AB (3 page)

Aye, she was Dawson’s daughter. Was she doomed forever because of her lineage? The

islanders already treated her with disdain for being the mad brigand’s spawn. Was she

going to endure the agony of alone ness, too?

Sophia gasped for breath as she struggled against her unquenched desires. She drowned

in the woeful thought that she was destined to exist in isolation. James was the one man

who admired her father, who didn’t gaze upon her with pity or scorn. He would banish

the lethargy dwel ing inside her with his touch, his kiss. He would breathe new life into

her tired soul.

But the black devil was loyal to her father. Dawson had saved James’s father from naval

tyranny, making her parent some sort of saint or paragon of righteousness in James’s

eyes…and making her his sacred offspring: a woman not to be touched—ever!

Sophia sidestepped the notorious rogue and returned to the laundry basin.

“Sophia—”

“Leave.” She hunkered and resumed the washing, putting al her restless energy into the

vigorous chore. “You’ve visited with my father. You’ve done your duty to him. Now

leave.”

She sensed his towering figure looming behind her. The man’s shadow caressed her

spine. She listened to the harsh, raspy sound of his labored breathing. The swift tempo

matched her own pulsing heartbeat. But soon he retrieved the cutlass beside the door and

retreated, slipped back into the mist.

There’s such a thing as dwel ing

On the thought ourselves have nurs’d,

And with scorn and courage telling

The world to do its worst.

“PARTING,” CHARLOTTE BRONTË

J ames boarded the schooner, moored in the secluded Port Antonio Bay. The Bonny

Meg was home, his faithful mistress. She had always quieted the demons in his head and

stil ed the swirling darkness in his soul. Feeling her wide belly under his boots had always

put the world to rights…until now.

“Ahoy, Capt’n!”

James passed his loyal tars and returned the greetings as he crossed the deck in long

strides before he scaled the steps leading to the poop.

The warm sea breeze whisked through his tresses, loose from the queue, teasing his

cheeks. He ignored the playful caresses. He hankered for an island witch, who still

tormented his senses even after he’d endured the grueling journey home.

The taste of her sweet lips lingered in his mouth. He looked toward the misty land,

engrossed by the distant, ghostly mountains, and the knowledge that she was stil up

there, angry with him…yearning for his touch.

He shuddered. The memory of her in his arms filled his brain, making his skul throb.

He wanted to crack his addled head against the ship’s deck, he was such a fool. He should

never have let the witch weave a spell over him. She had snared his desires, his good

sense, with her mesmerizing eyes and sultry island ways.

But she had captured more than his lust.

James closed his eyes. She had captured a private part of him that he had shared with

no one: an isolated corner of his soul he had guarded staunchly for most of his life. Her

need to connect with him had reminded him of his own need to connect with another

being: a need he had never met.

Footfalls approached. James opened his eyes and muffled the maudlin sentiment,

shoving it back into the darkest recess of his soul. He turned around and confronted the

ship’s lieutenant, his brother William.

“How’s Dawson?”

William folded his arms across his strapping chest. At the age of thirty, he was the

second-in-command. A sage lieutenant, he was also the most levelheaded of the Hawkins

brood and often offered wisdom—welcomed or not—in the midst of adversity. However,

James needn’t seek advice from his brother about his quandary. He already knew what to

do about the predicament: stay away from Sophia.

“The old brigand’s still alive,” said James, beset with stirring reflections, haunted by

brilliant brown eyes. “He has a grown daughter, Sophia.”

“Oh?”

“She takes care of him.”

“Is she chained to the furniture?”

James snorted. “No, she wants to look after the surly brigand. She’s a good cook.”

“I see.”

The rising inflection in Wil iam’s voice suggested that the man was suspicious about the

captain’s interest in Dawson’s daughter, and so James quashed his brother’s curiosity by

switching the subject:

“How’s the ship?”

“The ship is fine…however, the crew is another matter.”

