Page 5 of The Black Lion
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 find yours, Drew,she thought.Somewhere over the water, we shall meet again.
“Is that what you want?” Will admonished, fishing a handkerchief from up his sleeve 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,andwithout 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 gave him the only sibling he possessed. It hadn’t mattered to him where Drew came 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 had both suffered a devastating loss this day.
“Forgive me,” she replied, allowing him to help her to her feet. “I cannot imagine how this must hurt you, Will.”
The ocean sucked at their feet, dousing 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. 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 word, unable to say it aloud. It was difficult enough to think it.
“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,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 Arabella would find the courage to do it. Her mother had been a woman of great strength, enduring the hardships and complexities of a life such as hers with grace and dignity. She had 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’re right,” she said, laying 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 his lips trembled as if he did his best not to cry. 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.”
“Thank you for coming here to find me, and for being here. 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 cedarwood, 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 One
1794, 3 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 ofThe Sea Lionhad 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.
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 ofThe 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, French, or Spanish colors from his masts in over a year. 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 Lionwas well-known by the naval forces who had spent 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 it like the proudest of mantles. They referred to him as The Black Lion, his appearance and ferocity lending itself well to the moniker.
His eyes narrowed against the bright morning sun as his gaze fixed on the land of his birth, turmoil erupting within him like a rumbling 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, 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 surrender to death until he’d earned 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 jolly boats are ready to row ashore.”
The captain nodded without taking his eyes off the land mass beckoning to him, promising the retribution he craved. In a few days, a wedding was to take place at St. Peter’s Anglican Church, the new limestone structure 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, fingers encountering the tattoo etched across the muscles 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—fate 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. Opening his hand, he stared at the thin white scar marring his palm. It represented his past, the young and gullible boy who had died aboard theHMS Hannibal. A new man stood in his place, older and wiser and determined to never be played for a fool again. Curling his fingers inward, he made a fist, trembling with the force of his need to obliterate the mark from his body, to erase that last part of him that still longed for things that had fallen out of his reach.
“Very good, Mr. Walsh,” he replied, sparing a glance for his quartermaster. “You’ll remain aboard with half the crew as planned, and rendezvous with me inOcho Rios.”
The Irishman grinned as the wind tousled his copper-red curls, a pair of bright blue eyes dancing with good humor. The two of them had served aboard theHMS Hannibalbefore a mutiny 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.
