Despite the memories that had overtaken him, Duncan clasped his friend’s slightly stooped shoulder and laughed. “Suppose I recited the whole of Dante’s Divine Comedy,” he said.
“In Italian, of course,” Alex agreed. “With footnotes.”
Duncan withdrew his hand, and he knew his expression was as solemn as his voice. “If you want to beat your sword into a plowshare and spend the rest of your life tilling the earth,” he said, “I’ll understand, and not think less of you for it.”
“I know,” Alex said. “And I am weary to my soul from this blasted war. I long to settle down, take a wife, father a houseful of children. But if I don’t fight, the sons and daughters I hope to sire will stand mute before Parliament, as we do now.” He stopped and thrust his fingers through his hair, which was, as always, hopelessly mussed. “No, my friend, to paraphrase Mr. Franklin, if we don’t hang together, we shall surely hang separately. I will see the conflict through to its end or mine, as God wills.”
Duncan smiled, just as the supper bell chimed, muffled and far off. “You are right, and so is Mr. Franklin. But I must take exception with one of your remarks—we rebels can hardly be accused of ’standing mute before Parliament.’ Our musket balls and cannon have been eloquent, I think.”
Alex nodded and smiled.
A bell chimed in the distance, a signal that dinner was about to be served.
Without speaking, the two men moved through the great house together, mindful now of their empty stomachs. They sat at the long table in the dining room, with its ten arched windows overlooking the sea, watching as the sun spilled over the dancing waters, melting in a dazzling spectacle of liquid light. A premonition touched Duncan’s spirit in that moment of terrible beauty, a warning or a promise, or perhaps both.
For good or ill, he thought, with resignation, something of significance was about to happen.
“Geez,” complained the woman with the flashing hat and the dreadful T-shirt, when the small party of potential investors left the plane, at last, to stand on the grass-buckled tarmac of Paradise Island’s one and only airport. “The place don’t look like much in the dark, does it?”
Phoebe, blinking in a stupor of exhaustion, offered no reply. She could hear the tide whispering elemental vows in the distance, though, and the breeze was gentle and cool. A minibus, yellow with pink splotches painted on for a pintolike effect, chugged out of the gloom, horn tooting.
“Welcome to Paradise!” cried the driver, a plump, middle-aged man with a crewcut and a Jack Nicholson smile, scrambling out of the van to greet each of the tired travelers with an exuberant handshake. “Don’t make any snap judgments, now,” he boomed, before anyone could express a misgiving. “After all, it’s late and you’ve had a long trip. Tomorrow, you’ll get a good look at the place and, trust me, you’ll be impressed.”
Phoebe didn’t want to think about tomorrow, didn’t want to do anything but take a quick shower and fall into bed. This guy was certainly right about one thing: It had been a long trip. After leaving Seattle, the plane had landed in Los Angeles, Houston, Kansas City and Miami to pick up a dozen other weird characters, before proceeding on to Condo Heaven.
The motley crew boarded the bus, yawning and murmuring, and despite her decision not to think, Phoebe found herself studying each passenger out of the corner of her eye. She’d eat every postcard in the hotel gift shop if a single one of them could get a mortgage to buy a fancy island hideaway, let alone scrape up the cash to buy one outright.
The young couple who’d boarded the plane in Kansas City were newlyweds, Phoebe figured, because they’d been necking and staring into each other’s eyes for most of the flight. Some honeymoon. The man in the plaid pants and golf club sweater had come along strictly for the free liquor, from the look and smell of him, and the Human Beacon, whose batteries had finally run down, appeared to be the sort who’d try anything as long as it was free.
So what’s your excuse? Phoebe asked the sleepy and rumpled reflection gazing back at her from the darkened window of the minibus.
The hotel appeared suddenly out of the night, looming like smoke from some underground volcano, or an enormous genie rising out of a lamp. Phoebe’s breath caught on a small, sharp gasp, and she sat bolt upright on the bus seat. A strange progression of emotions unfolded in her heart.
Recognition, for one. And that was impossible, because she’d never even been to the Carribean before, let alone this particular building. Nostalgia. And a strange, sweet joy, as if she were coming home after a long and difficult journey. Underlying these emotions, however, was a poignant and wrenching loss, threaded through with sorrow.
Tears sprang to Phoebe’s eyes.
“Here’s the Eden Hotel now, folks,” the bus driver announced, with relentless good will. “It’s a grand old place. Belonged to a pirate once, name of Rourke, and before that, to a Dutch planter who raised indigo.” The minivan’s brakes squealed as it came to a sprightly stop under an ugly pink and green neon palm tree affixed to the wall. Two of the fronds were burned out. “Near as we could find out, the house was built in 1675, or thereabouts.”
Phoebe sniffled, dried her eyes with the back of one grubby hand and got off the bus, staring at the shoddy hotel in mute grief. She’d read a brief description of the place in Professor Benning’s book about Duncan Rourke; that explained her complicated and overwrought reactions. The odd sensations lingered, though—Phoebe had known every nook and corner of this house once, had loved it when it was grand and elegant, and taken refuge within its walls when storms swept in from the sea. She had come home, to a place she had never seen before, and she was too late.
Look for
Pirates
Wherever Hardcover Books
Are Sold
mid-June 1995
LINDA LAEL MILLER began her writing career in
1983 with Fletcher’s Woman. Named “The Most
Outstanding Writer of Sensual Romance” by
Romantic Times, Ms. Miller was nominated by the
Romance Writers of America for an award for her
thrilling Wanton Angel. The bestselling author’s
delightful novels include the exciting Corbin series,
Banner O’Brien, Corbin’s Fancy, Memory’s
Embrace, and My Darling Melissa; plus two
romances set amidst the lush, rugged beauty of New
Zealand and Australia, Angelfire and Moonfire. A
heart-stirring trilogy features the adventures of the
Chalmers sisters, Lily and the Major, Emma and the
Outlaw, and Caroline and the Raider—and a
wonderful homespun romance, Daniel’s Bride, once
again skyrocketed her onto the bestsellers list.
Another series about the magnificent Quade family
began with Yankee Wife, and continued with the
intriguing Taming Charlotte. Now, Princess Annie
adds to the fun with more high spirits and sparkling
sensuality. Ms. Miller has also penned an enchanting
contemporary romance, The Legacy. Linda Lael
Miller lives near Seattle, Washington,
with her family.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
Net
Princess Annie Page 34