“Aye, aye. I take it we’re in a hurry?”
Robert nodded. “Believe it or not, The Cormorant made the trip back in twelve days.”
“Twelve?” Latimer let his disbelief show.
“Royd put a new finish on the hull and fiddled with the rudder. Apparently, if running under full sail, it shaves off nearly a sixth in time—Declan’s master reported The Cormorant was noticeably faster even on the run from Aberdeen to Southampton.”
Latimer shook his head wonderingly. “Pity we didn’t have time for Royd and his boys to doctor The Trident before we set out. We’ll never make it in twelve days.”
“True.” Robert turned to descend to the main deck. “But there’s no reason we can’t make it in fifteen, as long as we keep the sails up.”
If the winds held steady, they would. He went down the ladder to the main deck, then paced along the starboard side, checking knots, pulleys, and the set of the spars, listening to the creak of the sails—the little things that reassured him that all was right with his ship.
Halting near the bow, he glanced back and checked the wake, all but unconsciously noting the way the purling wave broke and the angle of the hull’s cant. Seeing nothing of concern, he turned and looked ahead to where, in the far distance, the clouds gave way to blue skies.
With luck, when they reached the Atlantic, the weather would clear, and he would be able to cram on yet more sail.
The ship lurched, and he gripped the rail; as the deck righted, he leaned against the side, his gaze idly sweeping the seas ahead.
As he’d predicted, it had taken three days for The Trident to sail from London to Southampton and to be adequately provisioned from the company’s stores there. Add fourteen more days for the journey south, and it would be eighteen days since he’d agreed to this mission before he sighted Freetown. Fourteen full days before he could start.
To his surprise, impatience rode him. He wanted this mission done and squared away.
The why of that had been difficult to define, but last night, as he’d lain in his bed in the large stern cabin—his cold, lonely, and uninspiring bed—he’d finally got a glimpse of what was driving his uncharacteristically unsettling emotions.
After three full days spent with Declan and Edwina, he wanted what Declan had. What his brother had found with Edwina—the happiness, and the home.
Until he’d seen it for himself, until he’d experienced Declan’s new life, he hadn’t appreciated just how deeply the need and want of a hearth of his own was entrenched in his psyche.
Put simply, he envied what Declan had found and wanted the same for himself.
All well and good—he knew what that required. A wife. The right sort of wife for a gentleman like him—and that was definitely not a sparkling, effervescent, diamond-of-the-first-water like Edwina.
He wasn’t entirely sure what his wife would be like—he had yet to spend sufficient time dwelling on the prospect—but he viewed himself as a diplomat, a man of quieter appetites than Royd or Declan, and his style of wife should reflect that, or so he imagined.
Regardless, all plans in that regard had been put on hold. This mission came first.
Which, of course, was why he was so keen to have it over and done.
He pushed away from the side and headed for the companionway. He dropped down to the lower deck and made his way to his cabin. Spacious and neatly fitted with everything he needed for a comfortable life on board, the cabin extended all the way across the stern.
Settling into the chair behind the big desk, he opened the lowest drawer on the right and drew out his latest journal.
Keeping a journal was a habit he’d acquired from his mother. In the days in which she’d sailed the seas with his father, she’d kept a record of each day’s happenings. There was always something worthy of note. He’d found her journals as a boy and had spent months working his way through them. The insight those journals had afforded him of all the little details of life on board influenced him to this day; the impact they’d had on his view of sailing as a way of life was quite simply incalculable.
And so he’d taken up the practice himself. Perhaps when he had sons, they would read his journals and see the joys of this life, too.
Today, he wrote of how dark it had been when they’d slipped their moorings and pulled away from the wharf, and of the huge black-backed gull he’d seen perched on one of the buoys just outside the harbor mouth. He paused, then let his pen continue to scratch over the paper, documenting his impatience to get started on this mission and detailing his understanding of what completing it would require of him. To him, the latter was simple, clear, and succinct: Go into the settlement of Freetown, pick up the trail of the slavers, follow them to their camp—and then return to London with the camp’s location.
With a flourish, he set a final period to the entry. “Cut and dried.”
He set down his pen and read over what he’d written. By then, the ink had dried. Idly, he flicked back through the closely written pages, stopping to read entries here and there.
Eventually, he stopped reading and stared unseeing as what lay before him fully registered. Unbidden, his gaze rose to the glass-fronted cabinet built into the stern wall; it contained the rest of his journals, all neatly lined up on one shelf.
The record of his life.
It didn’t amount to much.
Not in the greater scheme of things—on the wider plane of life.
Yes, he’d assisted in any number of missions, ones that had actively supported his country. Most had been diplomatic forays of one sort or another. Since his earliest years captaining his own ship, he’d claimed the diplomatic missions as his own—his way of differentiating himself from Royd and Declan. Royd was older than him by two years, while Declan was a year younger, but they were both adventurers to the core, buccaneers at heart. Neither would deny that description; if anything, they reveled in being widely recognized as such.
But as the second brother, he’d decided to tread a different path—one just as fraught with danger, but of a different sort.
He would be more likely to be clapped into a foreign jail because of an unintended insult exchanged over a dinner table, while his brothers would be more likely to be caught brawling in some alley.
He was quick with his tongue, while they were quick with their swords and fists.
Not that he couldn’t match them with either blades or fists; growing up as they had, being able to hold his own against them had been essential—a matter of sibling survival.
Thoughts of the past had him smiling, then he drew his mind forward, through the past to the present—then he looked ahead.
After a moment, he shut the journal and stowed it back in the drawer. Then he rose and headed for the deck.
Given how boring his recent life had been—more like existing than actively living—perhaps it was a good thing that this mission was not his usual diplomatic task. Something a little different to jar him out of his rut, before he turned his mind to defining and deciding
