"What in bloody hell did I do to deserve this?"

As he descended the gangplank, Rafe Logan's foul mood turned downright nasty. The voyage had already severely strained every ounce of patience and tolerance he had in his limited arsenal. Though his generous purse had afforded him a modicum of privacy, it had not been nearly enough, and another day confined on board with this sniveling lot of lethargic cattle would have resulted in death to something. Man, woman, child. It made no difference to him. Something would have died.

He could not have imagined a more hellish journey, yet leaving the ship suddenly seemed worse.

Staring at the pristine wilderness that surrounded him now did nothing to improve his temper. As his boots struck the wooden planks, his own weariness and ambivalence trailed behind him, each one measured in his reluctant footfalls. The knocks echoed like the pace of a doomed man ascending the gallows and drilled into his head with the force of a nail pounded into a coffin. That sound alone made him wonder what had possessed him to do this.

What the hell are you doing here, Logan? You shoulda let it go. You shouldna have let pride overrule pragmatism. 'Tis only money and you've been swindled before. You shouldna have come to the other side of a fucking ocean to prove no one scams Rafe Logan.

He had traveled across a grueling monotony of sea and sky, surrounded by filth and disease, but now the end of the journey had come and Rafe found there were indeed worse things than endless mind-numbing boredom, the stink of unwashed bodies and the foul tastes of brackish water and spoiled meat. He had been hurled into the depths of hell and hell was deceptively pretty.

After seven weeks, the ship had mercifully left the tedium of the ocean swells behind and traveled up a river. This continent was a teeming expanse of forests, marshes and scrub. Waterways of all shapes and conditions wound pathways through a hellish maze of natural landscape that stunned him and shattered his view of what the world should be. He didn't think he could take it.

They had finally reached their destination and landed on some island in an uncivilized pocket of earth. There could not be a more barbaric, isolated plot of land on the globe. He felt like he had dropped into some kind of primitive yesteryear. Everything was familiar yet so strange. Rafe was afraid to move, afraid to speak. He could not have been more confused or uncertain and those feelings shook his usual composure. That the sight of a tree could paralyze him scared the piss out of him and there were unfettered animals roaming the landscape, for Christ's sake. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

The quaint little village and its smiling denizens were more unsettling than the tidal wave of degraded humanity that surged through the narrow streets of London. The immensity of the forest and the wide expanse of the rushing river seemed absurd after living in the opulence of his sprawling house on the banks of the filthy Thames. The clear and open sky above was more disconcerting than the dirt and grit that hovered in every breath he had taken in the congested city and the people ... Christ, the people.

The idea of dealing with people of this caliber shot a bolt of fear through him. After spending his entire adult life surrounded by the thieves, whores and derelicts of Southwark, these people appeared to be farmers, tradesmen and goodwives. He had little experience dealing with decency. This place would drive him mad. It might even kill him. And if he was going to die he planned to take Michael with him.

He had chosen to leave his chaotic, boisterous and reasonably sane life. If he felt so disoriented, what must the others feel? There were scores on the ship that had been plucked from their lives and forced to come here. They had collectively been thrust into some kind of primeval paradise.

The vibrancy of the colors hurt his eyes. He had never seen so much green in his entire life. The bite of the crisp autumn air assaulted his nostrils and stole his breath. As the soothing sounds of the water lapping against the ship's hull and the shrill cry of birds diving and swooping through the crystal sky wound into his head, he wished for deafness, anything to escape the God awful incongruity of the place. It was too unspoiled, too bright, too strange. Too perfect.

"Christ," he muttered. "I'll never survive here."

Rafe hovered at the edge of the dock knowing that the carriage and demeanor he displayed would never betray either his wonder or his aversion to this brave new world. He was well dressed, self-possessed and thoroughly feigning the stern blasé expression he knew he wore. He was a man well trained to disguise his emotions, but as his eyes roamed across the immensity and grandeur of the landscape and the charming uncluttered village, he had to concentrate to keep his jaw from literally dropping open.

Avoiding any contact with his fellow travelers disembarking from the Lioness and the local rabble surrounding him, Rafe glanced around the tidy village and realized the entertainment options available were limited and he had unknowingly become part of an interesting diversion. It seemed as though everyone in this miserable little colony had come to view the arrival of the ships. There was not a stage in evidence, but he was a player nonetheless, part of a spectacle, an unfolding drama eagerly watched by a captive audience. The final act had not yet been written but these playgoers seemed not to care. They would devour as many scenes as they could before their mundane lives snatched them away. This was as close to purgatory as earth allowed and he had willingly consigned himself to its judgment.

