"An Exquisitely Written Historical Romantic Suspense with a Twist"
Reviewed by Monique Daoust
Posted February 8, 2015
Romance Historical | Romance LGBTQ
On the way back to England from a mission, Captain
William Marshall and Lieutenant David Archer, agents of
His Majesty's Secret Services, Will's vessel is attacked.
The crew is small, they are not armed to defend
themselves, but they make it mostly unscathed. Except for
the fact that Will felt he committed an unforgiveable
professional sin: he was more concerned for the safety of
his lover, David, than the fate of his vessel and crew.
It seems they have made an enemy. Their superior tells
Will and David to lay low for a while, and since Will
really doesn't have anyone to go to, Davy asks him to
come with him and stay with his family at Grenbrook
Manor. Upon arriving home, Davy is shocked to see his
older brother Mark was killed while hunting. The heir to
the Earldom is now Ronald whom no one likes; Davy feels
something in not right with Mark's untimely demise and
sets out to look discreetly into it, with Will's help.
HOME IS THE SAILOR is Book three in Lee Rowan's Royal
Navy series, and the author provides enough
background, so that I had no problem following Will and
David's story. I had never read a historical romance
between two male characters, and what a splendid
discovery HOME IS THE SAILOR is! Lee Rowan is an
exceptionally gifted writer: the prose is magnificent and
lush, the dialogues respect the era's vocabulary, yet
sound very natural, and Ms. Rowan's attention to detail
is stunning. HOME OF THE SAILOR is also sadly
enlightening when it comes to the consequences awaiting
male lovers in Regency England were they caught, and how
perilous it was to keep such a relationship hidden.
Will and David are superbly fleshed-out characters, as
are all the characters in HOME IS THE SAILOR. Both men
are very engaging, strong and honest; they might have
never met if not for their occupation, because of class
differences. They share a solid friendship, as well as a
loving and tender relationship. I was somewhat surprised
by the near absence of graphic sex, and for this reason,
I would definitely recommend HOME OF THE SAILOR to
someone new to Male/Male romance, and because the
terrific story, great characters, and gorgeous writing
will captivate any discerning reader. HOME OF THE SAILOR
is also a captivating mystery, which concludes in such a
way that I cannot wait for Will and David's future
adventures!
SUMMARY
The Royal Navy meets the Stately English Manor Murder
Mystery, and if it were only a matter of Colonel Mustard
in
the library, things would be so much easier. After an ambush by the French while on a routine
surveillance mission, Will Marshall and David Archer are
advised to retreat to the English countryside to avoid
Bonaparte's animosity for a time. Upon their arrival,
they
discover that David's eldest brother has died after a
mysterious accident and this puts his other, very
unsuitable
brother in line for the title. David's suspicions—that
the
new heir had a hand in his brother’s death—seem so
unreasonable that even Will finds it difficult to believe
his fears are valid. If Davy thought his lover was hard
to
convince, his autocratic father, who still sees him as
the
inept youngest son, won’t even listen to him. Davy and
Will
are thrust into the role of sleuths, trying to determine
the
truth behind the mystery. All the while Will has concerns of his own: his fear of
losing Davy is still stronger than his desire to keep
Davy
beside him on the quarterdeck… but he knows no other life
than the Navy.
ExcerptChapter OneJanuary 1803 NO ONE saw it coming. The only warning of attack was the
shrill whistle of a cannonball, a second before the
schooner Mermaid shuddered under its impact. Splinters
flew from the starboard bow as a puff of smoke on the
high bluff they were passing betrayed the attacker’s
position. “Hard aport!” shouted the Mermaid’s captain, William
Marshall, running back to take the wheel from his bosun,
Barrow. “All hands!” “Aye, sir!” “All hands” was a pitiful fighting force. The Mermaid was
a private vessel and had only four small guns—swivel
guns, at that. They could not defend themselves against a
land-based cannon, and in fact, they had nothing aboard
that could reach their attackers. But his men—twenty of
them, barely enough to work the vessel while their mates
sprang to the guns—responded as though they were still on
the frigate where he’d first commanded them as a
midshipman—his crew, men with whom he’d survived five
years of war. Marshall had not expected anything like this. They’d been
sailing on a quick and supposedly routine mission to pick
up an agent of His Majesty’s Secret Service from the
coast of Spain, and the rendezvous had been uneventful. A
lone fisherman in a rowboat had caught no one’s
attention, and he’d been brought aboard without fuss. All
had seemed well—until now. Marshall pulled the wheel with all his strength, dragging
the Mermaid as close to the cold, powerful wind as he
dared, ticking off the seconds in his mind. He held the
schooner on the new course, fighting the wheel, watching
over his shoulder until he saw the puff of smoke that
signaled the next shot fired. He let the wheel run through his hands, freeing the
rudder to bring her sharply about, bracing himself as the
sloop wheeled over and her sails filled once again. The
second cannonball splashed harmlessly a few yards off the
port bow. He brought her back into a steady run, still
counting off the seconds. The trick had worked—but it
would not work a second time. It wouldn’t have to, though. By the time the crew could
reload, the swift-running Mermaid would be out of range.
