Page 76 of Rears & Vices

“They are holding back. I don’t think they will try and destroy her outright,” Vitaliy said. “Though five years ago, Spain would have scuttled her.”

He was seated high up in the foremast ratlines again, fully dressed in a plain but effective uniform of navy blue breeches, white linen, brown herringbone waistcoat and leather bandolier. His hair was plastered back in the tight queue it had been the day of the coffeeshop, when Aedd the butler had received them with unexpected violence.

“They may also want you,” Everard said quietly.

He received a deep scoff. “I am not so important.” Vitya squeezed Everard’s hand.

He’d learned this about Vitaliy: before a battle, he wanted little talk, and almost no contact but touch. Today he’d settled for Everard’s hand loosely in his as they sat up high, alternating the spyglass and mugs of cold Haitian coffee between them, watching the Spaniards crawl over their lines in preparation for battle.

It was hard to be still, but Everard had realised over many previous battles that pacing the decks only agitated everyone else, and didn’t help his own state of mind that much anyway.

“What about Alarie?” he asked.

Vitaliy hesitated. The way the morning light glanced off the flat, golden planes of his face, curved over his parted lips was devastating. “Maybe they want him, yes.”

“Will he keep to his cabin?”

“Louis-Michel?” Vitaliy’s eyebrows rose. “No. He may act above us all, but he is a sailor. A fighter. Bolívar appointed him commodore not for nothing.” He slid over a glance. “Don’t underestimate him.”

One hour.

Everard’s arse was numb and cold from leaning on tarred hemp line, his face hot and dry from the beating sun. The southeast wind had picked up drastically two points forward to starboard, inhibitory to the Sévère’s tack but advantageous to the enemy. The mood on the Sévère was muted vibration, anticipatory held breath.

Beneath them, a glint of impeccably kept pistol caught Everard’s eye, and he glanced down.

D’Arcy had come jogging up the hatch. Bright sable curls blew wild in the wind as he stood on the main deck and looked unerringly up to where Everard stood in the ratlines.

Then he put hands in pockets, set his shoulders, and strode determinedly in their direction.

Everard inhaled. “Oh, God.”

He knew that look. That beeline. That intent.

Vitaliy lowered the glass. “Hmm?” He followed Everard’s attention, and made a low, amused noise. “Ah.”

“He wants…” Everard trailed off, cleared his throat.

Vitaliy found his hand and squeezed it. “I know what he wants.” Heart-shaped lips quirked. “Do you want the same?”

Everard flushed all the way to his first waistcoat button, despite the sun.

“He’s accustomed to… We may have—er… before a conflict. On occasion. So, I can see where he might think⁠—”

“Not what I ask,” Vitya murmured. “Do you?”

It sounded like a trap, a trick question, gammoning. But it didn’t feel like that. He still had not the least idea what to say. “I…”

D’Arcy came beneath the shroud. “Ever?” he called up.

It was all he said. All he had to say. Fearless, fearless D’Arcy.

“Oh, lord.” Everard’s breath felt netted, caught somewhere beneath his stomach. “All right, yes, I do. But… I don’t understand.”

Vitaliy squeezed his hand once more, then pulled free, retrieved his pocket watch. “He left it late, but you’ve a little time.” He nodded to the San Telmo. “Too much wind yet to engage. Not without risking us raking her through.”

That was true.

“But you truly don’t mind?” Vitya’s indifference towards D’Arcy had been one thing when he and Everard hadn’t been sleeping together regularly. Now, though…