AB (9 page)

The wood splintered as he wrenched his arms. He ached in his bones for freedom, for

power.

Sophia slipped her hands inside his trousers and stroked his thick erection. “I need you

inside me.” She bussed his lips. “Deep inside me.”

He groaned in agony: a dark and feral noise. “If you don’t release me, I’ll—”

She sucked his bottom lip, raked it between her teeth. “Are you still fighting for

control?” She lifted her rump and eased her wet quim over his erection. “I have control,

James.”

He closed his eyes and gasped at the slick feel of her muscles clinching his stiff cock.

His body raged with restless energy. He wanted to rut. He thrust his hips in an aggressive

attempt to take command, but she maintained control. She refused to move with him.

“Be still,” she whispered in a throaty vein. “Let me take you.”

He girded his muscles in protest. He was supposed to take her. He was supposed to fil

her. Him! It wasn’t right. He wasn’t supposed to sit there like a lazy sod.

“Let go, James.” She moved her body over him in sensual waves, smothered him with

her flesh. “Trust me.”

He shuddered in defeat.

Sophia bucked her hips in steady movements. “That’s it.” She whimpered. Sweat

glistened across her brow and bust. “That’s it, James.”

Blood thumped inside his head with wicked force as he let the woman ravish him, let

every last defiant instinct drain from his body.

“Yes!” she cried.

Her wanton, guttural sounds gratified him. He stopped struggling with her. He joined

her in the erotic dance. If she bore down on him, he raised his hips to give her more. If

she searched for his lips, he offered her his mouth and tongue.

Take me, sweetheart.

James groaned in avid hunger, wet with sweat. The friction from the heated coupling

burned his blood. His heart was pounding. He gasped for breath as the tension in his

cock tightened even more, and he ached for sweet release…for sweet surrender.

The rhythmic pounding obscured all his other senses. He cried out as a deep explosion

rocked his body, blessed relief spreading to every stressed muscle and nerve. He poured

his hot seed into her womb. And she took in every drop, draining him of strength.

He shuddered and dropped his head back against the chair, searching for precious

breath. All was quiet inside his soul. He reveled in the stillness.

“Was that so hard, Black Hawk?”

He choked on his laughter. He was brimming with warmth and sated delight. “Aye, it

was bloody hard.” He buried his face in her throat and bussed her throbbing pulse. “Now

untie me, witch.”

She sighed. “The idea of ‘letting go’ didn’t last too long, did it?”

“Untie me. Now.” He said in a more husky voice, “I want to give you what you’ve given

me.”

She smiled. “Well, in that case…”

So there’s no use in weeping,

Bear a cheerful spirit still;

Never doubt that Fate is keeping

Future good for present il !

“PARTING,” CHARLOTTE BRONTË

S ophia traveled through the cobblestone street with a basket of food in her arms. The

wide thoroughfare was flanked by colonial-style structures with mustard yellow façades

and green, sun-bleached roof shingles. Fronted with white columns and second-story

balustrades, the uniform buildings encapsulated rigid British rule.

Sophia passed under the massive Union Jack positioned beside the courthouse

entrance. She had spent most of the day in town, gathering ingredients for the evening

meal. She wanted to prepare a memorable supper for James, for it was one year ago today

that she had first met him.

A cool sea breeze bustled through Harbour Street, twisting her loose hair. She spied the

wanted posters along the courthouse wal and smiled at the exorbitant, one-hundredpound reward offered for Black Hawk’s head. The infamous pirate had changed her life in

so many wondrous ways. She had settled into a comfortable, even complete existence

with the man. And to celebrate their anniversary, she wanted to prepare his favorite

repast: coco bread, ginger chicken, and rum cake for dessert. She just had to buy the wine.

As she approached the tavern, the impudent whistles made her bristle. She ignored the

tramps, loitering outside the establishment. She was accustomed to their jeers and heckles

whenever she ventured into town for supplies. It was common knowledge that she was

Captain James Hawkins’s mistress, and she disregarded the vagrants as she entered the

pub.

Sophia purchased the red wine from the barkeep. She nestled the bottle inside her

basket, then departed the public house and resumed her steady march home.

“Give us a kiss, Sophia!”

One drunkard grabbed his cock in a crude gesture and sucked on his bottom lip,

making a loud smacking sound. “Kiss me, Sophia. I’m tastier.”

“No, kiss me! I’ve got a prick you can ride all night.”

Sophia dropped the basket, blistering heat coursing through her veins. She was about to

draw her knife and cut off the foul men’s cods, when the three hecklers quickly composed

their mocking brows and sneering lips.

A young woman approached the rabble. She was pale, curly locks a fashionable flaxen

blond. She looked ridiculous in the tropical heat, with her layers of linen, a bonnet and

parasol to match. Sophia could see the sweat glistening across her wide brow and slim,

aqui line nose. However, she maintained the regalia with a chaperone to boot…and she

commanded respect.

The governor’s wife strolled past the vagrants.

“Good day, Mrs. Smith,” the men murmured in unison and doffed their scruffy caps.

Mrs. Smith ignored the tramps. She walked past them with formal grace…offering

Sophia a brief look of scorn as she went.

Sophia fisted her palms, staring after the prim and proper woman. Her heart thundered

in her ears, her mind swelled with dark thoughts as shame billowed inside her breast. She

struggled to tamp down the roiling grief—the rage!—festering in her head.

Mrs. Smith condemned her as a whore and treated her accordingly. The islanders’

snickers and sneers had become commonplace, for Sophia was considered a trollop: no

one of consequence, no one deserving respect.

The hecklers started up again, their jeers growing louder in her head. Sophia grabbed

the basket and hurried through the lively street.

