They did not ride far. Skye had just dug her fingers into the stallion’s mane when she saw tall stone walls rising above her. The wind swept by them and the sandy earth churned as they came upon a set of wrought-iron gates, opened in expectation of the master’s return, or so it seemed.
The horse unerringly turned and brought them through a courtyard to a high rising porte cochere. The Hawk reined in, setting Skye upon the ground. He touched his plumed hat. “Milady, my house is yours,” he said simply.
Smiling, he turned the horse around. He led the animal around the side of the house. Skye watched him go, and then paused, staring about herself in ironic dismay. No one was near her; she was neither chained nor confined. But she had probably never been more of a prisoner, for there was absolutely nowhere to go. The Silver Hawk had chosen his base of operations well. The island was surrounded by coral atolls and shoals, deadly to the unwary sailor. His harbor was protected by the deep, natural U shape of his island. The channel was protected by the towers with their massive guns. It would take an army to come in here and clean out his rogue’s den. And for a prisoner, there was very simply nowhere at all to go. The island was his. The people who lived upon it were his.
And she was his, she reminded herself. Worthless—or not worth any great sum, or so he had said. But still, his prize, and as such, he had fought for her, and he had kept her. And he had brought her here.
She shivered suddenly. Not because it was cold, and not because she feared him, but because she was afraid to be there, upon the island with him. She knew not why.
She turned about and followed the handsome brick path to the door of the imposing structure. She shouldn’t be afraid. This was where she would wait for her father or her fiancé to rescue her. The Hawk would surely grant her some privacy here. It was a huge domicile.
She lifted her hand to knock, but the door opened before she could and to her surprise the Silver Hawk stood within the door frame. She frowned and he quickly arched a brow. “I left Samuel in his paddock, milady. You did take your sweet time to enter.”
“Samuel?” she murmured. “Not the Silver Wind? Not the Hawk’s Messenger, or some such. You named your horse Samuel?”
“Sam for short. He much prefers the abbreviation.” He reached out and caught her hand, drawing her into his fortress. The entryway was in shadows, but she could see his eyes, smoke gray now, and haunting. “I’m sorry if I disappoint you, but I’m afraid that I was just a lad when Sam was born, and therefore I named him quickly. He’s twenty-three now, and I’d not disturb his tranquillity with a change of name to suit my fancy.”
“Twenty-three?” Skye said. The huge, sleek animal looked to be a young horse. “He has aged well.”
The Hawk smiled slowly, and to her great distress, Skye felt her heart quiver as he drew her close. “I take very good care of all living creatures within my domain, milady. Alas, I tried take good care of you, but you are forever fighting my efforts.”
“Perhaps, sir, it is because I am not your property to be cared for. I am neither pet, nor beast of burden, nor—yours.”
A smile touched his lip. “Well spoken, milady, but then that is part of your appeal.”
“Ah! But still a woman, and worth only so much!”
“Your worth is still debatable,” he said. The words were simple and light, but the silence that followed them was not, for she felt both the warmth of his hands and the heat of his appraisal, and it seemed that a lingering question hung upon the air. She flushed and pulled from his grip, spinning to see the entryway.
It was grand. It was huge, with doors leading to rooms on either side. The walls and ceiling were paneled, and then lined handsomely with weapons of warfare, cutlasses, rapiers, scores of hunting rifles and muskets and brown Besses.
“Impressive,” she muttered.
“Every man and woman on the island knows where to come in case of attack.”
“And every one of them shall die with you?”
He shrugged. “They are here by choice. I force no one to live here.”
“You have forced me.”
“You, milady, are visiting, and naught more. Come along. I shall show you the rest of the house.”
He took her hand into his own. To the right was a library with a guest bed, to the left was the butler’s pantry—complete with butler. The man stood so silently awaiting their arrival that Skye gasped to see him living, alive and well. He was tall and strong of build, white-haired and immensely dignified. “Mr. Soames,” the Hawk said in introduction, and Mr. Soames bowed to her very gravely. “What you need, he will give you.”
“With the greatest pleasure, milady,” Soames said, and bowed.
He might have graced the finest English manor! Skye thought, and she wondered how on God’s good earth such a man had come to work in a pirate kingdom.
“All the pleasures of home,” she murmured softly.
“What was that, Lady Kinsdale?” the Hawk said. She was certain that he winked to the butler, and that the butler winked in return. It was all a joke perhaps.
No, it was not joke. The cannons upon the protective towers were no joke. The skill of the Hawk was hardly amusing to the men he had robbed of ships and plunder.
Soames excused himself and closed the door upon his domain. The Hawk was staring at her. “Well?”
“Quite remarkable.”
