Eyes the colour of the sky sparkled with amusement. Zachary grinned widely and Gethin felt tendrils of heat winding around his body, dancing over his shoulders, down his back, between his thighs. Pressing high and hard.
Zachary’s smile fell. Concern warred with disgust and mistrust where his gaze had previously held an invitation to friendship. He opened his mouth and, in an accent completely foreign to his normal American drawl, said, “I’m telling you mate, he’s a bloody Navy Cake.”
Blinking, Gethin struggled to wake, confusion and the lingering horror from his dream keeping him bogged down in a sleepy haze. Men on the other side of his curtain continued their whispered conversation, oblivious to his presence.
Obviously, the words his dream had attributed to Zachary had been part of this conversation, weaving themselves into his sleeping consciousness.
He’d heard the expression before; on his first ship he’d embarrassed himself by asking if they were having Navy Cake for dessert. Someone amongst the jeers and laughter had explained it was a poofter. And he knew what a poofter was. He heard the whispered tales, knew there were men who were attracted to their own kind. Homosexuals. Poofters. Queers. He’d never met one. But they were slight men who wore flamboyant clothes and flapped their hands when they talked, their voices a high-pitched affectation.
He’d never considered himself in those terms. Wouldn’t allow it? Couldn’t? But there was his response to the shearers. His admiration of Dipesh and attraction to Zachary. Attraction and inappropriate bodily reactions.
Putting a name to his affliction at least explained his unnatural desires—and his father’s determination to beat them out of him—although it in no way excused either. Events of the last few weeks struck Gethin with a clarity he should have found alarming but, instead, felt strangely liberating. The sense of peace he found in Zachary’s company. The twist of anticipation low in his belly every time the wardroom bell rang. The urge to lean into Zachary’s touches, and how even the briefest press of the lieutenant’s fingers could set Gethin’s heart stuttering like a machine gun.
It was mortifying to admit, even to himself, but that was why the thought of Zachary and the sound of his voice through the door of the heads had been the catalyst he’d needed.
It made the decision he’d been pondering before he fell asleep much easier. There could be no possible way he could continue to steward for someone he desired. Not when being alone with Zachary would involve suppressing the urge to touch, or storing each innocent smile in his memory to be morphed by desire into something depraved.
A visit to the captain would be in order. As soon as he could leave his berth without the whisperers knowing they’d been overheard. He should tell the lieutenants first, out of common courtesy, but he had no doubt Zachary would demand to know the reason. Or worse, quietly watch him with that now familiar look of consternation.
No, he’d go straight to the captain.
The muttered conversation on the other side of the curtain once again caught his attention.
“A queer? Nah, I’ve heard talk of the stories he tells. He’s fucked every dame in America.”
“I got a letter from a mate in the know. Picks up a lot a gossip. Reckons MacKenzie left the States under a cloud. It was all ‘ushed up ‘cos it involved another senior officer and they’re both lah-di-dah knobs who can buy silence, but—”
“Yeah, but to transfer to boats? All these men in an enclosed space, that’s just asking for trouble if you can’t keep your hands to yourself.”
“Exactly. Anyway, my mate said…”
Relief they hadn’t been talking about him, that his secret was still just that, was quickly replaced by righteous indignation on Zachary’s part, since they couldn’t be talking about anyone else. As the shock started to fade, Gethin recognised the more vitriolic of the speakers. That voice belonged to the weasely, shagnasty Ryan, who worked in the diesel hold and spent all his time aft.
How dare he cast aspersions on Zachary? Gethin had overheard enough of Zachary’s stories to know they were all about women. Gethin’s reaction to the looks Zachary gave him was all about his body’s responses to the handsome officer, not something Zachary could possible want. Weren’t they?
Gethin let the men’s words fade into the background as he concentrated on recalling every interaction he’d had with Zachary since they set off from Portsmouth.
“Coffee, sir.” Gethin placed the mug on the table, taking the utmost care not to spill it. Once more the lieutenant occupied the wardroom on his own and Gethin felt a twinge of regret at his loneliness.
Huh. Early in the journey, Zachary’s wellbeing had been paramount in Gethin’s thoughts. How had he never noticed his attraction before now?
“Anything else I can get you?”
Glancing over the top of his mug, Zachary’s gaze swept up the length of Gethin’s body, a playful gleam in his eyes, before finally meeting Gethin’s gaze head on. Sometimes Zachary reminded Gethin of a wolf. A starving wolf with Gethin a defenceless rabbit. Which was ridiculous, because he didn’t fear Zachary in the slightest.
“I’m sure Chef would let me make you a sandwich if you’re hungry?”
“Hungry?” Zachary mused, then hummed thoughtfully. “But not for a sandwich.”
“Sorry, sir, then you’ll just have to wait ‘til dinner.”
“I can wait, Gethin.” His voice soft, Zachary bobbed his head in a slow nod as if imparting a fact of great wisdom rather than passing up the chance of a snack. “You’ll find I can be extremely patient when I need to be.”
Extremely patient and persistent. How many times had Zachary asked Gethin to call him by his name when they were alone? Every time Gethin denied his request—even though he wanted to—and still Zachary asked.
