God, to kiss him.
The loss should have been like an arm or leg destroyed in battle and then excised. Over the years, several of Hawk’s men had suffered this fate, the mangled, useless limb sawed off before it could cause any more damage. An infection could spread to the bloodstream.
That ruined flesh and bone was tossed overboard, abandoned in the ship’s wake to be devoured by the creatures of the deep.
Yet Nathaniel refused to be left behind. The loss of him was more than a phantom ache or a hollowed-out chasm. No, it filled Hawk to his very limits, unyielding pressure against his skin, expanding with every breath, choking him.
Hawk wished his own soft, useless flesh would dissolve and leave him made of only pitiless bone.
To love could only be madness.
He’d been so certain he’d learned that lesson after John, but locked away with only rats for company, it was clear he was a glutton for punishment. That Nathaniel had thrown himself into harm’s way for Hawk’s sake clawed at him, the guilt a living, pulsing creature. He would give anything to change it, to take the pain away and keep Nathaniel unharmed.
Hawk clenched his empty hands. It was foolishness to yearn for a memento he could touch, some token or scrap of cloth or jewelry, Nathaniel’s plain-handled dagger, even. Hawk had tucked it in his boot, but it had been confiscated, lost to him now.
There was nothing tangible left of Nathaniel. Even the scratches on his chest—the marks Nathaniel had made when he’d insisted their relationship was real—were gone, his traitorous flesh mending.
Real.
As the days passed in perpetual darkness, Hawk did wonder if it had all been a feverish dream. He knew distantly that his captivity could have been worse. He wasn’t tortured, and they shoved in enough water and hard biscuits to keep him alive.
Torment wasn’t being trapped in the stinking bowels of the brig, knowing he would soon die. That he could accept. That fate he’d expected for years. It was the idea of living the rest of his miserable life without Nathaniel that was utterly loathsome.
True hell was to love.
When the storm hit he wasn’t surprised, the portent thick even in the scant air that reached the filth of his cell. He hated not being at the helm, and could only hope the men in charge were able. He had no reason to think they weren’t, but as he was tossed from side to side like a child’s plaything, he wasn’t so sure.
The shackles around his wrists were attached to the wall, and his shoulders burned as he was thrown about. He feared they might be wrenched from their sockets, which of course conjured memories of Nathaniel racing up into the rigging to rescue O’Connell. Fearless and brave and beautiful.
The yearning would have brought Hawk to his knees if he hadn’t already been sprawled, powerless in the heaving waves. Squeezing his eyes shut even though he was in darkness, he allowed himself the luxury of pretending he was back in the cabin that had been his only home for so long.
Returned to his bed, Nathaniel sweet and sighing in his arms, their lips meeting endlessly, no words needed.
They’d survived.
And judging by the ship’s speed and telltale noises echoing along the hull, they were nearing a harbor and making to drop anchor. Sure enough, sailors came soon to drag him from his cell, pulling and shoving him like an animal. Wrists still shackled, he was barely able to get his feet under him.
The captain, a tall, older man named Taylor who’d styled his graying hair as if it were a wig with curls over his ears, approached belowdecks, scowling. He buttoned his waistcoat. “This is your final port of call, scum. I can’t decide which is the worse offense—the piracy or desertion. Suppose it doesn’t much matter, given you’ll hang regardless. Shame you won’t have a bigger audience.”
To the crew nearby, he announced, “I’m taking him ashore with the vanguard. As soon as we have our money, we’re leaving this godforsaken place.”
Blinking in the harsh glare, refusing to bow his head, Hawk shuffled onto the main deck and saw Primrose Isle by the light of day. “Where the fuck’s the rest of it?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The crash reverberated so violently the windows in the drawing room—which were still covered by slapdash boards—rattled. The storm had raged for days, but the sun had finally reappeared.
Nathaniel pushed back his chair at the empty breakfast table, wincing as he stood. He followed the rumble of his father’s indistinct shouting, meeting Susanna in the hall.
She drew up short. “Why aren’t you in bed? I was about to bring your tray.”
“Because I’ve been in bed quite long enough. I shall go mad if I don’t move, even if it’s only shuffling to the table. And why would you be bringing my breakfast?”