The Red King by Rosemary O'Malley Page A

with terror.
There was still fear, certainly, but it was of the future. What
would be the cost of finding this Maarten, of killing him…how high
would it be? He could not help but be afraid, not that it would
take his life, but that he would be left alone once more.
    It came to him that he liked it here, on this
ship with these men, and would stay on to learn to be one of them
if he could. He wanted to help these battered souls, to see them
find peace. In this short span of time, spent with men damaged by
the ever present avarice of Man, he had learned a deeper
appreciation for life. It was a far richer tapestry than he’d ever
imagined while hidden behind the stone walls of his quiet abbey.
This was what it meant to be alive, truly what it meant to
serve.
    That thought caused Andrew’s appetite to wane
and he set his cup down. He returned to the deck to stand at the
bow, letting the wind and spray blow into his face as the sky
darkened. He stayed there for a long time.
    “Are you counting them?”
    Andrew jumped. He looked over his shoulder
and saw Rory not far from him. The man’s handsome countenance was
cast into silver by the moon. “Counting?”
    “The stars; you have the look of someone who
wishes to know their numbers, even though they know there are some
things that will be forever beyond them,” Rory answered, moving
closer now that Andrew had acknowledged him. His hands very
carefully took Andrew by the waist, giving him time to
withdraw.
    Sighing, Andrew turned back to the sky. “I
don’t know what I seek, Captain. I have always had someone to ask
before, somewhere to turn for help when I was confused. I no longer
have that.”
    Rory nodded, his hair brushing across
Andrew’s cheek and causing a shiver. Thinking him chilled in the
night air, perhaps, Rory slipped his arms around him, pressing
closer.
    “There is a point when your decisions become
your own, Andrew. It is the most vital point of becoming a man,
more important than breadth of chest or hair on your chin. I’m
sorry that you face this now, after losing so much.”
    Though his mind was racing, Andrew stayed
silent. He had so many questions, so many doubts, but he pushed
them aside to rest against Rory, in the circle of his arms, as the
ship moved through the velvet night.
     

Chapter Seven
    It was morning; the sun was starting to seep
into the hold. Andrew was half-awake, still feeling Rory’s arms
around him, wondering how much longer he could stop himself from
accepting the man’s offer. He craved the touch of his hands, the
feel of his mouth, and felt his body respond to their memory. He
moaned, very softly, when his mind led him to recall the slip of
Rory’s tongue on his. There was a hot, throbbing pressure between
his legs; the sort of pressure the brothers told him was the
Devil’s call. This time, though, summoning the scripture did not
ease the heaviness. His mind wandered, envisioning Rory’s mouth
elsewhere on his body but he still resisted the urge to pleasure
himself. It would take more than a daydream to break training of
rod and penance.
    “All hands! All hands!
    It took Andrew a moment to fully wake up, and
when he did he had a bit of trouble getting extracted from the
hammock in which he had been sleeping. He could hear running,
yelling, and the sounds of frantic preparations all around him as
he pushed himself up off of the floor.
    Catching one of the men by the arm, he asked,
“What’s happening?”
    “We’re under attack!”
    “What?”
    “The damned raider ship circled around after
the storm. They placed themselves between us and land and approach
at full sail with guns ready. Unless you have a station for battle,
I suggest you stay below.” The man left him there.
    Andrew ran onto the deck, anyway, searching
for Rory. He saw him in the rigging, moving across it quickly,
effortlessly, securing and releasing lines in order to set to full
sail. His hair was loose, his expression savage but joyful, and