Arabella glanced down to where his hands rested over her belly, tracing her fingertips across the letters tattooed on his knuckles. “I know that a seaman’s tattoos always hold some sort of luck or significance for him. The lion is part of your identity, but this … ‘hold fast’. What does it mean to you?”
Smiling, he held his hands up and studied the tattoos, the letters upside down from this angle. “In rough times at sea, a man’s hold on the rigging can make the difference between life and death for himself and his crew. A pirate’s grasp on a single line of rigging may sometimes be the only thing keeping the ship from being lost and his mates from going to the depths. Many men of the sea have these words tattooed onto their hands as a reminder to hold fast to the rigging, but also to the ship and the crew, to each other. For me, it was a reminder to hold fast to the thing that was keeping me alive … the hope of finding you again and making you mine.”
She laced her fingers through his and sighed. “Now that I’m here, you can hold fast to me.”
“Aye, my Bella,” he murmured, clutching her fingers and nuzzling his nose into her fragrant hair. “I’ll hold fast and never let go.”
Epilogue
A fortnight after setting sail from Falmouth, Arabella Baines became Mrs. Andrew Reeves. Standing atop the forecastle while the crew packed themselves amidship to watch, she pledged her heart and soul to her pirate captain with Padre presiding.
Her groom was resplendent in a white frock coat shot through with silver thread and gleaming buttons to match, black breeches and boots clinging to his powerful legs. He’d left off his tricorne, pulling half his hair back to keep it out of his eyes and flaunt his handsome face. She’d adorned herself in white, as well, finding the most beautiful garments in the Oriental style—white and gold silk etched with patterns of water-lily, bamboo, and plum, the long, bell-like sleeves falling away from her arms like wings. Drew had gone into the coffers of years’ worth of bounty, producing the glittering diamond coronet that sat atop her head—her only adornment aside from the sumptuous robe-like gown.
Rory stood at the captain’s side as a best man, and while Arabella had no attendant, Big Jack had asked for the honor of giving her away. She’d forged a friendship of sorts with the man in her short time aboard The Sea Lion, and had been pleased to be led up to the forecastle on his arm.
Padre led them through a simple, short ceremony that was far more intimate and less formal than her near-miss with Will—and it was all the more beautiful for it.
Even her former fiancé’s presence couldn’t taint the occasion, for Will and her father had been marooned days before, on a small, wild-looking island that Drew was certain was uninhabited. Left with nothing but a pistol containing one shot—in the event one of them wished to take his own life or shoot the other—they were left standing on the shore as The Sea Lion cast off back to sea. Just as she had not taken a single look back on that day, Arabella did not think of them now as Padre led them through their vows. The beautiful words were the invention of a priest turned pirate, and fitting for such a ceremony.
“I, Captain Andrew Reeves, take thee Arabella as my wedded wife, my anchor in fair weather or foul, my strength in times of weakness. Shall the sea call me away from thee, may it also bring me back as the tide returns to the shore. I vow to be your shelter in the storm, to love you with every beat of my heart, from this day until my last day.”
With tears in her eyes, Arabella made her own promises, clinging tight to Drew’s hands.
“I, Arabella Katherine Baines, take thee Andrew as my wedded husband, in poverty or in prosperity, through sunny horizons and deathly doldrums. If the sea shall call thee away from me, may you always find me waiting as the sky awaits the rising of the sun. I vow to hold fast to you in fair winds or ill, and to love you with every beat of my heart, from this day until my last day.”
Drew was then presented with a pearl-hilted dagger by Rory, who stood by holding two short bits of rope—one in each hand. Taking her hand, he revealed her left palm and the razor-thin scar that served as a reminder of the last time they’d committed themselves to one another. As Drew dragged the dagger over her flesh, opening the old wound before doing the same to his own left hand, Arabella felt no pain. There was only joy and the blessed weight of finality as they took their ropes from Rory, pressing the rough fibers to their bleeding flesh. Meeting and holding Drew’s gaze, she allowed her life’s essence to soak the bit of rigging, the tears welling in her eyes finally making their descent.
