Full Circle

[intheheart]

Title: Full Circle
Rating: PG-13 for violence.
Summary: Our heroes earn their happy ending.
AU: EPIC PIRATE AU
Notes: THIS IS FINALLY DONE. Finally. My God. STORY OF DOOM HAS BEEN CONQUERED.


In the first twenty-four hours of her daughter's life, two men died.

It would have been more, Gail thought, where she lay in bed with Ivy in her arms, forbidden to rise by Ian's seriousness and Pat's threats. It should have been more, but some of the others had begged. A few spoke of their children. One of them, the spotty-faced boy who'd left his pistol where she could get it, he'd claimed he was his family's sole support. And then Aaron had looked at his father with huge, upset eyes...

He could ask his father for anything, and get it. Gail could wish that she had that power. She wouldn't have asked for those men's lives. She would have watched them die, and felt nothing but a vicious satisfaction.

But Aaron was a child still. He didn't understand the rage that took you over, the sudden realization that there were no limits, none at all, when someone had threatened your child. And if he wasn't her child, precisely, well, he was still five years old, an exceptionally adorable and likable five-year-old. He loved her, she was fairly sure, with all of his small heart. It would get her heart broken, maybe, but there was nothing wrong with loving him.

Now, if the same was only true of his father.

There. She'd admitted it to herself. Wasn't that supposed to be the hardest part?

Ivy hiccupped in her arms and began to cry, experimentally. Gail sighed, lifted her daughter to her chest and hummed softly, a low lullaby her mother had sung to her. Nathan had told her about this trick, which he must have learned when Aaron was small. Something about the heartbeat, or maybe the vibrations of the music, or even just the lullaby itself. Whatever it was, Ivy decided she didn't want to cry after all and went back to sleep, her tiny fists clenched against her chest.

Such a little thing, her daughter. Her whole head could fit in the palm of Gail's hand. Her entire body was barely the size of a loaf of bread. Such a tiny thing, so desperately in need of love and care, and so assured she would receive it. Gail hoped she never lost that confidence, although in this world, there was almost no chance of that.

Of course, she had some advantages. Her father was dead-- if there was ever a man built to destroy a woman's confidence it was Ivy's father-- and if Gail had any say in the matter, Ivy would never know anything about him, not even his name. The Hirschfelds were well established; comfortably off if not precisely rich, well-placed if not precisely well known. Her father, Ivy's grandfather, would take them in. Her baby could have the best possible life, free of starvation and pain and the knowledge that she was unloved.

But only if Gail left.

And there was the trouble.

Because she didn't want to leave. She didn't want to leave this boat, to try to learn to walk on dry land again. She didn't want to change the endless open ocean for the closed-in, limited fields of Kent, to go to bed without the ocean rocking her to sleep. She didn't want to leave Aaron, to get up in the morning and not have a bright, eager child to teach.

And most of all she didn't want to leave Nathan.

Maybe she wouldn't have to. She could... and she could not believe she was thinking this, given the way it had turned out last time... she could marry him. She could stay with him, with Aaron, with the ship. She wouldn't have to leave.

Nathan wasn't her former husband, after all. That man-- she wouldn't even think his name-- she knew what he wanted now, although she hadn't known it then. How could she have? She'd been young. The sly touches, the heated looks... for heaven's sake, he'd even managed to coax his way beneath her skirts not long before they married. He'd wanted her, she'd thought. Only her. She'd been so stupid it made her want to spit.

Because he hadn't wanted her at all. He'd wanted her dowry. And when her father had refused it, he'd been stuck with a wife he hadn't wanted, and soon a child he'd wanted even less. He'd been very clear about that.

Thank God he was dead. Ivy was her daughter now, hers, and no one else's.

But Nathan was different. Nathan looked at her; not her station, not her money, not even her belly, but at her. And something about the way he did made her breath come short.

This could be a good life too. One with a lot more bloodshed, admittedly, but Gail had discovered in herself a surprising capacity for bloodshed. She hadn't flinched when Nathan killed that man, hadn't even cared terribly much. And if she could have gotten her hands on the Spanish who killed her friends and threatened her... well. It might essentially be a life of thievery, but stealing from the Spanish was quite frankly a favor to the world. Especially in wartime. There was something in serving one's country.