The longer he stood on the dock questioning his rash decision, the more irritated he became with both himself and the world. Each nod of a passing stranger made his jaw lock tight with the strain of acknowledgement. Each time someone gave him a curious glance, Rafe's fists clenched convulsively. When someone succumbed to an impulsive urge to actually stare, Rafe snarled and told them to fuck off. And for the first time in his life, the women were making him uncomfortable. There was a bold manner about them he found very unnerving. Even a waterfront whore dared not stare at him with such speculation. Touch maybe, but stare ... Staring was something he wouldn't tolerate.

A gaggle of fashionable ladies was drifting down the dock, coming closer and closer to where he stood. Good looking women all, probably in their thirties, the wives of decent men, mothers to passels of roving brats, ladies of this curiously primitive Jamestown society. They were whispering to one another, their eyes brazenly sweeping across him with an astonishing impudence.

Rafe Logan had no doubts about his appeal. He'd discovered early that a countenance like his did not escape attention. Something about the hard planes of his face, the dusky radiance of his skin and the lush generosity of his mouth lured women toward him with some sort of hypnotic fascination. They could not seem to resist skimming their fingers across his cheekbones, cupping his cheek in the palm of their hands, grazing their nails across his lips. He'd had so many strange women touch his face it became second nature as a child to tip his head to accept their questing fingers.

Women seemed enchanted by the cleft of his chin, the rough stubble on his jaw. They were especially captivated by the dimples that appeared in his cheeks when he smiled, a rare occurrence but something he'd learned could work in his favor. He had discovered at thirteen he could get a woman to lift her skirt in an alley merely by touching her face and offering a smile. He took advantage of that little trick more often than he cared to admit.

But if they were entranced by the sight of his face, it was nothing next to the lusty heat a woman exuded when she caught a glimpse of his flesh. A body like his seemed to be exactly what every female yearned for. Stripping off his shirt in the presence of a woman could get him laid before his heart beat a measure of ten beats. A sudden fire would come into their eyes and, though they seemed unaware of it, it was unmistakable. Eyes of all colors would darken with need and blaze with a carnal hunger, a primal urge to bend down, to spread, to open, to accept his cock. That look was quickly followed by the urge to touch and hands would roam across the wide expanse of his shoulders, drift with tight fingers down his chest to lock on his hips. Once they raised their eyes back to his, they would be lost. They would drag his body against theirs and he would claim the hunger. He took full advantage of this power as well because in Rafe's view of the world, a man should make full use of every asset in his arsenal.

He'd not yet had a woman deny him because once they saw his shoulders, his chest, and the dark fur that spread down his torso to his groin, they were undone. He'd fucked a great many women with his pants around his knees because they'd not given him enough time to undress. Not that he minded because he wasn't much interested in the talking and cuddling that a lot of women seemed to want. When all they wanted was the feel of his cock sliding into them and the rhythm of his groin against their ass, so much the better.

Once they had a taste of it, they always wanted more. He'd not studied every man in Southwark but it was fairly obvious that most men were not hung like him. His cock was pretty popular around the Thames. He'd had women draw him into a dark corner for just a glimpse. Of course looking always led to touching, touching to tasting. Women whose names he didn't know would drop to their knees and suck him dry. He took what they offered. He was never one to turn down a gift.

So Rafe knew how he looked to these women. They might want a night of hot steamy fornication; they might want a quick fuck. Every woman was different. But all five of these women wanted him. He wasn't surprised. For nearly twenty years he'd been fucking anything with a pussy, and he wondered why they always came back for more. He made no promises, offered no hope of a more permanent relationship and never invited a woman to his bed. Well, once he had, but that had been the biggest mistake of his life and he'd learned from it.

All his fucks were good. He knew it. He took his women deep and he took them hard. That seemed to be the way they liked it. They wanted every inch of him buried so far into their bodies they couldn't move and he had quite a few inches. He'd heard enough moans, groans, whimpers, cries and downright screams to know he was good, but why they let him ball them until their juices stopped flowing, repeatedly, consistently, without any words of affection, he couldn't understand. If he remembered their names later he was lucky.

