The Red King (45 page)

“A dangerous one,” Malik finished, chuckling.
It was not his normal, thunderous laugh, but it was close. “I would
like to see him awake, even if it is to greet as a stranger.”

“And you will, soon,” Rory promised. “He
needs rest now.”

“How are you,
Ruaidhri
? I have not
seen you since we left the keep,” Malik asked, leaning back in the
chair.

“I am resting, too. I feel quite well,
considering all that has befallen me,” Rory said, flexing his arm
and working his wounded shoulder.

“And fallen on you,” Malik supplied, with
another low laugh.

Rory laughed with him and used one of his
knees to help stand. “Indeed. Those bruises run deep, but they are
fading, as well. I shall be fit and fighting soon enough.”

“I had hoped to hear that you are done with
fighting, Captain.”

Rory did not answer, but looked over his
shoulder at the figure on the bed.

“I like this chair. It does not feel as
though it will fall into kindling beneath me,” Malik commented, his
hands stroking the finely varnished wood of the armrests.

“It is a Captain’s chair. It fits you
nicely.” Rory smiled. “We will find one for you, if you like.”

Malik grinned back and stood. “When I am a
captain, it will be for trade and travel. My fighting days are
over.” He cast a longing eye over the enormous chair, tracing the
intricate carvings with his fingers. “Still, a fine, sturdy chair
would not be amiss.”

“You’ll have one, I promise,” Rory said,
warmly.

“If you’re making promises, swear you will
send for me as soon as Andrew is awake and able.”

“Yes, and no more secrets will be kept.”

Malik nodded, squeezed Rory’s uninjured
shoulder, and left.

Sitting on the edge of the bed with a sigh,
Rory leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. In truth, he was
worn thin, his mind and heart both exhausted and his body only a
step behind. Even with this lengthy convalescence he knew he was
far from hale and hearty. The promise to Malik that he would no
longer keep secrets was made after he had already lied on the
subject, thankfully, and he laughed at himself under his breath.
“Fit and fighting, hardly. It has been barely a fortnight.”

Gingerly he touched behind his ear, which
itself was now lower than its mate and tilted more forward, and
would likely remain that way. The healing skin was already
puckering and no hair would ever grow there again. It would be a
fine scar for a brigand and a pirate, but for anyone else? What
would he do now, when all he had fought for was finished?

A memory came to Rory, of whispered words in
a darkened room. A sweet moment he had only recalled days later,
after waking to find he’d been a hair’s breadth from death. To find
that Andrew was gone.

“
A farmer?”

“
I come from a long line of farmers. I am
Irish.”

“
It would be tedious for you.”

“
After all this time, tedium would be a
welcome change.”

An orchard, he’d said, of olives or apples or
even apricots.

“
I would not mind being a scholar;
learning and studying, perhaps teaching.”

Rory frowned. Of their disagreements,
especially their more vociferous arguments, the point had always
been Andrew’s freedom to choose. It was a trait Rory admired, even
when it tested his patience. Time and again, Rory had stripped that
away, by design or thoughtlessness. It had been Andrew’s patience
that was truly tested, for he had forgiven Rory for each
infraction. Would he be taking away Andrew’s chance to pursue his
love of knowledge, if he kept Andrew now?

His thoughts were interrupted by a gentle
touch to his back. Turning, he saw that Andrew was awake, watching
him. “Are you all right?” he asked, shifting so that he faced
Andrew more fully.

Nodding, Andrew rolled onto his side,
carefully arranging his head on the cushions. He pointed at Rory,
looking at him inquiringly.

It took a moment for his meaning to become
clear. “Am I all right?” Rory couldn’t stop his smile. “I am not
fully well, but I am healing. At this moment, however, I am quite
content.”

Andrew’s lips curled at corners for an
instant and he mimed another question. First he held up two
fingers, and then pointed to his own ear.

“You heard me talking with another,” Rory
stated, waiting for Andrew’s nod before continuing. “That was
Malik. He is a friend, a dear friend, and is worried for you.”

Pointing at Rory again, Andrew raised his
eyebrows.

“And me, as well,” Rory conceded. “His
concern is primarily for you, especially now.”