If he could get beyond the fishing vessel—a weathered
schooner not much larger than the Mermaid herself—that
lay between them and the open sea, they’d be too poor a
target to even attempt. “Damage?” he called to Barrow. “Rail’s clean off, sir, and we took on some water when
she went over, but she’s got at least a foot clear of the
waterline for now.” “Will we need to fother—Damn!” The apparently harmless craft, which they had passed on
their way into shore, was now bristling with guns; the
notion of passing close to the other vessel was no longer
an option. As the Mermaid came into small-arms range, the
enemy began to fire. At least this was an enemy their little guns could reach.
“Fire as you bear,” Marshall shouted. He could have sworn he heard a similar order from the
other ship, and the pop-pop of the small arms was
punctuated by the boom of an undersized cannon, most
likely a swivel gun like their own. One lucky shot was
all either of them would require, and the fight would be
over. On his present course, he would be past them in
only a few minutes. But with the wind as it was, he could
not veer too far away without risking that damaged
section of bow. If the Mermaid dipped enough to allow the
hole in her bow to scoop up water, not only would she be
impossible to steer, they might well founder, and if any
of his men went into this cold January sea…. He put that fear out of his mind, concentrating instead
on holding her steady in the strong current, hearing a
yelp as one of his men at the starboard gun caught a
flying projectile. His gun crews were at work, though,
even with their pitiful popguns, and he grinned as the
enemy snipers ducked down below their own railing. Just
like old times. A pity they weren’t actually supposed to
engage the enemy…. Then, amid the uproar of conflict, he caught a glimpse of
a familiar figure running about in the smoke and flying
lead, and his heart stopped within him. “Davy, to me!” David Archer ran up, carrying a rifle. “Thought we’d need
this. Orders?” Marshall’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, but his mind
was gibbering, flooded with memories of Davy lying near
death, struck down during the last battle they’d fought
together, carried below with blood staining his white
uniform waistcoat. His throat was so tight he could
hardly speak. “Get below.” Davy frowned. “Sorry, what?” A spent bullet ricocheted off the binnacle, and
Marshall’s whole body jerked in reaction. “Get below.
Now, Davy. Go! I can’t—” Davy glanced about the deck, bit his lip, and nodded. As he disappeared down the stair to the captain’s cabin,
Marshall’s attention returned to the matter at hand. The
fishing boat—Frenchman or Spaniard, it made no
difference, really; that neutral Portuguese flag they
flew was a joke—was coming about, making ready to pursue
them. “Aim for her sails!” he shouted. But the words were
barely out when he felt a ball slam into their own hull,
and the wheel shuddered in his hands. The Mermaid kept
moving, though, gallant little craft that she was. He
prayed the damage was above the waterline, something they
could repair, and then they shot past the other boat and
were out into open water. He whirled at the sound of a shot just behind him, so
close his ears rang. Davy stood there, his face grim.
