Kissed; Christian Page 26

  Jessie waved a hand at him crossly, scarcely missing the tip of his nose. “And I love you! But there’s no more time! I’d have my children know their grandsire for who he is, and not merely as your captain. You must tell him!” She cocked her head at him then, narrowing her eyes. “Do you take my meaning?”

  He froze. “Are you?” She nodded. “Now?”

  She smiled. “I cannot believe you’ve failed to notice!”

  “And I cannot believe you’d frolic with me so carelessly when you’re carrying my child! Have you been ill?”

  She lifted a brow, in much the same manner he liked to do, and asked pertly, “Do I seem ill to you?” He shook his head. “There is simply... shall we say... a roundness to me now that is quite difficult to overlook,” she pointed out.

  He laid her gently back upon their bed to better inspect her. “How imperceptive of me,” he muttered with a frown. “I suppose I shall have to remedy that at once!” When his mouth suddenly lit upon her belly, Jessie squealed and tried to wriggle free of his embrace.

  “You would look with your lips?” she asked, scandalized, laughing softly.

  “Aye, my love, for I see very well with them, indeed...” He tried once more, and this time she arched backward for him, her eyes closing with unabashed pleasure.

  She sighed. “Yes,” she murmured in agreement, “you certainly do... Look again if you please...”

  Later, in the drawing room, the argument continued. “You’ll tell him now, won’t you?”

  “God’s teeth, Jessamine! I said I would!”

  She frowned at him. “You never call me Jessamine!”

  He locked his hands behind his back and peered at her, eyeing her pointedly. “I do now.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because you’re an impudent little wench!”

  “Aye, well, it cannot be helped! I should remind you that you’ve promised near a dozen times before and never have spoken to him yet!”

  He grunted, turning from the window long enough to give his wife a thoroughly disgruntled glance. “I shall tonight,” he promised, and turned to peer out the window once more to see that Ben and Jean Paul were approaching the house.

  “Christ,” he muttered. “Here they come—sit, Jessamine! And don’t you speak another blessed word!”

  Undaunted, Jessie sat upon the blue damask settee to await Jean Paul and her cousin’s entrance, eager for the scene to come. Her gaze wandered while she waited. The house was complete at last, the rooms furnished, some sparsely, others richly. This room was particularly grand, the ceiling high, and from the center hung a great ironwork candelabra. Two spiral staircases led abovestairs, one to each wing. The floor was polished oak, with an immense woven carpet stretched across its length. By the hearth sat two gold damask chairs along with the settee Jessie now occupied. She oft imagined them, she and Christian, sitting here along with their children, enjoying a blazing fire in winter. Soon it would be so.

  She sighed, for so much had transpired since that day upon the Ashley. Lord St. John’s body had never been found, though the river had been dredged. She tried not to think of that much, for in truth, there was much to be thankful for in St. John’s death. It was a dreadful end for any man, one that she wouldn’t have wished upon anyone, but the fact remained that if Lord St. John had lived, Christian might have hung for the sins of Hawk. She couldn’t have borne that.

  With the changing tide, Daniel Moore had fled to England in fear of his life... and there were whispers of war in the air. She tried not to think of them either. Many had chosen to return to England—McCarney included—before the tide turned completely. Jessie sighed, watching her husband at the window, thrusting the dark thoughts aside. For the time being, Hawk did not exist, there was only Christian, husband to her, and father to their unborn child.

  The door swung open and both Jean Paul and Ben entered, wiping their boots upon the threshold. Jessie frowned at them, and considered rebuking them for the mess they created between them, but she sat patiently instead, her gaze reverting to Christian. He stood watching her, scowling really, and she lifted a brow in question.

  “I haven’t done or said anything yet!” she apprised him. “Now, have I?”

  “Faugh!” Jean Paul exclaimed as he came within. “Lies, all lies, I tell you!”

  Jessamine shared a look with her husband and laughed softly. Some things had changed; some things remained the same. More oft than not, Ben and Jean Paul were at one another’s throats.

