AB

Mistress of Paradise

by Alexandra Benedict

Alexandra Benedict

Mistress of Paradise

To Irka

There’s no use in weeping,

Though we are condemned to part:

There’s such a thing as keeping

A remembrance in one’s heart.

“PARTING,” CHARLOTTE BRONTË

T he thick mountain mist swallowed Captain James Hawkins: a soul lost in paradise.

The fog protected the runaway slaves, the rebellious Maroons, even the island ghosts

from capture. James moved through the dense vegetation, slicing the feral ferns with a

blade, searching for a fellow outcast. Sweat soaked his clothes as he scaled the steep and

narrow dirt path, his only comfort the Undertaker’s Breeze sweeping down from the

peaks.

It was like passing through a hazy dream. The jungle was brimming with hidden,

sensuous wonders: the mournful cry of a solitaire thrush, the light, sweet scent of ginger

lilies, a brilliant and darting streamer-tailed hummingbird.

He stil ed for a moment, admired the haunting atmosphere. It was tempting to lose

oneself amid the fern trees or beneath a blanket of wild blossoms. There was a charm, a

magnetic pull to the lush environment. But James pressed onward. He had a duty to

perform.

After an hour-long hike, he sighted the ramshackle structure: a two-story, wood-frame

house with a front verandah and slatted window shutters. The exterior was in disrepair,

the planked walls weather-aged. It looked abandoned, but smoke piped from the

limestone chimney, indicating that the mad devil was home.

There was a crash inside the abode, followed by a manic soliloquy.

James gathered his breath and wiped the briny moisture from his eyes before he

stepped beneath the thatched awning. He set the cutlass aside so as not to spook the old

man, then rapped on the door. “Dawson.”

Feet shuffled in a frantic manner inside the house. “Where’s my gun?”

“You don’t need your gun, Dawson.” He pounded on the door. “It’s James!”

A pistol cocked. “Who?”

James cursed under his breath. He remained stationed at the door, prepared to snatch

the weapon from the raving hermit’s grip before he fired a single shot…and hopefully

keep all his fingers in the process.

The door opened.

James bristled.

He was greeted by the barrel of a pistol. But it wasn’t the cold steel aimed at his nose

that disarmed him, rather the pair of exotic brown eyes, trimmed with long, dark lashes,

that peered at him suspiciously over the flintlock. The jungle mist reflected in the glossy

pools of her eyes. She absorbed the gray and swirling light—drawing him into her, as

wel .

“Who is it, Sophia?” cried Dawson.

She retracted the weapon and rested it over her shoulder, her lengthy, thick tresses like

smooth cocoa, spilling over her generous bust in soft waves. “Black Hawk, I presume? My

father’s told me all about you.”

James hardened at the low, lyrical sound of her voice, like honey and smoke, so sweet

and rough at the same time, and a profound desire welled inside him to hear her speak his

real name. He was Black Hawk at sea—the infamous pirate rogue—but he ached to be

“James” with her.

She stepped aside and welcomed him with a seductive smile. “Come in. Are you

hungry?”

Aye, he was hungry. Deep in his soul, he starved for the woman’s touch. At the age of

thirty-two, he had never hankered for intimacy. He was accustomed to dockside whores,

who fulfilled his carnal needs…but Sophia was no wench.

She was a witch.

She mesmerized him, and he struggled with her for supremacy. He yearned for the

upper hand that she had snatched away from him. She made him breathless. He shrank

from the disturbing sensation. He was always in command of his senses, his family, his

ship. But Sophia took that all away from him. She wrested a burning desire from his soul.

She governed him in that timeless moment, leaving him powerless, his guts twisted, and

he had a raw, inborn impulse to take back control of his wits.

“Shoot the blackguard, Sophia!”

The fearsome Patrick Dawson—a retired buccaneer who had once ravaged the

Caribbean Sea—stepped out of the shadows, sporting a bushy black beard speckled with

gray. A long scar stretched across his brow and nose, and he gazed at James with dark,

rabid eyes.

“It’s me, Dawson. It’s James…Black Hawk.”

The burly brigand studied him with a wary expression before he humphed, having

recognized the unexpected houseguest. “What do you want?”

James stooped and entered the hut at the unfriendly invitation, his eyes firmly fixed on

the vixen. She strutted across the room, lined with books about flora and fauna, with a

sensual grace, setting the pistol on the table before she stopped beside the iron stove and

stirred the steaming fare in the copper pot.

The homely chore contrasted with her more sensuous nature. She appeared to be about

nineteen or twenty years of age. Tall for a woman. She was wrapped in a plain white

dress, the sleeves sheared at the shoulders, revealing her slender, sun-kissed arms, and his

heart shuddered at the image of the long limbs snaking around his neck, pulling him in

for a savage kiss.

He girded his muscles. Where had she come from? Dawson had no daughter. The last

time James had pirated near the tropical island, Dawson had been living alone in the

tumbledown shelter.

James soon realized that the old pirate was stil waiting for an answer, so he gathered

his disorderly thoughts and looked at the brigand. “I’m here to visit with you, Dawson.