This life might even be better for her daughter than the safe but confined life waiting at home. There was Pat, after all, still a little cross but otherwise recovered, clearly very happy with her life. As strange as it was, it was her life, something she'd chosen. There was freedom here, if Gail could take it. If he wanted her.

The trouble was that she didn't know what she wanted for her daughter; the chance of freedom, or safety. And she knew very well what her default choice had to be.

He'd said something to her, not long before the mutiny, when they'd sat together in the dim light of his cabin and spoken of their children. Once you have a child, they become everything.

She'd known he was right. But she hadn't known until now what he meant.

--

The three weeks to Plymouth went by much, much too fast.

The first week was quiet. The former mutineers kept a wary on Nathan; he watched them every second, and locked them in the hold when he couldn't. Aaron, fascinated by the baby and probably a little traumatized by the mutiny, stayed mostly in the captain's cabin, talking to Gail and admiring her daughter.

Nathan found things he needed to do, and stayed away.

The second week Gail grew tired of being confined to her cabin, and began making excursions outside. After much begging, Aaron got to hold baby Ivy, and sat in frozen awe at the baby on his lap, hardly daring to breathe, until Gail took her away again. Nathan, watching out of the corner of his eye, felt his heart constrict, and found more things to do to keep himself busy.

Somehow they always brought him circling back to the corner of the deck where Gail sat with her daughter in her arms, looking so right there that his heart hurt even more.

The third week was shorter than it ought to have been, because a fair wind sprang up and blew them practically straight into the harbor at Plymouth. At which point, Nathan realized that not all the duties in the world were going to save him from this.

"She's not well enough," Pat informed him, as they stood at the prow and watched Plymouth coming ever closer. "She shouldn't leave."

Nathan did not look at her. "How do you expect me to stop her?" he asked. "She could probably take me."

"Oh, please," Pat said. "I have known you way too long to be fooled by that. You don't want her to go."

"Does it matter?" he asked. Plymouth grew incrementally larger. "She does what she wants."

"And now you're not answering my question." She snorted. "Just tell her you don't want her to go. Problem solved."

Nathan sighed, and contemplated going back to the helm and turning away from Plymouth. He could claim a sudden rogue wind had sprung up, blown them back out to sea, requiring them to go to Plymouth via Scotland. Or Portugal. Or the New World.

"It isn't that simple," he told Pat, and himself. "I wish it was."

"You're making this much too hard," Pat told him, and then, mercifully, left.

The spire of a church down by the docks came into view, a square and blocky sight that usually made him feel better. Almost home, it said to him, and it wasn't its fault that home was less desirable than usual.

What did Pat know, anyway? She was right in some ways. He could ask Gail to stay. There was nothing stopping him from doing it, no inconvenient spouses or religious vows. He could go down to his cabin right now and tell her that he loved her, and wanted her to stay. He could do that.

But what possible incentive did she have to say yes?

When he looked at his life, really looked at it, he could find nothing. The only things he had of any real value were his son and his ship. Aaron was wonderful, and he did believe that Gail loved the boy, but no woman in her right mind would marry a man purely for his son, nor would he really want her to. His ship, much as he loved her, was an old thing, sturdy but patched together, serviceable but ugly. A good ship as far as she went, but nothing like what Gail must be used to.

And what else was there? Eight months of every twelve spent on the water, in cramped and dirty and dangerous conditions. A small and dingy house in Plymouth that he didn't even live in most of the time, preferring to stay with Davy and Emma and their daughter. A career that might get him killed at any minute, and leave her alone with an infant and a child that wasn't even hers. No riches, no gems, no feasts or servants or influence at court... he couldn't give Gail one tenth of the life she'd lived before he met her.

Besides, there was her husband. He'd heard just enough about the man to make him hate him with every breath he took, but when you got right down to it, was he really any better for her? Oh, he had a steady living, and he loved Gail, but what was that worth, in the end?

She was a lady, highborn, educated. She could marry well, a squire or a knight, someone who would take care of her like she deserved. Hell, she could have an earl, if she put her mind to it. What man in his right mind would reject her? Her courage, her beauty, her strength and her will and her mind, God. They'd fall all over themselves just to have a moment with her. His little ship and little love wouldn't even be a smudge in her memory, then.

