AB (8 page)

Sophia offered him a smoky smile. “Thank you, Black Hawk.”

A deep and pressing hunger gripped his bones, filled his soul. He lost every desire for

roast beef and yams and slipped his fingers through Sophia’s thick tresses, drawing her

into his arms for a sensuous kiss.

“Oh, am I interrupting?” Quincy staggered inside the kitchen. “Good.” He simpered.

“Hullo, So-fee-a.”

Sophia chuckled at the scamp’s maladroit flirtation.

James snarled at the interruption.

“Good evening, Quincy.” She parted from James and lit an oil lamp. “Have you come

for supper?”

“Don’t encourage him to stay, sweetheart.” James glowered at the woozy pup in the

increased light. “Are you drunk?”

He hiccuped. “No.”

James sighed.

Quincy dropped into a chair and propped his feet on the table. “I have news.”

“What news?”

Quincy grinned. “I’m a man.”

James balked. “Blimey!”

Sophia hooted with laughter as she mashed the boiled yams.

Blood swelled in James’s veins and pumped into his head, washing away the last vestige

of tranquility, making him blind with vertigo.

“You’re thirteen!” he stormed.

“So?” said Quincy. “How old were you when you first bedded a woman?”

“Aye, Black Hawk.” There was a sassy gleam in Sophia’s eyes. “How old were you?”

He growled, “Not thirteen.”

The witch had a foul sense of humor, he thought darkly. The matter wasn’t droll.

Quincy was far too young to be chasing after skirts.

He glared at the boy. “Do you even know what to do?”

“Of course I do.”

The pup sounded indignant.

James rubbed his brow, smarting. Thoughts teemed in his head. What was the ass

thinking? He was so naïve and inexperienced. He wasn’t even prepared for the

consequences. He might end up with the pox if he rutted with a tart. Did he know to

look for the signs: the sores, the rash on the palms?

James took in a deep breath. He had anticipated Quincy’s inauguration into

“manhood.” However, not for a few more years. He had believed he’d have more time to

educate the boy in the matters of sex. Bloody hell!

“Where the devil is Will? Eddie?”

The pup shrugged. “I dunno.”

“At least we know why he’s foxed.” Sophia poured James a glass of white rum to calm

him. “He needed the encouragement.”

James downed the fiery liquid in one hearty swig. It blessedly burned his belly and

torched his riled senses.

He looked back at Quincy. “Who did you bed?”

The pup grinned. “A sea nymph.”

“A fish?”

Hope sprouted in James’s breast. Perhaps the reckless fledgling hadn’t lost his virginity,

after al . He had tipped the bottle, true. However, he might have floundered with the doxy

and ended up on the beach in bed with the “fishes.”

“She’s not a fish,” Quincy protested.

“There’s the manatees along the coast.” Sophia served the bowls of yams and strained

beans. “Sailors have mistaken them for mermaids for years.”

“She’s not a fish,” the pup insisted. “She came from the water, tal and beautiful with

the biggest set of…”

James sensed the muscles twitching in his cheek. He wanted to smash something…like

Quincy’s head. He slammed the empty glass on the table, instead.

The pup wasn’t perturbed, though. He sighed wistfully. “It was perfect.”

Sophia chortled.

Quincy reached across the table and grabbed an ackee from a wood bowl. “Hmm…

that looks good.”

“No!” James shouted.

Sophia scuttled across the room and grabbed the fruit from his fingers. “That’s

poisonous!”

The pup paled. “Then what’s it doing on the table?”

“It isn’t ripe yet,” she chastised. “Eat this.” She set the roast beef in front of him. “On

second thought, I think it’s time I put you to bed.”

She dragged him out of the chair and escorted him through the kitchen and toward the

guest quarters on the second level.

“Be careful, Sophia,” James said dryly. He raked his fingers roughly through his hair,

uprooting pieces. “He’s a man now.”

Quincy puckered his lips. “Aye, a virile man.”

