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Disclaimer:No rights infringement intended
Warning: Mature Adults only

CHECKMATE

by

Susanne L. Lambdin

 

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~ Checkmate ~

Preston looked at the single forged letter he'd taken along with him, reviewing in on the boat ride to shore, during a lull in the rain. A careless thumb print in black ink, smudged upon the paper, a possible clue if a match could be found. He tucked the letter away and entered the Admiralty House under the roll of thunder and the outbreak of hard March rain. Sailors and soldiers along with civilians ran for shelter as Robert shook off his cloak and entered the lobby, decorated with the paintings of British admirals and a wooden staircase that went up several floors.

A group of officers stood off to his right. Robert ignored them and headed toward the stairs on his left, intent on reaching the cursed third floor to meet Wilson in the library, if it killed him. He had only touched the first step with his cane when a familiar voice shouted behind him.

"Is that you, Captain Preston? It is you!"

Black Charlie Hammond broke free from the assembly of junior officers there for a review board, meeting Preston in the center of the main lobby. He shook his hand and pumped it as though he was manning the bilge.

"You look ever bit the avenging demon I've heard said about you. Well done, Captain Preston. You sunk your death into those damn Yankees, and turned around to bite Bonaparte on his arse. You're to be congratulated and I want to say that I'm proud of you, boy."

"Why, Charlie Hammond. I didn't know you cared," said Robert, lifting an eyebrow, amused at such a hearty reception from a man who had never given him the time of day before he assumed a command of his own. He kept hold of Hammond's hand longer than the older veteran would have liked and smiled in a lewd manner. "I'm up to see Admiral Wilson. In the library of all places. Why don't you come along? I could use the company."

"Me?" Charlie flushed bright red.

Preston grinned and lifted his eyepatch up, showing the captain that his eye was sound by winking, then put it back in place. "Escort me at least."

"I came with my officers. Wanted to show them around, those that haven't seen the place, before we ship out tomorrow." Hammond pulled at his collar, embarrassed he'd thought he'd been propositioned by one of the vogue elite. He cleared his throat and jerked his hand back. He had to be off course in this regard, he thought. "Captain Preston, what business does Admiral Wilson have with you, I'd like to know?"

"I am sure that you do, Charlie. I'd rather not say."

The young captain patted him on the arm, a hand to his side, lifting his cane in the air and laughed. Hammond laughed, patting Robert on the back and sending him lurching forward into the throng of officers. Preston was caught by a young man with large green eyes, black bangs and a lusty frame. The attraction exchanged between them was a spark in a dynamite magazine. The last thing Preston wanted was to flirt. He pushed himself away from the muscular, stamping his cane on the ground in impatience, a scowl on his face as eye scowled at the impertinent fellow.

"You dropped something, sir," said the lieutenant. He handed Preston's very own letter to him. "It fell out of your pocket, sir." He paused. "Lt. Second Class Patrick Langford at your service, sir. Do you need any assistance?"

"Because of my cane?" Preston wanted to cuff him up side the head. He looked over at Captain Hammond, waving him over, impatient to go up the stairs. "Look, Charlie, I have a bad leg and need a hand. I'd rather not ask Lt. Lang, so I am asking you to go with me to see Admiral Wilson. I consider it a favor."

"And a necessary fact of life. Come on," said Hammond, putting his arm around Preston's shoulders and helped him up the stairs. "I'll take you up and introduce you to Admiral Wilson."

By the time it took Robert to reach the third floor, he was relying fully on Hammond's support. His injured leg so stiff and sore he could barely put any weight on it. Charlie took pity on him and kept his arm locked under Robert's arm, hauling him down a long hallway where paintings of past officers hung on the walls. They arrived at the library and entered, finding no sign of Admiral Wilson. Hammond placed Robert in a chair and collapsed in a chair himself, breathing hard, unused to carrying a man up three flight of stairs, and at his age, he hoped never to do so again.

"Perhaps you misunderstood," said Hammond. "I can take you back to the second floor to Wilson's office. Give me a minute to catch my breath." He was up on his feet in seconds, however, pulling Robert up as well, assumed their former position and headed back out the door.

Arriving on the second floor, finding the hallway empty, Preston and Hammond walked past several doors and came to Wilson's office. His door was closed. Hammond knocked, leaving Preston to rest against the wall. No reply after several loud raps was given and being a bold man, Hammond opened the door up, not caring who was inside and what was going on. He entered the room first and came back out seconds later, a hand over his heart, his eyes opened wide in horror, his lips moving but no words coming out.

"What the hell is it?" Robert demanded to know.

Pushing himself away from the wall, he hobbled into the doorway and stared in disbelief at the body of Admiral Wilson, crumbled over his desk, a pool of blood beneath his crushed skull which dripped on the floor and spread out like an ocean of red. The office was ransacked and a wooden box lay open in the middle of the floor, its contents having been plundered. Since the blood still dripped and had yet to coagulate, Robert knew Wilson was murdered while they were in the building. He came out of the room, closed the door and went over to pull Hammond up from his inflated position against the wall.

"Charlie, I think you'd best notify the authorities and inform Commodore Foster of this as soon as you can." Preston looked up and down the hallway. "The killer could still be here. Let's get downstairs where there are people. You can send the Marines in to storm the place, but I rather think you won't find anyone."

"Someone will pay for this," growled Charlie Hammond. He straightened to his full height, yanked down on his uniform and caught Preston by the arm. They walked toward the stairs. "Any idea who did this, Robert? Why did Wilson want to see you?"

"A personal matter. The less you know the better."

"There will be an inquiry, Robert. I'm not accusing you, as I know you damn well didn't do this, you were with me, but there will be questions raised and you're sure to be implicated merely for the fact that Wilson requested you see him today. It's a pity someone got to him first and bashed his brains in. He deserved a better death. God, someone will pay for this, I swear it."

Coming down the stairs together, Robert relied on Hammond and the hand railing to maneuver his large frame. He was not prepared for the shove from behind that sent he and Charlie Hammond colliding into one another as they fell down the stairs, landing in a heap together at the bottom. Robert was unharmed accept for the cursed pain in his leg and, pushing himself up to a sitting position, he found Hammond laying unconscious beside him, his head cut open from contact with the wall. Robert checked his pulse, assured himself the captain was living, and removed a kerchief from his pocket which he placed over the bleeding wound.

"I'll send you help. I'm going after that bastard."

Exerting his full strength and forcing himself to ignore the pain in his leg, Robert got to his feet and hurried down the steps to the first floor. He found the group of junior officers had moved on and not a soul was to be found. The front doors to the building was left open, allowing a wet breeze to enter. He went out onto the front porch and hailed several officers smoking under the awning of the roof for protection from the rain.

"Excuse me, gentlemen. But I need your help. Captain Hammond has taken a fall on the stairs," said Robert, approaching the officers, his cane tapping as he walked. He knew none of them, yet they were British and they came to his aid without question. "As soon as you see to Hammond, then check on Admiral Wilson. He's been done in, lads." The officers looked shocked at such an announcement. "I'm quite serious. Did you see a man come out?"

One of the men nodded. "A junior officer came rushing out a few minutes before you did. He's gone down the street. You'll never catch him in this rain, Captain Preston."

"You know me?"

"Indeed I do. We all do."

"Then get inside and do what I said." Robert glanced out at the rainy streets. Carriages whisked past but there were few civilians left outside. "Which way did you say?" The man pointed away from the sea, toward the row of pubs. "You three get in there and help Hammond. And one of you send word to Commodore Foster about what has happened. I will go find the culprit."

The officers hurried into the Admiralty House, leaving Preston to deal with the heavy deluge of rain and get himself down the marble steps without falling. He took no pity on himself and raced down the steps, pausing on the sidewalk, looking up and down the street, deciding which direction to take. His gaze lifted to the pub and the alleyway separating the building from the tea house. As he stepped into the street, a carriage came careening around the corner, headed straight toward him. Robert ran across the street, nearly avoiding being hit and shook his cane in the air as the carriage rolled on down the street.

Upon turning to face the alley, Robert spotted a dark figure move away from a crate and dart off in the opposite direction. He lurched forward, his head bowed low, drawing his blade as he entered the alley and tossed the casing aside. His eyes roved across the crates and garbage in the alley, searching for the figure of a man, seeing nothing. Fearless, he walked down the alley and came across a cloaked figure, waiting for him in the rain at the end of the alley, a sword held in his hand. Robert lifted his blade and paused. The man flipped the hood of his coat back, revealing a face unknown to Robert and a wide, cunning smile. The man pointed behind Robert and took a step forward. Robert glanced over his shoulder and saw two other men come out from behind a crate. He was surrounded.

