On Parole in Lisbon

Stephen looked down, desperately trying to still his hands. "Earlier I was... unnecessarily abrasive. To you. There were elements involved that you could not have foreseen. And your loyalty... your loyalty is to who you choose, no matter how undeserving they might be of it."

Raoul lifted his hand in acknowledgement. "Whatever my loyalties, I could not let them kill you. I do not want that. I never wanted that, Dr Maturin. Now, drink some coffee if you wish, but..." he gave a slight smile "... I have to insist that you rest. Do not trouble yourself with me. Whatever has to be done must wait until morning."

Stephen flinched, but nodded. "I..." He brought one leg up to his chest, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against his knee. "Pray give me just a minute - forgive me - then I shall see to your arm. Did they hurt you anywhere else?"

"Take as long as you wish, doctor." Raoul stood and went back to the table, where he emptied his pockets of pistols and knives, with a wry smile. He picked up the pistol he had bought from the shop which also sold second-hand shirts, and reloaded it. He did not think that anyone would dare to attack a gentleman's house, but ...

His left arm throbbed in time with the ache in his head, and the sting of bruising to ribs and legs. Moving the arm added a sharper pain. Dr Maturin still blamed him, then, for having the wrong loyalties, for making foolish choices. He propped his chin on his right hand and watched him.

Stephen looked up in concern when des Sablières did not answer his question. "Capitaine?" He paused, swallowing. "The animal scratched your face. Let me clean it for you. Please."

Raoul looked up as the doctor spoke. He raised a hand to touch the scratch. He was about to suggest that this too was nothing that could not wait until morning, but hesitated, surprised by the expression on the doctor's face. "Of course," he replied softly. "If you are sure you are well..."

Stephen wiped at his face with his sleeve, standing up and leaning heavily on the table. "Some water - warm water would be best - is there any water?"

"Sit down," Raoul said as Dr Maturin rose. "You are in a far worse condition than I. How do you expect to be able to help me, when you cannot even stand on your own? I did not realize..." He had known, of course, but Maturin would insist that was nothing wrong with him. It put Raoul in an impossible condition. He wondered if he should ask Dawson to send a note to Dr Crozier - to come and treat both of them. But Maturin would not want anyone else, not even a Royal Navy surgeon, involved, and Raoul could see why.

Stephen sat down, and looked up beseechingly at des Sablières. "I just want to... I can help, but perhaps if I could just ask first for some thread, and a needle, and warm water. I regret to admit that I am somewhat shaken; it is no doubt a sequaela..."

"I shall ask Mr Dawson for warm water. And a needle and thread, though I am not sure..." Raoul did not know what sort of needle and thread they would have here, but he imagined the doctor stitching his arm with bright embroidery silks, so that it resembled his sister's sampler - though probably with more even stitches and much less cobbled. The smile that the thought brought was still on his face, as he said: "It will take some time to find it - rest now, and we can see how you feel." He turned to the door to pass on the doctor's request. Dawson would be bound to report his charge's strange behaviour...

Stephen attempted a smile in return. He drew a deep, shuddering breath as des Sablières stepped into the corridor to find Mister Dawson. He had been intending to confront Coelho tonight - what if he killed again? What if he had already finished the list, and fled? What if- He folded his arms on the table and placed his head on them, feeling overwhelmed. The risks des Sablières had taken, without a second's hesitation, after Stephen had said such things, implied such things...

Raoul returned to the sitting room with a spark of mischief mixed with the exaltation of battle. "Mr Dawson is not pleased with me - or with you," he said. "I think you - a naval officer and a physician - are leaning me into bad company, where brawls are commonplace - unless it was a fracas. I have been so discreet... He will allow you to stay tonight, but tomorrow you must go - and I too, if the authorities can find me somewhere else to say." The pleading look in his grey eyes was softened by the smile on his mouth. "They know this place, anyway. We should move."

Stephen looked up. "I am sorry," he said - tearfully, to his great shame. "I will find somewhere, I promise; I must go to Padstowe as soon as I can in any case - I told him I would be back - he will sign whatever you need - I will find somewhere safe."

"Not tonight," Raoul repeated, "or not alone." He raised the other pistol he had collected. "Is this yours?"

Stephen nodded miserably.

Raoul passed it to him without comment. He had begun to like this quiet bourgeouis house with its solemn and sombre paintings, its library of improving books, and the peaceful room he had been allotted. And wondered where he would go from here.

Raoul was touched by the look of misery and leaned across to lay his hand on Stephen's arm. "It is not your fault, either. You have loyalties, but you have treated me well even though I do not share them."

Raoul's kindness undid him; Stephen squeezed his eyes shut. "I have brought you nothing but trouble. I am the cause of all of this, and you are so-"

Raoul patted the doctor's arm. "You are not the cause. And it was not you that brought me into trouble. We will sort this out, and one day, God willing, we will be able to meet without this argument over loyalties." His smile lit up his grey eyes. "And without squabbling over who is the most injured."

Stephen looked up at des Sablières, swallowing the sob in his throat. Had Stephen not gone to Prideaux, he would back in Porto by now, but he could not bear to remind him of this. "God willing, indeed," he whispered, giving a trembling smile then dipped a cloth into the basin of warm water des Sablières had brought in. "Look up, now..."

Raoul saw the look in Dr Maturin's eyes, and wondered, but he obediently looked up, tilting his head so that the doctor could clean the scratch.

Stephen gently cleaned the scratch to des Sablières' cheek, then wrung out the cloth. "Now your arm - look how the blood has seeped through. C- Could you thread the needle for me?"

Raoul took the needle, and licked the end of the thread, before threading it. He looked at Dr Maturin with real concern drawing his brows together. "This can wait, doctor, I assure you. A fresh bandage, tied more tightly. I shall not bleed to death before morning." He tried another smile.

"I shall feel better knowing that you are whole; oblige me," said Stephen, unwinding the fabric from around the cut on des Sablières' arm. "A nasty little rip," he muttered as he soaked the cloth again and squeezed it with one hand. "This shall sting just a little..."

Raoul twisted his head to watch, and hissed as Dr Maturin started to bathe the cut. "I was fending off the blade, so it twisted a little, otherwise it would have been a mere scratch, I think..." He stopped speaking as the cut began to smart and he blinked. "You are ... "

Stephen paused and met des Sablières's eyes, worried.