The streets near the docks were once more teeming with humans. Somehow he threaded through them, somehow he managed to put one foot in front of another. Reflexively, he returned subtle nods from people who recognized him.
Finally he stopped right where, a mere few days ago, he’d saved a life and nearly lost his. He saw his own bonnie ship anchored, and his heart lifted just a very little.
Suddenly he froze.
He shielded his eyes to peer at a ship that seemed to be all but limping toward port. He swiftly retrieved from his pocket a spyglass and trained it, twisting into focus.
It was clear that the ship had been dismasted—perhaps in some storm well out to sea. Some effort had been made to jury-rig a usable mizzen. He whistled to himself—that would have been extraordinarily hard going, particularly in rough seas, unless they’d made it to another port. A rent in one of the sails was visible. The crew ought to have been able to repair it. Something had clearly prevented them from doing that.
As it drew closer, he thought he noted some damage to the quarterdeck, hastily repaired. Perhaps a burn, or a cannonball strike.
The ship had been through quite a drama. And yet here she still was.
And then suddenly goose bumps rose along his arms when he realized exactly what he was looking at. Even before he saw the name on the prow.
And he turned and ran like hell for The Grand Palace on the Thames.
“Hardy! Bolt! Delacorte!” He burst into the foyer bellowing. “She’s in!”
He heard footsteps running from all directions in the house, thundering down the stairs.
Hardy was the first to appear on the landing, followed by Bolt, who nearly crashed into him.
“She’s in!The Zephyris in! She’s been dismasted. She might have some more damage to the quarterdeck. But she’s sailing in right now.”
Both Hardy and Bolt froze in place.
“Are you sure?” Hardy managed a moment later. His voice was hoarse.
“Sure as I’ve got eyes.”
Hardy closed his eyes and a long breath left him. Then his mouth shaped what looked like a silent prayer or an oath. Bolt slung an arm around his shoulders. For a moment they ducked their heads, and appeared to be holding each other up in relief.
Lorcan was fiercely, truly glad for him. For both of them.
“My thanks, St. Leger,” Hardy said.
And then they were out the door at a run.
Lorcan remained in the empty foyer for a moment. The return of the sun meant the crystals on the chandelier were able to scatter little rainbows at his feet. And though his plans to row out to his ship hadn’t changed, he found instead his feet were carrying him to the passage to the annex.
He wanted to see if he could feel Daphne there.
With some trepidation, he turned the key in the door.
Without her presence, the silence in the suite seemed to whine.
There was an answering echo in his scraped-raw soul.
He found himself pacing, like a bear emerging from hibernation to discover the forest has been burned to the ground.
He fancied he met the ghost of the scent of orange near the settee. He hovered there a moment, closed his eyes and remembered. And an ache for her started up. He breathed in, against the wanting.
He went to her room and gingerly sat down on her bed.
And then he dragged her pillow to him and held it to his face to breathe her in.
He sat like that, pulsing with love and loss and furiously, furiously thinking.