The three men came upon him in a rush. Robert held his ground and drew a loaded pistol from out of his cloak, fired, and sent one man tumbling to the ground. He tossed the pistol aside and spun around on his good leg, his cape billowing out behind him, as he put his back against the alley wall. The two assassins came at him together, swords raised. Robert fended both attacks off with expert skill, able to engage one man, then knock aside the other, keeping up his defense without being able to lunge in an attempt to polish off either man. He kept his back to the wall, fighting one then the other, until luck provided an opening and he slid his sword under a parried blow, striking the man above his heart. His blade pierce through the man's rib cage and refused to be pulled out with several attempts. He gave up and tore off his cloak, throwing it into his attacker's face.

The swordsman took the cloak full in the face and stepped back, hindered briefly, allowing Robert to retrieve the slain man's weapon from the ground. In the process of straightening, the blade in his hand, Robert felt his leg go out from under him. He fell hard on the cobble stones but managed to keep a hold of the weapon. He lifted his face as rain pelted him, his eyes on the sword in his opponent's hand and rolled aside as it was thrust toward him. The lunge missed and the man pulled his arm back to strike again.

Robert tossed his blade into his left hand and forced himself to sit up, while he thrust to the side and upwards, catching the man in the stomach as he prepared to take another stab. The man clutched his belly and collapsed to his knees, his eyes opened wide in surprise, blood sliding down his gaping mouth. He fell forward onto his face, lying still. Robert pushed the body of his way and struggled to his feet. He stood staring at the three corpses in the alley, considering his next move as the same carriage pulled up in the alley. A door opened and out stepped Sir Reginald Sinclair, his cousin, but no smile was on his face as he withdrew a gun hidden beneath his cloak and raised it, aimed, and fired.

The musket ball whistled past Robert's ear. He thought his cousin had missed, until he felt a burning pain split his head open, and with a cry, he collapsed to the ground. Sir Reginald climbed back into his carriage, signaled the driver to move on, leaving Robert in the alley, bleeding his life onto the ground.

• * *

Not knowing whether minutes or hours had past, Robert awoke to find himself lying in a strange bed, in an unfamiliar ornate bedroom that by its furnishings had to belong to a woman. Only a single candle was lit, making it difficult to see the room. He stirred at the sound of voices and tried to lift his head from the pillow. He felt a sharp pain in his skull, raised his hand and felt the cloth wrapped about his head. Alive but in pain, he pushed himself up on a pillow, raised the blanket and saw that he was naked and that his injured leg was still wrapped. He had been bathed and smelled of sandalwood soap, not his favorite, but tolerable enough. On a chair beside the bed his clothes were laid out, dried, a testament to the time line between his attack and his being rescued.

"God damn it," growled Robert, sitting up, only to swoon back and fall back into unconsciousness.

Voices muttering brought him back around. He was unsure of how long he'd been out, but he smelled cigar smoke and was angered at the audacity of his captors. He opened his eyes and lifted his hand to his face. His eyepatch was gone. The voice quieted. His hand at the back of his head for support, Robert looked up and gasped to see the Duke of Wellington and Lady Samantha Reed standing at the foot of his bed. The woman came hurrying over to Robert's side, pushing him back to the pillows and offering him water or pain medicine. But he had nothing to say to her in response, for his full attention was upon the Iron Duke.

"Well, sir," said Arthur Wellesley. "You've come close to embracing Death this day. As fortunate would have it, you were found bleeding in an alley by Lt. MacGregor, Commodore Foster's first mate, and brought to Lady Reed's home. I imagine everyone has heard about you two. Perhaps you'll allow me to announce your engagement tonight at my party. But of course, you are injured."

"I'll not attend a party. And I'll not wed."

Robert pushed Lady Reed aside and sat up, not caring that his head was splitting in pain or that he'd caused the woman to cry. He slid his legs out of bed, aware he was naked and wanting his underpants. At the sight of his nude muscular, tall form and the revelation of his large manhood, Lady Reed stopped crying and gawked. Beside her, Wellington let his cigar hang out of his mouth, so moved by the vision of manly perfect, that he placed his hand over his heart to still its rapid beating.

"You should not be up yet," said Wellington, able to speak but doing nothing to cover the man's nudity from Lady Reed.

Robert stumbled over to a chair, grabbed his under pants and paused to grab at the back of the chair to keep from falling as blackness tried to take his senses once more. He fought against it and returned to sit on the bed, his head sagging to his chest.

"My apologies for hurting you, Lady Reed," said Robert, knowing enough about women that he knew he had to make amends to his savior. He hated to see women cry. She came over and helped him back into bed, taking his pants away and setting them aside. She said nothing, her eyes gentle and kind. "I am in a great deal of pain and know not what I am saying." He looked over at Wellington, furious, but could not help notice how handsome the man looked, nor could he break the gaze once their eyes locked. "Let me talk to Arthur in private, Lady Reed. I have much to ask of him, and, I believe you have a party to attend and I have a ship to board."

"Certainly, Robert. I know you are in pain. I'll not hold anything against you that you've said tonight. I understand."

Robert refrained from rolling his eyes. Women, he thought.

"You'll not be going anywhere tonight," said Wellesley. He kissed Lady Reed on the cheek and sent her out of the room. His eyes were disapproving when he turned back to address Robert. "That was cold and bloody callous of you. Lady Reed took the time to doctor your injury herself. This is her house. You sent her back to her guests with red eyes and tears. Good for you, Robert. Everyone will know that you have rejected her."

"I'll not have you make a marriage for me, damn you Arthur, when I have enough problems on my hand. Wilson is dead. Hammond injured. And my cousin, Sir Reginald, has seen fit to shoot me. I wonder what part you play in this charade? If I joined your other guests, I wonder if I would find Lord Graves or Sir Reginald playing the harpsichord for the encore performance of the day."

"It close to 10:00 p.m., Robert."

"What care I of the time? I can't even stand up long enough to dress, so I doubt I'll be able to leave on my ship tonight, let alone in the morning. Not unless you have that arranged as well?"

"You're very angry at me. Why?"

Robert stared in shock at the Duke, for there was disappointment and anger in his voice. All Robert could think was that Lady Reed had filled Arthur's head with romantic nonsense, for he'd done so much as to arrange their engagement, without prior approval, without knowing the facts, and Robert wanted revenge. He refused to play the role of invalid and sat up, stacking the pillows behind him and turned around. Catching the sexual gleam in Arthur's eyes, he felt his temper rising, not his loins, feeling quite duped and left out in the dark.

"You might offer me a glass of whiskey and an explanation."

"Robert, don't be so disgruntled at seeing me," said Arthur Wellesley, sighing, his expression pained. "Apart from my own worries and responsibilities planning an attack against Napoleon, I have taken the time to attend to your affairs. You owe me not only your life, but for your career, which I had taken great pains to ensure your continued advancement." He paused, a pale hand rising to his smooth forehead. "Aren't you the least bit pleased to see me again? I thought we...well, I assumed too much."

Preston's eyes narrowed as he took the time to study Wellington's appearance. So tall and lean in his navy blue uniform and white britches, his golden hair tied back in a queue, his skin white and flawless. He fought back his growing arousal, for the Duke was one of the most handsome men he'd ever seen and in a bedroom, not out in the cold, he realized they had the perfect opportunity to rekindle their relationship. He wondered if this was on Wellington's mind as the Duke fetched him a glass of whiskey and came back to sit on the bed, handing him the drink.

"I'd ask for an apology for your barbarous conduct, however, under the current situation, I'm sure Lady Reed didn't mind a view of your manhood. You've been leading her on, I think."

Wellington's blue eyes twinkled behind the smoke coming from his cigar. At the wrinkling of Robert's nose, he realized he was causing offense and put it out in a nearby vase. He returned and resumed his seat, wanting to be close to Preston for personal reasons, for the sight of the gorgeous nude body had brought his cock to its full attention. Yet, he said nothing of his own uncomfortable condition, his sexual arousal turning into concern for his friend as he placed his hand on Robert's chest. At Robert's sudden intake of breath, however, Wellington let his hand slide up to cup the captain's face and bent down to kiss him.

His lips were cool and silky. At the probe of his tongue,

Robert pushed back into the pillows, breathing contact. He caught Arthur's hand and removed it from his chest, holding it firm, squeezing down hard on his fingers.

"Don't distract me, damn you, Arthur."

"I have not forgotten you, Robert. I could not. I have tried but you remain in my mind and our excursion in the gazebo is a fond memory."

"How can you say that? I killed my brother for you! In the last few months, I have killed over ten other men sent out to avenge my brother's death, under the orders of Lord Graves. Now I find my cousin in league with Graves. I thought you were removing that little parasite from the picture. Do you know that Admiral Wilson was murdered this morning, that Captain Hammond was injured, not to mention me? He's inconvenienced me, sir. Greatly. Writing forged letters to Pellew, which I might add, were not well written. And these he dumped into Wilson's lap, then had the man murdered, I suppose, to make it look like I have done something rash."

