During the drive along the coastal road then into the island’s interior, she hid her face behind the brim of a plain straw bonnet and said nothing. He studied her, the tight set of her shoulders beneath the thick shawl she wore like armor despite the midafternoon heat, her slender, callused fingers twisted about one another.
She was a woman transformed-not so much in clothing as in attitude. As the ocean disappeared behind hills and palms and the calls of tropical birds and scents of soil and green, growing things became stronger, she grew stiller and stiller. But this was not the stillness of her sunset vigils on the April Storm’s quarterdeck.
She wished silence, and he gave it to her, content to await an explanation.
The coachman turned the carriage along a narrow drive flanked by enormous yucca trees, and their destination appeared before them. It was no mere farm. The drive was not long but the house was sizable enough, two stories, elegantly English in style, gleaming and whitewashed with a veranda wrapping about three sides. Fields of sugarcane stretched out along slopes with the perfection of a painted landscape.
Viola’s head came up and a gasp escaped her lips. She stared at the house, fingers gripping the carriage’s dusty edge.
Finally he spoke. “Whose estate is this?”
“It belongs to Aidan Castle. He was once a clerk in Boston, then worked on my father’s ship for several years before purchasing this land.” Her gaze traveled with reluctant greed over the house and outbuildings, not in any obvious pleasure. “The last time I visited, he hadn’t yet built the house. It’s impressive,” she added in a subdued voice.
The carriage pulled to a halt before the porch, and a servant emerged from the beveled front door. Jin climbed out, his boots scraping on the pebbled drive from which heat rose with humid dust. He turned to offer Viola his hand. She ignored it, fussing with her skirts and shawl at the steep step, then releasing an exasperated breath and accepting his assistance. On the drive she pulled her fingers from his quickly.
“Good day, mum. Sir.” The servant drew the luggage from the carriage.
“Good day,” she replied. “Will you please tell Mr. Castle that Violet Daly has arrived?”
The servant bowed and disappeared within the house.
Jin proffered his hand again to assist her up the porch steps, but she grasped the rail and ascended alone. He held back, watching her pass her palms over her skirts several times and adjust bonnet and shawl again. Then he followed.
The door opened. With a confident stride a man came onto the porch. Dressed in a neat linen jacket and trousers, buffed shoes and silk waistcoat, he appeared about Jin’s age, broader framed though not quite his height, his face and hands darkly tanned. His attention went directly to the woman standing between them.
She moved to him, tucked her chin down, and extended her hand.
Castle grasped it, said, “Dear Violet,” and drew her into his embrace. She put her arms about his waist and pressed her face into his coat.
Jin stood perfectly silent, the late-afternoon sun slanting across the veranda and the pair before him, the slightest breeze rustling through the cane stalks in the fields and fluttering through Viola’s skirts.
She had not told him the truth, of course. The occasion for her change of clothing and demeanor, apparently, was Aidan Castle.
He felt the same, thick-chested and solid. And he smelled the same, like shaving soap and tobacco smoke, so familiar that Viola almost sensed her father nearby now, as though if she were to look up Fionn would be standing beside Aidan.
He released her and she allowed herself to study him clearly. He looked the same as well. Light brown hair curled over his brow, somewhat long as sometimes he wore it when he forgot to have it cut. His face had not altered, square and tan, with the same slightly heavy nose, wide, bowed lips, the shallow cleft in his chin, and warm hazel eyes that smiled at her now.
“Your journey passed smoothly, I assume?” His voice was so familiar, a voice she’d heard every day until four years earlier when he left her father’s ship to become a planter.
“Without mishap.”
“I expected as much. We imagined the season early enough now that you would avoid rough weather.” He looked so glad to see her, his gaze fixed comfortably in hers.
“We?”
“You will remember my cousin Seamus. He paid a visit last spring and never left.” He chuckled, the same assuring sound she had depended on when her father fell ill and she so badly needed assurance. “My aunt and uncle were keen for him to leave Ireland, of course, getting himself up to tricks as he’s always done.”