Andrew frowned, waved his hand as if to ask
for more.

“Malik thinks of you as a brother. You are of
kindred spirit, if not blood, and found each other instantly. He
brought you to me a rescued captive, pulled from a burning ship,”
Rory said, finding himself smiling once more. “It was he who made
you welcome, for I had plans for you that were not
so…familial.”

Rory saw Andrew’s face go blank, the same
emotionless mask as before. He watched closely, saw the rapid
blinking and slight start as Andrew’s awareness returned. It was a
curious reaction, seen three times now, each in response to a
declaration on Rory’s part, of love, devotion, and now lust. What
did it mean?

Pressing one hand to his own chest, Andrew
looked into Rory’s eyes. He held up two fingers and carefully
mouthed the word rescue.

After a moment, Rory grasped the meaning. “He
rescued you twice! Yes!” He laughed. “It seems to be his habit, for
he rescued me, as well, pulling me from the pile of rocks as others
drove my horse to lift the largest. When I woke, two days later, he
was the one who convinced the others to rally and give chase. It
was he who captained the
Taibhse
on our journey to find you,
he who struck the initial agreement with Ortega.”

Then Rory stopped, for Andrew was gone again,
his eyes hazy and lost while his face twisted into something like
horror. When he started to shake, Rory took his hand. As his
breathing became labored, Rory pulled him into an embrace.

“Andrew!” Rory called, stroking hair,
shoulders; any place he could reach that did not bear a mark.
“Andrew, come back!”

He felt Andrew jerk in his arms, heard a
hitching breath, and then Andrew calmed, stilled.

Andrew raised his face to Rory’s, met his
worried gaze, and breathed, “I’ve done something terrible.” His
eyes rolled back then, and he passed out.

Rory sat with a cup in his hand. He thought
it might be rum, but it was heady with spice and citrus and almost
too sweet to drink. He kept his head down and listened.

“It must be this Salvatore. What else could
it be?” Etienne said, tapping his fingers on the table,
restlessly.

“But how do we find out, for sure? And how do
we convince him that he is not to blame?” Malik asked. There was no
answer.

It was the question on all of their minds.
Andrew had slept hard and long, and woke again to strangers, not
knowing any of their faces or recalling their meeting the day
before. This time he did not react with smiles and trust, as
previous, but faced them with fear. He was skittish, silent and
withdrawn, and would not let anyone touch him.

The blow was felt by them all, Rory knew, yet
he could not find it in his heart to offer comfort to his friends.
His own heart was raw and he could muster no confidence for
himself, much less anyone else. He was well aware of their nervous
glances, as if they waited for him to…what? Explode? Collapse?
Those looks would have made him angry once. Now, he felt nothing
save a bitter resignation. He finished his drink and continued to
stare at the floor.

“Every time he sleeps he forgets more and yet
rest is what he needs,” Etienne said, not for the first time.

“Do we keep him awake? Force him to forgo the
healing sleep?” Malik was on his feet, pacing the length of the
kitchen where they sat.

“No, that cannot be done. Not without giving
cause for more distrust,” Laurent insisted.

“Then what do we do?”

Feeling their eyes on him, Rory raised his
head. “He has asked to be left alone. We shall grant that to him.
Perhaps,” Rory paused looking into the bottom of his cup as if it
had the answers, “all he needs is time.”

“But we will be leaving this ship, soon. Time
is what we do not have,” Etienne replied, his voice carrying all of
their worry.

“We have a few days, yet. I will join Malik
and Yousef with the crew for the remainder of our journey,” Rory
said, softly. Ignoring Etienne’s expression, one of sadness and
hurt that he knew was meant for him and no one else, he set down
his cup and stood.

“
Ruaidhri
, you are not giving up.”
Malik was shocked still, his eyes wide and dismayed at the
prospect.

“No!” Rory shouted. He saw all of them tense,
as if in wait upon cannon they knew was about to fire, and took a
breath to calm himself. “No, I am not. I will not. Neither will I
burden him, or provoke in him any feeling other than contentment.
Etienne, Laurent, you will take him his meals. Perhaps ask if he
would like to move about the ship. I will ask Ortega if he will
grant the use of some clothing.”

