Kissed; Christian Page 11

  “I suppose not,” she yielded at last, “though if Gadsden and Pinkney are in league with those anarchists, who is to say what a turncoat looks like? Certainly not I.”

  For a long moment there was only silence between them; only the hollow sound of their echoing footsteps infiltrated it.

  “True, coz,” Ben agreed after a moment, snatching up her hand once more. “Though I wonder how it is you know so much.”

  “Your mother, of course,” Jessie replied, laughing. “She seems privy to every last morsel of gossip in this province. You should have heard what she learned today.” With a trace of laughter still evident in her voice, she disclosed in a mock whisper, “It seems the notorious Hawk is sailing Carolina waters. Imagine that! Do you know, Ben, that I have heard him referred to as the Prince of Smugglers? I can scarce imagine anyone wearing such an ignoble title so proudly!”

  Ben’s hand tightened upon hers. “Nonsense. Hawk has no business here—Charlestown is not like Boston, where smugglers are made welcome and praised for their fearlessness. I wonder where my mother would have heard such a thing.”

  Having arrived at their destination, Ben led her without delay onto the Sinclair veranda and halted there. The front door was open to the night. The sounds of festivity, laughter and music, drifted to them. Two men in Sinclair livery stood, each on opposite sides of the door, their expressions cast as though in stone.

  Jessie was momentarily taken aback by the agitation in Ben’s tone. She studied the rigid planes of his face, wondering why he seemed so tense tonight. “Really, Ben... I’ve no idea where she might have heard—enough of that; come, let’s go in!” She turned, tugging at his hand, and started to enter the house, but Ben drew her back.

  “The night is much too lovely to go inside as yet. Keep my company an instant longer.”

  She stared at him through the shadows, not liking what she heard. “You aren’t coming in?”

  “Nay, I”—he sighed, looked away, then back— “I can’t.”

  “Oh, Ben! Kathryn will be so disappointed! How could you break her heart so!”

  He turned away, staring in the direction of the harbor. “Give her my best regards,” he said somewhat absently.

  Had Jessie not had her gaze centered on the harbor, as well, she might have missed the sudden flash of light that pierced the darkness. Even as she stared, there was another. And then another.

  “I wonder what that was.”

  “Hmmm?” Following the direction of her gaze, Ben assured her, “Nothing, I’m certain ’tis nothing, sweet coz.” He untied his stock and slid it off, looping it gently about her neck, drawing her close. “I’d best be going, at any rate. Go inside and enjoy yourself. Kathryn will be waiting, and I shall return to collect you soon.” With a wink, he added, “You’ll save me a dance, won’t you?” Jessie nodded, and he bent to kiss her forehead, abandoning the stock about her shoulders.

  Leaving her with another wink, he leapt down from the veranda; shells crackled noisily as his boots lit upon the street. Jessie stood, watching with a frown as he slipped into the shadows. He’d left behind his snow white cravat, and his garments blended consummately with the night.

  A feeling of unease swept through her as she watched him go, but she ignored it, telling herself there was nothing to be concerned with—perhaps he was meeting a woman...

  Removing his cravat from her shoulders, she gazed at it pensively, and then deciding that must be so, she shoved it within her reticule and made her way past the servants, into the festively decorated hall.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Moonlight spilled over the open veranda, lighting most of its length, but within the garden, beneath the oaks, there was only blissful darkness. It was precisely the haven Jessie sought, and she quickly made her way into the shadows, grateful for having escaped the crush without having gained anyone’s notice.

  Beguiled by the peace of her surroundings, she stood gazing wistfully into the lantern lit gardens as the soothing strains of a familiar ballad drifted through the air. For an instant she was lost in reverie.

  If only things had been different.

  Perhaps she, too, would be within... dancing gaily under the dazzling chandeliers... in his arms... gazing lovingly into his remarkable eyes.

  But it was not to be.

  And she was no child to muse away her life on shattered dreams.