He'd taken women against walls, on the floor, in the dirt, in alleys, in parlors, in the park, standing, sitting, kneeling, from the front, the side, the back. He'd screwed asses, pussies, mouths and hands. He supposed it didn't matter because he sought it out like a narcotic. The scent of a woman's skin, the smell of her cream, the feel of a hard nipple in his mouth was something he seemed unable to live without. Like food, water, air. So many women had tasted his dick, touched his flesh, and licked his skin that at times he felt like his body barely belonged to him anymore.

But his mouth belonged to him. Not that he wouldn't share because he was a giving man in the heat of passion. He would lick their pussies, run his tongue along their flesh, take their breasts into his mouth, lock his lips onto a clit that quivered and throbbed against him. But he'd never kiss them. He'd only kissed one woman in his life and he'd paid the price for that. He'd not to do it again.

The chattering women were closer now, clearly discussing his attributes and, though he generally wouldn't mind, they were starting to get on his nerves. Despite their goodwife appearance, he could make them undress right here if he wanted to. He could entice that one with strands of dark brown hair peeking from her bonnet to literally pull the breeches from his legs and take his cock in her mouth. He knew it. He could see it in the way her eyes drifted between his legs. He couldn't disguise what he had in his breeches. Even flaccid it took up a lot of room and when it started to swell--well, it was starting to swell a little now to be honest--there was not much room for movement.

He could take the arm of that one with the brown hair and offer her one of his smiles. She would go with him down behind that little shack. He could press her hands against the side of the building and ram his cock into her from behind. A couple of quick pumps and he could get rid of the grinding, nagging ache in his groin. A couple of fucks on the ship with the best looking woman he could find hadn't really satisfied him. Of course it took a lot to satisfy him but that little wench with the brown hair might just do it. He could appease the ache by spilling a little seed. Damn, just thinking about it made him swell, but he was hungry, tired and kind of wanted to clean up a little before he fucked someone in this new world. He would wait for just the right one. Taking another man's wife before he was settled might not be such a good idea.

He decided if he wasn't going to fuck one of them, he didn't want them staring at him like he was on the auction block. He could practically smell their juices from where he stood. They were creaming themselves just thinking about him and tonight in their marital beds their husbands were going to have the fuck of their lives. He was glad to be of service to the men of Virginia, but he'd had enough of their vicarious orgasms. If he wasn't having one of his own, they weren't using him for their little pleasure games.

He lifted the hat from his head and bowed with a flourish. When that only drew them a step closer--damn he shouldn't have encouraged them--he turned in a circle, holding his arms out to his sides and gave them his most wicked smile. Too late he realized that was another mistake.

"Feel free to inspect the merchandise, ladies. You'll not see a finer man in all Virginia. My cock's gotten rave reviews in the Isles of Britain. Care for a taste yourselves? I'm taking bids on the thrill of a lifetime."

But the reaction he received was not what he expected. Instead of retreating into the crowd, they burst into laughter and gave him a collective glance that put his wicked smile to shame. His mood spiraled even lower. He slammed his hat back on his head and presented his back.

"Oh, Michael, you are going to pay for forcing me to this," he muttered. "Pray I find you bound in chains or you're not long for this life."

He needed a drink and he needed it bad. The aberrations of this world might be easier to digest with a little rum tempering his rampaging thoughts. He would knock back a few drinks, secure a room and think on his business in relative peace. He'd find someone to fuck before the sun went down and he'd feel a lot better. He shouldered his leather satchel and was preparing to hoist his trunk when he felt something tugging at the edge of his jacket.

He ignored it, shrugging the hand off with an irritation that was dangerously close to rage. When the hand returned again to jerk the cloth, Rafe rounded with a vicious snarl, prepared to strike whoever dared touch him. The hand belonged to a boy but in Rafe's world, a boy was often a bigger threat than a grown man. He cuffed the back of the boy's head.

"Lay off! Do your thieving elsewhere or you'll be the sorriest lad this side of the sea."

The boy barely flinched. In fact he straightened up and tossed a brown curl away from his face. His serious expression might have been amusing if Rafe weren't so pissed. The throbbing in his pants was playing serious havoc with his mood and the encounter with the ladies hadn't helped.

"Pardon, sir," the boy said, "but I'd like a word with you."

Rafe gave him a little shove then bent down once again to retrieve his trunk.

"I'm not in the mood, lad. The last two months were far and away not the best I've had. I'm out of patience, tired, cranky and clearly not in the mood for you."

