She tried to imagine being married to him and felt a deep uneasiness. But she'd promised, and it would be his choice once they reached Rome and she confessed. If he still wanted her, she would have to do it.
"Excuse me, ma'am?" A young voice spoke beside her. "Miss Drake?"
Olympia turned. One of the midshipmen stood at her elbow, dressed in tight blue ducks with gold trim, his cheeks pink in the chilly breeze. She always marveled at how young they were to be so far from home—this boy was no more than thirteen at best. Olympia thought he ought to be home with his mother and family, going to school instead of sailing on a warship to battle slavers.
She smiled warmly, reading the name stitched on his collar. "Good morning, Mr. Stevenson."
"Ma'am," he said quickly, "I hope you don't think I'm impert'nent for asking—but—me and…and some of the others was wondering—is Sir Sheridan going to get better, ma'am?"
Olympia looked at him. "I'm sorry…I don't quite understand."
He locked his hands behind his back. "Well—we'd noticed, ma'am, that he hadn't come on deck no more since…" He bit his lip. "Well—a fortnight ago. And we heard he didn't take meals in the cabin with you an' the captain, and we was worrited, you see. After we saw the way he was an' all, ma'am."
Olympia frowned at him. He wet his lips.
"I know it's a secret, ma'am," he said in a rush. "You don't got to worrit that I'd say anything, nor Barker nor Mr. Jackson nor the gunner's mates neither, and we was the only ones that saw."
"Saw?"
"Well—" He shifted his feet. "One of his…fits…you know. When he thinks he's somewhere else, fighting some battle. He went after Barker, calling him Mr. Wright and all, and got real mad because we wouldn't call 'All hands.' "The boy raised wide eyes to Olympia. "I was frightened at first, ma'am, but Mr. Jackson made me understand what it was. And we—we just was hoping he would be getting better now. Mr. Jackson told me all about all the things he's done, and I wanted to say—well, ma'am—" He touched his tongue to his upper lip. "I don't guess he 'members me at all, but I'd be obliged if you could tell him I was very stupid to ask if he was crazy, and I'm sorry, and I hope he feels better, and I think he's the best, ma'am. Would you tell him that for me?"
Olympia looked silently at the towheaded boy. Her fingers tightened on the rail.
"He called me Harland, ma'am," the boy said after a pause. "Would you know who that is?"
"No," she said faintly. "I'm afraid I don't."
"Oh. Well—I thought maybe it was somebody who'd—you know—done something…grand."
She managed a smile. "I'm sure it is."
He ducked his head. "Will you tell him what I said, ma'am?"
"I'll tell him. Yes. I'll go and tell him now."
Mustafa sat against the bulkhead outside Sheridan's cabin. Olympia dismissed the sailor who'd led her below-decks and glared at the huddled servant.
"Why didn't you tell me he was ill?" she demanded, reaching for the door.
He stood up, blocking her way, and looked at her with unfathomable eyes. "He will not see you, Emiriyyiti."
"Yes," she said. "He will." It was the command of a princess. "Open the door."
Mustafa looked at her beneath his lashes, dark and speculative. His thin face seemed thinner, drawn with weariness, but Olympia did not cease her commanding stare. After a moment he shrugged and stepped aside. The door swung inward.
For an instant, she thought she must be in the wrong cabin. There was someone there, but it wasn't Sheridan. The man who lay on the berth was a stranger in a black beard and rumpled clothes. He didn't even look at her, but lay gazing blindly at the bottle propped on his raised knee until she closed the door and spoke his name.
It came out a questioning whisper. He did look toward her then—a gray stare that lasted five beats of her heart before he turned away. He put his fingertips over his eyes and sighed. His hand seemed to shake a little.
"Sheridan," she said. "My God—what's wrong?"
There was a silence. Then he said, "Nothing."
"You're ill." She stepped forward, lifting her hand to touch his forehead.
"No." He pushed her arm away. "I'm not ill. Leave me alone."
She bit her lip, stepping back. "I'm going to call the surgeon."
"No. "He sat up, a move that seemed swift and healthy enough. "Don't call anybody."
