LITMIR.BIZ

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He lay silent, marvelling at the touch of her skin on his. ‘What does your maid think you’re doing?’

      ‘Lying down in the dark with orders not to be disturbed. I say the sun gives me a headache.’

      He smiled. ‘So what will you do when it rains?’

      ‘I’ll say the rain gives me a headache, of course. Not that Mary cares. She’s in love with Chase’s steward, so she’s glad I don’t need her. She haunts his pantry.’ Grace ran a finger down Sharpe’s belly. ‘Maybe they’ll run away to sea together?’

      Sometimes it seemed to Sharpe that he and Grace had run away to sea, and they played a game where they pretended the Pucelle was their private ship and its crew their servants and that they would forever be sailing forgiving seas under sunny skies. They never spoke of what waited at journey’s end, for then Grace must go back to her lavish world and Sharpe to his place, and he did not know whether he would ever see her again. ‘We are like children, you and I,’ Grace said more than once, a note of wonder in her voice, ‘irresponsible, careless children.’

      In the mornings Sharpe exercised with the marines, in the afternoons he slept, and in the evening he ate his supper with Chase, then waited impatiently until Lord William was in his laudanum-induced sleep and Grace could come to his door. They would talk, sleep, make love, talk again. ‘I haven’t had a bath since Bombay,’ she said one night with a shudder.

      ‘Nor have I.’

      ‘But I’m used to having baths,’ she said.

      ‘You smell good to me.’

      ‘I stink,’ she said. ‘I stink, and the whole ship stinks. And I miss walking. I love to walk in the country. If I had my way I would never see London again.’

      ‘You’d like the army,’ Sharpe said. ‘We’re always going for long walks.’

      She lay silent for a while, then stroked his hair. ‘I dream sometimes of William’s death,’ she said softly. ‘Not when I’m asleep, but when I’m awake. That’s dreadful.’

      ‘It’s human,’ Sharpe said. ‘I think of it too.’

      ‘I wish he’d fall overboard,’ she said. ‘Or slip down a ladder. He won’t though.’ Not without help, Sharpe thought, and he pushed that idea away. Killing Braithwaite was one thing – the private secretary had been a blackmailer – but Lord William had done nothing except be haughty and married to a woman Sharpe loved. Yet Sharpe did think of killing him, though how it could be done he did not know. Lord William was hardly likely to descend into the hold and he was never on deck in the dark of the night when a man might be pushed over the side. ‘If he died,’ Grace said quietly, ‘I’d be wealthy. I would sell the London house and live in the country. I’d make a great library with a fireplace, walk the dogs, and you could live with me. I’d be Mrs Richard Sharpe.’

      For a moment Sharpe thought he had misheard her, then he smiled. ‘You’d miss society,’ he said.

      ‘I hate society,’ she said vehemently. ‘Vapid conversation, stupid people, endless rivalry. I shall be a recluse, Richard, with books from the floor to the ceiling.’

      ‘And what will I do?’

      ‘Make love to me,’ she said, ‘and glower at the neighbours.’

      ‘I reckon I could manage that,’ Sharpe said, knowing it was a dream, except that all it would take was one man’s death to make the dream come true. ‘Is there a gunport in your husband’s cabin?’ he asked, knowing he should not ask the question.

      ‘Yes, why?’

      ‘Nothing,’ he said, but he had been wondering whether he could go into the cabin at night and overpower Lord William and heave him through the gunport, but then he dismissed the idea. Lord William’s cabin, like Sharpe’s, was under the poop and close to the ship’s wheel, and Sharpe doubted he could commit murder and dispose of the body without alerting the officer on watch. Even the creak of the opening gun-port would be too loud.

      ‘He’s never ill,’ Grace said on another afternoon when she had risked coming to Sharpe’s cabin. ‘He’s never ill.’

      Sharpe knew what she was thinking and he was thinking it himself, but he doubted Lord William would have the decency to die of some convenient disease. ‘Perhaps he’ll be killed in the fight with the Revenant,’ Sharpe said.

      Grace smiled. ‘He’ll be down below, my love, safe beneath the water line.’

      ‘He’s a man!’ Sharpe said, surprised. ‘He’ll have to fight.’

      ‘He’s a politician, my dear, and he assassinates, he does not fight. He will tell me his life is too precious to be risked, and he will really believe it! Though when we reach England he will modestly claim to have played a part in the Revenant’s defeat and I, like a loyal wife, will sit there and smile while the company admires him. He is a politician.’

      Footsteps sounded outside the cabin, in the space behind the wheel and under the overhang of the poop. Sharpe listened apprehensively, expecting the steps to go away as they usually did, but this time they came right to his door. Grace clutched his hand, then shuddered as a knock sounded. Sharpe did not respond, then the bolted door shook as someone tried to force it open. ‘Who is it?’ Sharpe called, pretending to have been asleep.

      ‘Midshipman Collier, sir.’

      ‘What do you want?’

      ‘You’re wanted in the captain’s quarters, sir.’

      ‘Tell him I’ll be there in a minute, Harry,’ Sharpe said. His heart was racing.

      ‘You should go,’ Grace whispered.

      Sharpe dressed, buckled his sword belt, leaned over to kiss her, then slipped out of the door. Chase was standing by the larboard shrouds, gazing at the dot on the horizon that was the Revenant. ‘You wanted me, sir?’ Sharpe asked.

      ‘Not me, Sharpe, not me,’ Chase said. ‘It’s Lord William who wants you.’

      ‘Lord William?’ Sharpe could not keep the surprise from his voice.

      Chase raised an eyebrow as if to suggest that Sharpe had brought this trouble on himself, then jerked his head towards his dining cabin. Sharpe felt a rising panic, subdued it by telling himself Braithwaite had not left a damning letter, straightened his red coat, then went to the dining cabin’s door beneath the poop.

      Lord William’s voice invited him to come in, Sharpe obeyed and was negligently waved towards a chair. Lord William was alone in the room, sitting at the long table which was covered with books and papers. He was writing, and the scratch of his pen seemed ominous. He wrote for a long time, ignoring Sharpe. The skylight above the table was open and the wind rustled the papers on the table. Sharpe stared at his lordship’s grey hair, not one out of place.

      ‘I am writing a report,’ Lord William broke the silence, making Sharpe jump with guilty surprise, ‘about the political situation in India.’ He dipped the nib in an inkwell, drained it carefully, then wrote another sentence before placing the pen on a small silver stand. His cold eyes were pouchy and glassy, probably from the laudanum that he took each night, but they were still filled with their usual distaste for Sharpe. ‘I would not normally turn to a junior officer for assistance, but I have small choice under the present circumstances. I would like your opinion, Sharpe, on the fighting abilities of the Mahrattas.’

      Sharpe felt a pang of relief. The Mahrattas! Ever since entering the cabin he had been thinking of Braithwaite and his claim to have written a damned letter, but all Lord William wanted was an opinion on the Mahrattas! ‘Brave men, my lord,’ Sharpe said.

      Lord William shuddered. ‘I suppose I deserve a vulgar opinion, since I requested it of you,’ he said tartly, then steepled his fingers and looked at Sharpe over his well-manicured nails. ‘It is evident to me, Sharpe, that we must eventually

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