James sighed. “What happened?”

“Eddie and Quincy had another row. Both fell overboard and landed in the water, but

Quincy was injured.”

James growled. The two fledglings in the family had a penchant for fisticuffs, and James

was sorely tempted to maroon both their arses on the first uninhabited rock.

“Wil the pup live?”

“He’ll live.” William scratched his chin. “I don’t know how it happened, though.

Quincy must have stepped on poisonous coral or a venomous fish, for he’s suffering from

some sort of rash.”

“Blimey,” James cursed under his breath. He sidestepped his brother and departed the

poop, descending belowdecks through the open hatchway. “Where is he?”

William fell in step behind the captain. “I placed him in your cabin.”

“What the devil is wrong with the forecastle?”

“The pup’s in agony. He needs a nursemaid, and I figured it wasn’t a good idea to put

him with the rest of the tars. He would only disturb them with his yowls.”

James sensed the blood pounding in his head. He opened the cabin door and entered

his quarters, Quincy prostrated across the coverlet, Edmund tending to his injuries with a

damp rag and a bowl of water.

“Hold still,” ordered Edmund. “Stop scratching!”

“Sod off, Eddie! It hurts.”

Quincy raked his fingers across his blistering legs, trousers sheared at the knees, the

thirteen-year-old miscreant in clear distress.

“I leave for one morning, and you two almost kill each other!” James stormed.

William quickly entered the space before the captain slammed the door closed.

James glowered. “I should shoot you both.”

“Please shoot me!” pleaded the pup. “I can’t take it anymore.”

Edmund frowned. “I said stop scratching.”

“I can’t!”

James approached the bed. Fifteen-year-old Edmund quickly stepped aside, allowing

the captain to examine the pup’s legs in greater detail. “It looks like a jellyfish sting.”

“Am I gonna die?”

“No.”

“Oh!” Quincy curled into a ball, still scratching. “I wish I would die.”

James looked at William. “Have a few of the men go into the woods and search for

Jamaican dogwood.”

“Aye, Captain.”

William departed the cabin.

Edmund shifted his lanky frame from one foot to the other. “Do you want me to stay

and look after him?”

“No.” James snatched the medicinal bowl from his brother. “You’re going to take a

bucket of water and vinegar and scrub the decks—all the decks.”

Edmund bristled. He pointed at Quincy. “But he started the fight!”

“Fine!” snapped Quincy. “I’ll scrub the decks, and you can suffer with the bleeding

sores.”

“Enough!” James glared at Edmund. “Out!”

“Aye, Captain,” he grumbled as he swaggered from the cabin.

As soon as Edmund had departed from the room, James heard the distinct sound of

chuckling. He scowled at Quincy. The pup sobered and resumed his yowling.

James took in a deep breath before he placed the bowl of water on the table. “I’ll try

and wash away most of the toxins, but I’m afraid you’ll have to suffer for the next few

days.”

“The dogwood?”

James gripped the pup’s ankle, twitching, and patted his scrawny leg, so inflamed, with

the moist linen. “The dogwood is to help you sleep.”

“Sleep? I can’t sleep! Knock me senseless, instead. Please!”

“I can arrange that,” he said grimly.

Hours later, the cabin was dark. James rested in the hammock, swaying softly with the

gentle swell of the sea. He listened to the pup as he murmured in his sleep. James had

prepared the dogwood tea and siphoned enough into Quincy’s belly to make sure he was

asleep for the next two days.

James rubbed his brow, pounding with fatigue. He ached for quiet in his soul. Ironic

that he should only ever find it on the deck of the Bonny Meg in the midst of a

tempestuous raid, but it was then that the cannon blasts and roaring waves trumped his

own noisy thoughts.

He rolled out of the hammock and approached the scuttle, peering through the small,

round window at the moonlit mountains, so ghostly blue.