Sophia pinched the boy’s neck, curtailing his clumsy seduction, and steered him up the

former, narrow servants’ steps at the back of the room. “I’ll remember that.”

James dropped into a seat and lowered his throbbing brow into his cupped hands.

Where the hell were the rest of his brothers? Why weren’t they looking after the pup? Did

James have to manage every blasted moment of their lives?

A few taxing minutes later, a set of warm and comforting hands slipped over his

shoulders and caressed his pectorals.

“You shouldn’t fret.” She kissed the back of his head. “The pup’s fine.”

The woman’s touch was like balm. It soothed the demons ranting in his head. “Is the

boy asleep?”

“Aye.”

She circled the chair. James parted his arms and welcomed her into his lap with a deep,

delightful sigh. He embraced her trim waist and buried his face in the crook between her

neck and shoulder.

“Quincy talks in his sleep.” She stroked his beard. “Like you.”

He frowned. “I don’t talk in my sleep.”

“You snore. It’s likewise as irritating.”

James humphed. He closed his eyes and allowed the woman’s sweet touch to lul his

nettled senses. The storm in his breast quieted. He listened to Sophia’s rhythmic

breathing, deep and steady. He sensed her pulse against his palm as he fingered her throat.

He absorbed the tart scent of citrus soap on her skin, let the sweet smell invade his lungs

and stifle his sour temperament.

“I like your family.”

“Are you mad, woman?”

She chuckled: a wicked and smoky sound that aroused his carnal impulses. “They don’t

judge me for being Dawson’s daughter.”

“How is your father?”

“He’s fine.” Sophia scratched his cheek. She sharpened her claws on his scruffy facial

hair. “You were right. He’s grown accustomed to my daily visits and evening departures.

He stil rants he’s going to shoot you for taking me away from him. But he won’t do it. I

think he knows I’m happy here with you.”

James cupped her hip and rubbed her arse in a provocative manner. The woman’s

words offered him great pleasure. In truth, he desired her contentment above al else…

but the direction in which their talk was moving had him bristling, for there was one thing

he could never give her.

“I don’t want to marry, Sophia.”

“I know.” She sighed. “Pirates don’t marry.”

“It has nothing to do with being a pirate.”

James closed his eyes as a dark memory raided the harmony in his soul: a woman’s

haunting sobs.

You must help me, James. You must help me now that Papa is gone. I need you, James.

I can’t take care of you and William by myself. You wil help Mama, won’t you, James?

Even as a child he had possessed an overwhelming sense of duty to protect his

family…but he had failed. His mother had suffered from poverty and loneliness for years.

She had depended on him for help for the twelve years his father was at sea, and he had

failed her.

James shuddered at the macabre reflection. He would not create another family. He

would not forge a wedded bond with Sophia and let her depend on him for all her

needs…and then be disappointed. He already had one rambunctious family to look after.

“It’s cal ed wedlock for a reason,” he said. “It isn’t right to cage two wild birds…Are

you all right with that, Sophia?”

She shrugged. “I don’t care about convention.”

Nay, she didn’t care about convention. He admired that trait about her. The woman had

strength, wits, and will. She had the wherewithal to take care of herself and the means to

want for nothing should he perish in a foray at sea. She didn’t need him…but she wanted

him.

“You’re stiff, Black Hawk.”

“Am I?” he said hoarsely.

She nipped his ear. “I mean, your muscles. Are you still upset about Quincy?” She

nuzzled his lips. “I can make you forget about your troubles.”

He shuddered deep in his bones. “Aye.” He groaned as she bussed his mouth and

twisted her fingers in his hair. “Make me forget, sweetheart.”

Sophia straddled him. She wrapped her arms around him, trapping him. It was a

blessed prison. He took in every part of her: every touch, taste, and scent. Fil ed with the

woman’s essence, her spirit, there was no room inside his soul for unrest.

He clinched her waist.

“Oh, no,” she said in a sultry whisper. “I take command tonight.”

James hardened, expression dark.

“No,” he said brusquely.

