Noah sat at the battered mahogany table out on the long, covered porch of their beach-front house close to the more salubrious end of Port Royal, which unfortunately happened to be within sight of Fort Charles squatting up on the headland. This meant they were rather closer to the English authorities than was altogether comfortable. But it was never possible to have everything, he had long accepted that. He glanced up at Sam sifting through a small stack of letters, his skin browned by the sun, chestnut hair sun-streaked, looking healthy and happy … and loved. Noah returned to his ledger only to look up again a minute or two later when Sam groaned. ‘What, Lad?’
‘Christ. Holy Christ.’ He stared down at the letter he had dropped as though it burnt him. All colour had left his face. ‘Susanna
