Authors: André Jensen
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.”