He thought she sometimes looked at him otherwise, sitting in the sun with her daughter in her arms, while he buried himself in work and tried not to look at her. He thought that, once or twice, she might have considered staying, for him.

But even if she did, even if she'd thought about it, how could he in good conscience let her do that? If he really loved her, he had to let her go, back where she would be safe, where everything would be certain.

If, against every chance and possibility, she chose to stay, then he would welcome her with open arms, with every poor thing he had to offer. But she had to make the choice. He couldn't even breathe the idea until she did.

He heard footsteps on the ladder behind him, and turned to see her climbing carefully, her daughter cradled in a sling across her chest and her bodice laced loosely across her chest. He swallowed, mouth suddenly gone dry, and turned back to look out across the sea to Plymouth.

"Is that it?" she asked, coming to stand beside him, one hand on Ivy's head.

"Yes," he said. "Plymouth. You're almost home, my lady."

Gail shook her head once, hard. "No. Don't call me that. I'm not a lady."

"Yes, you are," Nathan said, keeping his eyes on the spire of the church. So close now.

"I'm not," she said. "I'm not. My father is a baronet. That doesn't make me a lady."

It made her more of a lady than he could ever hope for. But he couldn't say that. "As you wish, mistress."

She reached out, as if to touch his arm, then drew back and put her arms around Ivy, hugging her to her chest. "Did I do something wrong?"

"What?" he asked, startled enough that he turned to face her. "Why on earth would you say that?"

Gail didn't answer directly. "I know I said I wouldn't have the baby," she said. "I really thought I wouldn't. These things are not exactly easy to predict."

"I know," Nathan said, thinking of Emma, who had apparently gone into labor in the middle of church services. "I don't care. It isn't as if you asked for it to happen."

She looked him straight in the eye then, and his mouth went dry again, with apprehension this time. "Then why have you been avoiding me?" she asked. "I don't think we've spoken three sentences together since Ivy was born."

"I haven't been avoiding you," he lied. "I've been busy. I'm sorry for it, but I do have less than a quarter of the crew I usually sail with."

Gail made an irritated little motion of one hand. "Oh, I understand that, but... I don't know. You never talk to me anymore. I don't..." She stopped suddenly, looked out at the town spread over the hills.

Nathan realized that he was holding his breath, waiting for her to speak.

"I don't want to part on bad terms," she said at last, slowly. "I... like you, Nathan. I don't want this to be the end."

And that put paid to even the tiny shred of hope that he might have nursed, in the back of his heart. She spoke so certainly.

"I've been busy," he said, again, because he could not tell her the truth. "I'm sorry for it. I would have liked to spend the time with you."

She looked at him then, an unreadable expression on her face. "Would you have?" she asked. "Really?"

He couldn't answer that either.

They stood in silence for a while, Nathan so aware of her body beside his that he hardly dared to breathe.

"I have to go," she said, abruptly. "Do you know that? I have to. For Ivy."

"I know," he said, even though he had no real idea what she meant him to understand. He hesitated then, unspoken words crowding behind his lips, and met her eyes, such a deep, intense green, the color of the ocean foaming beneath his ship.

He had so much he wanted to say, so much that it strangled him. Why even try? It could never be enough.
"Safe journey," he said, and walked away.

He tried not to hear the noise she made. But it broke his heart all the same.

--

The journey home took two weeks.

At first, standing on the bustling docks of Plymouth with her daughter in her arms, a broken heart, and not much else, Gail had been at an utter loss. Travelling was hard enough when you had a carriage, or even a horse, and she was still not completely healed. She'd started walking eventually, with a vague idea of getting herself home on her own two feet, but she hadn't got any further than the outskirts of town before she had to sit down, her feet throbbing, her arms aching.

Then something had chinked in the bag Aaron had given her before she left. He'd said it was a present, but run away before she could open it, and she hadn't looked inside since. She'd expected a drawing, perhaps, or a shiny rock, the kind of thing a five-year-old would treasure.

She had not expected a handful of gold coins, heavy in her hands. Enough to get her home, feed and house her on the way, and more.

