Free Cross of St George by Alexander Kent Page A

guessed.
    She had exclaimed, “Need? Self-indulgence, more likely! I’ll not have that woman troubling you, Richard.”
    When the inn had fallen quiet for the night they had held one another and talked, until desperate passion had brought them together for the last time.
    They heard Matthew speaking softly with Ferguson. Ferguson had insisted on accompanying them, and would escort Catherine back to Falmouth rather than entrust her to the protection of a paid guard. He and Matthew had remained in the inn parlour yarning and drinking until they had eventually retired, Ferguson to one of the rooms, Matthew to sleep with his horses as he always did on the road.
    Catherine twisted round to look at him again. “Remember, I am always with you. I shall write often, to let you know how it looks in Falmouth, at our house.” She touched the lock of hair above his right eye; it was almost white now, and she knew he hated it. She thought the savage scar beneath it must be the cause; the rest of his hair was as black as it had been on the day she had first seen him.
    She murmured, “ So proud, Richard.” She lowered her head and her fist struck the seat. “I will not weep. We have gone through so much, and we are so lucky. I will not weep.”
    They had decided that they should part before he joined the ship: so different from that other time when she had climbed Indomitable ’s side and been cheered by Tyacke’s sailors, many of whom had since died in that last fight with Beer’s Unity .
    But now that the time had come, it was hard to contemplate leaving her.
    Reading his thoughts, she said suddenly, “May we get out, Richard, just for a few minutes?”
    They climbed down and he took her arm as her cloak billowed out in the wind. Bolitho did not need any gauge: he knew the feel of it. A sailor’s wind. The Royal Enterprise would be tugging at her cable, eager to go. He had known it all his life, though rarely as a passenger.
    And there, like a dark, twisting snake, was the Hamoaze, and beyond it, misty in the damp air, Plymouth and the Sound.
    She said quietly, “The hills of Devon, Richard. How well I know these places, because of you.”
    â€œWe have done and shared so much.”
    She put her fingers on his mouth. “Just love me, Richard. Say that you will always love me.”
    They walked back to the carriage where Matthew stood by the horses, and Ferguson, shapeless in a big coachman’s caped coat, sat in silence, sharing it, as he had so many times.
    The door closed and they were moving again. Downhill now, with more people about, some of whom pointed at the crest on the coach, and cheered without knowing if it was occupied or empty.
    Houses next, a stableyard he remembered from his time as a junior lieutenant. He held her and looked at her, knowing what it was costing, for both of them. She was beautiful, despite the shadows beneath her eyes, as he always saw her when they were separated by the ocean.
    She was saying, “I shall keep very busy, Richard. I shall help Bryan, and I will visit Nancy more often. I know she frets over Lewis. He will heed nothing the doctors tell him.”
    Matthew called, “We’re here, Sir Richard.”
    She clung to his arm. “I shall walk with you to the jetty. They may not have sent a boat yet. I can keep you company.”
    He touched her face, her hair. “The boat will be there. I am an admiral. Remember?”
    She laughed. “And you once forgot to tell me!”
    He embraced her. Neither moved. There was no baggage: it had been sent ahead. All he had to do was get out, and walk through the gate and to the jetty. It was so simple. That was probably what they had told themselves on the way to the guillotine …
    He opened the door. “Please stay here, Kate.” He held her again, and she leaned over and kissed him. Then he stepped back and stared at the others. “Take good care of