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her spine, and she quivered, reckoning he had another grave matter to impart.

“You’re not safe in the mountains, Sophia.”

He had breached the fragile cocoon she had spun around her heart with his stark

reflection. Her fingers trembled as brutal images stormed her weary brain: the blood, the

tears.

She shuddered at the hurtful thoughts. “I’m safe with my father.”

“And when you’re not with your father?”

“I can take care of myself,” she insisted. “I always carry a pistol for protection.”

“Why didn’t you use it today?”

She pushed the fiery wounds deep into her battered soul, bandaged the ugly gashes. “I

could have shot one of the redcoats”—or myself, she thought grimly—“but then the

other soldier would’ve kil ed me…and who’d take care of my father?”

“They might have killed you after the rape.”

She sniffed. “Maybe, maybe not.”

James sighed. “Sophia—”

“What would you have me do?” She inadvertently smacked him in the gut as she

brandished her arms. “Abandon him?”

James grunted at the sudden contact. “You can convince Dawson to move into town

with you.”

She snorted. “He’s afraid of strangers. He won’t leave the mountains, and I can’t desert

him.”

James growled. “But he can’t protect you from the redcoats!”

“He’s mad, and he’s dangerous. The islanders fear him, so he protects me just fine. And

the redcoats are too busy hunting Maroons to bother with me again. I’ll be fine.”

“Damn it, Sophia—”

“I’m home,” she said succinctly.

Candlelight shimmered through the unmasked windows. She spied a shadow bobbing

inside the ramshackle abode—and stil ed.

Despair clutched her heart with its icy fingers. The last vestige of fortitude slipped

from her tired soul, and she approached the house with flat energy, overwhelmed.

Sometimes she still desired to leave her father. Sometimes the fickle feelings stil haunted

her. But the treacherous moment was always fleeting. She shrugged off the cumbersome

shroud of fatigue and grief and entered the house.

Dawson circled the room in an erratic manner, pistol in hand, quarreling with the

shadows, but he quieted as soon as he spotted her.

“Where have you been?”

She sighed. “I needed supplies from town.”

“You should have told me.”

“I did!” Sophia strutted inside the room and dropped the satchel on the table. “I told

you three times!”

He humphed. “Where are the supplies?”

“I didn’t get them. I’ll have to go into town tomorrow.”

“Why?” He eyed her bruises. “What happened to you?” He stared at James, who had

entered the house behind her, before he looked at her wounds again.

Dawson lifted the pistol, aiming it at Black Hawk’s head.

Fortunately, James had had the foresight to guess the balmy brigand’s thoughts, and had

ducked in time, the strident bullet piercing the door instead of his skull.

“He didn’t hurt me, Father!” She skirted across the room, her ears ringing from the

blast, and wrestled with her parent for the weapon. “It was the redcoats!”

Dawson relinquished the gun and slammed his fist into his stalwart palm. “I’ll kill

them!”

“They’re already dead,” she snapped, breathless. “Black Hawk killed them.”

“Damn it, that’s my duty!” He glared at James. “I’m her father.”

Slowly James righted himself. “I’m sorry, Dawson.”

He humphed again, then set his wild eyes on Sophia. “What’s for supper, woman?”

She sighed. She buried her father’s pistol inside a copper pot, her head pulsing, her

bones aching.

She looked across the room at James, who offered her an encouraging smile, and she

wished with all her heart that he would stay with her—forever.

We can burst the bonds which chain us,

Which cold human hands have wrought,

And where none shall dare contain us

We can meet again, in thought.

“PARTING,” CHARLOTTE BRONTË

J ames rested on the cool deck of the verandah, his legs stretched and crossed at the

ankles. The thick wood beams supporting the awning supported his back, as well. He

listened to the distant swell of the water, the beach a few chains away from the

abandoned plantation house, and lazily perused the unkempt garden, feral with jungle

growth.

“I suppose even pirates need a break from pillaging.”

He chuckled at her sharp wit. The blood warmed in his veins. She cut through the ferns

and approached the house in an idle manner, her long white dress flirting with the sultry

breeze. Sunlight caressed her dark and wavy locks, the thick tresses highlighted with

touches of gold.

James’s world righted itself as soon as he spotted her. A part of him had still sheltered

misgivings about his plan. However, now that he was with her again, he was sure he was

doing the right thing.

Sophia pulled him toward her with her bewitching brown eyes, and he obeyed her

silent, sensual call. He lifted off the front steps.

“Why have you summoned me here, Black Hawk?”

There was a smudge across her tanned cheek, the shadow of a bruise. He stroked the

healing wound with the pad of his thumb, blood pounding in his head with rabid rage. He

quashed the black memory of the attack with savage dismissal. He would not let it spoil

the intimate moment.

“Was it a summons?” he said gruffly.

She swatted at his distracting fingers, huffing…but he had sensed the wanton shudder

that had wracked her bones. He had missed her, too. He had suffered the pangs of

separation from her for nigh three weeks. The sea had served as his mistress for so long,

but now land beckoned to him, as wel . Sophia beckoned to him.

“The note read: meet me at the old plantation house.” She quirked a slender brow. “It

sounded like a summons to me.”

He smiled. “An invitation.”

James girded his muscles as she pressed her belly into his midriff, weaving her fingers

through his unruly beard, scratching his cheeks like she was greeting a faithful mutt.

“I don’t know if I like the beard. It hides the infamous brigand.”

He sighed at her rough touch and bussed the palm of her hand, blood swelling in his

veins. “And do you like the infamous brigand?”

She smiled coyly.

“Why have you invited me here, Black Hawk?”

She walked around him and scaled the front steps, strolling the portico like the lady of

the house. She observed the classical structure for a moment: the thick stone walls, the

slatted shutters, the shell-and-coral motif that framed the large wood door and arched

windows.