  “If you say so, old man,” Ben yielded, “though I’m glad ’tis your own hide you risk, not mine!”

  She smiled at that and said pertly, “Please! Do come in! Quickly! Quickly!”

  “Jessamine,” Christian warned, eyeing her sternly.

  Jessie ignored him, smiling brightly. “My husband has something he wishes to say to Jean Paul before the two of you commence to butchering one another.”

  “Jessamine!” Christian said. “Allow me, if you please!”

  She sat, but her smile remained and was contagious. Ben found himself grinning as he came to sit beside her. Taking her hand, he patted it affectionately.

  Jean Paul stood, staring expectantly not more than two feet from his son. Christian, on the other hand, seemed to be pleading with her, or perhaps he was glaring at her and Ben. She couldn’t tell. When she returned his regard with a saucy smile, he grimaced and turned to face his father.

  “’Tis my wife,” he began sourly, his face coloring slightly. He shifted uncomfortably. “I... she—” His voice faltered. “Damn it all, I! I would have you know...” He swallowed, turning to meet Jessie’s gaze briefly before continuing. “I would have you know... that you... you are soon to become a grandfather,” he finished scarcely loud enough for Jean Paul to hear.

  It didn’t matter; one might have heard a mouse walk in a room as silent as this one had become. He took a deep breath and lifted his chin, looking more like a little lost boy than Jessie knew he would have liked. “What think you of that, old man?”

  Jessie’s heart swelled with pride for him, but she held her breath, waiting for Jean Paul’s reply.

  Jean Paul turned to Jessie, seeming to understand that she was the one responsible for this long-awaited acknowledgment. His eyes glittered suspiciously. And then, in a sweeping moment that brought tears to her eyes, he turned to Christian and said, choking on his words, “You make me proud, son!” Further words failed him and he moved forward, daring to embrace Christian.

  Tentatively at first, Christian returned the hug, unsure of what to do, what to say. His grimace held a wealth of emotions, Jessie knew. Even so, the arms embracing him were not so easy to refuse, and finally he was clasping his father with as much force as was offered. Jean Paul peeled himself away, patting

  Christian’s shoulder, seeming embarrassed now by his show of affection.

  Unable to bear not being a part of the hug, Jessie laughed and hugged Ben beside her. Ben reacted rather startled at first, looking quickly to Christian, and then again to Jessie. After another instant, he returned her hug somewhat cautiously and bent to whisper in her ear. “Felicitations, sweet coz! I shall carry the news to Mother and Father. They shall be del—”

  Suddenly there was a hand wedged between them. Startled by the abruptness of it, both Ben and Jessie gazed upward to spy Christian’s scowling face.

  “Good God, man,” Ben exclaimed, “but you are as jealous a husband as they come! She’s my cousin!” he protested lamely.

  Jean Paul laughed, his eyes gleaming still.

  “Aye,” Christian admitted without qualm. “That I am, and don’t you go forgetting it!”

  “Does that mean I cannot congratulate my new daughter?” Jean Paul dared.

  “If you mean to embrace her, it does,” Christian told him without hesitation “Father or nay, you’re a man first, and I’ll not have her embraced by any but me. At least not tonight,” he added, and having declared it so, he swept Jessie up into his arms. She squeale
d, part in laughter, part in protest.

  “If you’ll excuse us,” he said, winking at his wife. “There’s a matter of some compensation to be had for my troubles this eve.” His smile deepened when Jessie blushed, and he bore her quickly up the stairs, leaving two mouths agape behind them. He didn’t bother to offer Ben or his father so much as a by-your-leave.

  “But we have guests!” Jessie protested.

  “Aye, well, devil hang them both!” her husband proclaimed, and even as he ascended the stairwell, he managed to kiss her soundly, silencing any further protests.

  The sight of them brought a hearty chuckle from the pair below.

  “Have you ever seen the like!” Ben exclaimed, shaking his head in wonder as he watched the two disappear from the landing above.

