Chapter 1
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
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
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