“Do you like the house, Sophia?”

She wrapped her arms around a wide column. The gingerbread fretwork stretched

across the length of the verandah, casting her features in playful shadows.

“It’s lovely,” she said.

“It’s mine.”

Sophia looked at him, bemused. “What?”

He admired her voluptuous form in silhouette. She hugged the beam, one with the

house. It was constructed to carry her footfalls, to shelter her sleeping head. It was

designed to protect her from the elements…and to offer her freedom.

He joined her under the roof. He folded his arms across his chest and pressed his

shoulder against the wood column. “I purchased it this morning.”

“It’s too big for you.”

“I don’t intend to live here alone.”

Slowly she lifted her eyes, the bronze pools shimmering in the sunlight. “I’m sure you’ll

be very happy here with your brothers.”

“Bite your tongue, woman.” He stroked her lush hair. He coiled a long lock around his

finger. He was brimming with a dream: a dream of solidarity. “It’s your home, too,

Sophia.”

She munched on her bottom lip, the playful banter no more. “I know.”

James sensed the turmoil in her heart. He splayed his fingers and raked his hand

through her tresses. He gripped the base of her skull, then separated her from the

column. She slipped her arms around his waist instead, and he sighed with satisfaction to

feel her limbs curled around his body, embracing him in a sturdy hold. It was quiet inside

his soul when he was with her. He ached to keep it that way.

She sighed and buried her features in his chest. “I can’t live with you.”

He had anticipated the objection. “It’s two miles from your father’s home. You can

prepare his food and see to his needs during the day, every day if you like…and then

come home to me.”

She seemed to struggle with the proposition, the dream. “But he’s helpless.”

“He’s not helpless,” said James. “He lived for years without your care, remember? And

you’ll still be with him for a good portion of each day. He’ll grow accustomed to the

change.”

She was quiet.

“What is it, Sophia?” He kissed the crown of her head. “Do you fear censure from the

islanders?”

She snorted. “I don’t care what the islanders think of me.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Why are you doing this?” She looked up at him earnestly, seeking truth. “What do you

want from me?”

“I want you.”

The words wel ed inside him with fierceness, resounded in his head. He breathed the

words and the meaning they conveyed: he wanted her. He wanted to be with her. He

wanted to protect her. There was no other way to describe the profound need he had to

return to land.

He brushed her sweet lips with his mouth. “Well?”

“Irie,” she consented in her native patois.

The garden was brimming with orchids and honeysuckles and ginger lilies, tart fruit

trees and sweet spices. A cool sea breeze whisked through the botanical paradise, stirring

the flora into animation.

James was at the garden’s edge. He eyed the sweeping landscape, rolling with bright

bushels of both native and imported species, pulsing with vivid life.

Sophia was nestled amid the floral splendor. A white orchid with a brilliant red center

kissed her ear as she pruned its leaves with tenderness. The blossom reminded him of

burning passion buried deep within the soul. A heat soon swelled in his belly, his blood: a

comforting heat.

James watched the woman from afar. So lovely. More lovely than any of the delicate

blooms. She was kneeling, her bare toes buried in the moist soil. She had pinned her hair

in a loose swirl and draped her limbs in a flowing white shift.

She cared for the garden, for him with such passion, and it welled inside him, the

profound and stirring sentiment…

She stilled.

She closed her eyes. She had sensed him. She waited quietly for him to come and greet

her. She beckoned him with her silence.

Slowly he moved away from the trees. He approached her crouching figure. He

hunkered behind her, overwhelmed with rampant desire.

Softly he bussed her throat.

I love you, Sophia.

He lifted off his haunches and headed inside the plantation house. He swaggered

across the portico, swarming with potted Jamaican roses. The pink blossoms glowed as

the crimson sunlight passed through the translucent petals.

He entered the shady house. The shutters blocked the late-afternoon heat. It had taken

months to restore the building. There were whitewashed wal s and dark, cedar-wood

beams in the ceilings. Long and wispy drapes adorned the arched windows. The airy space

was filled with the potent scent of freshly cooked fare, and James breathed deep,

absorbing the sights and aromas, the essence of home.

“Are you hungry?”

She had followed him inside the house. He watched her as she wiped her slender, grimy

fingers in her skirt, smearing the dirt across the white fabric.

“Aye,” he said gruffly.

She smirked. “I’m not on the menu.” She strutted through the great hall with a sensual

grace before she entered the back kitchen. “I’m making roast beef with red beans and

yams.”

James admired her curvy figure from the door as she moved about the renovated

enclosure, gathering pewter cups and plates, preparing the table for the evening meal. The

stone floor maintained a cool temperature inside the room. Pots and pans dangled from

the ceiling. There were even dry spices bundled together and hooked on the wall.

Sophia stirred the beans, simmering in a copper pot on the great iron stove. He enjoyed

observing her as she tended to the household chores. It was a simple pleasure that

inspired quiet reflections.

“Where have you been?” she wondered.

“I sneaked into town as Captain Hawkins.” He removed a small, glittering item from

his pocket. “I have something for you.”

She glanced at him askance. “What is it?”

He approached the stove, the heat from the wide iron belly warming his cheeks. He

presented her with the short boot knife, bejeweled handle and leather sheath.

“I’m going to teach you how to use it,” he said. “I want you to know how to protect

yourself with a blade.”

She fingered the weapon. “It’s so small.”

He lifted a sardonic brow at the double entendre. “It’s three inches long and doubleedged. It’s very deadly if you know how to wield it. It’s also slim enough to fit anywhere

on your body…”

She slipped the blade and sheath between her ample breasts.

He grunted. “Like there.”