Page 6 of The Black Lion
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, fingernails digging into his scarred palm. “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 see 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? Just whose suggestion was that?”
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 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 anchor.
It was time.
Arabella staredthrough 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 thea la polonaiseeffect with therobe a l’anglaisein pale pink silk she wore over a decadent, frilled petticoat of brilliant white. White lace flowed from the elbow-length sleeves hugging her arms, while the square neckline dipped far lower than any bodice she had ever worn.
A towering white wig adorned with matching pink ribbons sat atop her head, hiding the cinnamon-hued curls constricted by a cap beneath it. Fat spirals draped one shoulder, a constant irritation against her 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 loss at sea, and in her place stood a pragmatic, hopeless woman—one who had learned 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 more than a woman who could never love him as much as he seemed to love her.
Arabella’s thoughts were disrupted as she was turned toward the mirror to confront her reflection, the two slave women standing back with hands folded before them. Another bride might have grinned at such a pretty picture—the way the soft pink dress complemented her honey-gold skin, or the enhancement of rouge staining her cheeks and lips, or the accompaniment of pure white pearls clasped around her throat and on her earlobes. But Arabella could only take stock of the differences between herself and the women standing behind her—both in the clean, starched uniform of house slaves, with only a small difference in their skin hues separating her from them. That, and the fact she’d been conceived by the man who owned this house and the acres upon acres of cane fields beyond her windows.
Beyond the immaculate house grounds, hundreds of slaves toiled, their backs broken out in a sweat, their feet weary and aching, their fingers raw.
The identity of her father was what made Arabella free while these others remained bound in captivity. Such a seemingly small thing, but it created a wide gulf between herself and them. That did not make her any closer or more acceptable to her half-siblings, who never let her forget that she was merely tolerated because of Archibald Abbot’s benevolence. Were he to die today, they would cast her out without a second thought, leaving her to find her own way in the world.
Is this what my life is to be now; wed to Will for fear I may not be safe otherwise?
Despite having been a slave herself, Arabella’s mother had commanded quite a bit of influence over her father. Their dynamic never ceased to baffle her. Archibald was lord and master of everyone and everything within the acreage of Greenhill, including the woman he’d taken as a mistress. Yet, with some combination of the wiles of her body and the cunning of her mind, Leonora had managed to make the lives of those around her a bit easier.
No, she could not strike the chains of bondage off them. But she could advocate for the slaves of Greenhill—keeping children from being sold away from their mothers and staying the hands of cruel overseers. She had ensured Arabella would never want for anything. Arabella been granted her freedom, as well as a small inheritance upon Leonora’s death, which included the gown and the pearls she wore for a wedding ensemble. Throughout girlhood, Arabella had been tutored and molded into a lady just like her half-sister, sheltered from much of the cruelty of the world.
Arabella did not know how to feel about such circumstances. Should she be grateful that her mother had worked until her dying breath to ensure she would never want for anything? Or should she resent her place when others would never have such chances?
She had few choices in life, despite her freedom and education. A mulatto woman was little better than a black one in the eyes of those inhabiting the island. If not for the fact that William wanted to marry her, she’d face dire prospects, such as becoming some man’s mistress. She might find work, but being unprotected in the world would put her at risk for all manner of horrible fates.
Better she marry Will, her dear friend since childhood. His plantation bordered Greenhill. As mistress of such a place, she would be in a position to do more than even her mother had done. As the lady of a fine house, she would command influence and because William loved her, he would heed her suggestions. She would be the wife of a planter, not the possession of one. It wasn’t the life she had wanted, but it was the best she could have now that Drew was gone.
“Thank you. Tell Papa I’ll be down in a moment.”
The women made a silent retreat, leaving Arabella alone with the coming onslaught of tears. She had told herself not to think of Drew, but that was difficult given she was marrying his brother today. To the outside world, it appeared as if she had finally recovered from the loss of the boy she once loved.
After a year of shunning close contact with anyone but Will, Arabella had begun trying to find some semblance of a normal life. She took walks and read books; she painted and visited what few friends she had on the island. She attended church with her father and half-siblings every Sunday, and went along for dinners at other fine homes, her father taking up various invitations as an excuse to talk island politics over grand meals.
William had been instrumental in helping her move on, first serving as a faithful friend upon whose shoulder she could cry, then evolving into a doting suitor. Arabella wasn’t certain when it had happened, but one day his attentions began to lean toward the romantic. He visited her with flowers and gifts, and went out of his way to show her affection. She had resisted at first, her heart still broken and her nerves entirely too raw to abide the touch of someone else.