“So… he is here?” She had met Seamus Castle only once on a long visit he made years ago to Boston, a young man with too much cheek and too little imagination.
“He’s been a great help with the management of the workers. But let us not stand out here in the heat. Come inside and take something cool to drink.” He reached for her hand then paused, his gaze shifting behind her. “Ah. Forgive me. This is…?”
“My quartermaster while Crazy is on furlough. Aidan, this is Jinan Seton.”
“Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Seton.” He extended a hand. Seton stepped forward and grasped it.
“The pleasure is mine.”
Something in Viola’s insides did a peculiar little turn about.
Aidan screwed up his brow. “Seems I recognize that name from somewhere.”
He released Aidan’s hand. “Do you?”
“But I suppose Seton is a common enough surname in these parts, isn’t it?”
“I daresay.”
“Ah.” Aidan smiled. “You are an Englishman.”
“Mr. Seton holds a privateer’s commission from the Royal Navy.” Viola’s gaze darted between them. “He is only serving as my lieutenant because- Well… He is-”
“Between ships,” the bounty hunter finished.
“Ah. Of course.” Aidan’s glance shifted over his guest. “Any sailor from Violet’s ship is welcome in my home.” He gestured to the door. “If you will. I wish to make you acquainted with my other guests.”
Viola went before them into the high-ceilinged foyer, stealing a glance at the man with whom she had sailed to this island. He wore a crisp white shirt, neat trousers, and a coat she’d never seen, finely tailored that did justice to his broad shoulders and lean frame. He looked as perfectly at ease in these garments as he did in those he wore aboard ship. During the drive, concentrating on trying not to look at him, she had not noticed his clothes.
Mostly, as usual, she had noticed his eyes. And his hands. And his mouth. Always his mouth.
She cared nothing about what he wore. He was handsome in anything and nearly nothing. Her gaze slipped up from his waistcoat and, as on that first day, he was watching her stare at him.
Aidan poked his elbow in front of her. For a moment she looked blankly at his sleeve, unable to blink away the memory of the sailor’s bared chest streaked with rain.
Neither man spoke.
“Violet?”
“Oh.” Her cheeks heated and she set her fingertips awkwardly on Aidan’s forearm.
He chuckled. “My dear, you are priceless.” He drew her into a drawing room. It was a lovely chamber, decorated with modest taste and English detail, yet another piece of the house he had built and furnished without telling her anything about it though she was to someday share it.
Within were four people. Seamus Castle leaned against a chair back, swinging a thick gold watch chain around his forefinger.
“G’day, Miss Violet.” He ducked her the slightest bow. He was an attractive man, with a high brow like Aidan’s and the same curly hair, but his mouth seemed formed into a permanent smirk, his green eyes hooded. “Pleasure to see you again.” The last time, five years earlier, he had trapped her in a shadowed alcove and tried to put his hands on her breasts. Her knee had smarted for days from impact with the pistol butt hanging at his groin. His groin had too, clearly. Viola learned several new cuss words in that moment.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hat, allow me to introduce to you Miss Daly and Mr. Seton, friends of mine whose ship has just arrived in port.” Aidan turned her to face them.
In an instant Viola knew them to be prosperous merchants from some northern city. New Yorkers, Philadelphians, or Bostonians all had the same look about them-the men overfed, the women overly superior, and both of them overdressed.
Bulges strapped into high-starched collars and a wool coat with enormous lapels, Mr. Hat creaked to his feet and shook hands with Seton.
“Glad to know you,” he rumbled.
“Sir.” The sailor turned to Mrs. Hat and bowed. “Ma’am.”
She wore a pinch-lipped smile and a taffeta gown embroidered with black pearls, vastly expensive and thoroughly unsuited to the climate. She assessed Viola from brow to toe, then Seton, and finally nodded, the black feather in her headdress jerking.
“And this,” Aidan said with a gentle smile, “is Miss Hat.”