Gethin laughed as he settled onto the bench seat and plucked the shirt Zachary held out to him from pliant fingers. “Sir, you’re possibly the hardest person on your clothes I have ever met.”
Zachary pouted, the expression so comical on a man of his rank Gethin couldn’t help but laugh again.
His bottom lip, lush and full, slightly shiny in the bright white light overhead, had distracted Gethin for several long moments. In the deep recesses of his mind, had he already been wondering how Zachary’s flesh would taste if he flicked his tongue across it or sucked it into his mouth?
“It’s not my fault, it’s Moore’s bed.” Zachary inclined his head and Gethin glanced in that direction. “It keeps attacking me.”
Gethin chuckled, and a comfortable silence descended for a few minutes as he matched thread to Zachary’s white shirt.
“Anyway,” Zachary continued, “Maybe I like the opportunity to spend some time just talking to you.”
“Talking at me more like,” Gethin responded without thinking. An unexpected silence followed and Gethin glanced up, finding a look of shock and disappointment on Zachary’s face. Backtracking quickly, Gethin stuttered, “I-I mean, you’re a man of the world. Nothing about me could possibly be of interest to you.”
The cryptic smile, which Gethin couldn’t hope to interpret, replaced the melancholy expression of a moment earlier. At least it didn’t make Gethin want to rip his heart out and lay it at Zachary’s feet.
“You’d be surprised how interesting you are, Gethin.”
The way Zachary said his name, all soft vowels and reverence, turned Gethin’s insides molten every time. Nothing like his normal accent that stood out amongst the cockneys and slower sounds of the South coast natives. Gethin could almost believe, if he allowed himself to, his name was uttered with fondness akin to affection. But that would be too much. Gethin might allow himself to hope Zachary suffered the same affliction, fought the same demons, but he’d never let himself dream any attraction could be returned.
Outside his curtain the conversation faltered.
“D’you ‘ear that?”
“This old thing. Makes noises all the time. Surprised I get any sleep aft with all the creaking, and the propeller.”
“Old? It’s only this boat’s second tour—”
“Yeah, yeah, still a noisy old tub, though. What was I saying? Oh yeah, my mate. Of course he didn’t write it in the letter. Written derogatory statements about a senior officer, he’d be out on his arse, true or not. We send messages in Morse code, pin pricks in the paper, and then give more details in the actual letter in code.”
“Oh, very Boy’s Own.” The man whose voice Gethin didn’t recognise sounded amused.
“Scoff all you like, but it works. He’s sent me all sorts of information and no one has ever picked up on it.” A sullen tone crept into Ryan’s voice. “See if I tell you anything else he passes on.”
At the familiar ringing of the wardroom bell Gethin heard the soft shuffle of rubber-soled shoes as the men moved away. He considered Ryan’s words. Not the ones about Zachary, but his last admission about secret messages. Morse code. That was what had been hovering just out of reach of his addled brain, and he could only blame his state of mind for not realising earlier. The vibrations on the hull were Morse. Next time, he’d be prepared and he’d damn well work out what they said.
The scrape of wood on metal runners signalled the opening of the wardroom door. He assumed it was Henry arriving to see to the officers until a voice made him jerk in surprise.
“I’m sure they’re both for’ard and didn’t hear the bell.”
Zachary! Gethin’s heart stuttered and then picked up the pace, like the heartbeat of a baby rabbit when cradled in your hands.
Had Zachary come looking for him? More likely to want Henry these days. Gethin listened intently as the rubber-muffled footsteps came closer, then Zachary paused just outside the curtain. Gethin held his breath. Zachary was close enough for Gethin to touch, but, despite the growing suspicion Ryan’s contact was correct in his rumour-mongering, Gethin didn’t have the courage.
He couldn’t tell how long Zachary stood there while Gethin tried to keep his breathing shallow, but eventually, the footsteps came again, carrying Zachary away from him. Before he left, though, Gethin could’ve sworn he heard his name exhaled on a sigh.
One word and Zachary inadvertently transported Gethin back to that day in the wardroom.
A sharp haul on the steering, combined with the planesman spinning his wheel to open the ballast tanks, had caused the floor to tilt beneath his feet, tossing him like a rag doll until he could grab onto something solid and safe. Pressing Zachary against the wardroom table had been mortifying and, at the time it’d been his own reaction which concerned Gethin, but now he could quite clearly recall the solid press of flesh against his hip.
The last few days had been filled with revelations, but none more shocking than this. Could Zachary possibly want more from Gethin than companionship? Or was that his natural reaction to the sudden proximity of another body?
Whether or not Gethin’s feelings were returned, the knowledge he’d obtained in the last hour made him less anxious about resuming his position as steward. Even if they were nothing but crewmates and—he offered the word up tentatively, even to himself—friends, at least Zachary would be able to understand if he ever became aware of Gethin’s infatuation.
In a seething tide of men constantly ebbing and flowing around him, Zachary had quickly become his safe haven, his calm in a storm. Gethin could only hope he could get that back, but even he, in all his innocence, knew it would no longer be the sheltered, oblivious world it had once been.