Beyond the Savage Sea Read online

  When he’d finished, Anne said, “Is Edwinna very rich, Drake?” The question struck him as odd. “Well...I suppose she is. Not in coin, but in land, plantations, slaves, bondslaves, sugar.”

  “It isn’t fair, her being rich while we are poor.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “We’re not poor, Anne.”

  “If we can’t even afford a decent gown for court...”

  “Buy what you like,” he said decisively. “I’ll manage. As for unfairness, it is on our side. Edwinna has only her wealth, while you and I have each other. We have our love and our children. It is Edwinna who has little. We have so much, Anne. In fact, tonight I feel like the richest man in the world.”

  Just then, Katherine cried out upstairs. Tipsy with wine, Anne started to get up and collapsed in a giggle. Drake kissed her and settled her into the goose-down quilt. “Don’t bother. I’ll go, darling.”

  “Katherine is a pest,” Anne murmured. “She still wets the bed occasionally.”

  The comment pierced Drake. He frowned. “Isn’t that to be expected? She’s been through a lot in the past two years. She lost her mother, lost her father, and now she suddenly has them with her again. It’s no wonder she is confused.”

  “Hurry back. I want to kiss.” He smiled and kissed her wine-sweet mouth.

  “So do I.”

  Upstairs in the moonlit nursery he found William sound asleep on his cot, and Katherine wide awake, sitting up on hers. He squatted beside her cot. He loved her hair, it was as silken and golden blonde as Anne’s.

  “Papa? Where is the lady with Priscilla?”

  The question cut, caught him in the heart. “She...couldn’t stay with us, sweetheart. She’s in London with Aunt Verity and Uncle Arthur. She’ll stay there.”

  “She’s a nice lady, Papa;”

  “Yes, she’s a very nice lady.”

  “When are we going to see Priscilla?”

  He hedged. He couldn’t say never. “I’m not sure, sweetheart.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “No, not tomorrow,” he said gently.

  “Papa? I didn’t kiss Priscilla good night. I want to kiss her good night.” He glanced to where she was looking. There was enough moonlight in the room for him to see, tacked to the wall, the letters he’d written her. He saw his own script and Edwinna’s drawings of Priscilla.

  “Well, why don’t you run and kiss her?”

  She twisted her blanket. “Because there’s bad things under the bed and they’ll bite me.”

  “Now, who told you that?”

  “William. William says the bad things will grab my feet if I get out of bed in the dark.”

  He made a mental note to have a father and son talk with William—a stern one. Meanwhile, he made a show of looking under her cot. “Goodness. So there are. I’d best squash them, stomp them, and get rid of them. He made a silent pantomime of eliminating demons, bogeymen, animals, whatever it was she feared in her little girl’s mind. She giggled. “There. All done, Katherine. They’re all dead. Now you can get out of bed and kiss Priscilla.”

  She hesitated, then gingerly got out of bed, flew across the room, kissed the drawing of Priscilla, flew back, and flung herself into bed. He covered her up and tucked her rag animal into the crook of her arm. It looked suspiciously like a monkey. He smiled. Verity’s handiwork, no doubt, based upon Edwinna’s drawings. Verity might be a bitch about Anne, but she loved his children.

  Drake broached a delicate subject. “Katherine, sweetheart, there’s a chamber pot under your cot. Do you ever use it in the night?”

  She shook her head. “The bad things might grab me.”

  “But they’re gone. Papa stomped them.” She looked dubious. He squatted beside her cot. “Let’s make a bargain. If you need to use the chamber pot in the night, call out to Papa. Call very loud and Papa will hear you and come. Will you do that?”

  “Yes, Papa.” She nodded enthusiastically.

  “Now, go to sleep, sweetheart.” She nodded, her eyelids heavy. He kissed her, and because she begged him to wait until she fell asleep, he did so. When her breathing leveled off, he stood.

  Leaving the nursery, he paused and touched the letters and drawings on the wall. His script, Edwinna’s drawings. He patted Priscilla and smiled. She had grubby kiss marks all over her. He ran a finger along the drawing of himself, of the cane fields, the mill, the slaves at work, Macaw at his boiling kettle.