"I gave the letters to Wilson."

Robert's mouth dropped. "You? What involvement do you have in all this, Your Grace? I demand to know!"

"I want things as well," said the Duke, his voice silky.

"Yes, for me to marry Lady Reed."

Arthur laughed. "I was teasing. I didn't want Samantha to know that I wanted to be alone with you. Your head injury is not serious, though I know you want revenge. However, I am your friend. So try not to take our your anger out on me, Robert? I'm not made of iron any more than you are. Your grip is painful."

"So are my injuries," growled Robert.

The Duke tried to jerk his hand out of Robert's grasp and found himself trapped. His blue eyes sharpened to pinpoints and mouth pulled down into a frown.

"I am sorry you were ambushed today," said Arthur, continuing to pull on his hand, despite the pain. "You can only blame yourself for running after a killer in the rain when you're nothing more than a helpless, bloody cripple."

Robert twisted Arthur's wrist, causing him to wince and whimper, as he forced the man to position himself on the bed to keep his bone from snapping. He was forced to lay across the bed on his side, facing Robert, wrinkling his uniform in the process but submitted to the strength of the other.

"I'll mend, Your Grace, despite my error. I expected two men, no more. My folly, as I'm quite aware of, and your's, for I'd not be in the position I am in if it was not for you. I may be lame but I am still man enough to deal with any situation."

Robert twisted around so he could sit up and lean toward Arthur, while keeping his hand around the man's wrist, holding him captive. Their faces were a few feet away for the other, but Robert could see the anger in Arthur's eyes, mixed with his sexual arousal, the degree of which matched his own. He released Arthur's wrist and reached out for him. Wellington's anger faded, turning to relief as he was scooped into Robert's arms and pulled onto his hard, large body. Their lips met and opened, tongues dueling it out, while Wellington melted against him, groaning out loud, making Robert fully aware that this was all the duke had wanted, to be held and kissed.

Feeling groggy from the powerful emotions at play in his heart, Robert pulled back his head, cradling Wellington against him, his face cupped around his square jaw, gazing down at his light blue eyes. Wellington placed his hand against Robert's injured skull, then pushed himself up and the captain back against the pillows so he could recline in comfort. He positioned himself so he could lay beside Robert on his side, with his golden head resting on the captain's broad shoulder and one arm draped across his middle. His hand splayed out so he could touch nearly every one of Roberts's ribs, caressing the captain as he talked.

"It is my fault. It is true. A moment of madness has led to our current period, for I am in this as much as you, Robert," said Wellesley, his voice apologetic. "Graves has been stirring a toxic brew at home, talking to my enemies, doing what he can to bring me down. Through the advise of friends, I send my mistress to London. Under my instructions, she seduced Lord Graves, whereupon, he informed Lady Reed of the letters he'd written, which she stole and brought to me. I, in turn, asked Admiral Wilson to give them to Captain Pellew. Wilson was a friend, and I knew Pellew, being a resourceful man, could be trusted to hold the forgeries. Admiral Wilson's death comes as a great shock and I grieve for so great a loss. But be relieved, sir, for your friend Hammond is fine. A minor injury to his skull. You should also know that Foster's squadron set sail earlier tonight. Pellew is gone."

Robert tensed, wanting nothing less than to discuss Edward Pellew while at the threshold of infidelity. Edward had given him permission to bed Wellington, something he hardly needed approval to do and with any other man would have taken offense to hear such a request. He was committed to Pellew. He loved Edward with all his heart and soul. Yet, he thought, here he was, in bed with the handsome and powerful Duke of Wellington, and Edward was far away. "I see," said Robert, at last.

"I tell you a mouthful and you have only this to say to me in response? You surprise me, sir. I expected far more from the man who sits in the same kettle of fish as I do. The fire is hot under our backsides, Robert. We must strike back while the fire is hot."

Wellington's brows knit together, his expression one of confusion at Preston's lack of enthusiasm. For all his efforts, he felt he would never understand the mind of Robert Preston. Bed him, yes, he thought. But the man himself, his inner self, was not available. He was envious of Pellew for that, but dared not mention his name again for fear that the small part territory of Preston he held would be taken away from him.

"I say more once you have finish telling me the rest, Arthur." Robert stilled the hand toying with his nipples. He noticed several jewels on the Duke's fingers and thought the rings a waste of good money. "You but toy with me, I think. I want the truth. All of it. You know too much about what has been going on and I care not to be left out in the dark any longer."

"I have told you a great deal and taken you into my confidence." Arthur lifted his head a notch, staring the man down and having no effect. He was frustrated. His guests were waiting, yet he wanted the strapping young hulk to take him in his arms and make him feel as Lady Reed when he made love to her. He was not accustomed to having to beg for sexual pleasures and he felt he deserved something for the information already provided. There was not to be any further dalliance, he realized by the stern set of Robert's jaw, without full disclosure.

"What is Graves after? Tell me."

"The letters were of a slanderous nature and intended for publication," said Arthur. "I would not disclose this to another man, for it concerns myself, but it might be of benefit to know that Graves managed to bribe a former mistress of mine, not Lady Reed, to publish certain letters I had written to her while abroad. I am not to be blackmailed. I informed her to publish the letters and be damned. She did so. I have weathered the storm."

"I see Lady Reed's discovery of the forged letters was by mere accident, and that her real purpose to bed Graves, was to solicit information from him for your own personal use. It seems I am a fortunate man. And here I thought Lady Reed was interested." Robert pointed over at his coat. "I have brought a letter with me. I want you to have it. Upon it is a thumb print of the man who wrote those letters. Match it to Graves and I think you'll find he'll do whatever you ask."

The Duke smiled at him, expecting to be rewarded. "You are most astute, Robert. If only you were in the army, I would promote you to general and have you ride beside me into battle. That would be quite the picture. Us riding into battle together on matching white steeds."

"I am counting on you to exact my revenge against Graves and Sir Reginald. If there are others involved, I want to know who and how to handle the situation. I am not used to this sort of intrigue, you must realize. I long to be back at sea where I can be of the most use and not stranded on shore. Here I'm like a fish out of water. You must speak bluntly to me, Arthur. What am I up against and can I count on your support?"

"Your enemies go as high as the throne, Robert. Perhaps you did not know that Graves met your brother a year ago. Some say their were lovers. Nonetheless, after your brother was named as heir by your late aunt, Graves was approached by your cousin, Sir Reginald Sinclair. Granted Sinclair is no direct relation to your aunt and the late earl, being no better than a fourth cousin, but he has a legitimate claim. Until a third party was found. I am sorry to tell you this, but a blood relative has been located and he will be the next Earl of Lester. The proceedings are already under way to ensure this occurs."

"Who? I must know."

"I am coming to the point," said Wellesley. "On my own, I sent a barrister to Lester to look into your affairs. He discovered that your Aunt Margarete had a child out of wedlock. The child, a male, was left at the door of your parents and raised as their own child. I suspect your aunt arranged for this so she could be close to you."

Robert trembled with unbridled rage. He hit the mattress with his fist. "Who is this bastard who will inherit the earldom?"

"Why, sir, it is you. You are the bastard." Arthur seemed delighted with himself for being the first to spring this upon Robert. "Admiral Preston was not your father. Nor James or John your brothers. You are a Preston by name only. You are the rightful Earl of Lester."

Robert caught his breath, the news sounding not strange at all, but something he'd always suspected but never dared dream be true. His head no longer hurt and he felt the pain leave his leg. A remarkable recovery, he thought. He felt infused with strength and pulled Arthur against his chest, staring into his eyes.

"You are pleased, after all," said the Duke. "I'll not deny I didn't feel the same excitement when I heard the news. I knew I saw something in you that was special. I think congratulations are in order, Robert."

"I know not what to say, sir. I am...grateful. I think."

The Duke shook his golden head and laughed to see Robert's blank stare. "If you are wondering why your aunt never said anything to you, I can only assume she never knew your identity. The barrister found the original wet nurse and learned the new born child was taken and delivered to your mother Mrs. Preston. Your mother must have been a kind woman to have taken you in."

"She was, sir. Very kind."

"There is more. Your aunt was in direct line to the throne of England. This means if she had born a son, which she did, he could make a claim for the throne, for you are more royal than the Hanoverian kings who sit on the English throne."

"My father, sir? Who was my father?"

"I am not at liberty to say." Wellington sounded embarrassed. "I cannot say. The gentleman was approached by my barrister and asked to remain anonymous. He'll not challenge your rightful claim to the earldom. I am sorry I cannot tell you. I have done enough damage. Lord Graves learned of your true mother due to my own search on your behalf. There is no doubt in my mind that Sir Reginald wants to kill you. He will try again."

"Then I am of blood relation to that fool Sinclair."