The girl was angelic, not above seventeen and pretty as could stare. And Viola did stare, wondering how Miss Hat made her pale blond locks curl against her brow and cheeks so perfectly, and how she could bear to wear so little in front of all these people. She was tall like her mother, with a willow’s figure and soft blue eyes over which golden lashes modestly dipped. She curtsied, the diaphanous skirt of her pristine white gown gliding against her legs. Her hands tucked in its folds were lily white.
“Sir. Miss,” she whispered. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Seton bowed, looking so English, so perfectly like an actual gentleman, for a moment Viola stared again at him too.
Aidan guided her to a chair.
“Mr. Hat owns a dry goods mercantile in Philadelphia, Violet. He is visiting on business, hoping to expand his horizons. We are fortunate that he was able to bring his family with him, aren’t we, Seamus?”
The Irishman screwed up his mouth into a grin.
“Course, coz. Always a fine thing to have ladies about to brighten the place.” He leered at Viola.
Mr. Hat grasped his daughter’s hand and patted it. “Wanted my little Charlotte to see the sites, don’t you know, before I settle her on a lucky fellow for life.”
Miss Hat blushed to her pale roots, eyes downcast, but her smile remained sweet.
The servant who had met them at the door came to Viola with a tray. She accepted a glass and smiled.
“Thank you.”
“Dear me, Mr. Castle.” Mrs. Hat’s gaze fixed on Viola’s feet. “I fear I have been remiss these past two days. I had no idea that in the islands ladies spoke to servants amongst company. I shall make certain to rectify my behavior.”
Aidan chuckled. “Commerce between the serving class and their betters is sometimes freer here than up north, ma’am, it’s true. But you could never be remiss in any manner, I’m certain.”
The woman’s gaze slid upward, halting at Viola’s lap. Viola peered down. Her skirt was hitched up under her knees, her calves encased in cheap stockings perfectly visible.
Heat flushed her cheeks. “Oh.” Hands damp, she tugged under her behind to loosen the fabric. She was obliged to tug harder, but after a little hop of her behind off the chair and another tug, finally her hem fell to the floor.
“Castle, I understand you have not owned this property long.” Seton’s voice cut smoothly into the thick silence. “I enjoy an acquaintance with several planters on Barbados and Jamaica, but none on this island. How do you find the business here?”
“Quite good, in fact. My closest neighbor, Perrault, is less than forthcoming with the stream that runs through his lands before mine, but I haven’t yet had irrigation troubles.” He looked about with a smile. “If the laborers demanded fewer privileges, I would be a thoroughly contented man indeed.”
“I’ve told you, cousin,” Seamus drawled, “if men are given their freedom they will misuse it whenever they can. You should have slaves working your land, not wage laborers.”
Aidan shook his head. “I cannot agree with you, Seamus.”
“A fellow can barely find a young slave in Philadelphia these days.” Mr. Hat nodded. “It’s all for the best. None at my warehouse, of course, though that damned Frenchman, Henri, uses them to unload his boats and undercuts the rest of us.”
“It’s a bad business, I say,” Aidan muttered.
“It gets business done. And business is what you are here to do.” Seamus folded his arms over his paisley waistcoat. “What do you say on the matter, Seton? Should Parliament be rushing about to free the slaves like the abolitionists would have it, or should we maintain order like rational men?”
He set an easy look on Seamus. “A man must invariably follow his conscience,” he replied. “The law, whatever it might be, will never alter that.”
“Well said,” Aidan murmured, but his brow pleated.
Viola’s cheeks burned, her throat tight. Mrs. Hat’s disapproving stare had not abated, nor her daughter’s curious regard now subtly upon Viola too.
She cared nothing for either.
He had rescued her from embarrassment intentionally. He could not have known the conversation would take this turn. But she didn’t think he cared that it had. As he said, he was not a man to be swayed by the arguments of others. He was the only man Viola had ever met who lived entirely by his own purpose and with thorough confidence in it. That, more than anything she had known of him before, frightened her. Frightened, and excited.
