Page 57 of Two Rogues Make a Right
“I love you, too, always have, always will,” Martin mumbled into the skin of Will’s shoulder.
Will tipped Martin’s chin up for a kiss and they stayed like that, tangled together, barely kissing. Martin’s heart so full it was nearly uncomfortable.
The first visitor came in July. Will had been expecting it, having been warned by Hartley’s letter and then by Daisy running up from the inn, but still it was a shock to see Lieutenant Staunton on dry land. They had been midshipmen together, and now Staunton was very smart in his lieutenant’s uniform.
“My God,” Staunton said by way of greeting. “I’ve only spent two years looking for you, Sedgwick. I don’t mind telling you I expected the worst, and it’s damned good to see you looking well. You gave us all a rotten fright by vanishing like that.”
Will had always assumed that if anybody from theFotheringayspared him a thought, he would at best be an object of pity and at worst a reminder of tragedy, and that everyone would be glad to forget he had ever existed. Before Will could come up with anything to say, Staunton went on. “And now I hear that you wrote that play. My wife has seen it three times. But here’s the other reason I needed to see you.” He reached into his coat pocket and removed a parcel wrapped in oilcloth. “I’ve been carrying this around for years. There were some other things—a shaving kit, a couple of pens—that got lost along the way, I’m afraid. But we all remembered you and your letters and thought you’d want them back.”
Will was alone in the cottage, the parcel on the table before him, when Martin came home. “What’s this, then?” Martin asked gently.
Will shoved the parcel across the table. “You open it.” He watched almost greedily as Martin untied the string and flattened the oilcloth.
“Oh, sweetheart. You thought they were lost.”
“That’s really them, then?” Will asked.
Delicately, Martin spread the papers before him. “There are dozens from me, but I see a few other hands. Your brothers, probably. Maybe your father.” Will knew that Martin could see the worn edges of the letters where Will had handled them again and again, the rips along the folds, the places where the ink smudged under Will’s fingertips.
“Sweetheart,” Martin repeated. “Mine are in a similar state.”
Will tried to say something but the words wouldn’t come, and then he let himself be drawn into Martin’s lap and fussed over in a way he hadn’t quite thought Martin capable of.
The next visitor came the following month. Will remembered him as Able Seaman Davis, a rough-looking northerner several years older than Will, who refused Will’s offers of tea and instead seemed mostly interested in admiring the pigs. “Just wanted to see for myself that you made it,” Davis said. “On my way back to Portsmouth.” He shook Will’s hand roughly, but didn’t make any move to leave. “Named my boy William.”
“What?”
“It’s a good name,” Davis protested. “And you did good.” He didn’t elaborate, which was a relief because Will didn’t think he could take it.
“Thank you,” he said faintly.
“I say, Mr. Davis,” Martin said. He had been weeding the vegetable patch. “You don’t happen to be skilled at giving tattoos, do you?”
“’Fraid not,” Davis said, and if he thought this was an odd question, he didn’t let on.
“I wonder if you know anybody who is, and who wouldn’t mind calling on us.”
After Davis left, Will rounded on Martin. “What on earth was that about?”
“I’m not telling,” Martin said.
The next sailor who visited was a stranger to Will. His skin was dark from the sun and leathery from the wind and Will couldn’t even make a guess at his age. He introduced himself as Jones. “Davis said you wanted more ink,” he told Will.
“That would be me,” said Martin. Will watched in confusion as Martin rifled through his papers until he came up with a drawing. “Could you put that on my arm?”
“Have you run mad?” Will asked. “You realize this involves being stabbed with needles.”
“Really,” Martin drawled, rolling up his sleeve and displaying the scars from years of bloodlettings. “Whenever have I been poked at with sharp objects. At least this time I get to choose. And I’m left with a lovely flower instead of a basin of blood.”
Will watched as Martin stripped out of his waistcoat and shirt, and then as Jones traced the flower onto Martin’s arm. Will hadn’t the faintest idea what was happening, but if Martin wanted—he glanced at the drawing—a couple of pinks inked permanently onto his body, then so be it. He found a bottle of brandy that Hartley had left for them a few weeks back, and poured Martin a generous glass.
“You don’t have to hover,” Martin griped, so Will went out and pulled a couple of carrots out of the ground and chopped some firewood. He didn’t go back toward the house until he saw Jones at the door.
“What do we owe you?” Will asked.
“He paid already,” Jones said, gesturing with his chin toward the cottage. “And Davis paid my way here.”
Will went back inside and leaned against the doorway. “Care to tell me what that was about?”