"Yes. He is your cousin by blood, sir. But no one must ever know of this. I'll secure the earldom for you as Preston, not a Sinclair. If anyone knew who you really were, there are those who would press you to make a claim for the throne and there could be a civil war," said Wellesley. "As your friend, I caution you against looking further into the background of your real father. I say to you, be content being Lord Robert and not a king."

"Why didn't tell me earlier? You might have written?"

Wellington rolled his eyes. "I have been in Paris for weeks planning a battle. You should thank me for having gone to the lengths that I have to secure you an earldom. Besides, I can't let Arrendale out do me by getting you a captaincy."

"Don't bring up Richard. Not tonight." Robert felt his temper rise. "If you tell me you've known him, that you and he, well, let us say it would be best if we did not discuss Arrendale ever again. I am not a prize stud. I cannot be bought by the highest bidder."

"Calm down, Robert. I had no idea you felt this way about Arrendale. He considers you a friend. But I see you are jealous of him for some reason. I hope it does have to do with me. Do you have a little affection for me? A feeling of friendship?"

"Arthur, if I'd not met someone else, if there was not another who I held dear, I would love only you," said Robert, meaning it with all his heart.

"Then I have my answer.'

Wellington lay before Robert on the bed, as luxuriant and powerful as a tiger. He pushed Robert back against the pillows and pulled him into his arms, being of a similar frame and strength, and kissed him senseless. The moment he released Robert, the captain sank against the pillows and closed his eyes, savoring the moment. He felt the blanket pulled down and a hand sneak under the material, seeking out his engorged cock and holding around it in a possessive grip.

Wellington was right in his face. He lay across the captain's muscular chest in full uniform, stroking his cock with rapid jerks, showing no sign of hearing any thing but what he wanted to hear. The rhythm of Wellington's hand on his cock made his toes curl upwards. His style was exquisite, a talent, Robert assumed, the gallant Commander of the entire British Army practiced often on himself. In such limelight and under constant criticism, Wellington had slight chance to engage in such intimacies. Robert groaned as Wellington fondled with him with the eagerness of a man hungry for dark desires. He smiled, enjoying his private victory, and lifting his hips indicated he wanted much more.

Arthur kissed him to silence any further protests or delays. Earlier he'd washed Robert by the light of the candle, caressing his youthful, hard body from head to toe. He was eager to commence their union and in serpentine fashion, wrapped his lean body around Robert and gobbled his hard cock down his throat Robert thrust against the velvet lips and rapid tongue. His head lolling to the side, his cock spit in rapid succession and he cried out, digging his fingers into Arthur's blonde hair.

Robert opened his eyes, finding Arthur laying close beside him, mesmerized by Robert's rousing expression at the time of rapture. The Duke thumbed moisture off of his lip and licked the tip, sedated but not satisfied . He covered Robert up with the blanket and kissed him tenderly on the cheek.

"You overwhelm me, sir" said Robert, moved to tears.

"Sleep, for now, Captain Preston." Wellington gave him such a look of such yearning that Robert knew he was reluctant to leave. He saw the tears on Robert's face and it pleased him. "I will come see you later tonight with word of the whereabouts of Sir Reginald. But I will personally take the responsibility of dissecting Nigel Graves. With the help of several influential friends, I am certain Lord Graves will retire to the country."

"Blackmail, Arthur?" Preston knew Pellew wanted approve of such tactics. He forced the image of his beloved from his mind, wanting to remained focused on the present. "I see we are very much alike, after all. You don't go by the book either."

"If you want to win, play by your own rules. Now I must go. I have guests and I'm being rude."

Robert caught Arthur by the arm, keeping him from leaving the bed. He drew the handsome Duke toward him and kissed him. Arthur sank against him, finding any excuse to stay a few seconds more.

"Thank you, Arthur. I am forever in our debt."

"You saved my reputation, Robert. We are even."

The Duke bowed his head and climbed out of the bed. He adjusted his uniform in a mirror, cast in darkness outside of the yellow light of the candle. His elegant voice was a ghostly whisper as he spoke, sending a chill down Robert's spine, for the Iron Duke was a formidable creature and he'd taken his help for granted. He held back any verbal affirmation of his appreciation, knowing the best way to thank Wellington was in bed.

"Consider Graves eliminated from the board. You need only remove Sir Reginald and his female accomplice. Her name shall be provided to you. I shall take care of any board of inquiry raised against you by the Admiralty and settle your affairs at home."

"You do too much, sir. Why?"

"You are my friend, Robert Preston. I don't make friends easily. It is different with you. Any time, another place, and we might be...well, let us say that I envy Sir Edward. Your captain is a fortunate man to have your heart in his keep."

"And a great deal too many forged letters, Your Grace," laughed Robert. They understood one another.

"Good night, Robert," said Wellington. He opened the door, shedding light into the bedroom and the voices of guests and music. He sounded both angry and innocent when he next spoke. "I will return later. Then you can thank me properly."

• * *

With the evening sun over his left shoulder, Captain Preston stood on the quarter deck of the Agamemnon, gazing out at the Ligurian Sea, as they rounded the northwest tip of Corsica. The events that occurred a week ago in Gibraltar were far from his mind. His personal matters were kept distant by a strong breeze that sent waves rolling across the prow of the 64-gun frigate, spraying the officers standing in two rows beside Preston, a reminder that he was on a war zone and that he'd seen neither British or French ships operating along his own charted course.

The ship's sails were full to the wind, cruising at 10 knots. Men hung above the deck in the rigging, busy at work, and at the mainmast in the crow's nest, two midshipman with looking glasses searched for French ships. Crewmen scoured the deck and prepped the cannons for action under watch of the gunner. The British flag hung proudly in the forecastle rigging, flapping as loud as the sound of the sea.

"Have we sighted the enemy yet, Lt. Anderson?"

The first mate lowered his eye glass and turned to address his captain. In his late thirties, Lt. Anderson was a professional second officer, no more and no less. Dark haired and well groomed, Lt. Anderson went `by the book' and as a man lacking uniqueness, he would remain at his rank for life. While Anderson never raised his voice to challenge Preston's orders, he had a way of pinching his eyes together when he thought the situation exceeded a dangerous level. Of a good humor, he was well-liked by the crew, more prone talk of his five children than join in discussions concerning naval tactics or Napoleon's escape from Elbe.

Preston thought highly of his first officer and his attitude toward the crew's best interest in maintaining their spirits. He allowed Lt. Anderson to tend to the daily life on board ship, mundane matters such as discipline and mediation, leaving Preston to the business of war. He shook his head at Anderson who offered him the eye glass.

"It will be today, Lt. Anderson. I can smell Bonaparte." An impressive cocked hat on his head, Preston clasped his hands behind his back and indicated his a nod that he wanted the first mate to follow him. Together, they walked up the stairs to the poop deck, where Preston requested the eye glass. He lifted the viewing instrument up to his scared left eye, finding the droop at the corner of his lid shut out light, enabling him to see without any glare. He turned away from Corsican coastline and handed the spy glass to his first mate. "We won't find him at Elbe, Lt. Anderson. Napoleon has slipped through Foster's lines. It's been too many days. He's landed in Genoa by now and is on his way to Paris."

"You have a confidence in your voice, sir, that leads me to believe you were forewarned of this." Anderson was the same heigh of Preston, though of a slighter build. He tucked the eye glass under his arm. "Would you like to know what I think, Captain?"

"Anderson, an original idea? That's unlike you."

"You jest with me, sir, but I am convinced that the French are going to land at Antibes. There is a very nice Roman ruin there from the 4th century which my wife and I visited after our wedding. It is there in Antibes that I sired Edward Anderson, my first born son."

"Your son is named Edward? I didn't know this."

Anderson shrugged his thin shoulders. "A man cannot remember everything he is told. I talk too much of my family, as well I know it. Perhaps to you it makes no sense for a man who adores his wife and children would go to sea. But out here everything makes sense to me. I can see clear."

"Antibes, you say? Any reason, Milton?" Preston inquired, prepared to turn the ship about and head back toward France. He thought his first mate brilliant but waited for his response before he rewarded him with praise.

"Only because I was thinking of my wife, sir."

"Call me curious, but I insist we turn the ship about, Mr. Anderson. We head for Antibes," bellowed Preston. His loud, thunderous voice brought his officers snapping to attention. "Bring her about, Master Matthews." He glanced over at his new recruit left waiting for him on the Agamemnon, a parting gift from Edward Pellew. Edward, he thought, dismissing any notion of a boy of five for the image of the forty-eight year old commander of the Indefatigable. He appreciated having Matthews on board and promoted the crewman on the spot. Something Edward had failed to do, he thought, nodding at the crusty old sailor in approval.

Down from Anderson through the ranks, orders were shouted and obeyed, as the frigate was brought about and headed toward the setting sun. The wind slacked from the sails, cutting her speed in half, ending the continuous spray of water. Preston left Anderson in command, with Matthews at the helm, retiring to his quarters with several officers to study the charts and relay a course to Antibes.