  Sighing wistfully, she drew the domino mask from her head and stared at it. Most of the guests wore one in lieu of a full costume, for fine cloth was not so easily procured here. Her own was gold and silver to match her gown, and though it was truly a work of art, it looked rather dismal with its pouty mouth and exotic eyes. No matter, it matched her mood.

  Lord Christian Haukinge was a contemptible blackguard, a swine, a lecher. He was every woman’s nightmare.

  The problem was she loved him still.

  The music faded and she came aware of another sound in the distance—the gentle rushing of water from a garden fountain. It was such a peaceful, lulling sound that when the music recommenced, a minuet, seemingly louder than before, it grated on her nerves and she went in search of the font. Following the well-worn garden path, she left behind the sounds of the masquerade and entered the serenity of the central garden. The font was there in the heart of the hedged enclosure, water spouting from its moonlit core, cascading into an illuminated pool. The scent of wild honeysuckle and roses wafted sweetly upon the air, filling her senses—making her forget, if only for the instant.

  Hidden in shadow, Christian watched as she passed him. At the font, she removed her glove and like some bloody seductress, slid her bare fingers into the curtain of water. She sighed softly as she brought the moisture to her skin, cooling her wonderfully soft flesh.

  Damn him, but he couldn’t seem to forget the feel of her.

  Her performance was such a seductive one that he found himself at once aroused. And then again, he thought ruefully, it didn’t seem to take much. He needed only remember the day they’d lain together under the elm tree... the way she’d trembled at his touch... the expression upon her face as she’d come to completion...

  It haunted him still.

  He clenched his jaw and thrust the image away.

  It served no purpose to remember now.

  He glanced away, unable to bear the sight of her. The image of Ben Stone, the way he’d held her this afternoon, twisted his gut. He shouldn’t care—didn’t want to care—but devil hang him if he didn’t. Like metal to a lodestone, his gaze returned to the font, drawn despite his resolve against it. He watched her sway seductively against the cement monstrosity, her face upturned to the inky sky as she caressed her neck with the moistened tips of her fingers. Inexplicable anger surged within him. Did she know he was watching?

  He thought it likely so—no doubt another devilish form of torture she’d devised. All evening she’d danced so light-heartedly, smiled so brilliantly with all her beaux—as though nothing in the world troubled her.

  And aye, she’d managed to make his heart bleed all over again.

  Before he could be tempted to go to her, he sat upon the ironwork bench, watching. God help him, he was drawn to her like a drunkard to wine, knowing she was no good for him, and yet... craving her with a need that was too painful to deny.

  This time he would resist.

  Closing her eyes, Jessie wished herself away from the smiling faces and blissful couples she envied so.

  Though she was glad for them, it was much too difficult to watch their gaiety when every promise of happiness had vanished from her life. Lord, how she wished she’d never set eyes upon him again—more than that, even, she wished she’d never known him at all.

  If only she’d known then what she knew now—that he was a contemptible blackguard who cared only for his own mean pleasures. He’d used her heartlessly, without so much as a thought for her feelings.

  From the bottom of her soul she wished herself back in time... so that she might undo her mist
akes—or, at the very least, prayed she would open her eyes and find it had all been a dreadful nightmare, that she would awaken and find herself capable of feeling again. Turning her face up to the stars, she squeezed her eyes shut and whispered a fervent, “I wish...”

  “What is it you wish, m’mselle?” a painfully familiar voice inquired, startling her.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs, and for a moment she was paralyzed with dread. Panicking at the thought of facing him again, she drew the domino mask over her face at once and spun around.

  She had to search a moment to spy him.

  He was seated upon the arm of an ornately carved bench, his arms crossed, his legs spread before him, linked casually at the ankles. He stood slowly, flinging a lit cheroot upon the ground, crushing it beneath his boot before coming forward out of the shadows, regarding her all the while with an expression of supreme boredom.

  Please, Lord, she begged, don’t let him realize it is me.