Aaron had not thought of this.

She hadn't spent nearly as much as she could have. She'd hired a wagon rather than a carriage, stayed in barns and alehouses instead of inns, saving coins so maybe, someday, she could return to Plymouth and pay Nathan Kendall back. She didn't really expect it to happen, but it was a small hope, something to hold on to during those endless, blurry days jolting across the rutted roads of England. Ivy cried and slept and woke to cry again, her body ached abominably, she slept poorly because of it and all the while she moved slowly, inexorably home.

The wagon left her at the entrance to Hirschfeld Hall, and for a long time she just sat there, holding Ivy and staring up at the doors. She should knock, but she was so unutterably tired, and now that she'd got here she was a little afraid. What if they wouldn't take her in after all? What if her father simply closed the door in her face? She had enough money to get back to Plymouth, but why should Nathan take her back, when she'd left him so shortly?

It was funny. She'd sustained herself all the way from the Portuguese coast with the image of these doors looming over her head just like this. And now that she was here, she didn't want it anymore.

No choice, she thought, and knocked.

To her utter surprise, Cecily opened the door, her red hair bound back in a kerchief and an apron on over a plain linen dress. "I'm sorry," she began, obviously practiced, then stopped dead, staring at Gail as if she'd seen a ghost.

"Hello, Cecily," Gail said, and tried not to show that she was frightened.

Cecily stared for another endless heartbeat, then shrieked, "Gail!" and flung her arms around her sister.

The fear evaporated, and Gail hugged back with her free hand, so relieved she very nearly burst into tears. "Cecily," she said, and pressed her face into her sister's shoulder. "My God, my God, I am so glad to see you!"

"Me too," Cecily said, breathlessly, her arms like iron bands around Gail's ribs. "We thought you were dead, Gail! Oh, come inside, come inside, you look exhausted! Martha! Martha, get Mother and Father, quick! Tell them Gail's come home!"

A whirlwind of time later, Gail was clean, comfortable, dressed in one of her sister's dresses and sitting by the fire, warm wine in her hand and a veritable feast spread out on a table before her. Cecily sat at her feet, cradling Ivy and making cooing noises at her; her father sat across from her, watching her as if he couldn’t watch enough. Her mother fussed around, checking her wine, her seat. It felt safe, like she hadn't been in far, far too long, and she bit back tears again.

"Eat," her mother said, making little fluttery motions with her hands. "God's teeth, child, you look as if you haven't been properly fed in months."

She hadn't, but she wasn't about to tell Sophia Hirschfeld that. Obediently, Gail ate, basking in her mother's fussing, her father's gaze, her sister's voice. She'd missed this so, so much.

"Where's your husband?" her father asked, after a time.

Gail made a face. "Drowned," she replied, shortly. "Months ago. It was a mistake, Father."

Sir Jack Hirschfeld nodded, looking unsurprised but sad. "I know," he said. "I... had hoped I was wrong, though."

"Yes, well. I got some good things out of it." She made herself smile, and tried not to think of Nathan. "Ivy, for one."

"She's beautiful," Cecily cooed. "Isn't she beautiful, Father? Your first grandchild."

He looked a little unsure of that, but his wife bent down to Cecily and Ivy and said, "She's lovely. You must be so proud of her. But my poor baby, having to give birth all alone! Was it very hard?"

A ghost of the pain thrilled along Gail's nerves, and she shivered. "Yes," she said. "It was awful. But I wasn't alone, Mother, I..." She faltered, and shook Nathan away again. "I wasn't alone. The people on the ship helped me."

"Portuguese men?" her father asked, somewhat doubtfully.

"No," Gail said. "It was an English ship. And there were women aboard." Or, well, a woman, and the dirty work had all been done by men, but she wasn't about to tell her parents that. In fact, she wasn't about to tell them anything that she had gone through, besides the barest of the bare bones.

She planned to leave the pirates out of it entirely. And the mutiny. Especially the mutiny.

"My poor love," Sophia Hirschfeld said, and hugged Gail tightly against her again. "What you must have suffered. Well, you're home safe now, and that's all that matters."

"Yes," her father said, smiling warmly at her. "We'll take care of you, my love. A little time to rest, and then I'll take you to court. See about getting you a proper husband."

