Mistress of Paradise Read online

  Alexandra Benedict

  Mistress of Paradise

  To Irka

  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

  The 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 stilled 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 well.

  “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 still 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 Belle 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 ye
ars earlier had devastated all 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 well 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 mackerel in tomatis with onion, thyme, and hot peppers.”

  There was an endearing quality to the way she said tomatis—the love apple—in her native patois, making James’s ears prickle with delight.

  He tamped down the rampant emotions in his breast and stared at the food. That he was going to devour something she had prepared with her own fingers aroused him, quashing all his efforts to remain aloof.

  Dawson cupped the bowl and greedily swigged the soup, making slurping sounds.

  James was a little more mindful of his own manners and reached for a spoon. Slowly he tasted the steaming fare…and had to keep from groaning, it was so delicious.

  Sophia positioned herself across the table from him. She folded her fingers into a fist and lowered her chin on her hand, watching him as he consumed the stew, an engaging expression and a shrewd smile on her lush lips. She didn’t need to ask him if he was enjoying the stew. She had only to observe him to know the truth.

  Again she had the upper hand. Again she made him breathless. And James struggled to quell the burning need in his belly, the storm raging in his head.

  “Aren’t you hungry, Sophia?”

  “Aye.”

  James hardened as she pressed her bare toes against his boot and softly rubbed his leg in a suggestive manner.

  The pressure in his skull mounted, his heart beat loud and heavy. He gazed into her deep brown eyes, so wicked…so ravenous. Sweat gathered between his shoulders and pooled at the base of his spine.

  I want you, James.

  He resisted the tempting invitation, stiffened his resolve. However, she slipped her naked and dusty foot between his boots and stroked his legs in deliberate movements, scraping her toes along his calves, simulating…

  James caged her warm foot between his knees, glowering at her. He was strapped for words, beset by a maelstrom of dark, carnal feelings.

  He needed to take back control. She beckoned him into perilous waters like a nefarious siren, but he would not yield to her bewitching call. He would not give her authority over his wits, his good judgment. To accept the woman’s invitation would be akin to treachery.

  Dawson remained more interested in the food. He was ignorant of the couple’s growing attraction—or he willfully disregarded it—making it all the more grueling for James to resist Sophia.

  The pulses in his head beat loud as she struggled to get her foot loose, the jerking movements quick and fierce, but he maintained control. He squeezed his legs firmly together, keeping her locked between his knees.

  There was a fiery look in her eyes, a droll expression even. It was clear she didn’t mind their battle of wills. She relished it, it seemed, and that raised James’s hackles. He wasn’t there to cater to the woman’s licentious whims. She wanted escape from her troubles and duties and responsibilities. She yearned for a brief surcease. He empathized with her, for he, too, was saddled with obligations. But he refused to submit to her desires.

  “You’re a very good cook, Sophia.” After he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he pushed the empty dish across the table. “Can I have another bowl of soup?”

  She glared at him. The heat from her eyes warmed his belly.

  “Aye.” Dawson burped. “Fetch me another bowl, too.”

  But Sophia was trapped between James’s legs. The amusement in her expression flitted away. Her lips thinned instead.

  “Are you daft, woman?” Dawson frowned. “We’re still hungry. Get us some more food.”

  She kicked James with her unrestrained foot.

  He didn’t even flinch.

  I have control, Sophia.

  She accepted that truth. At length, she stilled. She relinquished command. He sensed the fight drain from her muscles as she relaxed her foot between his legs.

  James breathed deep to feel her surrender, his bones thrumming in victory. He released her foot, allowing her to step away from the table.

  She huffed. A dark fire filled her eyes, blood col ored her cheeks. She snatched the empty bowls from the table and strutted across the room.

  He watched her stiff movements as she ladled more soup into the wooden dishes. He was sorry to see her so piqued. He had formed an attachment to her as soon as she had opened the door. However, he would not betray Dawson by engaging in a heated affair with the woman.

  She returned to the table.

  “Thank you, Sophia,” said James.

  He brushed his fingers across her hand as she served him the pottage. He wanted her to know he still desired her, that he had not rejected her because he didn’t want her…but because he couldn’t have her.

  “I’m tired,” said Dawson.

  “Let me take you to your room, Father.”

  “I’m not a babe!” Dawson b
randished his arm. “Don’t you have chores to do, woman? Leave us!”

  Sophia eyed James one last time. It cut his heart, the hurt in her expression. She didn’t seem to mind her parent’s ranting, but she appeared disappointed that he had ordered her from the room…away from James.

  James strangled the stubborn regret that still ravaged him as she stepped away from the table and collected a basket of laundry beside the door before she vacated the house.

  Sophia immersed another soiled shirt in the washbasin before she lathered the lye soap and scrubbed the garment across the ribbed board. She was able to afford servants; however, her father was paranoid about strangers, leaving her entirely responsible for the tiring household chores.

  She stilled.

  Every fine hair on her flesh was tickled by the overwhelming sensation that she was being watched.

  She ignored the black devil at her backside. She scoured the laundry with more vigor, her fingertips numb from the cold water.

  A dark energy thrummed through her veins. He was not the man she had imagined him to be. He acted with airs. That repulsed her. He was a pirate. A cutthroat. He wasn’t supposed to have moral fortitude…unless it was just a pretense. Perhaps the brigand did not want her because he found her unattractive. Had she misinterpreted the look of interest in his eyes? Had he gazed at her with curiosity, not longing?

  She raked the garment across the coarse wood. What did the reason matter now? He had made his thoughts clear: he did not want her. So why was he still staring at her with such piercing regard?

  Sophia sensed his footfalls and stiffened. She closed her eyes as the seconds passed, shut out the sound of the soft mountain breeze and the distant songs of parakeets. She listened only to the low timbre of her heartbeat, the booms deep in her breast.

  Her lips parted as he brushed past her like an apparition, but she didn’t take in or even let out a breath. He stirred the air as he passed, and she absorbed the energy that came off him in his wake.