"I understand cranky, sir, but..."

The boy had the audacity to touch him again, a quick little tug at the edge of his pocket. Rafe dropped the trunk and grabbed the boy by the collar, hauling him off his feet.

"Touching me is not an option, boy. Find your derelict mother and be off before I think to send you swimming."

The boy was persistent. He stared him right in the eye and managed to croak out an answer. "A word, sir. 'Tis important."

Rafe growled and dropped him. When he boy stumbled, Rafe reached out instinctively and caught him before he fell to the ground. He was a slender thing, almost too skinny, and the sight of him didn't bode well for the dietary fare of this new world. But he looked healthy enough with a head of shining curls and a pair of the brightest green eyes Rafe had ever seen. Those eyes were peering at him hopefully, filled with a spark of surprising intelligence. Rafe ran his hands across his face.

"Talk," Rafe said.

The boy took a courageous step forward and Rafe actually felt a glimmer of admiration for a child that would approach such an unapproachable stranger. Though women seemed unable to resist anything about him, men and children generally avoided him like a terrifying plague and this lad seemed a combination of both, not quite child, not quite man.

"You'll be needin' a place to stay, sir?"

"Aye," Rafe said. "If you'll carry my trunk to the best tavern I'll toss you a coin."

The boy's slender brows rose in surprise. "A man such as yourself deserves more than a tavern, sir. The Leaping Stag is a nasty place and the White Doe is worse. You'll find no rest in either and their fare isn't fit for a dog. I've a place to offer you with good food, quiet nights and decent company."

"Indeed, lad? And what price would you be asking for such a place?"

"'Tis room and board provided," the boy said. "No payment of any sort if you lend a hand runnin' the shop. My sister and I canna do it alone and we need to make ... well, I've no way of knowin' how much we need to make cause she won't say, but I know we're runnin' out of time and she's gettin' near to desperate, sir."

Rafe ran a hand over the rough stubble on his cheeks. Lodging with meals. All he needed to provide was a little honest work. The problem was he had never done an honest day's work in his entire life, and wouldn't know where to start. But the lad needed money and the one thing Rafe Logan did better than fuck was make money. Running a nunnery took serious financial expertise, instinctual decisions and the ability to know what a woman, or young man, was worth. He had the most successful stew in Southwark and money flowed through his fingers like water over the riverbanks in spring. But he had no interest in making other people money. He saved that little talent for himself.

"I don't intend to stay long, lad. I'm just here to handle a few problems. I hope to clear them up fast and get back to civilization. Your island doesna seem fit for human habitation."

The boy cocked his head and seemed downright puzzled. "You might find you like Jamestown, sir, and what it has to offer. Most people like it here."

Rafe's eyes roamed across the crowded dock.

"Not a chance in hell, lad. Your fair town is already straining my rather limited goodwill toward man and my usual indulgence for women is being tested as well. I've not the time or the inclination to do any charity work while I'm here. Is the tavern near?"

Rafe leaned once again toward the trunk and the boy moved quickly, lifting one end. He began to drag it along the dock with a strength that surprised Rafe. The boy had some muscle in those skinny arms. Rafe followed behind, half listening to the boy's gushing speech, his eyes wandering over the crowd.

The pickings seemed to be pretty good. Not a lot of women but the ones he saw were not bad looking. Probably married. Not that it mattered. He thought later he just might stroll around town and see if he could catch another glimpse of that brown-haired wench. If he could get her away from her giggling friends and her sure-to-have husband, he just might have something to give her. In fact he was positive of it. The erection in his pants hadn't thoroughly subsided.

"'Twould not be charity work, sir. We could manage to pay something ... perhaps not ... I don't know ... but my sister could possibly find another way to compensate you."

Rafe laughed. "Keep talking, lad. I believe we might be speaking the same language."

"Aye, sir, though I don't quite understand everythin' you say."

"Doesna matter, lad. If you've ever a mind to travel to London, I might have a position for you. 'Tis quite enterprising you are and very persuasive. Is your sister fair? Doesna really matter ... 'tis been a long voyage. If she's willing I'd..."

Rafe caught a glimpse of something familiar and paused, peering into the throng of people. There was a tiny figure, with a long mane of luxurious honey blonde hair, trapped within the bulk of the men that surrounded her. Rafe searched the mob, hoping to catch another look, but the girl was swallowed in the sea of bodies. Was it going to be that easy? Was she right in front of him?