“You didn’t see the sniper in their chains, did you? He
had you dead in his sights.” Their stern-chaser boomed as if in emphasis, and the
fishing boat faltered as the ball went home, carrying
away their bowsprit and staysail. “Thank you,” Marshall managed. They were out of range
now, and so long as they could keep moving, they would
have their passenger back to the Endymion within a few
hours and make at least part of the trip back to England
under her protection. Though why anyone would bother to
attack them, and under a neutral flag, was the real
question. He could think of only one possible answer, and
he didn’t like it at all, but he had no time to spare for
speculation now. “Take the wheel,” he told Davy, and hurried over to see
about the damage to his ship and crew. The puzzle of why
they had been attacked was secondary to another, far more
critical matter. In the midst of a battle, he had been
completely distracted from the matter at hand—life and
death, his ship and all who sailed aboard her. That was
unconscionable. Marshall had suspected that this would happen when the
treaty was broken and war resumed. He had feared it would
happen; worse than that, he had known it would. And it
left him with an insoluble dilemma. William Marshall was a Commander in His Majesty’s Navy.
He was also, against all laws of God and man, David
Archer’s lover. As his own behavior had just proven
beyond all doubt, he cared more for Davy than for any
living soul, or even for the ship under his command. With Davy aboard, Marshall could not command a ship of
war. And he knew how to do nothing else. He did know enough to stand back and let Barrow direct
the immediate repairs, and to wait until his bosun
stepped back with a nod of approval to ask whether the
damage could be mended. “Aye, we can fix her, sir, well enough for a few days,
but we haven’t materials enough to do a proper job.
Another close call like that, or a bad storm, and we
might lose her.” He had to believe Barrow. The son of a carpenter, Barrow
had gone to sea as a carpenter’s mate and eventually
wound up as bosun aboard the Valiant, a two-deck man-o’-
war that was the last ship on which Marshall and Davy had
served together. Barrow had forgotten more about the
structure of sailing vessels than Marshall had ever
learned; if he said the Mermaid was safe for now, that
was a load off her captain’s mind. The damage would slow
their arrival at the rendezvous, but the weather looked
to hold fair enough, and they had allowed time for such
delays. They could not afford another close call. He
would just have to hope that whoever had attacked them
had expected to succeed and not made plans for a second
attempt. Two of his men were wounded, as well—neither fatally,
though he’d lose both the Owen twins if Joey Owen’s
broken arm required he be set ashore. They’d no other
family, and Jules would not leave his brother in such a
pinch. If the Mermaid were a frigate, with a full
complement of crew, that would be no problem; Joey could
be put on light duty until he healed. The other seaman,
Thorne, had a nasty cut across his side, but the oaken
splinter had not gone deep, thank God. Marshall wished he
had a surgeon aboard and was grateful that the Endymion
was waiting for them. Once the damage to ship and crew was seen to, Marshall’s
thoughts returned to his more serious concern. He was
almost grateful for their passenger, who had been stowed
in a hastily slung hammock in the cabin that Marshall
generally shared only with his lover. The man had
appeared exhausted when he’d come aboard, and his
presence in their sanctuary meant there was no place that
would afford even a minimum of privacy, for conversation
or anything else. What are we going to do? He saw that question in Davy’s
eyes, too, when he returned to take the helm. “She’s all
right for now,” he said. “We should rendezvous with
Endymion by tomorrow evening. With her help we can fix
ourselves up. Any sign of more trouble?” “Clear as far as the eye can see,” Davy replied, waving a
hand at a horizon occupied by nothing save a few
seagulls. “Do you have any idea what all that was about?” “Our passenger must not have been as clever or careful as
he thought he was.” Will shrugged. “If this is peace,
then give me a nice, simple war. At least when a
Frenchman honors you with a broadside, there’s no
question of his motives.” His lover smiled wryly. “I suppose I ought to apologize
for coming back up against your orders,” he said. “But
honestly, I cannot be sorry.” “I’d have done the same,” Marshall said. “It’s of no
consequence.” Davy gave him a sharp look. “We both know it is,” he
said, “but there’s nothing to be done about it now. I’ll
stay below if the situation arises again.” Marshall nodded. “It had better not.” THEIR LUCK held good in making their rendezvous with
Endymion, and Marshall’s poor Mermaid—and her crew—were
sufficiently patched up to make the trip back to
Portsmouth. The frigate escorted them a good part of the
way home, and while the weather displayed all the usual
charm of the season—gray, cold, and damp—they were spared
any dangerous storms. David Archer was glad of it. His mind was still in a
turmoil, as he knew Will’s must also be, at the truth
revealed to both of them in that brief skirmish in the
Bay of Biscay. He had always thought Will was
exaggerating his concern about their serving together—
after all the battles they had been through, David had
expected a return to the old habits of brothers-in-arms.
