“Dear girl, dear girl!” he muttered, stroking her to try and ease her sudden fears. “I’ll not leave you in the lurch like that un-thinking, un-caring fool Hughes did. I’d do the same for you even if I suddenly got orders sendin’ me halfway round the world. I’d not sail off and just abandon you, in any case. You’re dear to me.”

He heard a quick, in-drawn breath, and knew that he’d erred badly. Fool! Should’ve said “becoming”, not already dear! Lewrie chid himself: God knows what she’ll make of it, and …

“You are dear to me, too, Alan,” Maddalena whispered against his neck, then leaned back to look him in the eyes, sobrely for a moment, then began to beam as she took another shuddery breath. “So very dear!”

Too late! he thought; I’m in the quag up t’my neck!

Maddalena put her arms round his neck and kissed him, a writhing and long soul kiss with her breath growing musky again, and almost giggling deep in her throat in sheer delight of his declaration.

Oh, Hell, Lewrie thought; In for the penny, in for the pound … and if I get her drunk enough, maybe she won’t remember in the mornin’.

She pulled him down over her, impatiently tugged the sash of her gown and parted it, then reached under the tails of his shirt to draw it upward, light fingers brushing against his re-awakening erection.

For a very brief moment, Lewrie considered qualifying his slip of the tongue, but decided to go with it, wondering if Maddalena’s passion could be any greater than that she’d evinced before.

“Just … let me get a, ah, umm … cundum,” he rasped.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

“Lastly,” Lewrie said to the assembled officers and Mids gathered aboard the transport for a final planning session, “we’ve gotten a report that there are two Spanish frigates with their yards crossed and taking provisions aboard in Cartagena. How they expect to elude our blockade’s beyond me, but one never knows, so we should be prepared for ’em, should they manage t’come out. Captain Hedgepeth?”

“Aye?” the ugly old bugger responded as if wakened from utter boredom. The most he’d done in the meeting was scratch his whiskers.

“Do we spot any strange sail whilst the troops are ashore, I’ll fire two guns for a General Signal, and hoist Discontinue The Action,” Lewrie told him. “Captain Pomfret, do I make the signal, drop whatever you’re doing and get your troops back to the beach, instanter, for recovery. As soon as the troops are back aboard, Captain Hedgepeth, get under way and run Westerly as fast as you can. I will cover your withdrawal as best I can, even if you get back to Gibralter all alone.”

“Ehm, what if the Dons are upon us before my Marines, and your boat crews, are back aboard Sapphire, sir?” Lieutenant Keane asked in a worried tone. “Mean t’say, sir, our ship would be short-handed, and Roe and I would miss out on a good fight.”

“Hmm, little chance o’ that, I think,” Lewrie replied after a moment of thought. “With decent weather … else we’d not land … we should be able t’see their tops’ls over twelve miles away, and would have enough time to get everyone off the beach, at least an hour and a half before they were up within gun range. As I said, it’s only a remote possibility, but, it’s best if we didn’t leave anything to mere chance. Questions? Answers? Anybody want a sweet?” he japed.

There were a few niggling details, mostly answered by Captain Pomfret since they dealt with operations ashore, and a meek gripe from Midshipmen Hillhouse and Britton that, if there was a possibility of a sea-fight in the offing, was there any way for them to get back aboard Sapphire before it happened, the answer to which was “no”; they had a responsibility to speed the men of the 77th back aboard Harmony, then aid Captain Hedgepeth in driving his ship out of harm’s way as rapidly as she could, and if she was overtaken, organise the boat crews into as stout a resistance as possible.

The meeting broke up soon after that, and Lewrie and his two Marine officers took a boat back to Sapphire.

“Beg pardon, sor, but, we’ll be goin’ out on another’un soon?” his Cox’n Liam Desmond asked as he handled the boat’s tiller.

“Good possibility, Desmond,” Lewrie cryptically muttered back.

“Wish we was goin’ ashore with th’ solgers, sor,” Furfy said. “I got me a taste for them cured Spanish hams, and sure, th’ Spanish must have better wine than wot we can buy here.”

“You go foraging, Furfy, and ye just might get taken by the Dons, like Major Hughes,” Lewrie said with a grin. “No ham or wine, in a Spanish prison hulk, not for the likes of us.”

“You’d be surprised by how raw and bad is the wine that we’ve run across,” Marine Lieutenant Roe told Furfy. “Just peasant swill.”

“Ah, well … someday,” Furfy said, with a disappointed sigh.

“Mister Keane, might you join me in my cabins once we’re back aboard?” Lewrie invited.

“Of course, sir,” Keane replied.

*   *   *

“What do you make of Captain Pomfret?” Lewrie asked once they were seated, and had glasses of cool tea in hand.

“Oh, he’s miles better than Major Hughes, sir!” Keane replied, with a smile on his face. “I gather he’s had far more experience in combat, too. And, having led a light company of skirmishers, he’s much more … flexible,” Keane related, searching for the right word for a second or so. “More … enthusiastic, too. In our latest exercises on the parade ground, he’s not only worked us in separate companies, one covering the advance or retirement of the next, but broke the companies down into platoons of eight or ten men so that part of each company can advance whilst the rest are firing. In our case, he’s drilled us as five files of ten men each, three delivering fire and two in motion, then two firing while three move. He said that he wished that he had a chance to get the troops used to skirmishing in pairs, too, sir … the rear-rank man covering his mate, and taking turns shooting, but, he thought it might be too much, too soon.”

“Sounds … ambitious,” Lewrie said, nodding. “Not that I know all that much about land-fighting, but it may be so novel an approach that the enemy would be confused, and overwhelmed by the speed with which it’s done. So, you’re satisfied, Mister Keane, in the tactics, and with Captain Pomfret?”

“Completely, so, sir,” Keane enthusiastically told him, and that was saying something from a man as stern and sobre as Keane.

“Very good, then,” Lewrie said, glad that the land side of any future landing seemed to be in good hands. “Weather allowing, we will embark the troops tomorrow afternoon, and sail at first light the day after. Thank you, Mister Keane, for your opinions.”

“Aye, sir,” Keane said, finishing his glass of tea and rising.

“More tea, sir?” Pettus asked once Keane had departed.

“No, not for now, Pettus,” Lewrie told him, moving over to the settee where he could sprawl and prop his feet on the tray table. He still had his doubts about striking at the incomplete battery at Cabo de Gata, worried that Mountjoy might be too eager to show his superiors in London that they were getting a good return on the money they’d advanced him, and that he’d chosen Cabo de Gata for lack of actionable information on a better one. Lewrie hoped that Mountjoy hadn’t opted for it out of quiet desperation! If he’d been in charge of selecting targets, he would have waited ’til that battery was complete, but … he wasn’t in charge; he was still a gun-dog to Secret Branch, even after all these years.

“Sit up, beg, sic ’em,” he sourly muttered. “Good boy!”

That drew Chalky from his contemplations of devouring the gulls that alit on the stern gallery’s rails. He came trotting with his tail up, mewing for attention and leapt into Lewrie’s lap for a minute or two of pets, before settling down for a slit-eyed nap, sprawled across Lewrie’s legs.