  Her heart thundered painfully. She glanced about anxiously, hoping for a hasty retreat. God curse them, her feet refused to move. And then it was too late, he was standing before her.

  His dark lashes fell momentarily, masking his eyes, and then he glanced up once more, meeting her gaze directly. “You were wishing for?”

  Her nerves were near the breaking point, and his scrutiny managed to fragment her composure completely.

  Should she lie? Should she run? The truth barreled out. “I-I was merely indulging in a whim, my lord. Woolgathering you might say.” She frowned behind her mask, hoping he wouldn’t read the truth behind her words.

  His gaze left her as he considered her answer, and in that brief instant Jessie was able to observe him unheeded.

  He was as handsome as ever—God curse him for that. Dressed in black, he blended consummately with the night. Like Ben. Unlike the other guests, however, he wore neither costume nor mask. She prayed he didn’t know it was her.

  But when he looked at her again it was with narrowed eyes, and his cold, unmerciful gaze took her breath away. In that discomfiting instant, she knew... concealing her face from him was pointless. Her mask might have been made of glass, for all it seemed to conceal. His gaze converged upon the glove she’d removed from her hand, and then reverted to the font, lingering there an excruciating moment before returning to her.

  His smile was chilling. “You make an alluring picture, my love,” he said at last. “Tell me... was that performance entirely for my benefit... or would you by chance be meeting a lover?”

  His question stung like a slap to the face.

  Her eyes misted traitorously at his accusation. “I-I was merely seeking air,” she told him, suppressing the urge to slap his wickedly handsome face. She wanted to kick at him, and rail at him, and might have given in to such childish ravings had her dress not restricted her so. She loathed these trappings, loathed the social order that forbade an open show of her anger.

  God help her, but she wanted to hurt him, as he’d hurt her!

  “If you will excuse me, my lord,” she said instead, her hands trembling. “I-I believe I shall leave you to your solitude—my apologies if I have intruded!” With halted breath, she stepped around him, but he caught her arm and drew her back.

  Jessie gave a cry of despair as he snatched the hood from her head. She snatched it back, her fingers tightening about the gold and silver cloth as a cruel smile touched his lips. His grip tightened upon her arm.

  “Release me!” She jerked her arm free, and lifted her skirts to bolt past him, but his hand shot out once more, seizing her wrist, jerking her backward.

  Her heart lurched. “Please,” she whispered, desperate to be away from him. “Let me go...”

  “Nay, damn you!”

  God help him, he couldn’t.

  And damn him, too, because he shouldn’t have to think of her every waking moment—because he shouldn’t want to touch her even now—because he shouldn’t know the compelling desire to hold her in his arms and kiss her senseless.

  He’d come to the garden for a minute’s solitude, away from her haunting green gaze, her ingenuous smiles, only to have that peace intruded upon by none other than his tormentor herself.

  Had she truly thought to hide behind that silly mask of hers? Foolish—one need only glimpse into those witch’s eyes to know her.

  Only a blind man could not see.

  “Damn you, Jessamine!” he swore again, drawing her to him and crushing her against him.

  She cried out but did not resist him at once.

  “Damn you, damn you... damn you,” he whispered, lowering his face to hers.

  “Don’t!” she cried, and tried to break free. “No!” He paused briefly to look into her eyes, and then his gaze fell to her mouth, lingering there.

  “Jess,” he said, lifting a dark curl that had fallen from her coif and stroking it between his thumb and forefinger.

  He put his finger to her mouth, caressing her lips, wandering to her cheek, stroking it softly as he held her gaze.

  Shivers coursed down her spine.

  Jessie wasn’t aware he released her until both of his hands tangled within her hair. His fingers curled about her neck, holding her steady for his kiss.

  Her shoulders slumped in defeat as his lips descended once more. “Nay,” she beseeched him, trying in vain to avert her face; he held her imprisoned. “Don’t... don’t... please...” She whimpered.

  “Jessie,” said with a groan, urging her to face him, forcing her to acknowledge him.

