Two

At the end of the block, Declan turned east on Pacific Street. As he got closer to the waterfront, the fog thickened, until he could see no more than a few feet ahead of him. 

He had no real reason to be down on the docks this afternoon. The Black Dove was berthed until early next week and the crew were staying in one of the more reputable sailor’s boarding houses, not aboard the ship. The Concordia probably wasn't even still docked. 

And it was silly to think words written on a scrap of paper he happened to pick out of a pile of crackers could be tailored to him. Still, his feet kept carrying him toward the wharf. 

He was only stretching his legs after a big meal, he told himself. 

Pacific Wharf was bustling as usual, despite the fog, crews loading and unloading ships on either side of the wharf, longshoremen toting cargo from vessel to warehouse or warehouse to vessel, ships’ masters checking lists and manifests, and the occasional spectator getting in the way of things. Declan strolled along the wharf, idly checking the activity against the mental list of vessels, owners, and consignees he kept to stay on top of the competition. 

At the end of the wharf, just like Reg said, a three-masted lumber schooner floated high in the water, Concordia painted in bright yellow on her hull. She was spartan, like all the Pacific-built schooners made to haul lumber up and down the coast, but had nice lines and some pretty scroll work carved under her bowsprit.

Declan stopped to admire her for a few minutes. She must have been unloaded while the Black Dove’s crew was having lunch and not yet readied to sail back north to whatever lumber mill town she’d come from. The fog had settled over the water thick enough to obscure Sausalito across the Bay. Whatever the schooner’s destination, she probably wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. 

The bustle on the wharf died down as the afternoon waned. Declan was about to head back toward the boardinghouse, maybe find a card game in one of the saloons along the Barbary Coast, when a tall man caught his attention on the Concordia's deck. Surely, it couldn’t be…

He squinted through the tendrils of fog curling around the schooner's rail.

Nope, he wasn’t mistaken. 

He stuck two fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle, loud enough to carry to the man on deck and distinctive enough that he knew it would be recognized. 

Elliot Bishop’s head turned toward the wharf, and Declan stepped forward, closer to the wharf’s edge. The surprised pleasure on Elliot’s face when he finally settled on Declan matched the thrill he felt to see his stepbrother so unexpectedly.

Elliot glanced over his shoulder at the pilot house, then hustled to lower the gangplank for Declan to board. 

“What the devil are you doing here?” he asked, grabbing Declan and throwing his arms around him.

“I could ask you the same question,” Declan responded, tightening his own arms around Elliot. “Just got in this morning.”

Elliot pulled back and searched Declan’s face as if it had been years and not months since they last saw each other. “The voyage from New York went well? You’re early arriving here, aren’t you?”

Declan nodded. “It was fine. Had good wind most of the way and made better time than I’d expected.” 

He cupped Elliot’s jaw, since no one was in sight and he could get away with it. Goddamn, the sight of Elliot after weeks at sea made him want to do some unspeakable things to him.  

“What the hell are you doing here, though?” Declan asked. “Where are you staying?” 

Whatever the reason for Elliot being in town, if he had a private room in a hotel, maybe they could spend their time not speaking.

Elliot’s normally stern expression softened and his eyes brightened, as if he could tell what Declan was thinking. “I’m considering buying an interest in a lumber company. Ed Wood asked the captain to let me come along this ship’s first voyage, to impress me with how fast and efficient his schooners are.” 

He glanced around the deck, which Declan knew would have been stacked twelve feet high with lumber this morning. but was scrubbed clean as the day she was finished. “I admit I’m impressed. The trip took less than fifty hours.” A tiny smile played around his lips. “I doubt the Black Dove could have made it any faster.”

“I know you’re not comparing my lady to this tub,” Declan said. 

He wasn’t going to fall for it this time. Elliot had an irritating habit of casting aspersions on the Black Dove to get a rise out of Declan. It worked more often than he liked to admit. 

“I’m only asking, what’s your record for sailing to San Francisco from Port Townsend?” Declan opened his mouth to respond, then shut it so hard his teeth clacked together. 

Elliot looked at him expectantly, and Declan kept his lips pressed together against the glint in Elliot's eyes, knowing what he was waiting for and resisting as long as he could. 

“They’re hardly comparable,” he finally protested and Elliot’s face broke into a broad grin. “And I always seem to hit bad weather every damn time we sail here.” 

“Mm-hmm,” Elliot nodded. “I’m sure that’s true.” He chuckled and clapped a hand on Declan’s shoulder. “Speed isn’t everything. Sometimes, it’s better to savor the journey, right?”

Declan shook his head when Elliot chortled again. He’d stack his ship against any other, but played along with Elliot’s little game because Elliot teasing him was such a rare pleasure. His stepbrother was far too serious most of the time.

“Speaking of savoring things,” Declan said. He stepped a little closer and ran a finger down Elliot’s vest, then dipped inside the waistband of his trousers. 

Elliot swayed toward him, then sighed. “We’re heading back today,” he said, obvious disappointment in his voice. “The captain’s sending telegrams and the crew are off for a couple hours but the plan is to leave when the tide turns.” 

“Stick around and come back with us,” Declan suggested. “I promised the crew a few days shore leave but we’ll be headed north by the end of the week. I’ll show you how fast the Black Dove can make the trip home.” 

He glanced over his shoulder. Still no one around, either on deck or within calling distance on the wharf, so he wormed his hand into Elliot’s trousers and grazed his fingertips over the head of Elliot’s cock. 

“I can’t,” Elliot said, his voice breaking on a slight whine. “I have meetings with the Port Townsend Southern Railroad trustees. I’m cutting it close as it is.” 

“So you admit that this floating lumber yard ain’t any faster than my ship, eh?” Elliot’s cock hardened in his hand and his eyelids fluttered. Declan didn’t really expect an answer. 

Elliot chuckled, his breath blowing hot past Declan’s ear. “We can’t do this here,” he protested, even as he thrust into Declan’s hand. 

“Where, then?” Declan asked, “I’ve got a room at a boardinghouse on Drumm Street. You could sneak up the back stairs. Hell, Mrs. Oliver probably wouldn’t care if you came through the front door with me, considering what I’m paying her.” 

He twisted his wrist right under the head of Elliot’s cock, just the way Elliot liked it. 

“Stop,” Elliot groaned. “You have to stop now or else...”

Now it was Declan’s turn to chuckle. “You sure you want me to stop?” 

He slowed the motions of his hand down until he was barely moving it, Elliot’s length heavy against his palm. 

Elliot gripped Declan’s shoulder hard and shuddered, then pulled away. “Come on, then,” he said, in that deep, husky tone that went straight to Declan’s balls. He turned on his heel and headed aft, through a pair of doors, and down a short passageway.