Gail blinked. "I... what?"

"We'll have to hire a wet nurse," Sophia said, plans ticking away behind her eyes. "It would be best if it was someone with overall nursing experience, I think. Then you can leave Ivy here when we go."

Gail straightened in horror. Leave Ivy? "No!" she said. "No. I won't leave Ivy."

Sophia laughed, a practiced tinkling sound. "Oh, my dear. You'll have to work at court, I'm afraid. You can't be worrying about a child when you do. She'll be much happier here, I promise." She brightened. "Ooh, perhaps we could get you a position as one of the queen's ladies! Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

Cecily made a face up at Gail. "Run," she whispered.

"Mother," Gail said, ignoring her sister. "Father, thank you, but no. I don't want to go to court, I don't want to be a lady in waiting, and I certainly don't want to leave Ivy." She looked down at her daughter, sleeping peacefully in Cecily's arms. "She's my daughter."

"Yes, love," Jack said, in his patient voice. "Of course. It would really be better for you if she wasn't quite so much in sight, though. Not that she'll be any trouble, I'm sure, but you really can't have an infant in tow when you're husband-hunting."

Gail stood, bent down, and took Ivy from Cecily's arms. "I won't be husband-hunting," she said, as she straightened. "And I won't leave her. I can't."

Her father smiled up at her, and for a moment she thought she'd convinced him. Then he said, "We'll give you some time, my heart. That's all you need."

Gail looked at his indulgent smile, at her mother's uncomprehending face, at her sister's puzzled expression, and felt her throat close over. "I'm tired," she said, at last. "I think I'd like to go to bed."

"Of course, dear," her mother said, and got up to take her there.

--

The days passed, slow and sleepy as they'd always been in Kent, and Gail began to realize the enormity of her mistake. Not a day went by when she didn't think of Nathan, of Aaron, of the whole world and life she'd left. Not a day went by when she didn't wish that she'd stayed.

It wasn't that her family didn't care. They loved her deeply, and she saw the worry on their faces, the concerned looks they exchanged. It was just that she didn't want this world any more, and they couldn't understand that. How could they? They'd never known anything else.

They'd never stood at the prow of a ship and felt the wind in their hair. They'd never tried to break a man's neck for threatening a child. They'd never...

Oh, she needed to stop this. It was only depressing her.

But still she sat in windows, looked out at the rolling green fields and saw the sea instead, stretching endlessly to the horizon. Still she sat down at a table and half-expected to see Aaron sitting across from her, waiting patiently for his lessons. Still she held her daughter and saw Nathan leaning over her, moving to put her child in her arms for the first time.

They tried, her family. They did. But they didn't understand.

The morning after she almost told Cecily about Nathan, her father came in to her room and sat down on her bed. Gail, caught in her shift, froze with her hair half-combed. "Father?" she asked, cautiously. "Is everything all right?"

He gave her a long, searching look, then said, "I don't know, Gail. Is it?"

She looked away, towards Ivy's cradle beside her bed. "No," she said, eventually. "Not really."

"I didn't think so." He sighed. "Is it your husband? Do you really mourn him?"

Whatever her expression looked like in that moment, it must have been good, because her father looked vastly relieved even before she said, "No. I don't mourn him at all. He was a mistake, and one I'm glad could be undone."

"Fair enough," Jack said. "So what is the problem?"

Oh, why not. She kept her eyes on Ivy, though, so as not to see his face. "I fell in love," she said.

Her father let out a low whistle. "Oh," he said. "I... with who?"

"With..." She closed her eyes, tilted her head back, remembered Ivy in her belly and Aaron by her side and Nathan, laughing down at them, the corners of his eyes crinkling, the ship creaking beneath them all. "With a man. With a boy. With a ship. With a life. I don't... I can't let go."

Her father was silent. After a moment she opened her eyes and looked at him, and his face was troubled. "Gail," he said, at last, "isn't this the same thing all over again?"

Gail shook her head, and drew her knees up to her chest, a childhood habit she'd thought she'd broken, before Portugal. "No, it isn't. It isn't," she insisted, at his skeptical look. "I know how that felt, and I know how this feels. It isn't the same." She smiled rather self-deprecatingly. "To begin with, this man doesn't love me enough to ask me to stay."