But he had been mistaken. Will, once fearless in battle,
seemed unable to detach himself from an anxious worry
over his lover’s safety. Whatever might happen once they
reached land, David knew one thing was certain: he would
be leaving the ship. Leaving Will. The very thought made him feel hollow inside. Granted,
there had never been a guarantee that they would stay
together—or live very long if they did—but once Will had
attained the rank of Commander, he would have the right
to choose his own Ship’s Master, and Archer was a
qualified navigator. They should have been able to stay
together, even though they might rarely have the chance
to share their love in a physical way. At least they
could have been together. No more. The presence of their passenger was a trial. Mr. George
(why could these cloak-and-dagger gentlemen not find less
obvious pseudonyms?) kept mostly to himself, though
during the meals he shared with Captain Marshall and Mr.
St. John—David’s nom de (temporarily suspended) guerre—he
was quite willing to share information about those parts
of Spain through which he had traveled. George was
pleasant enough, in an undistinguished way that probably
served him well in his occupation. His discourse was
interesting and potentially useful, but Archer found
himself not infrequently wishing Mr. George to the devil.
These last few precious days together, and their tiny
refuge was crowded by that third hammock, slung between
them like the cocoon of some invasive moth. They stole a few kisses when George was on deck and they
chanced to be in their cabin together. That was all they
dared attempt. But they did not talk about the decision
looming in their future, or much of anything else. When at last Portsmouth came into view on the horizon,
Archer felt able to breathe again. Since their roles of
yacht-owner and hired captain were not official Royal
Navy ranks, Will was not required to sleep aboard. They
would be able to get a room somewhere together, if only
for a night. And, like as not, spend it trying to decide
how to explain to Sir Percy, the man who had recruited
them into the Secret Service and who gave them their
assignments, why it was that one of them, at least, would
have to resign. One of us…. Me, of course. It has to be. As he had told Will months ago, David Archer felt no
regret at the idea of leaving the Navy. The choice had
been forced on him by circumstances; he had not yet
attained his majority when his father had decided to buy
him a commission in his brother’s regiment, and he’d had
no other way to support himself. At the time, the Navy
had seemed his only alternative, very much the lesser of
two evils. He knew Will felt otherwise. Small wonder. Will was an
orphan, with no family in England—no family at all,
really. He had some cousins off in America, but the war
of rebellion had apparently strained those family ties to
the breaking point before Will was even born. The only
connections he had ashore were intimately related to the
service. For all practical purposes, the Navy was Will’s
family as well as his career. David himself had family in abundance. With two elder
brothers and four sisters, plus a growing number of
nieces and nephews, he could hardly call himself
solitary. And yet, apart from his mother and his sister
Amelia, the only person who really mattered to him was
Will. They had come so close to being parted last year,
when Will’s fear and guilt had driven him away. Had Will
been right? Was he only drawing out the inevitable
ending? The wind was blowing them inexorably home. Ships moored
in Portsmouth Harbor were visible now, the buildings on
shore growing larger, the antlike creatures scurrying
about becoming visibly human as the Mermaid drew near.
The signal crew was sending up flags, firing a salute….
All the usual rituals of coming into port at the
conclusion of a successful cruise were drained of meaning
by his apprehension. He had never known so bleak a
homecoming. The hope of some time alone with Will was dashed as soon
as they set foot on shore, where a messenger met them
with a courteous but mandatory invitation to meet Sir
Percy at the earliest possible moment. IT WAS a pity, it really was. If only the old fellow had
not made the fatal mistake of being the firstborn son,
this would not have been necessary. He could have played
the squire dawn till dusk and tended to all the tedious
chores about the place. But the poor devil had been born
first, so there was nothing to do but clear him out of
the way. And it was so simple, easier than he’d expected. That
Frog Lepage knew what he was about when he designed the
silex carbine. Beautifully accurate, a gentleman’s
weapon. Merci, monsieur, and thanks to the luck of the
battlefield in turning up such a prize. Now to trust to
luck once more, and finish the job.
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