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
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
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