  The sound of his voice was low and tormented, undoing her completely, and then his mouth met hers with savage determination, coaxing her trembling lips. Like liquid fire, his tongue slipped within to brush hotly against her own, and a jolt of almost painful pleasure surged through her. His other hand slid down to splay across her back... pressing firmly, forcing her to acknowledge the rest of him as well.

  God help her, she responded wantonly to his tender coercion, letting him take whatever he would in that instant. He tasted of brandy, his mouth so warm and sweet with the taste that she could almost feel the burning liquor gliding down her own throat. He smelled of it, too... the scent heady to her senses. Her hands dropped helplessly at her sides, and the mask and glove slipped forgotten from her fingers.

  “Jessie,” he murmured. “Jessie, Jessie, Jessie…”

  She shook her head, some last vestige of her pride clinging to reality. What was wrong with her that she would weaken so? Even after all that he’d done to her? A sob caught in her throat as she acknowledged the truth. She was in love with him—would always be in love with him—regardless of what he was, regardless of what he’d done to her.

  And she loathed him for it—herself even more!

  With a strength she didn’t know she possessed, she broke free. “Get away from me!”

  With trembling fingers, she swiped his kiss from her lips. Glaring at him, she bent to pick up the discarded mask at her feet, overlooking the satin glove that lay just beneath it. He stepped forward, and she raised her face to look into his eyes. “Stay away from me!” Her eyes misted traitorously. He reached for her and she twisted away. “I loathe it when you touch me!”

  It was a blatant lie, and they both knew it.

  He arched a brow. “Really?”

  Her heart pounded.

  “It seemed to me you wanted that kiss as much as I,” he taunted. He reached out to place a finger beneath her chin, raising it slightly. “Don’t dare deny it, love.”

  She slapped his hand away from her face. “I am not your love!” she hissed. “You don’t know the meaning of the word!”

  He stiffened. “And you perchance do?”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw, and she backed away another pace, ready to bolt if he advanced upon her again, but he merely stood, glaring at her with that soul-searing gaze.

  Six months ago, that very same blaze in his eyes had broken her heart. Now it only infuriated her. And fury gave her the courage to ask the on
e thing she needed to know of him. “What sort of man are you, that you would accept payment for breaking a woman’s heart?”

  For a long instant he merely stared at her, his jaw working, and then he answered, “What kind of man is your brother that he would invite me to do so?”

  “I am not asking you to defend my brother’s honor!” she countered. “Merely your own! And I ask you again—what kind of man are you that you would take payment for such an ignoble deed? Certainly no gentleman!”

  Again he stiffened. “If you find me no gentleman, m’mselle... it is because you are no lady.”

  He laughed then, the sound harsh, and stooped to retrieve her glove from the ground. His accusation wrenched at her soul, for she very much feared it was so. He brought the glove to his lips for a heartless kiss, and tossed it angrily at her breast. Then he turned and walked away, leaving her to stare after him in mute rage.

  With trembling hands, she replaced her hood and mask, and after a moment followed him into the house, hoping he intended to leave, because she, as yet, could not. She cursed Ben to perdition for leaving her here at his mercy. Her heart continued to pound traitorously.

  She found Kathryn still on the dance floor, laughing gaily, and so she stood aside, watching the shimmering silk and satin dresses promenade by. After a moment—or it might have been a lifetime—Lord St. John appeared at her side. Silently she wished him to blazes, as well, but managed to give him a pleasant smile, nevertheless.

  “Jessamine, m’dear,” he crooned. “You look absolutely ravishing this eve.”

  She resisted the urge to kick him squarely in the shin. “Thank you, my lord,” she said sweetly. “However did you know it was me?” She extended her hand in greeting, and he brought it to his lips. Behind her mask, she recoiled at his touch. Only after everyone else in Charlestown had given her such a warm welcome had Lord St. John even bothered to call upon her, fickle fool that he was—not that she wished him to, mind you, but he seemed to flow with the tide of public opinion, wanting her one moment, despising her the next.