  “Mais oui,” Jean Paul said softly. “But of course.” And his look was wistful and distant as he stared up at the empty landing above. Voices could be heard faintly from the corridor, giggles, and then a door slammed shut in the distance, echoing throughout the grand house.

  There was a deep hush and an air of profound contentment in its wake.

  Tears filled Jean Paul’s eyes, but he seemed unaware of them until one slid conspicuously down his weathered old cheek. He swiped at it quickly and turned to see that Ben was staring. “Pardonnez-moi,” he said, his voice catching strangely, “but I am an old man, and sometimes I find myself weakened by paltry emotions.”

  His dark eyes twinkling, Ben assured, “I saw nothing, my friend.”

  Jean Paul nodded. “And so you’ve not,” he agreed. He placed a hand to Ben’s shoulder. “So you’ve not.”

  If you enjoyed Christian's story, keep reading to meet Jack MacAuley...

  Chapter One

  Boston, 1899

  The evidence seemed undeniable.

  It was, in fact, her fiancé’s penmanship, but just to be certain Sophie withdrew her most recent letter from Harlan from her private desk, meticulously comparing the handwriting. She studied both letters side by side, trying to find some difference in the script.

  Behind her, Jonathon Preston opened the drapes a bit wider, letting in every last ray of afternoon sun, giving her ample light to see by. “I would never have brought it to you,” he claimed, somewhat more eagerly now that she had begun to take the matter seriously. He stood at her side, peering over her shoulder, and his razor-sharp scrutiny of her while she read the letter made her cheeks bum with both anger and humiliation.

  She swallowed uncomfortably.

  No matter how much she wished to find the letter a forgery, the penmanship was the same; identical long-tailed y’s looping purposely about to cross simple t’s... precisely dotted i’s and j’s. Harlan rarely capitalized the names of his acquaintances... nor did he ever capitalize hers, though his invariably was—something that plagued her acutely.

  “Although Harlan has always been a friend to me, it seemed somehow unconscionable,” Jonathon continued, “that you should be treated with so little regard!”

  Sophie doubted Jonathon’s intentions were at all honorable. He might have sold his soul to the devil for her father’s favor. Still, she was not the sort who preferred not to know. If her fiancé was making her out to be a fool, then she certainly did wish to know about it—no matter what Jonathon’s motives for relaying the information.

  And, damnation, it seemed Harlan was, indeed, making a fool of her!

  Her entire future suddenly crumpled before her like an old castle in some forgotten fairy tale, all of her carefully laid plans reduced to rubble and her dreams blown away like so much dust.

  What a fool she had been.

  She peered up at Jonathon to find him still staring at her, as though he expected her to burst into heart-wrenching sobs any instant. Sophie frowned. No doubt he would enjoy that. Well, she wasn’t about to give in to hysterics! Anyway, she shuddered to think of Jonathon comforting her.

  Strange how before today she had not thought him quite so nefarious, but the boy she remembered from her youth was gone, and in his place stood a gleaming-eyed, calculating man. No, she had no doubt of Jonathon’s intentions, and less of his motivations. Her father was a powerful and beneficent man—witnessed by the generosity and support he had bestowed on Harlan. From the day Harlan had departed Boston, his best friend had set out to woo not her, but her father.

  Drat men and their love for money!

  Her eyes stung as she scanned the letter Jonathon had brought her, this time allowing herself full comprehension of the words scribbled so neatly before her.

  God help her, she refused to weep—and certainly not before Jonathon Preston.

  She examined the envelope again. It was postmarked April 20, 1899. Two months ago—ironic that he should have written this letter on the third anniversary of their engagement. She wondered if Harlan even realized.

  My good friend, the letter began.

  Sophie glanced up at Jonathon, wondering implausibly how he could betray his good friend so easily. Her emotions were in tumult. She didn’t know whether to be grateful or angry at the man standing so gleefully at her side. And yet, how could she, even now, think to championing Harlan? Why should she even care that Jonathon had played his Judas?