Olympia stood uncertainly. He sat, not looking at her, his gaze focused somewhere off at the floor in obvious avoidance. The sweet smell of brandy mingled with sea salt.
"Just go," he said. "I don't—I'm not—" He spread his hands on the edge of the berth. "Hell! Just go away. I'm not in the mood for tea and polite conversation."
"What's wrong?" she asked again.
He frowned angrily, still not meeting her eyes. He shook his head.
"You cannot expect me to believe that you're all right." She moved closer again, anticipating that he would pull away. But instead he pressed his fist against his mouth and drew a shuddering breath. He closed his eyes briefly, then reached for the brandy and drank a long swallow from the bottle.
As he lowered it, Olympia took it out of his hand and set it aside. She started to sit down next to him, but first had to pick up a pistol that lay on the berth. She stood, holding it gingerly out to Sheridan. "Expecting an attack?"
He stared at the weapon. After a moment, he lifted it from her hand. His fingers fitted around the handle and trigger with a natural move. He hefted it, and for one startled instant she had the notion that he actually wanted to fire—at what, she had no idea.
"I was cleaning it," he said tonelessly.
He held the gun in a loose grip, looking down the interior of the barrel as if it fascinated him. His voice sounded strange, but the ragged beard made it hard for her to interpret his expression.
"Why are you hiding down here?" she asked abruptly.
He shrugged.
"Is it—" She hesitated. "Is it because of Francis and me?"
He turned the gun over, smoothing his fingers down the bore. "Who the hell is Francis?" Then he looked up at her sideways. His eyes glittered. "You mean that bloody little bastard Fitzhugh?" He cocked the pistol and aimed it lazily at the brandy bottle. Olympia drew a breath as his finger tightened suddenly on the trigger.
The hammer fell with a harmless click.
"Bang," he said indifferently. "There's dear Francis with his brains all over the wall."
As soon as he said it, a queer look came into his face. He wet his lips and stared at the bulkhead. His breathing quickened.
"Oh, my God," he whispered. He groaned softly. "Oh, my God."
"Sheridan?"
He jerked his head, turning back to her as if she'd startled him. It seemed to take him a moment before he focused, and then he said aggressively, "Just keep that strutting little cock away from me. Or I'll kill him."
Olympia looked down at him in astonishment. She hugged herself. If this was another attempt to throw her off-balance, it was certainly succeeding. The beard made his face look pale and strained. Fierce tension marked his mouth. She wanted to touch his cheek, to smooth her fingers down the rough beard and hold him as she used to do, for comfort and warmth. But there was Julia. She had to remember that. Julia, and all his perfidy. "Why are you locking yourself up down here?" she demanded again.
"I have to," he said.
"Of course you don't. Sheridan, if it's because of me, if you wanted me to come to you, I—"
"No!" He rose suddenly. "No, I didn't want you to come! Go away, leave me alone." He grabbed her by the shoulders. The pistol dug into her arm as he shook her. "It's dangerous, don't you see? You don't know—you don't understand. I didn't want—" His voice broke. Suddenly he pulled her hard against him, his hold so fight it hurt. "What am I gonna do?" he whispered. "What'm I gonna do, what'm I gonna do?" He muttered a slurred litany into her hair. "I didn't want you to see me. She wouldn't turn, do you understand? I only wanted to live. I only wanted to live. Oh, God
, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
He was trembling, crushing her against him cruelly. The cold barrel of the pistol lay against her ear. She had the feeling he hardly knew she was there, that he was only holding on, mumbling unconnected phrases over and over.
She didn't know what to do. Her suspicions of him evaporated in that desperate and painful embrace. This was real, this was no game—he was distraught and rambling incoherently, and she didn't know why or how to help. If only she were Julia. Julia could have handled this; Julia would have known what to do. Olympia felt frightened and confused and helpless.
"Sheridan." She stiffened against him and tried to sound firm. "You're hurting me."
He made a peculiar moaning sound, as if the litany of words had sunk under his breath.
"You're hurting me." She said it louder, pushing at him.
He let her go so suddenly that she stumbled backward. "Go away," he said.