Under Padre’s guidance, they joined their bits of ropes—representative of their pasts and their separate lives—into a lover’s knot, which symbolized the joining of two halves into a whole, of the present and the future. Pulling on opposite ends, they shared a smile as the ropes clung together and held, stained by their blood and joined in a tight bond. A symbol of eternity.
Then, Drew presented her with a ring—a simple affair with a golden filigree band enclosing a large, freshwater pearl.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” Padre intoned, after which Rory loudly interjected, “Now, kiss that bonny lassie, Cap’n, before I do!”
Amid the raucous cheers of the crew, Drew swept her into his arms and kissed her soundly, not letting up until he’d stolen the breath from her lungs. As they pulled apart, he gave one of his rare smiles, and stroked her cheek with his unwounded right hand.
“I love you, my lioness,” he murmured as the crew erupted into celebration, hats flying into the air followed by requests for music and rum.
“And I you, my lion.”
They allowed Rory to pull them apart long enough to wrap their cut hands with strips of clean linen, then they were left to their own devices as the celebration went on around them. Mr. Caesar took up his place at the war drums, while another man produced a fiddle, the jovial music offering a pleasant accompaniment to the festive occasion.
Drew led her to the ship’s bow, a bit removed from the revelry. They stood together, watching the undulating waves of the sea, Drew’s hands braced on the railing and enclosing her between his arms. They fell silent for a long while, Arabella’s head rested against his chest as she allowed herself a moment of reflection on all that had happened to lead them to this moment. She decided it had all been worth it to be able to stand here in his arms, the world stretching out before them, theirs for the taking.
Above them, the thin voice of a pirate from the crow’s nest caught their attention. They gazed up to find Little Jack pointing out at the horizon as he cried,
“Sail, ho, Cap’n! Sail, ho!”
Drew straightened, narrowing his eyes as he followed the direction of the boy’s pointing finger. A smirk ticked at the corner of his mouth, and Arabella glanced out to sea, noticing for the first time a ship in the distance, closing in fast.
Rory appeared at their side, raising a spyglass to one eye while closing the other. “She’s a brigantine, Cap’n, and sittin’ low in the water … stuffed to the brim with cargo.”
Drew took the spyglass and looked for himself, as Arabella stepped aside to allow him the time to do his duty. Apparently, pirate conquest did not stop—even for a wedding.
“It’s The Jupiter, I think. I recognize the figurehead and she’s flying British colors.”
Arabella frowned as Rory spat over the rail in derision and Drew sneered, lowering the spyglass.
“Sons of whores,” the Irishman grumbled. “Stuffed full o’ slaves, she is. I bet me balls, Cap’n.”
Drew gave an amused snort. “No need, Mr. Walsh. We all know that The Jupiter specializes in human cargo. You know my stance on slavers, but it is my wedding day. If we are to chase a prize, we cannot do so without the permission of my bride. Far be it from me to rob her of her wedding celebration.”
Arabella had no need to think on the matter. All it took was the memory of those slaves toiling on her father’s cane fields and her impotence as she’d stood at her window and observed their suffering. She had been helpless to help those in cap
tivity, but her circumstances had now changed. She was no longer the mulatto bastard of a wealthy English planter. She was the wife of a pirate captain, and he had already told her there was nothing he would not give her. And on this day, what she wanted was to see the people trapped aboard that ship freed. In time, perhaps something could be done for the people of Greenhill.
Turning to her husband, she smiled. “Captain, there is nothing more I want than to see you send that foul ship to the bottom of the Atlantic.”
Drew flashed his predatory smile, and took hold of her face, drawing her to him for a swift, hard kiss. Then, he turned to stare down at the crew watching and waiting for his commands.
“You heard her, you scurvy sea dogs! My wife wants that ship as a wedding present. Shall we give it to her?”