"I suspect Foster has sailed back around Elbe, thinking he is being of use, but Anderson has confirmed my suspicion that the French have slipped the noose and are approached French shores," said Preston, a smoldering cigar in his mouth, churning a cloud into the air as he puffed. He referred to his men by their last names, foregoing their rank, finding the addition of words needless when he was giving orders. Only the captain was allowed such a luxury.

"Moore, go below and make certain all is in order with the gunner. You have your course, Lindsay. Inform Anderson to have Matthews keep a southeastern tact. We'll be slow in the water so lessen some sail. Northam, go to the marine's catwalk and spot me a French target and I'll let you raffle Wellington's cravat."

"Sir, yes, sir." Northam, the most handsome of the three junior officers, paused on his way out the door. "You know, Captain Preston, you never told me how you came away with that cravat and diamond pin."

"You may have the cravat, not the pin, Northam. And I told you already," said Preston, chewing on the cigar, "I stole the bloody thing because mine was covered with blood."

"Just so," said Northam, winking at his peers.

Left to his own devices, Preston belted on his Spanish sword and glanced over at the cane, stuffed partially out of his large bed, which was bolted to the floor. His quarters were not as luxuriant as Pellew's, but of a Spartan design, everything in its place and only what was needed. Somehow he knew Anderson was correct in predicting that Napoleon was already on his way to France. With Foster cruising along the island of Elbe, wasting his time and allowing Napoleon to escape, he knew Anderson's innocent comment was far more than that. For he'd predicted many battles in the North Atlantic against the Americans, and all victories. He wondered if Anderson felt the same as he joined him on the poop deck, with the addition of a sword and two loaded pistols.

Anderson smiled stiffly. "I am not always right."

"But I am. We're in for action."

Within two hours, the sun low on the horizon, the lookout spotted a brig flying a French flag along the Italian coastline, headed toward France, escorted by two frigates of second class size running to her starboard side. Captain Preston made full sail, ordering a general chase, and soon gained upon them. The two frigates showed no signs of turning to give battle, allowing the British ship to along side the first, and without offering chance of a surrender, opened up, cannons blazing.

Smoke and flame burst on the decks of the French ship, the thunder of cannon mingling with the screams of men. After another round of fire, left the French ship without masts, crippled, and in flames. The brig continued to make a run for it, leaving the final frigate to turn about and engage. The British ship headed straight for her, catching her before she turned, and came along side broadside, three rows of cannon firing. After a duel lasting thirty minutes, the French frigate was heaved over and commenced to sink with the majority of her hands still on board.

"The brig is getting away," said Lt. Anderson, a cut on his forehead open and bleeding. The upper rigging was a shambled. They'd be slowed because of it, he thought, believing they could stay behind and pick up survivors. Throughout the two hour duel, he'd remained at his captain's side on the poop deck. He was quite proud of their victory. "Shall we lower the boats, sir, and look for survivors?"

"No we shall not, you damn fool," snarled Preston. He stormed over to Matthews and pointed after the brig. "Get after her. That is Napoleon's ship. I'll risk my life on it." He turned back and found Anderson at his elbow. "If these damn frogs didn't learn to swim as tadpoles, I'll not be responsible for them now."

"Who can you be so sure it's him? What if it is a trap?"

"And if it's both, I can do no less than proceed. This isn't a personal vendetta, Anderson, this is war," replied Preston, putting an end to the discussion. He left his first mate at the help and went down to the quarter deck, accessing the damage to ship and his crew, ignoring the screams in the water as the Agamemnon continued to pursue the brig.

With an hour of sun left, Captain Preston came upon the brig, the taste of victory in his mouth. The man he'd allowed to escape from Pellew's ship months ago, later defeated and exiled to Elbe, was within his grasp. It seemed like kismet, he thought, to encounter Napoleon on the water once more. But as he ordered his boarding party to assemble, the lookout cried out, pointing to a French squadron of five line-of-battle-ships and two frigates, with several merchantmen in two appeared. The French ships sailed past the drowning crews of the two destroyed ships and gave hot pursuit. The Agamemnon continued after the brig, having nowhere else to run, and in under thirty minutes was running even beside her. With the squadron closing in on all sides, the two crews stared back at one other, unsure why neither captain gave the order to fire

"Don't surrender, Captain," said a crewman, laying on the deck, his leg torn at the thigh. A marine bound his wound and echoed the words, "Don't surrender, Captain. We can take them. Doesn't matter how many there are. You can beat those French."

Preston turned around and returned to the poop deck, facing the squadron as their cannons were fired in warning to stop and surrender. The brig made a sudden turn to starboard, cutting away from the frigate. His gut told him he had the Emperor of France was on board. If he couldn't take him captive, the least he could do was blow the vessel out of the water, thought Preston, thinking how disappointed the Duke of Wellington would be to be denied a land battle. He had no other choice but to fire.

"To battle stations, Anderson. Fire when ready."

"Sir? She think you are going to surrender?"

"Do it or I'll have Northam take your place," growled Preston, hating to wait any further precious time. He leaned over the railing and scowled down at his officers. "Fire you, bastards! Blow her out the water! Fire! Fire!"

The Agamemnon roared like a lion, firing upon the French brig and catching her midsection with a direct hit. She went up in a matter of seconds in an enormous ball of flame and smoke. No return fire offered, her crew jumped into the water, as the five battle ships converged upon the British frigate. Hemmed in on either side, the British opened fire, port side, then starboard, making the ship rise out of the water. The French frigates fired upon the British, time and again, ripping her masts and setting off a discharge that sent the deck bursting into flames and blew away the poop deck and most of the stern section. With a loud groan amidst the thunderous barrage of cannon fire, the British ship slipped her stern into the water, sinking fast.

Floundering amongst the flaming debris, Preston caught hold of a piece of charred wood, holding himself and an injured Lt. Anderson out of the water as the bombardment from the French ended. He watched in horror as his ship went up on her stern, the bowsprit poking upright in the air, then with a gush, she was sucked down into the water and vanished with a churning of bubbles. Through the smoke and fire, Preston could see two more French ships fighting against flames on their decks, and in the water, bodies of his men and wreckage from the ship.

"Captain! Captain Preston!"

The voice was close by. Preston narrowed his eyes, searching through the smoke, spotting Matthews and several men treading water not more than ten strokes away. He swam toward them, bringing Anderson and his make-shift raft with him. The sound of oars striking the water alerted him to incoming French long ships. He heard Anderson mutter something and turned back to him, the man's face a pudding of blood and watched helpless as he breathed his last breath and slid into the water, at final rest.

The British survivors were hauled on board the French frigate Henrietta, before Captain Preston had time to shed his jacket and kick off his shoes to stay afloat an hour more in the water. Thrust forward into a group of inhospitable looking Frenchman, Preston caught his balance forced to flap his arms wide, ignoring the dull throb in his healing thigh or his foolish appearance. As his enemy laughed, he whipped about on his heels, as graceful as a dancer, flashing his eyes. The stern look from the English captain who they'd seen survive an extraordinary duel against six ships before his own was blown to smithereens.

"Of course you know you can't win," said Preston, addressing the best dressed officer in the bunch. He knew better than to attempt a parley with the French. Threats he need not stoop too, for he knew Commodore Foster and Captain Pellew would avenge his defeat soon enough. But mocking would be a brief pleasure. "The English Fleet will be on before any of you see the light of dawn again. If your Emperor still lives, you best warn him."

Muttered responses in a foreign tongue prevented Preston from knowing the content of their dialogue, yet the angry tone was to be expected. He was a prisoner of the French and would be questioned soon enough. Rough hands separated him from Matthews and the handful of surviving crew and were taken below deck. Preston glared at the entire ship's compliment, from red capped sailors, to proud officers wearing blue uniforms trimmed in red and flashy cocked hats, flanked by several musketeers in tall boots, to the captain standing the helm on the upper deck. At a nod of the French captain's head, Preston was released. He smoothed the sleeves of his coat, sending streams of water trickling down his arms onto the deck and lifted his head proudly.

The crew and officers stepped backwards, opening up a path which Preston walk through by gun point. He made no eye contact with any man, keeping his head up and shoulders back as he strode past the crew. He concentrated on each step he took, mindful not to limp or favor his injured leg. Even down a flight of stairs, he managed to keep up the facade that he was indestructible, and as he was shown into the captain's personal quarters, he sneered at those who escorted him.

"My only regret is that I will not be with my men when the English Fleet when you are sent to your graves." Preston turned from the armed guards and junior officers and entered the room. He came up short, surprised to find the same man he'd released from the Indefatigable months ago, seated behind a desk, sealing a letter with wax and indenting it with a signet ring. The jacket of an army general was placed on the chair behind the man, lacking medals or other ornamentation. Being of medium size, a bit round in the face, his cropped hair, black and thinning, in white shirt and vest, he appeared an ordinary man. But as the man raised his head to regard Preston with a thoughtful look, he revealed the face of a dark angel. In reverent awe, Robert gazed upon Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte and bowed in courtly fashion. He rose as the emperor away his soldiers off and the door closed behind them.

