Page 38 of The Black Lion
As he allowed her a moment to soak in the high ceiling, skylight, and pink-veined marble floors of the vestibule, Arabella took a moment to gather her bearings. She was home now, and their new life would begin.
Drew was hers, and would be for the rest of her life. What did it matter if he had indulged in an affair with the beautiful pirate during their time apart?
It doesn’t matter, she chided herself as Drew led her down a corridor, pointing out the rich wood paneling of the walls and the paintings gracing them—many of which had been acquired from the various ships he’d pillaged.
Even as she latched onto the thought and held fast to it, a whisper from the back of Arabella’s mind warned her that she was wrong.
Chapter Twelve
Drew slouched in the chair he occupied overlooking the mass of bodies overtaking the front lawn of his house, raising a cup to his lips. His eyelids were heavy with fatigue and the effects of drink, but a bone-deep satisfaction had settled over him. Coming home toÎle Saint Mariealways brought him peace, but bringing Arabella here, seeing her walk the corridors of a home he’d acquired for her, having her near, made peace seem like a pittance. What he experienced now went beyond that, and he doubted he could even put a name to it.
Typically, a fortnight on land would prove more than enough for Drew, before the sea began calling his name. But as he watched Arabella from his seat, he realized the siren’s call of the ocean would be easy to shun. He didn’t intend to retire yet—there were far too many slavers operating in these waters, and his crew and their families depended on him for their essential needs. However, there were eight other ships under his command, all piloted by captains he trusted to carry on without him. Long months enjoying the company of his bride sounded like just the respite he needed.
They had spent the afternoon roaming the house, with Drew taking great pleasure in Arabella’s awe over the various rooms and their furnishings. It didn’t seem to matter that she’d grown up in a home as fine as this one—this place belonged to them together, and it made him proud to finally be able to show it to her. She met his small staff—a cook, a trio of maids, and the three burly men-of-all work who were responsible for both the upkeep and security of the place. Martine, the cook, had offered the services of her daughter as a personal maid to Arabella, though his wife had been reluctant at first. She’d been waited on her entire life by slaves, and was no longer comfortable with the idea of anyone serving her.
“Serena has been seeking a position since her husband died at sea,” Drew reassured her. “This is a different world, my Bella. Anyone who works for us will be paid what they are worth, and I know you will be a kind mistress.”
That had been enough to convince her to accept the offer of a maid, and Serena had been promptly sent for. Upon the young woman’s arrival, Drew left Arabella in her care and set off to begin preparations for the party.
He and his wife hadn’t crossed paths again until his arrival an hour ago—as she had already left their bedroom by the time he arrived to bathe and dress.
Every possessive bone in his body wanted to shove through the people standing between where he sat and where she stood, talking and laughing with Rory and Padre as she sampled the offerings from the food table. However, there was no reason to keep her from coming to know the other inhabitants of the island. It was why he’d planned this celebration, after all. When the time came for him to take to the sea again, Arabella would need friends to rely on. He would have her to himself soon enough.
Glancing up at the moon, high and full in a cloudless sky, he calculated that they had about another hour or two before he wearied of sharing her and acted accordingly.
“Merde, you’re besotted. It’s pitiful.”
Drew took his gaze off Arabella long enough to find Nadège sinking into the abandoned seat beside him. He and his closest friends had feasted at this table at the onset of the party, with the rest of the islanders spread out on blankets on the ground or sprawling on the front steps. The empty plates and scattered cups had been left behind, and Drew was the only one who remained after the others had taken their leave.
Now, small fires lit up the night as groups of people clustered about to indulge in rum and ale, voices mingling in a cacophony of English, French, Portuguese, and several mangled varieties of patois. On one side of their encampment, ship’s musicians had struck up a tune, fiddle and drum interlaced with off-key voices raised in song. The dancing had begun, and if he hadn’t missed his guess, the people darting off into the shadows in groups of two or three were after amusement of their own where no one could see.
“Guilty and unashamed,” Drew muttered, taking another long pull of the best rum to be found this side of the Indian Ocean.
“When are you going to tell me what happened?” she asked, picking up someone’s abandoned cup. Sniffing its contents, she shrugged and drank. “When last we spoke, you were convinced she’d played you false. What changed?”
Arabella threw her head back and laughed at something someone said, the sound arrowing straight into his chest. His fingers twitched around his cup, itching to reach for her, pull her to him and command her attention. Nadège was right; he was absolutely pitiful.
“The short of it is … I was misinformed. Not that it would have stopped me from returning here with her. To be able to come home under different circumstances has been a pleasant surprise.”
Nadège snorted into her cup, and Drew found her frowning at her rum. “Pleasant, eh? You call tying an anchor around your ankles pleasant?”
Drew studied her for a moment before responding. Nadège had the dubious distinction of being the most coveted woman on the island, as well as one of the most feared pirates. The dichotomy of her nature was apparent in her appearance—the men’s togs she wore better than most males he knew, the femininity of her form, the regal arrangement of her features. Her background was a mystery to everyone, including him. He knew only that she’d sailed intoÎle Saint Marietwo years ago, refusing to claim anything other than homes and small land plots for her crew. She served on the council when she was on the island, which wasn’t often. Any pirate who thought to pursue her to satisfy his own lust or command her submission was quickly disabused of either notion. No man could call her his in any way, and Nadège preferred things that way. Which was why it didn’t surprise Drew to hear her refer to marriage as she did.
“All ships need an anchor, Dège,” he replied. “Besides, I never said I intended to give up my ship. I choose to see it as having a reason to return here, not something holding me down. Besides, wives are portable. They fit quite nicely aboard ships. Surprising, I know.”
She slouched and spread her legs shamelessly, resting her cup on one knee. “I am glad for you, really. Such a life isn’t for me.”
Drew shrugged one shoulder. “Perhaps not this life, exactly. But, times are changing. A pirate’s career can end one of two ways—retirement or dancing the hangman’s jig.”
“The Drew I’ve known these past years would have preferred to dance the jig.”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “Why chase death when I’ve finally found my reason for living again? I cannot tell you how to live your life, obviously—”
“Not unless you want to lose your cock to my blade.”
He smirked, glancing down at the dagger sheathed at her hip. Drew wasn’t certain if the rumors were true, but talk about the island suggested that Nadège had castrated men—as few as five and as many as five hundred, depending on who was relating the tale.
“Admit it,” he quipped. “You just want to get your hands on my cock.”