Amid cries of ‘aye, Capn’!’, Drew fell seamlessly into the role of their commander.
“Hands to the sheets, lads! Hoist the colors high, and let the black banners of The Sea Lion be the last thing they see before we blast them to kingdom come! Hand to the tiller Mr. Walsh, Mr. Ceasar to the drums—let them hear our call!”
The ship erupted into activity, and Arabella shrank back against the railing to allow the men room to maneuver in a flurry of raising sails and unfurling lengths of rigging. The war drums pounded as the ships picked up speed, the wind catching and thrusting out the crisp sheets of the masts. Drew took hold of a length of rope and leaped up onto the railing, the long tendrils of his hair blowing in the wind. With a grin, he offered a hand. She hesitated for only a moment, then fearlessly leapt onto the rail at his side, wrapping her arms around his waist as he wound the rigging about his hand, keeping them anchored. The wind caught in her hair, blowing the loose strands about her face as a sensation like flying gripped her. Despite the danger lurking ahead—or perhaps because of it—she grew downright giddy, giggling as she clung to her husband, her lion, her brave and fearless captain.
“And now, my Bella, the adventure really begins. Are you ready?”
“Aye, Captain. I am ready.”
With the wind in their hair and the sun beaming down on them from fair skies, the Sea Lion himself held fast to the queen of his heart. As he watched the approach of the prize he seemed determined she have, Arabella couldn’t take her eyes off him … for she had already found her prize, and he was all the treasure she’d ever need.
About Victoria Vale
Victoria Vale is the author of scintillating erotic romance set in the Regency (and lately, Georgian) era. The wife and mother of three resides in Texas, where the weather is as hot as her stories.
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Raven
by Ashe Barker
Chapter 1
New Orleans
June, 1720
Paulette let out a long, low moan. Shudders racked her body; sensual delight tingled to the very ends of her fingers and toes, her hair even. She thrust her hips forward, seeking more friction, more pleasure, more everything…
But it was already over. Almost as quickly as it had begun, he pulled out of her. Paulette swore under her breath, her abandoned pussy grasping at emptiness while her lover rolled away and reached for his polished leather shoes. Mr High and Mighty Giles Chirac, Mayor of New Orleans, had not even troubled to remove his breeches before throwing her skirts around her waist, spreading her legs, and plunging his cock into her willing body.
Paulette gritted her teeth, frustration and thwarted sensual energy warring within her. She should be pickier, she told herself, and not for the first time. She should be more circumspect in her choice of lovers and certainly more demanding. She might be just a servant here at the mayor’s mansion, but her needs were the same as those of her mistress, the mayor’s wife. They might share the same man, though Paulette seriously doubted that the very prim and proper Madame Elisabeth Chirac had any knowledge whatsoever of her husband’s wider interests, but there was no reason why she should be short-changed.
Next time, she vowed, the very next time Monsieur Giles beckoned her to join him in his bedroom, she would refuse until he at least agreed to remove his clothing and apply a bit more time and considerably more finesse to the business. With another exasperated sigh, pointedly ignored by Giles who simply shrugged back into his tailored coat and stalked from the room, she reached beneath her skirts to finish the job herself.
Ten minutes later, and satisfied, more or less, Paulette crept from Monsieur Giles’ bedroom and into the upstairs hallway. She was glad of the plush carpeting which muffled her footsteps as she slipped along the corridor and through the narrow doorway leading to the back stairs. She scurried up the two floors to the servants’ quarters where she shared a tiny attic room with two other household maids. One of these, Marie Claire, huddled in one of the narrow bunks, laid low with a fever. The other girl opened her eyes when Paulette entered.
“You have been tumbling with Monsieur Chirac again,” Marie Claire accused, without surprise or chagrin.
“Is it so obvious?”
“Your hair is a mess, though I suppose that is not unusual. But you need a fresh apron. That one is creased, and…” she wrinkled her nose, “what is that stain?”