"So, you make a mess on my carpet," said Napoleon, rising to his feet. His voice was clipped with restrained anger and fatigue hung beneath his eyes in purple half moons. His eyes narrowed as slid on his jacket and came over to stand before Preston, one hand slipped through his vest and the other hanging at his side.

Something in Napoleon's black eyes caused Robert's heart to be faster in his chest. An overwhelming emotion swept over him as he was reminded how inconsequential he was in comparison to such a legend. The emperor was a romantic yet tragic figure, and as he commenced to pace before Robert, his heels clicked on the wooden deck. Robert stared at the emperor without shame, wanting to absorb the sight of the beautiful little Corsican to preserve his image in his mind's eye forever. The intensity of his visual review did not go unnoticed, and a sly smile appeared on Napoleon's face as he came to stop before the tall officer.

"Your ship and crew are lost, monsieur. Only a few survivors were picked up, I have been told. I watched the fight from the window," said Napoleon, his eyes on a diamond stick pin fastened to the captain's lapel. He removed it as though he owned it and wanted it back, then fastened it to his vest. "I must admit, I admire you, Captain, for your bravery in battle. Three of my ships for your one. And a diamond stick pin. A fair exchange, I think." "That was a gift from the Duke of Wellington."

"Is that so? Then I will cherish it all the more." The emperor's black eyes swept over Robert. "As you are a captain, you will be taken to a French prison and perhaps later exchanged for a French officer being held by your friend Wellington. It is quite an expensive gift. He must be a....very close friend."

Preston nostrils flared as Napoleon came over and stood before him, his eyes level with the man' shoulders. He could smell the emperor's cologne, a lemon odor, vaguely familiar and enticing. He had heard the emperor cleaned three times a day, brushing his teeth twice after every meal. He wondered if it was some strange propitiation exercised by Bonaparte in an hopeless attempt to cleanse himself of the stench of death. Thousands had died during his domination of the world, yet as Robert gazed upon the man, he felt conflicting emotions. For while he knew this was England's greatest enemy, the scourge of Europe, Robert could see through the outer shell. Had he been born French, he knew he would have sacrificed his own life to serve Bonaparte.

"I wonder why, monsieur, that you followed after a mere brig with a full squadron on your heels, unless you thought that I was on board." Napoleon slid his hand across his forehead, ruffling his combed hair. He acted boyish as he paced before Robert, his admiration of the sea captain bringing out his courtly charm and not the tyrant's vengeful wrath. "What a pity you chased the wrong ship, monsieur. A brig is not an important enough ship to care the Emperor of France. Fortunate for me, I was on the Henrietta when you caught the brig."

Preston's could not remember what they'd discussed before on Pellew's ship, something about his father and love, and that afterwards, his madness had been erased. Even now, he felt he was similar to Napoleon, not by fame or glory, which the other out shined him a million to one, but similar in strength of character and the determination to succeed. Both sacrificed the lives of their men for the sake of victory and duty to God and country. Yet, on a lower level they bonded most, for both he and Napoleon Bonaparte were bedroom butterflies, having slept many lovers, male and female, faces and names now blended into the woodwork, forgotten. Bonaparte had loved once and greatly, thought Robert. Empress Josephine, his one love signaled out from all the others. Their relationship had the same degree of intensity and heart-felt passion that he felt for Edward Pellew. Napoleon had long since abandoned Josephine for another. He vowed not to make the same mistake.

"You remain silent, Captain." Napoleon paused, standing outside the pool of water spreading beneath the wet captain's feet, a mischievous look in his eyes. The scar on the Englishman's left cheek was old and that the one on his right temple was fresh. He walked with a limp, yet seemed taller and more confident. The Englishman intrigued Bonaparte because he was threatening, in so many ways. "Of course I remember you, Robert Gawain Preston. I never forget a name, or, I might add, such a beautiful man who is, shall we say, so well endowed."

Bonaparte reached out on impulse and slid his finger along the front of the captain's jacket. He laughed, delighted the captain showed no sign of being intimidated, but remained quiet, attentive, listening. Once more the willing pupil appeared before Bonaparte, for he sensed the Englishman would allow him to bend and shape him to his will. But Bonaparte knew that this time, he was not the teacher but the student.

"How could I forget the Englishman who pulled me from the sea, saving my life, or, that you were enabled me to escape from the British ship? I am in your debt, sir."

"I would not make that mistake a second time, if given the chance to repeat my actions," said Robert, his throat so dry and salty he could barely hear himself speak. He tensed as Napoleon came over and cupped his hand under Robert's chin, forcing his head up. He kept his arms at his side, one knee slightly bent, his eyes cast down to remain on the emperor's face.

"What a strange one you are, monsieur. And what a shame to lose such a renowned ship as the Agamemnon, for they will court martial you, Captain Preston. I remember her from the battle of Trafalgar. But I transgress. You wanted to see me and have forced yourself upon me, so what is it you have to say to me, Captain Preston?"

"I? I have brought you no message. I came to take you prisoner. To give you to Wellington, as a gift, and stop the slaughters of thousands of more lives."

"If you wanted to do that," snapped Bonaparte, "you should never have let me go in the first place, monsieur. Here is your chance to make amends for your mistake." His eyes narrowed, his manner suggestive. "What would do to convince me to release you? You are very much like me. You would do anything to be king."

Spotless, white hands clutched Robert's arms as Bonaparte stepped into the pool of water, pressing himself into the hard, damp body of the captain. When Robert did not take over and embrace him, the emperor showed his temper and jerked the brawny arms around his body, nestling against him. A pair of red, full lips lifted to be taken by Robert. He stared down into the dark angelic face, seeing the wrinkles from age, the extra weight gained in captivity on Elbe. Robert slid away from Napoleon and went over to the window.

"I see I have struck a nerve center," said Bonaparte, no longer toying with his prey but wanting to rekindle something lost for only a brief while. "Before the scar, you might have tried to seduce me, not in the hopes that by doing so I would release you, but for the sheer pleasure of such a union. Perhaps you are right. What transpired once between us was unique. I shall not forget it. We will not speak of it again."

"Sir, you are the sworn enemy of England, and I am your prisoner. My message to you is this. Make with haste to France on one of the schooners, under full sail, and do what it takes to lighten your load. Send your squadron back toward Corsica," said Preston, at last, "and make certain I am stationed on the deck of this ship when you do. I'll not spend the war on land in prison. You owe me that much for allowing you to get this far."

"Just so," said Bonaparte. "I will arrange it."

"Thank you," Robert replied, coming over and cupping Napoleon's face in his hands. He bent down and kissed the soft, velvet lips.

"I am the enemy," said the emperor.

Robert kissed the man again. A kiss of parting and farewell. He stepped aside, his hands down at his sides, saying nothing as he waited for Bonaparte to order the guards into the room.

"I remember that well," said Bonaparte, flattered by the handsome officer's mention of love for him.

"I want you to know that I didn't know who you were when we first met. I but recognized a kindred spirit," said Robert, finding it easy to say how he felt. "The war does not touch us when we are together. We are set apart from our common prejudices and co-exist in a unique realm that only two kindred souls may share. I am glad to meet your acquaintance again."

"That too is how I feel," said Bonaparte. "It as though you are part of myself, a part removed when rejoined, a comfortable fit." He put his hand on Robert's arm and walked him to the door. A curious expression appeared on his face. He removed his signet ring and placed it on Robert's smallest finger. "A parting token."

"Shall I give to Wellington?"

"No. Keep it for yourself or give it to a loved one."

Robert reached down and took the emperor's hand, kissed the back of it and lowered it. "Your Highness, may God grant you a strong breeze to get you home. I think we shall not meet again."

"Oh, we will, monsieur. In our next life," said Napoleon, convinced he knew something no ordinary man might understand. He was pleased the Englishman gaze back at him, understanding his meaning. Napoleon put on his cocked hat, straightened his uniform and opened the door, exposing over a dozen guards and officers waiting beyond the threshold. "After you, Captain Preston."

• * *

With the fall of night and the rise of the moon, the French convoy of eight ships were found by Commodore Foster's cruising squadron of a similar number led by the Indefatigable. Duels, ship to ship, broke out with a thunderous roar of cannon fire. Yellow, red and white smoke and flames appeared on the decks of both French and English ships. The Indefatigable bombarded the Henrietta broadside, using grappling hooks to bring her closer and send over two boarding crews comprised of sailors and marines. While the deck smoldered in flames amidst men fighting hand-to-hand, Acting Lt. Hornblower came upon Captain Preston, struggling at his bonds to the mizzenmast, where he was tied in a ring with Matthews and the few survivors of his own crew.

