He said quietly, “I have another letter to write.”

He looked around the cabin, the shimmering reflections of the sea along the white deckhead. To trade this for the dash and excitement of a small frigate, to set his collection of vessels against the stronghold of France itself was no mere gesture. Perhaps it was intended for him, like a part of fate. At the beginning of the war, as a very young captain, Bolitho had taken part in the illfated attack on Toulon, the attempt by the French royalists to overturn the revolution and reverse the course of history. They had made history well enough, Bolitho thought grimly, but it had ended in bloody disaster.

Bolitho felt a chill at his spine. Maybe everything was decided by fate. Belinda may have thought he was coming back to Falmouth for several months, perhaps longer if peace was indeed

signed. In fact, he stared through the stern windows at the

anchored ships, she was being protected from further pain. He was

not coming back. It had to happen one day. He touched his left thigh, expecting to feel the pain where the musket ball had cut him down. So soon after that? Not a respite, not even a warning.

Bolitho said abruptly, “On second thoughts, I’ll not write a letter, I shall shift to Styx directly. Tell my cox’n, will you?”

Alone at last, Bolitho sat on the bench below the windows and kneaded his eyes with his knuckles until the pain steadied him.

Fate had been kind to him, had even allowed him the touch and the sight of love, something he would hold on to until it was decided even that should vanish.

Herrick appeared in the doorway. “Boat’s alongside, sir.”

By the entry port with its side party and scarlet-coated marines Bolitho paused and stared across at the rakish frigate. Her sails were already loosely brailed, and figures moved about her spars and ratlines like insects: impatient to be off, to seek the unreachable horizon.