It’s been six years since we last met.”

James had anchored off Jamaica’s coast a few days ago. He had hiked the Blue

Mountain Range as a matter of respect, for he owed the surly cutthroat a great deal of

gratitude.

Dawson snorted. “Sit. Eat.”

James rounded the table. He settled on a tree stump, serving as a stool, and for a

moment the room was quiet except for the soft, rhythmic sound of the wooden spoon

striking the copper pot.

The gentle taps bewitched James, the methodical strokes sounded like a shaman’s

unearthly chant. He had never listened to the familiar activity with such interest,

captivation even. He sensed the woman’s every movement. He imagined he could hear her

breathe from across the room if he just closed his eyes and concentrated.

Dawson settled on a wood stump beside his visitor and scratched his shaggy beard.

“How’s Drake?”

The beats in his skull distracting, James stroked the back of his head, fingered his long,

black hair, tied in a queue. “Father’s in England. He’s ill. I’m captain of the Bonny Meg

now.”

For more than fifteen years, Drake Hawkins had captained the pirate schooner, Bonny

Meg. James had served under his father’s authority during that time. But one year ago, the

man had weakened, beset with chronic headaches, bleeding gums. He had then

transferred command of the sacred vessel to James, the oldest of the four Hawkins

brothers.

“Hmm.” The old pirate rubbed his chin. “Drake’s alone in England?”

“No, he’s with Belle.”

“Is Bel e your wife?”

James glanced at Sophia. He eyed her trim waist and round hips through the thin fabric

of her dress, her figure in silhouette. The skirt’s hem fluttered at her slender ankles, and

he admired her bare feet, her toes smudged with dirt. He noticed how her slim brows

dropped as she perused him in return, and his blood warmed to feel her meticulous

exploration—and obvious interest.

“Mirabelle’s my sister,” James returned in a low voice. “I’m not married.”

“Don’t be daft, girl! Pirates don’t get leg shackled.”

James refuted in an even manner, “My father wed.”

The Bonny Meg was named after James’s mother, Megan. Father had loved the woman

greatly, and her death in childbirth thirteen years earlier had devastated al their lives.

Dawson swatted at the air. “Bah! Your father was always crazy.”

James lifted a brow at the ironic statement.

Sophia offered him a knowing smile.

The mutual jest that had passed between them, the secret look that had revealed their

inner thoughts, bonded the couple in a way James had never experienced with a woman: a

level of intimacy that disarmed him…even frightened him. And yet he ached for more,

for a deeper connection.

He smothered the balmy impulse, however. He could not explore his desire for the

woman. She was Dawson’s daughter. The brigand had saved James’s father from a

miserable life of servitude, and James could not return Dawson’s benevolence with

betrayal. Besides, the witch had already ensnared his senses to an alarming degree. He

didn’t need to fall even deeper under her spell.

“Are you thirsty, Black Hawk?” Sophia wiped her lean fingers against her skirt, the

rubbing movement ever so erotic. “You look parched.”

She gathered a bottle and two glasses from the wood shelf next to the iron stove. In

slow and determined steps, she approached the table, giving him the utmost opportunity

to observe her curvy figure.

She wanted him. It was so clear in her exotic eyes. He was taken aback by her

brazenness. He was accustomed to being in control of every situation, but Sophia battled

with him for dominance. She seemed unabashed by his robust physique, his dark

expression. In truth, she seemed to like him all the more for it. He was at a loss to

understand her motives.

James looked away from the enchanting witch, the blood in his veins pounding, and

met Dawson’s black and cutting glare. The notorious buccaneer might be wel into his

fifties, but he still had fists like an iron mallet.

James sobered.

“Have you come for my gold?”

“What?” James frowned. “I don’t want your treasure, Dawson.”

The mad pirate raked his teeth from side to side. “You can’t have my gold.”

“He doesn’t want your damned gold, Father.”

Sophia poured two glasses of white rum and served the men. She pushed the spirits

across the table, skimming her fingers over James’s wide hand, making him shiver with

longing.

Dawson glowered at her. “You can’t have it either, Alvera!”

“I’m Sophia!” She huffed, as if she’d made the correction a thousand times. She looked

at James with less heat in her eyes. “My mother is Alvera.”

Dawson spit. “The jezebel!”

Sophia rolled her eyes before she returned to the iron stove, and in that moment, James

sensed the kindred soul within her. She was trapped inside the house as the mad brigand’s

caretaker. James appreciated the feeling of being trapped, burdened with responsibilities.

He had so many duties of his own. He comprehended the woman’s motives, too. She was

strong in spirit and body alike, capable of enduring great hardship, he suspected. But she

needed a moment of respite…she needed him. And knowing that truth tugged at James’s

passions, eclipsing his good sense.

“Luncheon’s ready,” said Sophia.

The room was brimming with the tasty aroma of her culinary efforts. She ladled the

spicy stew into the wooden bowls with her left hand, then served the dishes. “It’s