"Sir, is that you?" Hornblower came up beside Preston, his sword currently occupied keeping the French captain at bay.

Preston inclined his head. "Lend me a hand, Horatio. I seem to be tied up."

Hornblower exhibited a flurry of parries and disarmed his opponent, turned back and slashed at the ropes binding the Englishmen. He pressed the point of his blade to the captain, catching in the act of rearming himself. Preston removed one of Hornblower's pistols from his belt, Matthews at his side with his men.

"There are more captives in the hold," said Matthews, "At least five more Englishmen from another ship they took."

"Go let them out," said Preston, handing his gun to Matthews. He picked up the Frenchman's discarded sword. "Show the captain to his crew, Mr. Hornblower. We are going to take this ship! If they aren't eager to surrender, slice the frog's throat. Perhaps a bit of blood letting will induce them to lower their arms."

As the French captain was thrust up to the railing, Hornblower forced him to order his men to surrender. A few brief struggles continued until the captain ordered his men to drop their arms. Preston shoved the man against Hornblower, ordering the British boarding gangs to commence tying their prisoners and marching them across boarding planks to the Indefatigable. More troops from Pellew's ship came over, seizing control of the French frigate, as Matthews came one deck with another half dozen prisoners he'd freed from the hold. The British gave up a cheer at the sight of a nobleman and a lady, accompanied by several officers, who joined Preston and Hornblower on the quarterdeck.

"Sir Reginald," said Preston, tempted to run the man through with the appropriated sword. "Had I known you were on board, I would have asked you to be used as cannon fodder." He glanced over at Hornblower. "Life does not get more ironic than this, boy. Here my cousin fled Gibraltar without saying good-bye, and now I have found him, right under my very nose."

Sir Reginald looked less frightened as the fires around them were put out and French sailors were taken off in chains to the British frigate, than he did of Captain Preston. His gaze transferred to the woman standing with her head down in a torn, dirty gown. The lady wore a blonde wig but he would have known her anywhere. He came over and lifted her head.

"Contessa Maria Consuela Gonzales. Or I should use your real name. Mademoiselle Maria Guilliame, actress, whore, and sometimes Spanish contessa. Why am I not surprised to see you again, and in the company of my cousin?" Preston motioned at an astounded Hornblower, his face and uniform dirtied by gun smoke. "Place Sir Reginald and the lady spy under arrest for the attempted murder of your's truly. If either tries to escape, shoot them, by all means."

Hornblower gaped at the couple. "These...these are the same people we saved before? These are the Duke of Arrendale's friends. Is Sir Reginald a spy as well as the woman, sir?"

"According to the Duke of Wellington, they are both spies. Which is why Napoleon didn't bother to mention they were on the boat. That sly bastard." Preston spotted Matthews nearby. He took it for granted that most people spoke as an equal to the Emperor of France and never noticed the gaping mouths around him. "Fetch Mr. Bracegrytle and tell him to assume command of the Henrietta. I'll speak to Captain Pellew about this matter at once."

As he turned his back on the group, preparing to walk across the gang plank, Preston heard Mr. Hornblower shout in warning. By accident or fate, Preston's injured leg went out from under him and he toppled to his side, hitting the deck hard. A bullet hit the side of the ship, well above his head. He looked up as Sir Reginald used his pistol like a club, striking Horatio Hornblower and grabbed his sword away as the young man fell to his knees. Preston pushed himself up, using the ship's rigging to get to his feet and raised the French sword as Sir Reginald charged.

Amidst the chaos on the French ship, Preston and Reginald squared off, testing one another by engaging then stepping back. Matthews threw his arms around the lady as she drew a knife and came screaming toward Preston's back. He spun her around, squeezing as hard as possible and knocking the wind from her lungs, and held her in rag doll fashion when she collapsed. Hornblower was helped to his feet by Lt. Bracegrytle as new recruits arrived to assume command of the Henrietta and paused to watch the two men sword fight.

In the distance, cannon play still continued as the English and French ships battled on. Preston and Reginald fought through the noise at a frantic pace, swords whistling in the air, tapping together, sending sparks shooting off from the steel tips. Both men showed remarkable skill and stamina, able to inflict only light injuries and minor tears in each others clothing.

"We should have fought with pistols," said Preston, locking blades with Reginald, breathing in his face. "You're not a good shot, cousin. Pity you only winged me."

"I won't make the same mistake this time!"

Reginald pushed Robert back with all his might and with a flourish of moves, disarmed the captain. The French sword went sailing across the deck. Preston made a move for it, then froze, facing death as Reginald drew back his arm, prepared to stab the captain through the heart. The crack of musket fire and a well aimed bullet broke Reginald's spine, sending him snapping backwards. His sword dropped from his fingers and with a loud cry, he fell onto his side and lay still, his eyes still open wide in shock. Preston lifted incredulous eyes and spotted a marine lowering his musket from the poop deck of the Indefatigable, Captain Pellew at his side, having given the order to fire.

Master Matthews and Lt. Bracegrytle were at Preston's side at once, catching him under the arms as he appeared to swoon. Preston looked at either man, chuckling and steadied himself on his feet. The body of Sir Reginald lay near the tips of his boots. He steps over it, shrugging off the two men and paused at where the lady lay in a heap, sobbing at the feet of two marines.

"Napoleon is in Antibes by now and landed," said Preston, loud enough so Bracegrytle could hear him and relay the message. "He sacrificed his ships to get away. A pity he didn't tell me who we were carrying in the hold. I rather think he neglected to tell me this in his eagerness to escape Commodore Foster."

"Foster's ship was taken on water," said Bracegrytle, joining Preston at the gangplank. "Foster stopped in Italy for repairs. Captain Pellew assumed command and defeated the French. I think you should know, Captain Preston, that Pellew went with his instinct. He said you'd find Napoleon near France and turned us around."

"Not at all a `by the book' tactic, Lt. Bracegrytle. I must congratulate Captain Pellew on his genius and fortitude," Preston replied, beaming with pride for his friend's victory. He let Bracegrytle help him across the gangplank and stepped down onto the deck of the Indefatigable. Bracegrytle saw him across the quarterdeck littered with wounded men and prisoners, and up the steps to the upper deck. He returned to the French ship to assume command, as Pellew came over to greet Preston.

"That was a bit of luck, Edward. You'll have to promote Hornblower for saving me and taking the French ship."

Pellew shook his head, his expression one of great relief. "Never did I think I’d lay eyes on you again. Thank God I didn't listen to Foster and followed my heart," said Edward. Not caring who heard as he stepped forward out of a line of officers and embraced Preston. The embrace was tight and swift to end. He stepped back and held Preston at arm’s length. "I had no idea you were on that French ship. You are indeed lucky."

"I am sorry," said Robert, his strength fading, "to report that I lost the Agamemnon, and most of my crew. I did manage to bring you Matthews back. The man deserves an medal for his bravery, Edward. Be glad to tell you more, but I seem to be light-headed."

Preston sagged forward, caught by Pellew. The captain of the Indefatigable signaled for assistance from among the crew. Bowles and Styles stepped forward, catching Robert under his arms and hauled him down to the captain’s quarters. Pellew followed, eager know how he’d come to be captured by the French and lose his frigate. Preston assumed a seat at the head of the table and took a glass of brandy from Bowles. Through the door Hornblower appeared, a timid smile on his angular, handsome face and took a seat next to captain Preston and was served by Bowles a glass of brandy. Bowles came up beside the lieutenant and withdrew from his pocket a cigar, handed one to Preston and Pellew, then lit them all.

"Welcome home, sir," said Lt. Bowles.

"It's good to be back," said Preston. He cast his eyes over every man in the room, allowing himself to indulge a while longer when he caught Pellew looking so dignified and proud standing to the side of the others. His arms behind his back, with head tilted down, Pellew regarded him steadily as Preston puffed on the cigar and sipped the brandy.

"If you are ready, why don't you enthrall us with your stories, Captain Preston?" Pellew asked, anxious to hear it all.

Within an hour, Preston begged to be allowed to sleep. The officers filed out of the room, followed by Pellew, wanting to see to his ship before turning in. He shrugged out of his filthy and went to clean at a basin on a table, washing his face, neck and hands. His reflection in the mirror was one of exhaustion and disarray, yet, he could not help feeling a bit proud of himself. He went about removing his vest, britches, shoes and stockings, leaving on his undershirt, and went over to Pellew's bed, sliding onto it face down with a loud groan.

The door opened and closed. Preston kept his eyes closed, relaxing, listening to the sounds of Pellew removing his hat and jacket, pouring a glass of brandy and sitting. The rustling of papers caused Robert to lift his weary eyes. Pellew was circling a spot on a map, his manner dejected.