  Gazing at the sketches, he could almost smell the fragrant trade winds. He could almost see the flocks of golden plovers soaring in the blue Caribbean sky. He felt as if he’d been gone from that lovely tropical island for a hundred years. He wondered if Edwinna felt the same way. Edwinna...He cringed in remorse. His strong, brave, lovely Edwinna. He ached with the need to comfort her.

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  Drake didn’t wait three days. He came on the second day, Verity be damned. He was worried about Edwinna. And why not! She’d been a wife to him, in the best sense of the word. She’d given him loyalty, fidelity, companionship. He was fond of her. Dammit, he was not so morally deficient as to feel fondness one day and nothing the next. Of course he cared.

  Prepared for a quarrel with Verity, he knocked on her front door. To his surprise, Verity gave him no sass. She answered the door herself and let him come in, her bunting-wrapped infant in her arms.

  A gust of chill November wind blew in with him. He shucked his cloak, dropping it onto a stool that stood beside the door. Verity’s entry hall was so tiny it scarcely qualified as one. Verity and Arthur lived frugally. They were not ones to spend money they did not have. He felt a stab of worry about his own finances. The pink silk and the Flemish lace Anne had bought for her court gown had come to more than he could afford.

  “How is she?”

  “Bearing up.”

  “I want to see her privately.”

  “Meaning you wish me to pay a visit to a neighbor.”

  “Preferably a long visit.” Verity’s house was so small that privacy was impossible. She eyed him with the look he knew so well: sisterly contempt leavened with tolerance.

  “You can use the parlor. First you must say hello to your nephew. You haven’t even looked at him property.”

  Drake smiled and took the baby out of Verity’s arms, careful not to touch him with wind-chilled hands. He settled the babe in the crook of his arm. “He’s a fine boy, Verity.” Four months old, he had Arthur’s brown eyes, but the infant’s feisty spirit, as he seized Drake’s finger and drove one pearly baby-tooth into it, was pure Verity. “What’s his name?”

  “John Drake.”

  Drake smiled. “So I’m to be godfather?”

  “Who else?” Verity said crisply. “I put off the christening until your return.”

  “And if I had not returned? If God had granted I die a ‘pirate’ in the Caribbean?”

  “My God,” she said emphatically, “would not have dared!”

  Drake grinned. “Thank the Lord for sisters,” he said, returning John Drake to his mother. The baby wanted to keep Drake’s thumb. Smile fading, becoming somber, Drake changed the subject. “Verity, I want you to stop baiting Anne.”

  Plumping John Drake to one shoulder, Verity gave him a caustic look.

  “Is that what she is accusing me of?”

  “Verity.”

  She glanced away in vexation. “Very well. I shall stop baiting Anne, if that’s what she says I am doing.” Lifting her skirts with her free hand, she went briskly up the narrow staircase that led to the sleeping floor, muttering, “You are a great fool, Drake.”

  He waited for Edwinna in the parlor, a room so small that its four well-worn, upholstered chairs crowded it. The baby’s parlor cradle stood near the hearth. A fire burned cozily. Drake added a log, then stood gazing into the flames.

  His mind drifted to Anne. He’d made the mistake of telling her about today’s visit. He hadn’t thought he needed to hide his intention to visit Edwinna. He’d assu
med Anne would feel compassion for her, under the circumstances, and would agree that he was morally obligated to offer Edwinna all the help he could. He’d been wrong. She’d flown into a jealous tizzy. They’d quarreled, and it had upset him. A quarrel with Anne always upset him. He loved her so much.

  Edwinna didn’t keep him waiting. She came down at once, into the parlor, and softly shut the door. They looked at each other, feeling a welter of emotions, each of them all too aware that everything had changed between them. She wore a gown of mauve wool and a shawl to match. The color suited her, lent a glow to her skin and eyes. Her hair hung long and curly. His lips parted under the force of his emotions. How could Anne think her plain? How could anyone?

  Edwinna ached. How wonderful he looked. He’d dressed handsomely to come to see her. He wore his best black serge suit and a white silk shirt with a lavish collar. His dressing up told her he cared. She felt grateful, for she herself cared so much it hurt. They gazed at each other, the fire crackling.