In an hour, she was home. She stormed the plantation house and dumped the basket of

food on the kitchen table, the ingredients rolling across the polished wood surface.

James entered the room and grabbed an onion before it hit the floor. “Is something the

matter, sweetheart?”

She glared at him, sweating, pulses rapping in her ears. The quick and hardy hike home

hadn’t cooled her thoughts or numbed her throbbing senses. The taunts and crude

remarks still resounded in her head. She had had enough of the ridicule.

Quietly she climbed the staircase and retrieved the chessboard from their bedroom. She

returned to the kitchen and cleared the table before she arranged the players across the

checkered playing surface.

James studied her curt, efficient movements. He raised a black brow. “Care to enlighten

me about the dispute?”

She was mum. The derision, the looks of disdain still swirled inside her head. She

trembled with mortification and battled the mawkish impulse to weep.

Sophia snagged a seat. With energy, she smacked the ivory pawn against the board,

making the first move.

James watched her with a baffled look in his deep blue eyes, but he assumed the

opposite chair and moved a jade player forward.

As the strenuous match culminated in a victorious end, she stiffly proclaimed,

“Checkmate.”

James reclined in the chair and folded his thick arms across his strapping chest. “You

win, sweetheart. Ask anything of me you wish.”

“Marry me.”

The man’s expression darkened. “What?”

Sophia’s skull throbbed with hurtful snipes and spurned regards. There was only one

way to silence the slights and avoid the snubs: marriage. As the captain’s wife, she would

command respect. She wouldn’t have to confront the mockery every time she ventured

into town. She wouldn’t have to suffer the shame and ignominy every time she gathered

in polite society. Her life with James would remain the same. She already shared a home, a

bed with the man. A wedding wouldn’t upset the intimate bond or the routine that they

both cherished. It would simply root out the last distasteful hindrance preventing them

from being truly happy.

“Marry me, James.”

“No.”

The brusque response shattered her equanimity. He glared at her like a disobedient tar,

and she sensed a foul sentiment stirring deep in her belly.

He was content with their affair. He was comfortable having her as his whore. It was

she who was unhappy, not James. He cared nothing for the islanders’ whispers or hateful

chortles. He cared nothing for her. Not really. He cared for her body. He cared for her

cooking. But he cared nothing for her heart. Otherwise, he would not have refused the

challenge loss. He had never refused a challenge loss in the past. He was too honorable to

go back on his word…but, then, she had never asked him to be her husband.

A cold darkness filled her soul, and she sprinted from the kitchen, making her way into

their bedroom. She let out the sob pressing on her lung: one mournful wail. She then

swallowed the rest of her tears…and let the darkness flow through her heart.

She scanned the space, the intimate haven. She spied the great, four-poster bed draped

in soft white sheets. The bedding was still rumpled. She had left early in the morning to

fetch the ingredients for the evening meal. James had remained behind, sleeping. She

parted the canopy veil and looked at the lumpy feather tick and puckered linens, heart

aching.

It was all a lie: every soulful touch and whispered word. He had charmed her, lured her

into his bed to keep it warm.

Whore!

The redcoats had been right. She was nothing but a willing wench.

Sophia stiffened as firm, robust fingers cupped her arms and a warm wall of muscle

pressed into her backside.

“Let’s not fight, sweetheart.”

She took in a heavy breath through her nose as he fingered her long locks and exposed

her throat, nuzzling her neck, feeling her pounding pulse.

She closed her eyes, quivering. He had tricked her. He had shammed her into thinking

she was more to him than just a mistress. Even now he bewitched her senses with his soft

caresses and sultry kisses.

“I go to sea tomorrow.” He slipped his burly arms around her waist and rocked his hips

in a sensual dance. “I don’t want to quarrel with you, Sophia. Not today of all days.”

“Why not today?” she demanded. “Because it’s our anniversary?”

Was he going to feign interest in the affair? Was he going to pretend it mattered to

him…like it had mattered to her?

“Yes, it’s our anniversary,” he said softly, thrusting his pelvis in step to the imaginary

music. “Is that why you asked me to marry you?”

She snorted. He believed that she was too emotional in response to their anniversary.

But she wasn’t suffering from sentimentality. She was suffering from shame. The islanders

considered her a trollop. Did James, too? She decided to find out.

“When will you take me to England?”

“Why do you want to go to England?”

She lilted with him in the quiet room. “I want to see your homeland. I want to meet

your sister. You’ve said so much about her. I think it’s time I make her acquaintance.”

She waited, breathless, as the moments passed.

“It’s too cold in England,” he said at last. “You need the hot sun, sweetheart. It’s better

for you here on the island. Besides, who would look after your father?”

She released the breath she was holding at the man’s hedging response. He would not

marry her. He would not introduce her to his beloved sister. He had had no qualms about

introducing her to his brothers…but he would not acquaint her, a wench, with his saintly

sister.

He was ashamed of her.

Sophia let the man’s artful thrusts hush her nettled senses. She would dance with the

heartless brigand…one last time.

James cut through the tepid seawater and mounted the sandy shore. He eyed the

plantation house poised proud on the hil top. There was a candle burning in one of the

bedroom windows.

“I’m coming, Sophia.”

He was filled with a savage hunger…for her. After a thrilling raid at sea, blood pulsed

through his veins. He wanted to prolong the pleasurable rush of energy, to kiss every bit

of her soft flesh before he buried himself deep within her.

In quick strides he moved across the beach and through the wild bush. Palms scratched

his naked torso, and he swatted the foliage, startling the parakeets, who, squawking, took

to flight.

The narrow footpath broadened as he approached the house, with its thick, two-footdense, stone walls. So sturdy. So cool. The limestone mortar that covered the exterior

gleamed in the moonlight like white gold. Brilliant coral framed the large wood door and

the arched windows.