"Well, good for him," Jack said, his vehement tone surprising her. "He gave you back to us. What sort of life could he have given you, anyway?"

"What do you..." Gail started, and stopped, as several things came together at once.

The sorrow in Nathan's eyes, and the strain in his voice. The way he wouldn't look at her, or talk to her. The way he wouldn't touch her. His face at the end, before he'd turned and walked away.

What sort of life could he have given you, anyway?

"Oh," she said. "Oh. Oh, Nathan."

Her father's eyes narrowed. "Nathan?"

"Nathan Kendall," she said, joy rising. "Remember that name, because I'm going to marry him."

"What?" he yelped.

She laughed, leaned forward, and kissed his forehead. "Don't worry, Father. This time I know what I'm doing."

"You'll forgive me," Jack said acidly, "if I don't have much confidence in that."

Gail shrugged, and got out of bed, then knelt to dig through her chest of clothes. There was the bodice and skirts, the chemise she'd worn, the makeshift sling she used to carry Ivy, even the comfort gown; she drew them all out and laid them on the bed. "Have whatever confidence you like," she said. "But I'm going."

"You can't." She only looked at him. "You can't, Gail! It isn't safe!"

"I'm going," she said again, as gently as she could manage. "Unless you want to lock me up, Father. And even if you do, I'll still go. I just won't come back."

He stared at her, then got up and wordlessly left the room.

Gail looked after him for a moment, then sighed, got dressed, and packed the spares. If that bridge burned, well, that was her price, and it was one she had to pay. She scooped Ivy from her cradle, laid her carefully in the sling, picked up her packs, and opened the door to go.

Cecily stood there, red curls stark against her white face. "You can't go," she said. "I won't let you."

Gail raised an eyebrow. "Listening at doors again, Cecily? I thought you promised to give that up."

Cecily ignored her. "You can't go," she said again, her voice rising. "Gail, you can't! I won't lose my sister twice!"

Oh.

She'd forgotten. On the night she'd run away with her mistake, she'd seen Cecily, her face pressed against a window. She'd met her sister's eyes, then turned away, heart breaking just a little bit. Apparently Cecily's heart had broken a lot more.

She couldn't stop now, not for Cecily, not for anyone. But maybe she could help, a little.

"There's only one way you'll ever lose me, Cecily," she said, as gently as she could manage. "And that's if you stop me now."

Cecily stepped back, looking wounded. "You can't go," she pleaded, eyes huge in her face. "Gail..."

"I love you," Gail said. "I always will. But this is not the place for me."

Her sister looked away then, anywhere but at Gail's face. "You can't," she said, quietly.

"I am," Gail replied, and then, "I hope you can forgive me."

Cecily didn't respond to that. But she did step aside.

Gail put a hand on her shoulder. "I love you," she repeated softly, and left.

--

Nathan woke up on a bright May morning two days before they were due to sail once again, and found his son gone.

He didn't panic. Not at first. Aaron often woke up before he did, and while he usually stayed in the cabin, sometimes he wandered to the galley in search of breakfast, or into the cabin next door, to get Ian or Davy or even Pat to entertain him. Lately, he'd taken to going up in the crow's nest, to look for Gail.

It broke Nathan's heart, to see his son waiting so patiently for someone who wasn't coming back. He tried to explain, but Aaron was just a child; he didn't understand that sometimes people couldn't stay. He insisted Gail was coming back.

Nathan wished sometimes that he could believe that. Mostly at night, when he lay in the bunk with the pillow that smelled of her and stared at the ceiling. At least during the day he had things he could do, to take his mind of it.

Not that it mattered. Soon they'd be back out at sea, wind in the sails, cutting through the ocean. A few months of sailing and he'd forget her, go on as he always had.

Not that he really believed that.

He went out on deck, rubbing his eyes, and surveyed the ship. Most of the crew was on shore leave. Ian, all his sisters apparently displeased with him, had stayed, as had Pat, still a bit too dizzy to do her usual job. Not that Pat was speaking to him anyway; she thought he was a coward, or possibly an idiot, or more probably both. Ian likely thought the same, but at least he had the decency to keep his mouth shut about it.