"Landing in Antibes, Napoleon will be in Paris long before Wellington," said Pellew. He sipped on his brandy, casting his head back to check to see if Preston was awake and listening. "You gave credit to Hornblower for taking the Henrietta. He, of course, will not take this credit when it belongs to you, along with the sinking of three French ships. It might save you from a court martial. Bracegrytle is bringing in your handsome prize. Twenty guns larger than the Agamemnon. Rename her and she'll make a worthy flag ship."

"You did well, Edward. You saved my life."

"And Foster's reputation, it would seem," added Pellew. "I imagine he will take the credit for destroying Napoleon's squadron, whether he fought the battle or not. It's his usual form. The man is my friend, but he has a way of annoying me like none other. I cannot abide a man who assumes credit that is not earned."

"This time Foster won't be able to claim your victory, Edward. The other captains won't hear of it. You won the day."

"The Admiralty will decide that, not us." Pellew sighed. "But think of it, Robert. You, of any of us, met with Napoleon and spoke to him, man to man. That is quite remarkable. I wonder if Napoleon is a man like they say he is, charming, temperamental, cunning, spiteful, and brilliant."

"He is, sir. All those things. And more. I don't know how to say it, but he is one of the greatest men I shall ever meet," said Robert. "He can read a man's mind, and a man's heart. I never met anyone who could see through me as he did. He seemed to know me like no other. I was quite impressed with Bonaparte."

Pellew finished his brandy, rose from his chair, smiling thinly at a private thought. His behavior was calm yet remote after a battle. He came and sat down on the bed. Robert rolled onto his side, facing Pellew and reached out with his ringed hand to lay it across his hero's thigh. Pellew leaned back against Robert with a heavy sigh and placed his hand over the ring. He felt the signet ring with his fingers, curious, and lifted Robert's hand up to the yellow light cast by a lantern hanging on the rafter overhead.

"I scarce believe my eyes. Napoleon's signet ring." Pellew looked down at Robert, keeping his hand between his own. "Did he give this to you?" Robert nodded. "Then if he did, you must have made quite an impression on the emperor. You never told me what he said to you. Is it of a personal nature? One you wish to keep to yourself? I would understand, of course."

Robert drew his hand away from Edward, held the ring up to his lips to loosen it with saliva and slipped it off. He sat up, drawing Pellew up beside him, keeping his arm around him and held his palm open. The ring sat in the center, sparkling ruby red. "All that matters is that he told me that this ring was to be kept as a memento. When I asked if I should give it to Wellington, which is what I thought he meant me for to do, he said `no, that I was to keep it or give it to the one I love'. That person is you, Edward. I want you to have it."

Under Pellew's surprised look, Robert took his lover by the left hand and slipped the ring onto his fourth finger. The fit was perfect. He then lifted Edward's hand to his lips and kissed the ring, a little smile on his face.

"This is my way of authenticating our union," said Robert, thinking the sentimental value of the ring worthy of being worn by such a remarkable man as Captain Pellew. "I am committed to you first, Edward, then to England, and the King." He drew Pellew into his arms and stared into his tan, weathered face, finding it the most dear to him. "You never cease to amaze me. You are bravery, gallant, brilliant, and possess an extraordinary sense of duty and honor." He paused, his heart working double-time in his chest, then said in a soft voice, "I would consider myself fortunate if you would consider this a token of my high esteem and of my love."

"Is it a commitment you've been after all this time and not the defeat of Napoleon or being made an admiral? You astound me with your simplicity, sir. And I was none the wiser." Pellew lifted his left hand and placed it along Robert's jawline, kissing him on the mouth. "Yes, astound and overwhelm me, both at once. I take it this is your way of proposing a long term commitment? With the very ring worn by England's greatest enemy?"

"A life time commitment, Edward. That is what I want from you," said Preston, firmly. "My encounters with Napoleon and Wellington has taught me a valuable lesson. I will not live my life as a lonely man. Where you go, I go. I will not be parted from you again. Not by sea or shore. Nor by duty or separate careers. I mean to stay on this ship with you and take a demotion if I must, for I swear to God above, I should have never left you in the first place. This is the place I want to be."

"Napoleon's own ring," said Edward, shaking his head.

"Of course you like it. So, do you say yes?"

"Yes, Robert. My answer is yes."

Robert kissed Edward, silencing any further protests he knew would come, and drew him back to the pillows. While the lanterns swung overhead, the ship creaking as it sailed toward Gibraltar, the two captains made love through the night, pausing only to catch a few hours of sleep before dawn came and found them back in uniform and standing on the quarterdeck, together.

Sailing in the bay of Gibraltar two days later, Captains Preston and Pellew went ashore, arriving at the Admiralty House at the same time as Commodore Foster and Captain Hammond. They entered the building together and were called in separately to meet with visiting Lord Hood and the Duke of Wellington. Preston was called in first, where he reported his meeting with Napoleon and his battle against the French and the taking of the Henrietta, arrived in port that morning. He was handed papers by the Duke confirming that he'd been pronounced by King George III himself that he was the Earl of Lester and to be given his captured prize to serve on her as the new captain.

Robert could not bring himself to turn the captaincy down as the Duke came around the table, a tall figure in a white uniform, and shook penned upon his breast a medal. Their eyes met as Wellington fastened the medal. Lord Hood and several other admirals sat at a long table, watching in silence as Wellington shook Captain Preston's hand.

"I thought you might like to know that Lord Graves has been assigned to a new post. In South Africa. I think we shall not hear of him again," said Wellington, his expression and tone formal. "But I expect many more great things from you, Captain Preston. Perhaps you shall tell me about it one day."

"I look forward to it, Your Grace."

Robert saluted the assembled officers, and turned away from Wellington, walking out of the room as Pellew was called in next by a marine. The two captains smiled as they past one another. The door was closed. Robert walked over to his waiting friends.

"Did you get the Henrietta?" Asked Foster, coming over to pat Preston on the back. His friend nodded. "Captain Hammond brought me in while my ship is repaired. I heard about what you did out there, Robert. You've got guts, I'll say that for you. I was hoping to go in first and give my report to Lord Hood. I am hoping to be promoted to an admiral for this fine victory. A few more braids on my shoulders would look admirable, I should think."

Hammond nodded with a curt, hearty laugh. "Of course they'll make you Admiral, Charles. Napoleon slipped through Captain Preston's grasp, but your squadron destroyed his assembled ships. I doubt we'll see many more French ships on the waters. Wellington will put an end to Napoleon within the month."

The door opened and Pellew came walking out, looking stunned and moist eyed. He wore a medal on his left breast and shook his head as he approaching, muttering to himself. Foster and Hammond stared at him, wanting to hear what had happened. Robert put his hand on Pellew's shoulder, felt him trembling and feared the worse.

"Well? What the hell happened?"

The marine called for Foster and Hammond. They reluctantly excused themselves and entered the briefing room. The moment the door closed, Pellew found the nearest seat and buried his face in his hands. Robert sat next to him, glaring at a few officers milling about, curious enough to pause and stare. He threw his arm around Pellew's shoulders and gave him a squeeze.

"It can't be that bad, Edward. What did they say?"

Pellew sat up, removed his hat and turned to Preston. "They have gone and made me Lord Hurly and given me a substantial raise."

"Good for you. Now we are both lords."

"That's not all," said Pellew, sounding apologetic. "They really have done it this time, Robert. Your friend, the Duke of Wellington, has convinced Lord Hood to make me an admiral and not Commodore Foster. Foster's temporary rank and command have been taken from me. He'll take his orders direct from me now."

Robert started to laugh. He patted Edward on the back and stood up. "This calls for a drink." He glanced down when his friend did not join him. "Well, is there more?"

Laughing himself, Edward placed his hands on his knees and gazed up, tears streaking his cheeks. "I am to have a flag ship. Do you know what ship it is and who is to be my captain?" He nodded when Robert pointed at himself. "That's right. I get you and the Henrietta. Now if that isn't ironic, then I'll buy the first round." He stood up and put on his cocked hat. "Well, I suppose you'll want to be an admiral now so we equals?"

"Not at all," said Robert, thinking how pleased Hornblower, Bowles, Bracegrytle and Matthews would be to hear the news. They would all be together again on a new flag ship, commanded by Admiral Pellew, and he would be the captain. It was tempting to wait to gloat at Foster and Hammond, but he decided it could wait, and linking his arm through Edward's, he pulled him out the front door and into the sunshine. "You know, Edward, I couldn't be more satisfied with the turn of events. I am going to enjoy serving under you again."

"I very much doubt that will happen," said Pellew, winking at him. "You've the blue blood, the arrogance, and the courage to wear a crown. You're the king, and that's settled."

"Whatever you say, Admiral Pellew. Now what about that drink?"

Their laughter mingled as they walked down the steps together, but they veered away from the rows of taverns and headed instead to a tender and rowed out together to their new flag ship, and a new life together.

THE END

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