could leave behind the existence he'd led and begin again. Then his father had died, and that had seemed like the time.

  Only it turned out to be too late. Decades too late. He was a fool—and worse, an old fool—to have thought there was soul enough left in him to make music anyone would want to hear. There was music in him, yes, but it sounded of guns and smelled of death and powder smoke, and no one would want to listen, any more than they wanted to hear the truth of the ghastly scenes that made a man a hero by mistake.

  Sometimes he dreamed of his princess, and thought that any normal man would cry.

  But he could not cry.

  Mustafa came and went, tending him as if he were a child. It all seemed like a dream. Once, someone knocked on the door and said the captain wished to see him. They left, and came again, with a louder demand, and then an order.

  Sheridan looked at the door and looked away, uninterested. He touched the barrel of the pistol that lay on the pillow beside him. He slid his hand beneath the butt and caressed the trigger.

  It was comforting. One fr
actional move, and no more nightmares. No more flashes of black fear and anger that made him terrified of himself. No more waking from restless half sleep to the smell of burning flesh that filled his brain and his nostrils, more real than the ship around him.

  Far more real. Living and dying blended into one another; he was dead already, he'd been gone for years, what difference did it make?

  But he was hanging on.

  Why, he could not fathom. But he reckoned it to be his only real talent.

  Twenty-One

  * * *

  Another week passed, and Olympia hadn't seen Sheridan for a fortnight. She walked the deck, watching the sailors or staring at the water. Pressure was growing inside her. She tried to keep her feelings under control of her mind. It was a game, and she did not dare lose. She would not break first, not this time.

  Between the strength of her desire to rush to Sheridan's cabin and the frequency of her imagining that she would find him outside hers, contrite and begging to marry her, Olympia was becoming highly suspicious of her own motives. They began to seem much less pure than she'd originally thought. Instead of the high-minded goal of reaching Rome and Oriens under Captain Fitzhugh's protection, she feared she might have been equally interested in the mean hope of making Sheridan madly jealous. Perhaps even more interested.

  Oriens and its problems seemed so far away, and the emptiness of days without Sheridan so piercing—she could not seem to keep the relative importance of them in proper proportion.

  She stood with her hands on the polished rail, braced against the plunge of the ship, watching the bow wave arch outward, shatter with a cascade of white on green and then slide past her in a foaming roll. She preferred this forward spot to the sheltered captain's deck, a disagreement which was escalating into an actual argument with her doting fiancé. Francis became more possessive and restrictive daily.