For My Country's Freedom Read Online Free

screaming gales.
    Watching Richard, she thought he had somehow expected it. Another twist of fate, perhaps, that would bring James Tyacke back to England: that brave, proud man, the devil with half a face as the Arab slavers had dubbed him. How he would loathe Plymouth, the pitiless and horrified stares each time he showed his terrible scars to the busy world of that naval port.
    Adam had confirmed that Tyacke had sent his first lieutenant to London with the despatches, although a captain would normally be expected to pay homage in person to the Admiralty.
    Catherine saw a candle flickering on the small table where the stairs turned down into semi-darkness. She must have fallen asleep again after hearing them come up. When she had reached out for her man she had found his place empty.
    She felt herself shiver, as though someone were watching her. She looked up at the nearest portrait, Rear-Admiral Denziel Bolitho, perhaps more like Richard than any of the others. He was his grandfather, and the likeness was very strong: the same eyes, and hair as black as a raven. Denziel was the only other Bolitho to have reached flag rank, and now Richard had risen higher than them all, the youngest vice-admiral on the Navy List since Nelson’s death. She shivered again, but not from the cold night air. Richard had told her he would give it all away—for her, for them.
    Richard had often spoken about his grandfather but had admitted he could not really remember him. He had created his impressions from what his father Captain James had told him, and of course from the portrait. With the smoke of battle in the background, Denziel was depicted at Quebec supporting Wolfe. The painter had caught the other man, the man behind the uniform. There was humour in his eyes and mouth. Had he had a mistress, as his grandson did?
    Now that her eyes had become accustomed to the gloom she could see a faint glow from the great fire, then she saw Bolitho. He was sitting on the rug with one arm supporting himself against a chair, the chair where his father had used to sit and read to him. As if he could not bear to look beyond the window, to be reminded that the sea was out there. Waiting, always waiting for the next Bolitho. A goblet of brandy stood by the hearth, catching the dying embers like a magnifying glass.
    Bolitho opened his eyes and stared at her, and she imagined he thought he was caught in a dream.
    He made to rise but she slipped down to his side and raked the embers until there was a lively flicker again.
    Bolitho dragged off his coat and threw it over her shoulders. “Forgive me, Kate, I fell asleep! I had no idea . . .”
    She touched his mouth with her fingers. “It is nothing. I’m glad I woke.”
    Catherine watched his profile, his emotions clear in spite of the shadows. So many times they had sat here like this, talking, listening, needing one another. He was never impatient with her, even when they had discussed her purchase of the collier brig, Maria José. Another man, another sailor might have thought it rash. He had merely said, “We shall have to see when the season begins. It is a bold venture but, even if we fail, the vessel will increase in value.” Always we. Even when they were parted, they were always together.
    He said suddenly, “Adam told me.”
    She waited, feeling his pain as her own, but she said nothing.
    Bolitho continued, “He is in hell because of it, and because of what he believes it may do to me.”
    â€œWill it?”
    He held her more tightly around the shoulders. “Who am I to rebuke him? I took you from another, as I took Cheney.” He looked at her, startled at hearing the name again from his own mouth. “He wanted to leave immediately. In his condition he would have killed himself on those damned roads.”
    â€œI came to you willingly. I loved you, I always did. If I have one regret, it is the waste of years before you found me.”
    He