  She read the letter carefully.

  You really must join me here directly! Give no more objections, jon! It is a wondrous world that not merely allows us the opportunity to experience life’s most bountiful pleasures, but in fact grants us to do so! Every man should have such an understanding fiancée, eh? And a father-in-law willing to support his cause. I count myself fortunate, indeed—yes, indeed—to have won the heart of sophia vanderwahl, but do not think me unappreciative if I do not rush home to the encumbrances of matrimony.

  His choice of words stung.

  Encumbrance.

  So that’s what he thought of her?

  She took a deep breath and continued.

  At any rate, dear friend, I hardly think you can say sophia is wasting away. She is young enough still that she might bear my children were I to delay the nuptials five, even six more years. And neither are her spirits low; her letters are buoyant and full with interest in my studies. She’s a peach to affect such an interest in matters that would only bore her to the grave. Women have not the patience or capacity for such ruminations, jon. But do not concern yourself with sophia, my good friend. She is most loyal, to be sure, and will await me with the grace she was raised to show. Indeed, I could not have chosen better.

  Sophie grit her teeth, resisting the urge to crumple the letter.

  Loyal, was she?

  A peach, was she?

  Anger surged through her.

  Her interest had hardly been feigned! Her questions had been born of legitimate interest—and how dare Harlan assume she would wait five, even six more years until he deigned to return to her! And yet it was hardly that particular narrative that incensed her most. Her eyes skimmed the pages until she came to the paragraph in which he began to tempt Jon...

  ... and the women here are the most lovely... skin so velvet brown and eyes so deep a black a man may sigh to see his own reflection in their depths. And hair... Christ, I have never had the joy of touching hair so rich it flows through one’s hands like the mane of a fine riding horse. (And they love to be ridden, jon... I know this firsthand.)

  Sophie was not such a moron that she did not understand his meaning, even if she did not know exactly what that meant. Her cheeks burned with both anger and mortification.

  “Forgive me, Sophia, I did not wish to mask even the worst of it,” Jonathon interjected, interpreting correctly the flush on her cheeks. “You had a right to know.”

  Sophie nodded, too shaken for words, even after reading the letter for the third time.

  She forced herself to continue.

  ... never have I known women so earthy in nature. If you experience the carnal joy of one woman’s bosom, you must not think her the exception because the next will make you yearn to feel her native soil b
etween your toes forever and run like a savage through the jungles of her birth. You will nearly forget you are a civilized man and never again wish to languish in the misery that is Boston. Not for all the vanderwahl money would I be dragged so soon from this paradise!

  Sophie winced at the not so subtle reminder that it was her father’s money, not her, that would most likely bring him back—and not even her father’s money was enough! He was enjoying himself far too well at Vanderwahl expense!

  And she couldn’t help but notice that he couldn’t even be bothered to capitalize her surname.

  Sorrow was at once replaced with cold fury, and armed with anger, she reread the last passages.

  Even here in the wilds I have received word of jack macauley’s reckless venture... his purchase of that deuced old ship... the miss deed, is it? In any case, he must be ready to set sail soon. Entreat upon him, if you will, to give you passage. He would make room for you, I’m certain. His pockets have grown quite shallow. In the meantime, I shall hand choose the most luscious native girl, and let no man sample her but you. Join me, jon, and you will hardly wonder why I must convince sophia’s father to purchase me more time. Between the two of us we could surely convince him of our potential here. He is eager for grandchildren and alone I will not prevail.

  Come, my good friend. Your presence is the one thing I find I sorely miss.

  Your loyal friend and associate, Harlan Horatio Penn III

  Jon’s company was the one thing he sorely missed, was it? Not hers?

  How could she not have realized sooner how little interest he held in her? Just the other night Sophie had viciously defended him to her friend Maggie when Maggie dared imply his interest had waned. Why had it taken a letter from him to Jonathon for her to realize what was apparently quite obvious to everybody else?