With nightfall, the soft breeze that had filtered across the plantation at dusk disappeared. Stillness enveloped all, the stalks in the cane fields falling silent, even the birds quieting with dark. They took dinner in the dining room, the heat released from the earth gathering heavy within the walls, stealing Viola’s appetite.
The Hats mostly ignored her. Mrs. Hat complimented their host on the impressive removes. Mr. Hat plied Seton with questions about activity at the Boston port that Viola could have answered better than the Englishman. Miss Hat nibbled daintily at her food and kept her lashes modestly lowered. Seamus drank glasses of sugared rum and watched Seton with narrowed eyes.
After tea in the drawing room, the Hats announced their intention of visiting town the following day.
“Mr. Castle, we hope you will escort us.” Mrs. Hat smiled in graceful condescension.
Aidan nodded. “Of course, ma’am. I will be glad to take you to the finest shops.” He turned to her husband. “The lumber seller is a particular friend of mine, though not so much seller as merchant. He is intimately known to the owner of that copse of rare wood I mentioned to you yesterday. I will be glad to introduce you.”
“Fine, fine.” Mr. Hat patted his ample girth, stays protesting as he propelled himself from his chair. “Tomorrow then, Castle.”
Mrs. Hat took her daughter’s arm, Miss Hat curtsied, and they departed. Seamus glanced at Viola, insolence in his grin.
“Well, now, Miss Violet,” he drawled, “now that you’re the sole female present, how will you entertain us? Play a little ditty on the piano, will you now?”
Aidan cleared his throat. “Violet does not play, of course.” He came toward her and extended his arm. “May I escort you to your chamber?”
She nodded, laid her hand on his elbow, and glanced at Seton.
He bowed.
The air thickened as they ascended the stair. It was a beautiful house, but it seemed poorly constructed for the climate, rather more in a style suited to chill, English weather. But the door before which Aidan drew her to a halt was elegantly stenciled, the paint fresh despite the cloying humidity. He had worked hard to make such a home for himself, and she must be proud for him.
He took her hands. “It is good to see you again, Violet. I have missed you.”
“It is good to see you too after so long.”
His brow puckered, eyes serious. “My dear, I recall now why Seton’s name rings familiar to me.”
Her throat felt dry. “I supposed you would eventually.”
“From your look I see that you knew this when you took him on. Why did you do so?” His tone lightly accused.
“Well, it’s complicated.” She didn’t want to tell him that she’d sunk the Cavalier. He had nothing to do with her ship and work any longer. Why should he know the details of it? And she found it difficult to speak aloud of Jin Seton; it made her feel unsteady inside.
Aidan gripped her hands tighter. “I cannot like this.”
She tried to laugh it off. “The British government has forgiven him, Aidan. Is that not sufficient encouragement for you to put your trust in him too?”
“No.” He shook his head. “You know how I care about you, and I do not approve of this man aboard your ship. Fionn would agree. A leopard might be collared, but captivity will not change his spots.”
She stared into his hazel eyes and was inclined to agree with the notion of the constancy of a man’s spots. Since she was fifteen, this man had courted her with his words, accepting her adoration as though it were natural to him. But again and again he never saw through on his promises. Upon her father’s ship he had insisted he could not take a wife until he settled down on land and made a home for a family. For four years, he’d had that land.
Entitlement shone in his eyes now. After months of no letters and two years with no visit, he believed he could tell her how to arrange her life, that he could give her advice she had not sought and she must abide by it. She saw this now quite clearly.
Jin Seton expected much the same-that she would do as he wished. But when he was not looking at her like she was a madwoman, she saw in his eyes an awareness of her as a leader, and a woman, intriguing and desirable. She saw admiration. And heat. No matter how many times Aidan had teased and told her how much she meant to him, he had never once looked at her like that.
“I think you are wrong about him,” she replied quietly.
“Pirates are thieves and liars, Violet. You are imprudent to trust him.”
“I must be the judge of that.” She slipped her hands from his. “Thank you for dinner. Good night.”
Still frowning, he leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. “I am glad you are here, my dear.”
She nodded. For a moment he paused, then he descended the stairs.
