nothing. Months later we heard news of the ship he had taken passage on. It was missing, presumed lost. He never came home.”
She looked up again, set down the letters, and reached for Jin’s hand, her frail fingers gripping his strong ones weathered by life on the sea. His steady, beautiful hands Viola loved.
“But now you have come.” His aunt’s eyes crinkled into a watery smile. “Welcome home, Jinan.”
He closed the carriage door and took the seat beside Viola, his hand finding hers and fingers lacing together as the vehicle started away from the house. He did not look out the window but straight ahead, in his eyes the distance she had come to know so well. But that distance did not mean what she had once believed. Now she knew it to be hope only masked by certainty.
She curved her palm around his cheek. He turned his lips into it.
A smile tugged at her mouth. “She was not what I expected.”
He drew her hand down but did not release it. He rarely did these days, as she rarely released him unless necessary. They were, she supposed, making up for the many days and hours spent in each other’s company when they had not touched although they longed to. Or perhaps they simply liked it.
“How long will you wish to stay?” he asked, stroking her palm softly, the sensation riding straight through her body despite her gloves. They were very thin kid gloves, only the finest purchased by her very wealthy husband. Far too wealthy. She must find a charitable depository for some of his gold. If someday he once again felt the desire to take to the sea, he mustn’t have enough money to purchase his own ship. For she knew well that he would never again agree to sail on another master’s vessel.
On the other hand, if he must someday sail again, she would simply go with him.
“We can stay for as long as you wish, of course. Your aunt’s invitation included Christmas. Quite a lengthy visit, probably so that you can meet all your uncles and aunts and cousins.” She smiled. “She is very sweet, and seemed regretful even to see you leave for the afternoon.” She smoothed her skirt. “And, Jin, why
“So that I could do this.” He pulled her onto his lap.
“Oh! You are crushing my dress. And I have tried very hard today to keep it neat as a pin. I so wanted to impress her.”
His fingers threaded through her hair, dislodging her bonnet.
“You did impress her.” He nuzzled her cheek. “But more to the point, you are impressing me, wife. Too well.”
“Again with the calling me wife as though I have no name.” She tilted her face to give him leave to kiss her throat. He obliged, quite deliciously. “Why could you not have taken to captain as easily, I wonder?”
“I did take to my captain easily.” His hand slipped beneath her cloak. “And she to me. Quite easily.”
She sighed. “Will your arrogance never pale?”
He stroked beneath her bodice. “Viola, I am going to make love to you now.”
Warmth shimmered through her, and the yearning only he satisfied. “What- Here in the carriage?”
“Yes, here in the carriage.” Already he was gathering her skirts.
“You cannot wait?”
“I cannot wait.” He tugged at fabric, pushing it to her hips.
She helped, a little breathless. “You must have me now?”
“I must have you five minutes ago, but now will do.”
“This is highly irregular.”
“How would you know that?”
“Lessons. Endless lessons.” With eager hands she set to his trousers. “And books of etiquette specifying that a lady must never allow her husband to make love to her in a carriage in celebration for having just found his lost family.”
His hands came around her hips and she wrapped her arms about his neck, the motion of the carriage rocking her against him.
“The books are wrong.” He kissed her lips. “For you are a lady, Viola Seton.” He kissed her again, his perfect mouth hungering and tender at once, and her heart filled to overflowing. “My lady,” he whispered, his crystal eyes sparkling. “And my master.”
Then he made her prove it.
Author’s Note
Due to the long, hard struggles of abolitionists and notable Parliamentarians, England banned the slave trade from Africa in the year 1807. It wasn’t until 1833, however, that Parliament passed an act abolishing slavery altogether. But Britain was ahead of its time compared to other colonial powers, and slaving vessels operated by subjects and citizens of other nations continued to trade humans for gold throughout the Americas.
By the end of the eighteenth century, a boy with light skin like Jin would have been an exception in Western slave markets, acceptable only insofar as his captors and subsequent owners considered him a mulatto-of mixed blood. Thus Frakes, my nasty slaver, lied about Jin’s origins to the market officials on Barbados, most likely claiming Jin was the son of an African slave and a white master from another Caribbean island. Such misrepresentations of truth were common enough in the slave trade, with peoples from throughout the world sold or indentured whenever the price was right.
My sincere thanks go to Eleanor Mikucki, whose copyediting on this manuscript was positively superb. Ecstatic thanks also to Gail Dubov of the Avon Art Department, whose work on my covers is always spectacular, and who left me breathless with how perfectly she captured Viola and Jin for this book.
It is my great honor to enjoy the friendship of scholars and readers of remarkable kindness and generosity. The vast knowledge of Professors Vincent A. Brown and Laurent M. Dubois concerning the Caribbean islands, the slave trade, and a plethora of matters concerning Atlantic and imperial history in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries enabled me to give Jin and Viola’s story its powerful historical moorings. Likewise, Professor Michael Jarvis’s astonishing command of shipping routes of that era set my hero and heroine’s journey on its rightful course. Stephanie W. McCullough once again generously shared her nautical expertise with me, and Dr. Marie Claude- Dubois charmingly came to my aid with French yet again as well. Not least, Georgann Brophy and Marquita Valentine’s keen appreciation for a truly worthy hero helped Jin become the best man he could. To these outstanding gentlemen and ladies, I offer most profound thanks.
About the Author
KATHARINE ASHE lives in the wonderfully warm Southeast with her husband, son, two dogs, and a garden she likes to call romantic rather than unkempt. A professor of European history, she has previously resided in California, Italy, France, and the northern U.S.
Please visit her at www.katharineashe.com or write her at PO Box 51702, Durham, NC 27717-1702.
