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?”