  “Edwinna, I don’t know what to say...”

  “There is nothing you need say, Drake. It isn’t your fault. It was nothing you could have foreseen.”

  “I never meant for you to be hurt.”

  “I know that.”

  They talked softly, gently, tenderly with each other.

  “If I had known about Anne being alive, I would not have...”

  Wed her? Is that what he meant to say? He left it unsaid, and she was grateful. Said aloud, the words would have been cruel, and he was not a cruel man. He was the gentlest, kindest...most exciting man she’d ever known,

  “No, don’t think that.” She gazed into the fire, watching it crackle and flare. “I lay awake one whole night thinking it out. I decided I will always be glad we wed. If we hadn’t, you would be dead, executed as a pirate.” She looked at him. “I couldn’t bear that, Drake. I want you alive. I want you with your children. I think...I think perhaps I may have wanted that from the very first moment I looked down into Speightstown’s cove and saw you shackled to the rocks, suffering. I remember thinking: He is a man with children. So, no. Don’t say that, don’t think it. I’m glad we wed. I will always be glad we wed. I will always be glad you’re alive.”

  She watched him draw a slow, ragged breath. Verity’s parlor had a high, small, glass double window. Drake rested his elbow up on the sill. He gazed at Edwinna so intensely she knew he wanted to take her into his arms and hold her. She was glad he didn’t. That would have made a mockery out of what they’d shared together. She couldn’t have borne it—his holding her, kissing her—knowing he’d shared a bed with Anne last night.

  Because he didn’t touch her, she felt filled with love for him—pride and love. She looked at him, standing tall and handsome, his eyes shining with the worry he felt on her behalf, eyes as clear and blue as the waters of Carlisle Bay.

  “Edwinna, our Barbados marriage is void.”

  “I understand that.”

  “But there’s no need to reveal that fact in Barbados. It’s nobody’s business. If you wish to keep my name, do so. It will spare you humiliation, and it will ease my heart when I think of you. I won’t have you gossiped about, made the butt of cruel jokes.”

  Her throat tightened. “That’s very kind of you, Drake. I’m not sure what I will tell anyone. I haven’t thought it out, yet.”

  “Do as you wish, of course. But I suggest you tell the whole story only to Matthew Plum and Simon Tarcher. David and Kena, if you wish. No one else need know. If others ask of my whereabouts, simply tell them the truth. I am in London tending to my wine business.”

  “I’m not sure what I will say.”

  “Do as you wish in the matter, Edwinna. But be kind to yourself.” He swallowed. “I would be proud to know you call yourself Edwinna Steel.”

  “Thank you, Drake.”

  They had not sat, nor had it occurred to either of them to do so—a mark of the emotion gripping them. Rain spattered the window, thrown by a gust of wind. The panes rattled. Edwinna’s glance followed the sound. Suddenly, she ached for her warm, fragrant trade winds. Even Drake looked toward the window as if remembering gentler, sweeter winds.

  “I...plan to leave for Barbados as soon as possible. There is no point in staying.”

  “No,” he said reluctantly. “I suppose there isn’t. But if you plan to go, I want to be the one to make the arrangements for you, if you will let me. I want you on a safe ship, nothing less.”

  ‘Thank you, Drake. That would be very kind.” The fondness in his deep, rich voice made her own voice tremble. She loved him so much.

  “Also, I want to do one more thing for you. I want to be your sugar factor here in London.”

  She looked up with surprise, feeling the glow start deep within her and spread through her body, rising to her eyes. He wanted to stay in communication with her.

  “That would be wonderful, Drake.”

  “I will do my level best for you, Edwinna. Too many sugar planters are cheated here in London. I mean to see that you are not one of them.”

  “I will want to pay you more than the usual five percent.”

  “No,” he said flatly. “Three.”

  “That’s not enough.”

  “It’s more than enough.”

  “It will scarcely cover the work. No sugar factor works for that little.”

  He smiled. “Three percent. Take it or leave it.”

  She smiled, too. “I’ll take it.” She wanted to give him more. She knew of his financial straits. Verity had made no secret of it. The two thousand pounds raised for Anne’s ransom had taken all of Verity and Arthur’s slender savings, plus a loan against Drake’s wine shop and warehouse. He was deeply in debt.

