Now, he was gone, leaving her to grapple with the loss of her hopes and dreams. There would be nothing for her but this yawning pit of grief and abandonment that had opened up within her. Arabella wished it would consume her, obliterating her very existence in the same way the treacherous sea had wiped Drew’s away. She could not exist without him.
Reaching down into her cleavage, she took hold of the wooden talisman she kept tucked out of sight. The smooth, carved surface of the circular pendant had been carved with the face of a lion in startling detail—a luxurious mane surrounding a majestic face, complete with a snarling mouth and sharp, pointed teeth. Drew had made it himself, taking painstaking care with the delicate carving tools—so different from the instruments he employed as a carpenter’s apprentice. It didn’t matter whether a task required the brute force of his back and shoulders, or the finesse of his slender, dexterous fingers, Drew had worked magic and miracles with wood. When he’d finished whittling the piece, she’d begged him for it—a part of Drew to always carry on her person.
She had taken to tucking it into the space between her shift and her skin, the tight cinch of her stays keeping it pressed against her sternum. With every breath, she could feel that circle of carved wood, and with every beat of her heart she was reminded that she belonged to him, body and soul.
Only now, she belonged to a dead man, a ghost. Arabella would never hear the smooth, deep tones of his voice, feel the touch of his callused hands or the tight bands of his strong arms around her. She would never become his wife or bear his children.
Closing her fist around the talisman, she gritted her teeth around a sob, the sound akin to that of some wounded animal. How fitting, for that was how she felt—like a felled beast torn open from gullet to groin and left drowning in agony and blood.
A warm, firm hand fell on her shoulder, and the stroke of a thumb along the back of her neck had her going stiff. Swiveling on the man who had intruded upon her solitude, she parted her lips to give him what for. But, when her gaze collided with a familiar one, the fight went out of her. She came swiftly to her feet but then stumbled, and the man caught her up, his arms comforting but nowhere near as strong as Drew’s.
“William,” she mewled into his coat, shoulders shaking as sobs overtook her again. “Please tell me it isn’t true … tell me he isn’t dead?”
William Throckmorton’s hand touched her back, rubbing in a slow, circular motion meant to sooth. All it did was remind her that she’d never again feel the touch she most craved.
“I am so sorry, Bella,” he murmured, his accents smoothed, cultured, and distinctly English. “But it’s true. He is gone.”
Her knees gave out, the weight of her soaked skirts dragging them both down to the sand. Will went down on one knee, keeping a tight hold on her as she wept into his shirtfront. She squeezed her eyes shut to keep from looking at him, for he looked far too much like Drew. While there were many marked differences caused by William’s mother being the lawful British wife of their shared father, and Drew’s mother having been a mulatto slave, there were far too many similarities. The hazel eyes rich with golden prisms and flecks of green. The strong features giving them the same prominent cheekbones and sharp jaw. The width of their mouths was similar, though Drew’s lips were decidedly fuller than his half-brother’s. Even their voices were alike, deep and a bit gravelly, though William’s refined accent and succinct manner of speech proved just one other thing marking the differences between him and Drew.
Both men had been friends to her since she was a girl, her father’s plantation bordering the Throckmorton’s. While she had been raised in luxurious surroundings and catered to in the same manner as William, Arabella had been closer to Drew. Both born of slave women and the men who had taken them as mistresses, they shouldered a common burden. Set free due to the consciences of their fathers and offered lives far better than others with their brown skin and African features, they might be considered fortunate, privileged even. Particularly Arabella, who had been moved into her father’s grand mansion following the death of his lawful wife. No lady of the house had been there to stop him from bringing his black mistress and mulatto bastard into his home, or to protest Arabella being taught to read and write by one of the best tutors on the island, as well as being instructed in ladylike comportment, various ballroom dances, art, literature, French, and Latin.
But only Drew knew what it was like to not be wholly English or wholly African, and have no defined place in the world. They’d felt it as children, even if they hadn’t understood it as they had once coming into adulthood. Even as William treated Drew as a beloved brother and Arabella like a little lady, the clear differences between him and them had become more and more clear with time. She and Drew had clung to one another, an island unto themselves, united in the differences setting them apart from most of the island’s inhabitant’s, who stood clearly to one side of an invisible line bisecting two very different worlds.
Drew had known what it was like to live in Arabella’s skin, to see the world through her eyes, and now … now he was gone.
“The hour grows late,” Will murmured. “Let me see you home before you catch a chill.”
The soft breeze of the early evening had begun to quicken, the air cooling as the sun disappeared on the horizon. Still, Arabella couldn’t bring herself to move.
“Leave me alone. Let me die here by the sea, near him.”
It didn’t matter that Drew’s ship had gone down half a world away. All the oceans met somewhere.
And so my soul shall meet yours, Drew, she thought. Somewhere over the water, we shall meet again.
“Is that what you want?” Will murmured, fishing a handkerchief from his breast pocket and using it to dry her cheeks. “Will you further drive the dagger into my heart by allowing yourself to die? Will you leave me alone in the world without my brother, and without the dearest friend I have left?”
