Seize the Fire (43 page)

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 spoke, 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."

The animation faded from Francis's ruddy features, replaced by the faint scowl. "I see." His voice rose a little. "I'd like to know just what the dickens it is that concerns him about my suitability. I expect you'll ask, will you?"

It was more a demand than a request. "I'm sure he thinks you're quite suitable," Olympia said, trying to soothe. "It isn't that."

"Well, I can't think what else makes him behave like a yahoo," he said peevishly. His face was growing redder. "I asked him to come up and speak to me. I asked him twice. I passed a direct order for him to present himself, and he ignored it! I'll tell you, if anyone else on this ship were to disobey me like that, they'd have three hundred stripes before they could say Jack Tar!" His fist clenched. "Do you know what it does to discipline, his treating me so? They laugh at me! I've already got four men in irons, awaiting—" He broke off, muttering. "And you insist upon walking the foredeck, too. I don't know what I'm expected to do—have them flogged in front of you?" He sighed and poured a cup of tea. "It's enough to make a man shoot himself."

Olympia looked down at her lap. "I'm sure we never meant—" she began, and then suddenly raised her eyes.

Make a man shoot himself
.

She had a vision of Sheridan, staring down the barrel of a pistol as if he were bewitched. She heard his quiet voice as it said goodbye.

She put her hand over her mouth. "My God!" she whispered. "Oh, God."

Then she was at the door, grabbing the frame against a sway of the ship and pushing off, lifting her skirts to climb down the steep ladder, while Francis's exclamation drifted after her. She hurled herself down another ladder, fell against a startled seaman at the bottom and pushed past a marine into the passage.

Mustafa was not sitting outside the cabin. She grabbed the knob and threw herself against the locked door. "
Sheridan!
" She shook it frantically, her eyes blurred with terror, her heart in her throat. "
Sheridan!
Oh, God, open the door—please, God, please—
open the door!
"

The brass knob turned under her palm. Olympia shoved the door wide, stumbling forward.

Sheridan stood aside, bare to the waist, wiping the last of his shaving lather away with a towel.

Olympia took a breath. Relief and emotion spun around her. She could hardly see him for the dizzy blackness that rose before her eyes.

He caught her arm. "It's all right," he said softly. "Sit down."

She fell against him instead, holding tight. "Sheridan." Her voice was hoarse and broken. "Oh, God, you frightened me!"

He stroked her hair. "It's all right," he repeated. "Everything's all right, Princess."

She felt the warm, solid, living shape of him, so familiar, so loved, and pressed her face to his chest. She was crying. He caressed her hair with gentle fingers. When he took his hand away, she clutched him harder, but he was only closing the door against the fascinated glances from a small audience of sailors outside.

She pushed away from him suddenly and looked around the tiny cabin. "Where is it?"

He leaned against the washstand and regarded her. Shaved, he looked like Sheridan again—but so different, so dark and distant.

"Wha-wha-where is it?" The stuttering of a sob broke her demand. "Do you think I'm going to let you keep it?"

He only looked at her. He was so beautiful and somber, her fallen angel: his winter eyes, his midnight hair, the shape of his face and his mouth and his body. She turned away and began to search the berth with shaking hands.

She found it under a pile of shredded paper and cardboard. She didn't even want to touch it, but she lifted the gun carefully and held it against her breast in both hands, facing him, ready to fight if he tried to take it from her.

He didn't. "Princess," he said quietly, "if I decide to kill myself, there are a thousand ways to do it on this ship."

She stared at his impassive face, trying to make herself believe he had said that. Then she closed her eyes, feeling the tears well from beneath her lids. "What is it?" she whispered. "Is it me? Have I done this to you? I'll leave you alone, or come back to you; whatever you want; what can I do? If only—"

If only I were Julia, and not fat and stupid and myself. I love you so much, and I don't know what to do
.

"It's not your fault," he said.

She licked the salty liquid from her lips. "What's wrong, then?" Her voice was pleading. "Sheridan—what could be so wrong?"