Paulette peered down at herself in disgust. “Ugh. At least he had the consideration to spend on my clothes and not inside me. Even so…” She removed the offending garment and dumped it on the bare wood floor. “My duties include laundry, so I can ensure it is properly washed.”
“It is at times such as this that I am glad not to be pretty.”
Paulette glanced at Marie Claire in surprise. “You are pretty. You have lovely eyes and such perfect, delicate hands. There are many ways to be beautiful.”
Marie Claire let out a derisive snort. “That’s as may be, but only one way counts for the likes of us. You are so…exotic. No wonder Monsieur Chirac is sniffing about you the whole time.”
Exotic? Not the description Paulette would have applied to her olive-coloured skin and thick, ebony locks which cascaded almost to her waist. She had inherited those features from her mother whose own grandmother had been a black plantation slave. Paulette’s rich golden complexion was set off by vivid blue eyes, a legacy from her European father.
Paulette perched on the edge of the other girl’s bunk and laid a hand on her forehead. “How do you feel today?”
“Better, I think.”
“Do you want anything, whilst I am here?”
“A drink of water, if you please?”
Paulette poured water from a pitcher on a small table at the edge of the room and handed the glass to Marie Claire. She watched as the other girl swallowed the liquid in one go, then refilled the glass and placed it on the floor beside the bed, within reach of her friend. “That’s for later. Now, you need to get some more sleep.”
Paulette straightened her clothing, pulled her thick, dark locks back into as neat an arrangement as she could manage unaided, and put on a clean pinafore. “Will I do?”
Gratified by Marie Claire’s small nod, and now suitably presentable, she hurried back down the stairs to resume her duties as chamber maid and general dogsbody.
“Come with me.”
Paulette furrowed her brow at the stern tone from Monsieur Levant, the butler who ruled over the household staff here at the mayor’s mansion. The fifty-something would-be gentleman was usually more inclined to stare disapprovingly down his nose at her than to actually speak to her.
“I beg your pardon.” She set aside the cloth and jar of beeswax with which she had been attacking the carved oak banister. Two hours had passed since her less than edifying interlude in Monsieur Chirac’s bed, and she had been hard at work since. Whatever the reason for the interruption, she welcomed the break.
“Come with me,” the butler repeated. “Madame Chirac wishes to speak with you.”
P
uzzled, Paulette fell into step behind him. Monsieur Levant strode imperiously across the marble tiled hall and paused at the door to the drawing room. He raked Paulette with his critical gaze.
“I cannot start to imagine what you have been up to, girl, but Madame is extremely displeased.”
Paulette shrugged. She cared not a great deal for the whims and fancies of Madame Elisabeth Chirac, wife to the mayor for just under a year now. The woman might sport fiery red hair, but she always seemed to Paulette to be ridiculously timid, dominated first by her father, Monsieur Bézac, the previous mayor who had died eighteen months earlier, and more recently by her new husband. Giles Chirac had somehow managed to convince the civic authorities to award him the title, though Paulette could not begin to imagine what qualities he possessed to fit him for the responsibility.
The lady of the house might sport a pedigree widely held to be among the finest in the southern states, but her personality could at best be described as insipid. The prospect of incurring her displeasure put Paulette in mind of being savaged by a sickly kitten. She followed Monsieur Levant into the drawing room.
Madame Chirac stood before the chaise longue, her delicate fingers laced before her at her waist. She regarded Paulette with distaste for several seconds, during which Paulette sketched a far from convincing curtsey.
“You wanted to see me, my lady?”
“Do you recognise these items,” Madame Chirac demanded, without preamble. She gestured at the low table set to her right upon which lay several familiar objects.
“Of course, my lady.” Paulette gazed upon a silver-plated hairbrush, several hairpins, and a pair of delicate silver and pearl earrings. The jewels had been a birthday gift from the lady’s father, the last one before he’d died.
Pirates, Passion and Plunder Page 12