He was aware the boy was still talking but his agenda was far too full to make idle promises to a child. Whatever problems this boy and his sister had were not his concern. Finding Michael, procuring the girl and getting back to Fallen Angels were the only things on his mind. Well, after he fucked most of the women in town of course.

Locating Michael could prove a problem. If his hapless brother had gotten himself killed or lost, there might never be resolution to that particular problem. That would upset him greatly because he actually did love his brother, but he'd just have to accept it and move on. Finding the girl was not going to be a problem. If she was still alive he would have her. Nothing could have erased the memory of her from his mind. He could have picked her out of a crowd. In fact ... He glanced again at the throng of people. The boy was still talking, but he was fairly easy to ignore.

He kept his eye on the crowd. He was determined and when Rafe Logan set his mind on something, he got it. Though the girl had been little more than a child five years before, she'd been poised at the brink of womanhood and her blossoming body held the promise of a lush appeal. He'd thought then that once she'd grown a little, filled out a little more, she'd have one of the most fuckable bodies on the Thames. Rafe had good instincts and his first glimpse of her had made his heart pound with anticipation.

She had been tiny. Rafe knew a lot of men liked their women small. Somehow it gave them the illusion of having something they'd not otherwise have, a desire to taste the forbidden. They liked to indulge that dark dangerous obsession that even in the most lenient societies was not often spoken of anywhere but in the most secret conversations. Rafe had been privy to many secret conversations. He knew this particular obsession often bordered on the depraved and he had a hard time understanding the need of a man to experience the bizarre thrill of proxy fucking, his own words, but an apt description.

More than once a man had led his daughter, his niece, his ward to Fallen Angels on the pretense of a business conversation just so Rafe could get a good look. The next time the man came with his bulging purse, he expected to have his desire met in every way. Rafe had generally found a way to accommodate these men but no matter how hard he tried he couldn't understand their need. He had no desire for children of his own and in fact went to great lengths to avoid the possibility, but he was fairly certain what these men wanted wasn't quite right.

Despite his own intense need to experience the flesh of females, Rafe knew the line had to be drawn somewhere. Though he had requests for girls, and the age preferred often made him sick to his stomach, he had no female working for him that was younger than sixteen. Even that age strained the limits of his tolerance but there were a great many young women wandering the streets that needed employment and if he didn't welcome them at Fallen Angels, they would surely be snatched up by a competitor. Rafe never let a potential bounty pass through his hands.

The girl he had come to claim was perfect for some of his clientele. With a youthful petite perfection that held a soft blush of childlike innocence he knew would last well into her twenties, he could get a decent ten year span of prime coin from holding her in his keep. After that the rate would go down, but he'd still make a fortune. The image of her standing on the street outside Fallen Angels was branded into his brain. She'd had strands of silky hair curling over her shoulders. All the meager light of that cloudy morning had been captured and held in the sun of her hair, twisting among the strands to glimmer with shades of vibrant gold, rich honey, tasty cream. In her hair he saw glimpses of sunflowers and daisies, flax and wheat, soft caramel and hard brittle amber. He had never seen hair such as hers in his entire life.

Her dark green eyes had been sparkling with a curiosity and bravado that were rare in such a young wench and usually lacking in most females. The wonder he saw in her eyes enhanced the appeal of her already significant assets. That blend of girlish excitement and seductive challenge would make him a very wealthy man. He already was, but he was never one to turn down more money.

Those green eyes had held him spellbound. Deep. Mysterious. Alluring. Intelligent. Alive with some kind of insatiable need burning inside like an emerald fire. Her eyes had been remarkably like ... His eyes shot back to the boy. Dark green. Golden flecks. With that hint of bravado.

Rafe grabbed the boy by his jacket and yanked him closer. The trunk thunked to the ground.

"What's your name, lad?"

"Sullivan, sir. Brian Sullivan."

Rafe's heart skipped a beat. Oh, was it going to be this easy?

"And you say you have a sister?"

"Aye, sir," Brian said. He bounced on his toes trying to see over the crowd. "She's here with me somewhere."

"And you're seeking a workman for your shop?"

"Aye, sir!" Brian said. "Shall I find her for you? You're exactly what she's looking to find."

Rafe peered over the top of the boy's head, searching the crowd again, hoping for another glimpse of the blond haired girl he had seen. He tugged the boy closer.

"Tell me about your sister."