He had also found peace with Sophia. He had never sensed such a feeling of harmony

away from the ship. He imagined the woman’s thick tresses trapped between his fingers,

her sensual curves wrapped in his embrace. He envisioned her warm, shining eyes…and

the bleakness he had witnessed in the lonely pools after he had rebuffed her advances.

She was caged.

Like him.

She wanted freedom.

Like him.

James glanced at Quincy, sound asleep in the bed. He was going to have to take care of

the boy for a long time. He was going to have to take care of all his brothers—and his

sister—for a long time. He had to endure his duty.

But he would offer Sophia respite from hers.

The thought snagged in his mind. There was no escape for him from obligation;

however, he had an opportunity to offer Sophia freedom from hers.

Aye, she was Dawson’s daughter, but there was an unmistakable attraction between

them: one he had to satisfy for both their sakes.

Sophia closed her eyes and listened to the rhythmic drumbeats, her hips slowly swaying

to the music. In the twilight hours, the melodic pounding and bawdy lyrics offered her a

clandestine moment to be wild and free, to dance and shake loose the restless energy

thrumming inside her.

She opened her eyes and took another swig of rum before she joined her fellow

outcasts, the rebellious Maroons, and stomped her feet in the jungle soil, high in the Blue

Mountain Range. She was so high, if she reached out her hand, she sensed she would

touch the moon, the stars.

The flames from the bonfire snapped at her bare toes as she undulated alongside the

other charmed figures, dubbing with them, seeking flight from the darkness in her soul.

It was a cool night, the air brisk, pristine. She swallowed a mouthful of it, her heart

thumping in tempo to the tune, her thoughts aligned with her sensuous surroundings.

The enchantment shattered.

Sophia shivered as an intruding presence filled the atmosphere. She glanced through

the hazy smoke into the dark, dense woods.

He was watching her.

He was masked by the blackness, but the man’s sharp stare pierced her spine, her flesh,

teasing her senses, summoning her heart to heed his silent cal .

She banished the thought of him from her mind. She danced with more passion,

seeking refuge from his sultry glare; however, the black devil taunted her with his

closeness. If she shut her eyes tight, she remembered the rich taste of his lush lips, the

intoxicating touch of his hard muscles, the unearthly connection she had briefly formed

with him.

Sophia peered into the jungle once more, eyes watery from the stinging heat and thick

smoke. She was sweating, her heart throbbing, her limbs aching …but not from fatigue.

She was hungry.

She surrendered to the brigand’s invitation at last. She moved away from the fire, the

warmth of bodies. She traversed the natural courtyard in a daze, the melody still

pounding in her head, guiding her steps.

She entered the jungle, surrounded by the trees, the shadows. The drumbeats

resounded in her ears as she searched the vegetation for him, reaching through the vines

and ferns and darkness.

She stilled.

There was a silhouette, unlike a tree, yet vigorous and towering, positioned a few feet

away from her.

“Black Hawk?”

The shadow shifted.

Sophia’s pulses danced. She made no effort to ease her pounding heartbeat or cool her

hot, throbbing blood. She trembled as he approached her with slow, leggy gaits.

“What are you doing here, Black Hawk?”

He settled beside her, a thick wal of muscle. She inhaled the rich scent of his

masculine musk, the salty sea in his hair. She fisted her fingers to keep her hands at her

sides, she was so tempted to touch him, taste him. But she didn’t want to share another

doomed kiss with the man. She didn’t want to engage in another teasing, unfulfil ing tryst.

“I heard the music,” he said quietly. “I followed it.”

She gathered her breath, her wits. “Father isn’t here.”

“I’m not looking for your father.”

Softly he stroked her cheek. She shivered with delight to feel his warm finger caress her

balmy skin. He possessed enough strength in his one finger to arouse her senses and

make her weak in the knees.

“You dance beautifully,” he praised.

He brushed the long appendage across her lips, trembling with need, making the blood

pound in her skul .

She opened her mouth and kissed his finger to ease the pressure growing in her head,