He bowed curtly. “As you command, Captain.”
The title landed wrong. Exactly what Tristan had demanded of him, and somehow it scraped like a blade going in under the ribs. Lorenzo’s shoulders remained straight as he walked away, but the brightness had gone from him, and the sight of it left a sour taste in Tristan’s mouth. He told himself the boy would learn of Marguerite soon enough. The whole ship would, when she came aboard.
Tristan exhaled through his nose. “If you must know—”
Lorenzo whirled.
“I always must know.” Lorenzo’s grin returned at full sail. “It is among my finer qualities.”
Tristan should not have felt the knot behind his ribs loosen. He looked toward the stern windows instead. “Miss Marguerite d’Ailes will be joining us for the crossing.”
Lorenzo’s eyes widened. “Marguerite.”
“Do not sound as if you have tasted the name.”
“I have. It is a beautiful name. Marguerite. A flower with a French accent and dangerous ankles.” Lorenzo clasped his hands once. “I like her already.”
“She will be a passenger,” Tristan said, his voice sounding controlled, but barely.
“Of course.” Lorenzo’s brows rose, but he had enough sense, or enough survival instinct, not to smile. “A passenger who arrives by ladder, reverses your sailing orders, and makes you tear official documents into the sea. Very ordinary. Shall I have the men prepare the usual passenger cannon salute, or would that alarm the wet slippers?”
Tristan gave him a flat look. “I gave her the captain’s cabin.”
Lorenzo stilled. “You gave her your cabin.”
“She cannot be lodged among the men.”
“Naturally. Especially after being hauled over the side of a frigate while several sailors discovered religion in the rigging.”
Tristan ignored that. “I will take one of the cabins off the wardroom.”
Lorenzo’s face changed. Amusement widened into hope, and hope was worse than amusement because it had no discipline at all.
“There is space in mine,” he said at once.
“I did not ask.”
“You looked at me in a brotherly manner.”
“I looked at you because you were standing there.”
“In my experience, with you, this is intimacy.” Lorenzo’s grin opened wider. “I will make space. Never fear. I have very few possessions. Several shirts, two pistols, one excellent razor, three books, a few bottles of wine, and the letters from my mother.”
“I require a berth, not a household inventory. Do not make this into an occasion.”
“My only brother has chosen to share my cabin after a year of pretending I am an administrative accident. It is already an occasion.” Lorenzo lifted both hands when Tristan’s eyes narrowed. “A small occasion. A naval occasion. Very restrained. I shall not invite musicians because we are English now and don’t appreciate opera.”
“You are not English.”
“Thank God, or I too would express joy by asking for another report.”
Tristan should have reprimanded him. Instead, he looked down at the chart and felt, with considerable irritation, the edge of his mouth move. “Have the crew speed preparations. Stores aboard by evening. Fresh water. Additional blankets. Whatever women require.”
Lorenzo’s eyes brightened again. “Women require many things.”
Tristan sighed. “It becomes more complicated by the moment.”
“That is because you are mistaking life for a problem to be solved.” Lorenzo rested one hand on the doorframe. “Sometimes, fratello, it is only a thing to be lived.”