"Morning, Ian," he said, strolling over to his friend, who lounged on a pile of rope mending a sail. "Have you seen Aaron?"

Ian looked up at him, looking puzzled. "Uh, no," he said. "Isn't he in the cabin with you?"

Nathan shook his head, and yawned. "No, I think he went to get breakfast. He was gone when I woke up, anyway." Ian went white at that, and Nathan froze. "What?"

"Nathan," he said. "Nathan, I've been keeping watch here since midnight. No one's come out of your cabin."

"What?" Nathan shook his head. "No, no, he's just down getting breakfast. You missed him."

"I didn't," Ian said, but Nathan turned away from him anyway, went down to the galley. Aaron would be down there eating his breakfast. He'd laugh in relief and then go yell at Ian for making his heart stop in his chest. That was all. Everything would be all right.

Except Aaron wasn't in the galley, nor, as a rapid search revealed, was he anywhere on the ship.

Nathan stood in the middle of the deck, running his hands through his hair, trying frantically to think of somewhere, anywhere, that his son might have gone. "Davy's," he said. "Davy's. He might have gone to Davy's."

"Worth a look," Ian said. His voice was doubtful, and so was Nathan if it came to that, but where the hell else could he look? Plymouth was a big town and Aaron was a small boy and oh, God, his son was gone, had been gone for at least eight hours and he didn't know where his son was.

"I'm going," he said, and started towards the gangplank. "Watch the ship."

And then Aaron arrived at the top of the gangplank and cried, "Papa!" in a gleeful voice. Nathan's heart stopped again, then kicked up in relief. He crossed the deck between him and his son in three strides, scooped Aaron up and crushed him against his chest.

"Papa," Aaron squeaked. "Papa!"

"Don't you ever, ever do that again," he said, and loosed his grip a little so he could give Aaron the sternest look he could manage while being so relieved. "You scared ten years off my life, young man!"

"But, Papa," Aaron started.

"No buts," Nathan said. "Don't you ever go anywhere without telling me where you're going!"

"Papa," Aaron said, again.

"Do you know what I thought?" he demanded, and shook his son a little. "I thought someone had taken you away from me! What in God's name did you think you were doing?"

"Papa," Aaron said, this time so emphatically that Nathan paused. "I went to find Gail."

His heart sank. Oh, God. If Aaron was sneaking off the ship to go find her, he had to crush that fantasy and he had to do it now, but oh, how it would hurt. "Aaron," he said, carefully. "Aaron, love, you have to stop that. She isn't coming back."

"But she did!" Aaron said, and for the third time that morning his heart did something odd in his chest. "I found her, Papa! She's right down there." He pointed down the gangplank.

Heart in his throat, Nathan edged forward, his son on his hip, and looked down, and there was Gail, Ivy in her arms, her expression half-defiant and half-pleading and she was the most beautiful thing he had ever, ever seen.

"Wait here," he said, and put Aaron down. "And don't think this is over, young man. We're still going to talk."

"That's all right," Aaron said, cheerfully. "Gail's back!"

He moved down the gangplank as if in a dream. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he'd wanted her so badly he'd made her up, imagined her. Maybe... but then he reached the bottom and she was right there, so close he could hear her breathing, see her eyes, huge and green in the sunlight.

Then she said, "You stupid, stupid man," went on tiptoe, and kissed him, full on the lips.

When it ended, some time later, there was water on her eyelashes, and on his cheeks, and he was definitely not dreaming. "Don't you ever let me leave again," she ordered him. "Marry me."

"Don't you ever leave again," he told her, and put his arms around her, carefully, so as not to crush the baby. "Yes. Of course."

Gail put her head on his shoulder, and she felt so natural and right there that his breath came faster. "I thought you didn't want me," she said. "You stupid man."

"I have nothing to offer you," he told her. Best to just get that out there, so this could end, if it was going to. "I love you, but that's all."

"That’s all I ever wanted," Gail said, and he leaned down and kissed her again, so happy he thought his heart might burst.

Davy came up some time later, looked at Gail in the circle of his arm, looked at Nathan, and said, "You have got to be kidding."

"Shut up, Davy," Nathan said, and beamed.