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Alive.
Shivering through the rough blanket wrapped round him, stumbling along on legs made of cotton wool, coughing and wheezing like a sick old man…but alive.
He’d never feared the sea before. A naval cadet, a captain’s son—what cause had he to fear it? Until it came rushing at him, vast, thunderous, and wholly indifferent to his plight. To the oath he’d sworn to avenge his parents. To the blood spilled by Barty Finn and his Brotherhood. What were any of them to the ceaseless ebb and flow of the sea?
Unable to fight, escape, or break his bonds, all Nick could do was endure. As the tide rose, he’d pressed back against the rock, raised himself on his toes, tipped back his head to keep the water from reaching his mouth and nose. Hour after hour, as the waves battered him, so cold that he soon lost all feeling in his legs—and his arms had long since gone numb.
In the end, the sea had taken everything: strength, will, and finally pride. He’d spent what he thought would be his last breath crying out for help, not caring anymore who heard. The salt that stung his lips was no bitterer than the knowledge of his own failure, his useless and impending death.
Until Lucy and her knife had set him free. Dear God, he owed her his life, would be lost without her, supporting him with her slight weight even now, urging him gently but insistently on. They had to get away, she’d told him, had to make it to the main road before her father woke from his drunken stupor and found them gone.
And though his lungs burned and every muscle ached, he obeyed, pushing himself doggedly on. One foot in front of the other, every step bringing him closer to the academy—and Captain Beever.
Beever. Chilled though he was, Nick felt a hot flush of shame over how he’d misjudged his guardian. What a fool he’d been, too blinded by his own grief and anger to think straight. They’d been on the same side all along—and it had gone so badly awry.
My fault. And if I make it back safely, I’ll obey orders for the rest of my life.
Once he reached the academy, he’d share what he’d learned, make his apologies, and accept any punishment meted out to him like a man. Little enough consequence for his folly.
Perhaps together, he and Captain Beever could apprehend his parents’ killers. And then—after—they could… come to some sort of understanding. He wanted that, he realized—almost as much as he wanted justice for his parents.
Leaning on Lucy, he prayed that his lungs and legs would hold out long enough to bring him home.
***
Alive.
Back on the main road, the Eight Bells Inn safely behind him, Beever let himself absorb the realization at last.
He’d gone down the ladder braced to retrieve a body—of a boy he’d failed to protect—and been confronted instead by severed ropes and dangling manacles. Hope that he hadn’t dared to acknowledge had flared to life at Finn’s squall of rage, followed by a surge of relief so powerful he’d felt almost sick with it.
Not dead. Not drowned. Though, beyond a doubt, the boy had been cruelly used by his captors, and the thought was enough to ignite Beever’s own fury. Pray God that Bulman had not suffered serious injury, that he was even now headed back towards the academy—most likely aided and abetted by the girl Lucy.
Beever frowned to himself as he rode on. Skeptical though he was of Finn’s story of missing heiresses and infants being switched, he’d given his word that he’d do something for her. Something was owing to the girl in any case, for saving his cadet.
Not dead. He hadn’t failed Charles. He hadn’t failed Charles’s son.
And yet—his conscience still niggled at him—he had erred, nonetheless. The boy’s survival was due to Lucy’s act of mercy, not to anything Beever had done. He and Bulman had been at cross-purposes nearly from the start. Ironic, when they should have been allies in this.
In hindsight, Beever could see, even acknowledge, where he might have gone wrong. Perhaps he’d been too much the stern, uncompromising captain, rather than the concerned guardian—or friend. Expecting unquestioning obedience and failing to take into account the boy’s emotional state. Grief and anger channeled into a single dogged purpose: to find his parents’ killers.
Young Bulman certainly wasn’t lacking in courage—or aptitude. After two years of training him, Beever knew him to be self-reliant and resourceful…if a little too independent for his own good. He should have anticipated that he’d resist being kept in the dark. He’d meant to protect him—instead, he’d alienated the boy to the extent that he felt Beever could not be trusted and had gone off on his own.
I can do better. I will do better. Forge a stronger relationship with his ward, find a way to work with him—no need for them to remain at odds when they were pursuing the same objective.
And perhaps Bulman—Dominic—had been through enough himself by now to meet him halfway.
Suddenly, wanting nothing more than to reach his school and find his errant cadet there, Beever urged his horse into a gallop.