Staring into his eyes, Arabella felt like the most selfish creature in the world. William’s mother had only been able to bear one son, and his father’s mistress had given him the only sibling he possessed. It hadn’t mattered to him where Drew had come from, or how his presence in Falmouth enraged his mother to no end. He was, perhaps, the only person in the world who could claim to love Drew as much as Arabella. They’d both suffered a devastating loss this day.
“Forgive me,” she murmured, allowing him to help her to her feet. “I cannot imagine how this must hurt you, Will.”
The ocean sucked at their feet, dousing their shoes and stockings. Will kept a tight hold on her, not allowing the tide to drag her out to sea by her sodden skirts.
“We have only each other now, Bella. We must carry on, and … we must have hope.”
She closed her eyes against another onslaught of tears. “When he was taken by that press-gang and forced into service, you told me to have hope. When we received the rare letter from him about the harsh conditions and horrid treatment by his officers, you told me to pray for him and not allow my hope to die. He would come home someday, you said. Your father would find a way, or his ship would eventually make its way back. I had hope then, but no more, Will, none at all. How can I when Drew … he is …”
She choked on the words, unable to say them aloud. It was difficult enough to think them.
“We must carry on,” William insisted, giving her a little shake. “It is what he would have wanted … for us to find comfort in each other and live. How much do you think it would hurt him to know you were willing to throw your life away, to lay down and die?”
Drew cannot feel anything, Will, she wanted to argue. He is dead.
But, he had a point. Drew had loved them both. He would never want them to spend the rest of their lives bemoaning his loss. Of course, she couldn’t even think of moving on now, with the news of his death still so fresh. But, in time, perhaps she would find the strength to do it. Her mother had been a woman of great strength, enduring the hardships and complexities of a l
ife such as hers with grace and dignity until the day she had died. She’d taught Arabella how to navigate a complicated world that didn’t seem to have a true place for her, and to do it with her head held high. Leonora Baines was gone now, but she had given Arabella everything she needed to carry on without her.
“You are right,” she said, reaching up to lay a hand over Will’s, which rested on her cheek. “We will get through this together, won’t we?”
He gave her a smile, but it never reached his eyes and his lips trembled as if he did his very best not to cry. But, he remained strong for her, one hand tight at her waist, the other soft and gentle at her jaw.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Together. I do love you, Arabella. And now you are all I have left in the world.”
Affection for him filled her, swelling her bosom and warming her insides. “And I love you, Will, like the brother I never had. Thank you for coming here to find me … for being here for me, I … I am so grateful for you.”
She hugged him tight, taking comfort in his nearness and warmth, and the crisp smell of his starched linen mingling with that of bay rum. It wasn’t the distinct bergamot and clove that always clung to Drew, but it brought her succor all the same.
“You’ll never have to be alone, Bella,” he whispered against the crown of her head. “I’m here … I’m not going anywhere.”
Chapter 1
1796, 5 years later …
The glittering Caribbean Sea stretched out like a flat jewel before the black-hulled, three-masted schooner sailing toward the verdant mass of Jamaica in the distance. The day had dawned bright and clear with friendly waters, a boon for those aboard the vessel. After twenty-five long days at sea, the crew of The Sea Lion had finally arrived to the port of Falmouth. A fortuitous storm had overtaken them somewhere in the South Atlantic, propelling them far swifter than their top speed of eleven knots and allowing them to arrive a few days early. This was especially good for the captain, who stood in a wide-legged stance on the forecastle deck, one hand braced on the thick foremast as he watched the island that had once been his home draw closer and closer.
On the deck below him, his quartermaster, Rory Walsh, shouted commands to the crew, sending them fore and aft in a flurry of pulled riggings and snapping sails. Above the white canvas fluttered the colors of The Sea Lion, proud and in full view of anyone who might note their approach. The captain had no need to try to pass his ship off as belonging to the Royal Navy and hadn’t flown British colors from his masts in years. Instead, black flags undulated in the wind with the snarling lion’s head stitched onto them with golden thread.
One of the most notorious pirate vessels traversing the Caribbean Sea, the Atlantic, as well as the Indian Ocean, The Sea Lion was well-known by the naval forces who had spent the past several decades renewing their vendetta against pirates. Her captain had evaded them for years, choosing to either capture or outright obliterate their ships as opposed to cutting and running, thumbing his nose at the admirals who dared hunt him, and pilfering any merchant or slaver who crossed his path. Ruthlessness had earned him a reputation as a man to be feared, and he wore the name of his ship upon his own shoulders like the proudest of mantles. They referred to him as The Sea Lion, or at times The Black Lion, his appearance and ferocity lending itself well to the nicknames.
His eyes narrowed against the bright morning sun as his gaze fixated on the land of his birth, turmoil erupting within him like a magma-spewing volcano. A sense of rightness and coming home ought to have washed over him at the sight of those lush mountains and the flowering landscape, yet he felt nothing of the sort. There was only anger and determination at the sight of Jamaica, the driving forces of his life for the past five years. They had been his bedmates, his closest companions, his reasons for living. He had miraculously evaded death more times than he could count, as if something within him would not allow him to die until he’d sought his revenge.