Olympia gulped a needed breath and stood leaning against the door. "Not until you tell me what's wrong."
He would not look at her. He sat down on the berth and took a slug of brandy. "Nothing's wrong."
"Sheridan." She bit her lip. "I want to help." She felt her defenses crumbling, the fatal words rising. Because her discipline could no longer contain what her heart cried out—in spite of Julia, in spite of everything—she said in a whispered rush, "I love you."
His gray eyes lifted. He stared at her a moment, and then he began to laugh. It had a crazy, frantic sound, halfway between a chuckle and a sob. He lay back on the berth and put his arm across his eyes, holding the pistol loosely. "You don't love me. You don't know me. You don't know what I am. If you did, you wouldn't—" His voice caught on one of the peculiar chuckling sobs. He took a breath. "You wouldn't even be in here with me, take my word."
What would Julia say? She wouldn't be kind; she would be firm. She'd state the ease in measured tones and expect reason to speak for itself.
"I think," Olympia said slowly, "that I know you quite well." She looked down at the deck and added in a carefully mild voice, "You can be a scoundrel; I know that. You stole from me and betrayed me and lied to me. You have no morals and no ideals; you think of yourself first and you're a coward sometimes on that account." She hesitated, chewing her lip. "What people call a coward, anyway. I don't know what cowardice is anymore. I don't know what heroism is." She looked up. "But I know one thing, and I learned it from you. I know what courage means. It means to pick up and go on, no matter what. It means having a heart of iron, like they say. You have that."
He stayed the way he was, his face hidden. She watched the rise and fall of his chest as the sounds of the ship filled the silence.
"A heart of oak, I think you mean," he said suddenly. Rationally. "This is the navy, my dear. We use iron for ballast."
He lifted his arm—and it was as if the baffling stranger had vanished. The same cynical, self-contained Sheridan she knew so well gave a twisted smile and added, "Sorry to disappoint you, but on top of being a scoundrel and thief and liar and coward, I can't claim that kind of courage, either." He sat up and shoved his hand through his hair. He shook his head. "You don't love me. You'd be a god-awful fool if you did. We had a fine time for a while, but you're doing the right thing. Believe me. Marry Fitzhugh. Go to Rome and start your revolution. I'm quite all right." He looked into her eyes, abrupt and intent. "Go on living, Princess. You've barely even started."
There was something…but Olympia could not fathom what lay behind that look. He sounded reasonable again. At least he sounded sane, even if what he said made her chest ache. "Are you certain you're all right?" she asked.
"Yes."
She considered him. "Then—will you come up to dinner tonight?"
His dark lashes fell. He shrugged. "If you wish."
"Will you come on deck and walk with me now?"
He looked down at the gun, toyed with it. After a moment, he said, "Let me get cleaned up."
"In an hour?"
"Yes." Still he looked down at the weapon. "In an hour."
"All right." Olympia felt a surge of relief. Perhaps she had done the right thing by simply talking to him as if he'd made sense all along. She opened the door. "I'll wait for you in the saloon."
He glanced up at her. Beneath the unshaven beard, she could see the familiar, beloved outlines of his face.
"In an hour," she repeated with schoolteacher sternness, and stepped out the door.
Just before she closed it, she heard him say quietly, "Goodbye, Princess."
Sheridan sent Mustafa on a long errand. Then with careful patience he re-primed the pistol and lay back on the berth. He rested the barrel against his temple.
It would not misfire this time.
He realized he'd been waiting for her to come. He knew now why he'd delayed so long. He'd wanted to see her one last time. He'd wanted…
What?
To make her understand why?
She would never understand. He didn't want her to. He never wanted it to touch her. Why had he ever touched her? He was poisoned. Contaminated. He was so angry, he hurt so much—but he had to lock that up. He couldn't tell her. She had to be protected. He loved her ignorance; he cherished her for it; silly, innocent princess, talking bravely of violence in her cause and having no notion of the reality.
Her revolution—it would be no different from any other war. Friends and enemies and humanity: they all died on their knees in the smoke and blood.
But how could he tell her that?