Viola tapped her fingertips to the spot his lips had touched. She loved him. She had loved him for ten years. He knew so much of her, of her father and her life on the sea. Now, of course, he took no part in that any longer. But he was part of her past, and for so long she had known he would be part of her future. That he would be her future. But strangely, now, his familiarity seemed… unfamiliar. Even that insubstantial kiss felt alien.
Perhaps a few days in each other’s company would correct that. Friends, even so well-known, required time to reaccustom themselves to one another. Didn’t they?
She stood by the window and the heat seemed to envelop her. The bed was heavy with linens, entirely uninviting. As soon as she’d seen the other guests she knew Aidan would not ask her to share his bed. He never did when others were present. But it didn’t bother her now. It was too hot for that sort of thing, anyway, and her stomach rumbled with hunger, her skin prickling with discomfort. Sleep seemed distant.
A modestly carved shelf offered some reading material, books of sermons and trade journals. She selected the least noxious and sat by the lamp. But the journal failed to distract and perspiration beaded on her nose that she was obliged to wipe away until her sleeve became positively soggy. She went to the window, pushed open the sash, and a cloud of night insects swarmed in.
“Oh!” She tugged the window shut with a clack.
No breeze. Perhaps that was why Aidan had been able to purchase such a large piece of land. With this stillness and humidity, inland property would not be at a premium. If it were this warm in June, it would be unendurable later in the summer. But she had weathered all sorts of deprivations in her decade afloat. If she were truly to be his wife, heat and mosquitoes must be borne.
It needn’t be borne quite so oppressively at this moment, however. If any air could be found moving, it would be in a garden, or even the drive if she must. And she felt restless. She missed the constant movement of her deck beneath her feet, and the swish of the sea in her ears. Here, tucked amid fields and copses and inside the house, she couldn’t breathe.
Reluctant to touch wool, nevertheless she took up her shawl in the event that she should encounter the modest Miss Hat and her pincushion mother, and went to the lower story. The front door was bolted, but from the drawing room another door let out onto the veranda at the side of the house. She opened it and stepped into the moonlight.
She shrank back into the doorway’s shadow.
Beyond the veranda a garden stretched toward the cane fields, dotted with old trees and exotic shrubbery, a neat white picket fence scrolled with vines defining its boundaries. Tropical flowers bloomed beneath the moon’s silvery light, the strident songs of insects saturating the darkness.
Beneath the feathery shadow of a Mapou tree, a man and a woman walked close beside each other. Miss Hat’s white gown seemed to shimmer, drawing the moonlight. The gentleman picked a flower and proffered it to her. He spoke quietly, and in the stillness the familiar timber of Aidan’s voice carried to Viola. He took up Miss Hat’s hand as though it were porcelain, lifted it to his mouth, and kissed it.
Then he kissed her lips.
Viola choked, cold nausea sweeping through her. She whirled around and slammed into Jin.
“Whoa.” He caught her waist, his eyes snapping across her face then, swiftly, to the garden. His brow drew down. But tears welled in her eyes, and her palms pressing to his chest, feeling him so abruptly, only confused her further. Because she understood now abruptly that he did not truly make her feel weak.
Aidan did. With Aidan she always felt as though she were not quite enough. But Charlotte Hat obviously was enough-beautiful, refined, well dowered, from a prosperous family of good quality. He could stroll in a midnight garden with her and kiss her hand while he made promises to Viola he never kept.
She lifted her eyes to Jin’s and saw awareness in the crystal blue, and a flicker of anger.
Her insides twisted. He never pretended with her. He made her feel uncertain, yes-as though she might at moments allow herself to relinquish the iron grip she held over her feelings. But he also made her feel alive and full of possibility.
“Violet?” His hands tightened on her waist, strong and steady. He did not look again into the garden, his gaze instead focused entirely on her.
A tear tumbled onto her cheek.
“No,” she whispered. She had demanded, but now she did not want him to call her that. She wanted him to call her by her real name.
She broke from his hold, dashed a hand across her face, and fled inside.