  The afternoon passed too quickly as they settled in chairs by the fire and talked business: the delicate problem of dismissing her inept London sugar factor, inventorying his books, his warehouse. Drake knew how to do these things. They discussed setting up a new banking account for Drake as sugar factor, dealing with the sugar now at the dock and the customs tax. She wanted the afternoon to go on forever.

  Gazing into his blue eyes, she thought, Oh, dear God, how will I ever bear it? How will I ever again sit at my worktable in my office at Crawford Plantation without Drake across from me? It was all she could do to maintain her dignity and composure.

  Their talk ended too soon. When it was time for him to go, she went with him to the door and even managed to return his smile, but when the door closed behind that decent, handsome London wine merchant, she leaned against it and wept.

  * * * *

  Anne was a huge success at Whitehall Palace. The Steels went by hired coach to the palace on a mid-week morning, Anne gorgeous in a shell-pink gown of silk that had a low neckline lavished with lace and silk sleeves crisscrossed with yards of delicate gold ribbon. Drake was immensely proud of her and felt small-minded, stingy, at having quibbled over the cost of the gown. It was worth every shilling. In it she looked like an angel.

  Rumbling along in the hackney coach, his “angel” radiated breathless excitement. Drake was more amused than excited. Speaking with the king was nothing new to him. He’d met privately with His Majesty on numerous occasions during the king’s exile in Holland and France, but for Anne, this was the event of a lifetime.

  Even the shabby condition of Whitehall Palace failed to dampen her enthusiasm. Whitehall’s acres of buildings, some of wood, some of brick, had lain deserted and unoccupied during the Cromwell years. Neglect had taken a toll. Some of the structures looked as if they should be torn down and rebuilt. Only a few of the buildings were used for royal apartments. Most were government offices.

  Awaiting their time to speak with the king, Anne and Drake strolled in the king’s garden, which was fashioned in the French manner, with clipped hedges and graveled walks. They walked along the stone gallery that ran beside the garden and looked at the rows of apartments that housed the ladies and gentlemen of the court.

  “Wouldn’t i
t be wonderful to live here!” Anne enthused.

  Drake laughed. “I think it would be awful living on a public road running right through Whitehall Palace. Sightseers like us would be going by all day, standing on your doorstep, gawking.”

  “I don’t mind being looked at.”

  He kissed her cheek. “That’s because you’re pretty. I’m not.”

  “Drake.” Her smile dazzled. So did her silvery blond hair. Her gown was the perfect complement, an angelic shade of pink, like the interior of a seashell. He felt so proud of her he felt he might burst. All eyes were on her—both men’s eyes and women’s. She knew it and flushed in the happy excitement of it all.

  A gracious man, the king himself came out to escort them into his royal apartment, striding with his long-legged gait, the ever-present pack of spaniels yapping at his heels. Anne was awestruck. The king was easily the tallest man in England, standing several inches taller than six feet. He was a vital man with ruddy skin, devil black hair, and a smile that could charm a fence post into falling at his feet in adoration.

  The king behaved charmingly to Anne, engaging her in conversation, saying pretty things to her. He was taken with her, Drake noted with a stab of worry. Jealous idiot that he was, he felt relieved when King Charles escorted Anne to a group of court ladies and gentlemen in his outer apartment who were playing parlor games and left her there in their company.

  The king honored him, taking him not only to his inner chamber, but into his bedchamber, where they conversed in privacy for twenty minutes. Drake emerged from the interview pleased but uneasy at the king’s “request” that he and Anne stay the day, dine with his court, partake of the afternoon’s entertainments, and remain to sup in the evening.

  Drake had better things to do. Work, for one. He needed to give his attention to his wine shop, to Edwinna’s sugar, to the matter of Thomas and Harry Crawford. He and Arthur were attempting to get the Department of the Admiralty to trace the Crawford twins’ whereabouts. Edwinna knew that and held high hopes. Drake wanted with all his heart to be able to send her good news, but his sixth sense told him Plum and Tarcher might be right. Thomas and Harry were probably dead. Dear God, he hoped not.