Fitzhugh would keep her from it, anyway, shield her dreams from the savage truth.
He thought about that, lying there with the cold metal comfort against his skin. And slowly, he became aware of the paradox.
He frowned faintly. A sense of irritation moved through him, as if it were an annoying delay in some critical journey.
He wanted to keep her from violence. But if he did this—here, now—he would bring it into her life with a vengeance.
There was no way they could keep the secret from her. Fitzhugh might try; he might lie about ways and means and try to soften the picture, but someone would tell her enough of the truth. And worse…Sheridan swore softly…worse, he'd stupidly promised he'd join her in an hour. What if she came back looking for him?
He spent a despairing moment imagining that. The gun slid slowly downward, cool steel on his cheek.
He could not do it to her. He could not take the risk that it would be she who discovered him.
He'd have to find another time and place.
He held up the gun and looked at it with dark longing. But he had this one last responsibility he could not evade.
He thought of other ways—less bloody, quieter—and slowly, reluctantly, discarded them all. He found that he was truly a coward right down to the bone, because he could not face the idea of leaving her with the smallest scar. He wanted too badly to think of her as whole and untouched by his shadow. And too…God forbid—what if she should conclude it was her fault? And she might. She might think it was because she'd chosen Fitzhugh, and live all her life a martyr to misplaced guilt.
The irony of it almost made him laugh.
He was the guilty one. He was the one who ought to suffer. He could not think of any reason why he'd survived all that he had, unless it was to be punished.
He laid the gun down. Then, because he could not help himself, he reached for the nearest vulnerable object—a well-thumbed copy of Steele's Original and Correct List of the Royal Navy—and began methodically to tear the pages out and shred them into tiny white pieces. When he came to the end, he held the cover between his shaking fists and ripped it apart.
Olympia waited in the state saloon, frowning out at the ship's wake. The steward came in with a tin of sugared biscuits for tea and offered one to her. She took it absently, nibbled a bite and then held it while she puzzled on the things Sheridan had said. She barely heard the sound of the door closing behind the steward, and when Francis sp
oke, she jumped.
"Ollie, my dear." He smiled when she turned, doffing his hat, his cheeks apple-red from the wind. "You're early for tea. I hope you've taken my advice and been here all morning instead of displaying yourself on the foredeck."
She held back a retort. Instead she merely said, "Good afternoon, Francis," and ate the rest of the sugar biscuit.
She knew it would annoy him. He had decided that he preferred her newly slender waistline and had begun a campaign of "advice" on what she should eat. He frowned slightly as she finished the biscuit, but only pursed his lips and turned to the table. Olympia eyed his stout, straight profile and had the sudden desire to puff up to the size of an elephant just to spite him.
"How have you been occupied this morning?" he asked.
She hesitated. "I've been to see my brother."
Francis glanced over at her. "I see," he said. "I hope you had a pleasant visit. Has he decided to forgive you?"
"I don't know what you mean," she said stiffly.
He looked down, his lower lip moody. "Why, for accepting my offer, of course. It's clearly caused a rift between you. You haven't seen him for weeks." He frowned again, rattling silver among the tea things. "I've tried to speak with him myself, but he's refused to see me either. I must say, I think it's quite churlish, the way he's acting. He did give his permission, after all."
She sat down, staring at her hands. "I believe—he has much on his mind."
"Well, he won't find a better family than the Fitzhughs, if that's what concerns him." Francis's voice held a trace of belligerence. "Our lineage is spotless."
Unlike the bastard Drakes, was the unspoken end to that sentence. Olympia felt a rise of resentment on Sheridan's behalf. She considered inquiring where the Fitz in Fitzhugh had come from, if the family was so perfectly legitimate, but decided—once again—to avoid a confrontation. Instead she said, "Sheridan is going to walk with me this afternoon."
"Ah." Francis looked up, all his pouting dissolved into childlike satisfaction. "He has forgiven you, then!"
"Well—I suppose so."
"Perhaps I'll join you."
She shifted uneasily, thinking of the odd things Sheridan had done and said. Somehow it seemed very important to hide that from Francis. "I think—just now—it might be best if you didn't."