“We’re makin’ good time, Cap’n,” said Rory as he stepped onto the forecastle, the musical lilt of an Irish brogue thick in his voice. “We’ll be droppin’ anchor within the hour. The boats are ready to row ashore.”
The captain nodded without taking his eyes off the land mass beckoning to him, promising the vengeance he craved. In a few short hours, a wedding was to take place at St. Peter’s Anglican Church, the new limestone plotted and erected during his absence. His scouts had brought news of the nuptials taking place between the two people he had once loved most in the world. The two people who had betrayed him.
He pressed a hand against his chest, his fingers encountering the tattoo etched into his skin through the opening of his shirt. The prick of a needle and leak of ink into his skin hadn’t hurt half as much as realizing that home would never truly feel like home ever again, or that he’d placed his trust in people who could so cruelly abandon him to his fate. Unfortunately for them—but luckily for him—his circumstances had led to him right back to Falmouth. He returned stronger, wiser, and wealthier than a king thanks to years of plunder. He had reached the height of glory for a sailor of low birth, commanding a small fleet of ships docked on the shores of an island where he ruled over his own small realm like a sultan. He had amassed riches, destroyed his enemies, and created a name for himself as one of the most feared pirates in the West Indies and along the Barbary Coast.
There remained only one thing left, and today he would finally have it.
“Very good, Mr. Walsh,” he replied, sparing a glance for his quartermaster and right hand. “You’ll remain aboard with half the crew as planned, and rendezvous with me in Ocho Rios.”
The Irishman grinned as the wind tousled his coppery curls, his bright blue eyes dancing with good humor. The two of them had served aboard the HMS Hannibal before a mutiny had changed their fates and fortunes. Rory had suffered beneath the reign of a cruel captain just as he had, yet somehow found it within himself to smile and laugh and make a grand joke of just about everything. It never ceased to baffle the captain, who felt as if the capacity for merriment and joy had been stomped out of him years ago.
When the captain neglected to return his grin, Rory sighed, turning his gaze back to the horizon and their waiting prey. “Are ye certain ye wish to go through with this?”
He glared at the quartermaster, one hand curling into a fist. “And just why wouldn’t I?”
“It’s a suicide mission, for one. And for two, I doubt it’ll make ye feel any better.”
The captain grinned, though the expression could more readily be called a grimace, the baring of his teeth feral and fierce. “Oh, there you would be wrong, my friend. It will make me exceedingly happy to make them pay. And do not speak to me of danger when you are the first to vote in favor of pursuing even the most daunting of prizes. Have you forgotten how we fleeced that flotilla of Spanish trading vessels last spring?”
Rory threw his head back and laughed at the memory. “A bracing good time that was, and worth starin’ death in the face for the booty it earned us.”
“Precisely.”
The Irishman frowned. “Won’t be any such riches on this mission, Cap’n. Not for the rest of us, anyway.”
Yet the crew had unanimously voted to aid the captain in meting out punishment to those responsible for him being torn away from his home and hurled into a dark and cruel world. It was a testament to how much his men respected him, that they would join in his quest knowing they would endanger their lives with nothing to show for it in the end. Except, perhaps, for the satisfaction of a captain who had freed many of them from different forms of captivity. It was because he had liberated them and treated them as equals that they would have followed him into Hell.
“I’ll make it worth their while, and yours, Mr. Walsh.”
A rough hand clapped his shoulder before Rory turned to descend from the forecastle. “We’re with ye, Cap’n, till the bitter end.”
The captain remained silent as Rory went back to bellowing his orders, preparing the crew to drop an
chor.
It was time.
Arabella stared through the parted drapes of her bedroom window, heedless to the fussy hands of the women preparing her for her wedding day. Below, a carriage pulled into the circular drive, the four matched bays hitched and ready to carry her to St. Peter’s for the ceremony. Busy fingers plucked at her voluminous skirts, puffing and gathering them to create the a la polonaise effect with the robe a l’anglaise in pale pink silk she wore over a decadent, frilled petticoat of brilliant white. White lace overflowed from the elbow-length sleeves hugging her arms, while the square neckline dipped far lower than any bodice she’d ever worn, showing a wealth of plump flesh.
A towering wig adorned with matching pink ribbons sat atop her head, a match for the cinnamon-hued curls constricted under the cap beneath it. Fat spirals draped over one shoulder, a constant irritation against the exposed skin. Closing her eyes, she pressed a hand beneath her bosom, feeling for the talisman that was always on her person unless she was in the bath. Otherwise, it fit into her stays, or lay beneath her pillow as she slept—a constant reminder of the young girl she’d once been, so full of hope and dreams. That girl had died following Drew’s death at sea, and in her place stood a pragmatic, hopeless woman—one who was well aware that dreams which didn’t come true eventually perished, and all a person could do as a result was make the best of things.
So, here she stood ready to take a man who was not Drew as her husband. A good and kind man who had seen her through one of the most difficult times of her life, but still not the one she might have chosen in other circumstances.
You must not think of Drew today … today belongs to William.
She opened her eyes and sighed, angry with herself over such traitorous thoughts. William deserved so much more than a woman who could never love him as much as he seemed to love her.
Pirates, Passion and Plunder Page 2