Etienne straightened his shoulders and rose
from his chair. “Of course, Captain,” he said, formally.

Rory felt chagrined, but by his own forceful
nature and not Etienne’s chilly response. “My friends,” he said,
softly, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “I would be lost
without you. You have given me your strength and your hope; please,
now I need your patience.”

“If he’s afraid, familiarity would ease that
fear,” Etienne argued.

“Not Andrew,” Rory said, and found strength
for a chuckle. “No, he will come to us on his own terms. If there
is one thing I have learned, it is that his freedom must be honored
at all costs.”

Etienne’s voice had an angry bite. “And if it
does not help, if he does not recall us or you, what then? Do we
leave him with Ortega? How will he have his freedom if you abandon
him to mercenaries?”

It found its mark in Rory’s chest, latching
onto his heart. Closing his eyes against the pain, Rory said, “When
we draw near, within a day, I will…present him his choices.” The
words were difficult to say, the possibility harder to bear, and he
swayed a bit on his feet. “It’s the only way to do this, the only
acceptable
way.”

A hand took his shoulder and he opened his
eyes. Etienne’s face had lost the resentment; sorrowful apology
remained. “My apologies,
Ruaidhri
, you are right.”

“It happens, on occasion,” Rory quipped,
covering the hand with his own. He smiled, tremulous but true.
“Now, what do you do all day on this ship?”

As the day lengthened, Rory was ever more
grateful for his friends. Where they had left him to his bed on the
journey out, to heal and scheme and silently rage, on this final
voyage they kept him fully occupied. Malik and Yousef were happy to
share the workings of the much larger galleon. Both of them had
gladly taken turns at the jib and line, proving their seaworthiness
and earning their shot. The other crewman had taken to Malik,
particularly, and they traded stories long into the evening.

Etienne took great pleasure in introducing
him to the men whose names he knew and happily took a cup of wine
from one of them. The young man had silver-blond hair and very pale
eyes and stared at Rory as if he were the risen Christ. “Thank you,
Nils,” Etienne said, graciously, and patted him on the back.

Uncomfortable with the attention, Rory
stepped away, edging towards the rail. Etienne caught him by the
elbow. “You are The Red King, are you not? You have a certain
reputation to uphold,” he whispered into Rory’s ear.

“I cannot play this game now, Etienne,” Rory
replied, too tired and worried to respond to such adulation.

Etienne sighed, loudly. “A little sport would
make the time go much more quickly.”

“I neither wish to sport, nor game, nor any
other sort of frolic,” Rory said, running his hand through his
hair. He kept his tone temperate by sheer will. “Truly, Etienne, I
am just…tired.”

Malik laughed from his place on the
quarterdeck, halting all conversation with the report.

“It would help, Rory. Will you not try?”
Etienne asked.

Rory did not know how to impart to him how
grueling it had been, separating himself from Andrew. A dozen times
he had to force himself not to return to the cabin, just to check.
Just to look. “Perhaps tomorrow night. Forgive me.”

He bowed to Etienne, who watched him with
sad, knowing eyes, and then to Nils, who clicked his heels and
returned it, and left the deck. He made his way to the hold and
sought an empty hammock. Wrapping his cloak around him, he settled
into the canvas, and let the swaying of the ship soothe him into
uneasy sleep.

In his dream, he lifted an apple to Andrew’s
lips, held his body close as gently rolling waves lifted and
released them. He felt the phantom tugs of fingers moving through
his hair, now shorn so short as to be ungraspable. He saw Andrew
smile and heard him laugh, saw tears standing in his bright eyes.
When the dreams turned to visions of passion, breathy sighs against
his skin and hands stroking down his back, Rory woke, staring
blearily at the beams above him.

It was nearing daybreak when he stepped out
into the open deck once more. There were sleeping men scattered
about, for the wind was losing its northern chill and the clear
skies made for more comfortable rest. The warmth, distant though it
was, reminded him that soon they would be home. The thought cheered
him, a bit, and he smiled to himself when he considered that if
Andrew did not recover in time, he could use the temperate clime of
Tipaza to convince him to remain.