She chuckled: a throaty sound. “Shall I fetch the chessboard? Loser pays a forfeit.”

“I don’t want to play chess now.”

She licked her lips in a teasing gesture, unabashed. “Then forgo the game and just pay

the forfeit.”

James gnashed his teeth. The game had become their means of settling a dispute. It

offered the winner absolute right—and the loser absolute surrender—in the contested

matter. But James wasn’t too keen on the proposal. He was always the dominant one in

bed. She liked it that way, too. Game, be damned! He needed the woman now.

He lifted her skirt and rubbed his hands across her soft thighs, sensing her carnal

shivers—but she grabbed his wrists and tsked. “We do this my way.”

He had once said the very same words to her—and it was beyond irritating to hear the

expression echoed back to him. He positioned her quim snugly over his erection. “You

would make me wait, woman?”

She sighed in sensual hunger. Her obvious need for him made him even harder in

return. He thought to rid her of the balmy demand, to tempt her to submit to his will and

be done with the inconvenient matter of the game—but she was headstrong.

“I take the lead…or we play to settle the matter. Perhaps you win and get your way. Or

perhaps you lose, and I get mine.” She shrugged. “Either way, we waste time.”

Blood surged in his veins, making his heart pound like cannon blasts.

“Fine,” he growled. “Do it your way.”

She offered him a wicked smile. “Trust me, James. You need to let go…it will do you

good.”

“Horseshit.”

She winked. She lifted off his lap. He ached in his belly for her return. He watched her

sharply as she crossed the room and retrieved the cord she used to fasten the herbs and

spices. She snipped a long piece from the roll with iron shears.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

She circled the chair again. “Give me your hands.”

James stiffened. Phantom fingers squeezed his ribs and crushed his lungs. It went

against his every instinct: submission. He was always in command. He was always in

charge of his ship, his crew. He maintained his wits—and his hands—at all times. The

very thought of giving up control made him sweat, stirred his heartbeat to pulsing life.

“Put your hands behind your back, James.”

“No.”

He lifted from the chair, restless.

She placed her palms on his rigid shoulders and guided him back into the seat. “Pay the

forfeit.”

Blood throbbed in his skull. He struggled against the profound sentiment that he was

drowning. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” She took his hands and steered them behind the chair. “Trust me,

James.”

He was breathing hard, his muscles moist with sweat, as she firmly looped the cord

around his wrists, securing him to the chair.

James flexed his arms, but the bond was tight: a seaman’s knot. He instantly regretted

submitting to her request. He thought about breaking the chair. He was daft. He had let

the woman tie him to the furniture. It wasn’t right. He needed to get loose. He needed to

take her on the table—now.

“That’s better.” She rucked her skirt and straddled him again. “Relax, James.”

“Untie me.”

She let out a smoky chortle as she removed the pins from her hair. The long locks

rained across her bust in glorious waves, the shimmering lamplight reflecting off the

glossy tresses, bewitching him.

She combed her fingers through his bushy beard. “I won’t hurt you.”

James struggled against the knot, his wrists chafing. “Next time I win a forfeit, I’m

going to tie you to our bed and make you scream.”

“Promise?”

He grunted. “You vicious—”

She curtailed the threat with a smoldering kiss that drained the breath from his lungs

and the fight from his blood.

Sophia.

He pleaded in his soul.

She gripped the parted collar at his shirt and rent the garment. She splayed her fingers

and pressed her hot palms against his chest, branding his flesh.

James sucked in a deep breath. He sensed that the world was crumbling under his feet.

He needed to take back control. He needed to bed the woman, to feed her sensual

hunger. He was a worthless being restrained. And the more she moaned, the more he

jerked his arms, frantic to break the knots.

She scraped her fingernails across his firm muscles, begging him for more. Let me go!

he screamed in his head. He would give her everything she desired, then. But the witch

tortured him instead. She reached between her legs and groped for the buttons of his

trousers.

“I want you.” She undulated her hips. “I want you so much, James.”