Kissed; Christian Page 9

  Her face drained of color, but he felt no satisfaction, only pain more intensely.

  “So much for love, eh?”

  St. John’s face mottled with rage.

  “Do not make intimations that can so easily be disproven, Haukinge.” Amos shot a warning glance to Jessie, urging her without words to remain silent while he attempted to acquit her name.

  Smoldering with anger, Christian taunted, one brow lifted in contempt, “Can it now?” He turned to Jessie. “Can it, I wonder, my love?”

  He was daring her to deny it.

  Jessie’s face flamed at his mortifying disclosure. It seemed all eyes were upon her again, probing, questioning, gawking. God help her, but she could not deny Christian’s insinuation, for she was, in truth, no longer innocent. Only that didn’t seem to matter just now; she only felt the pain of his betrayal. She choked on a sob. “I... “

  “You what? You do love me? Say it now, so that all may hear your tender declarations.”

  Jessie stood silent, her heart breaking, her world collapsing around her. She thought she might swoon. Her palms dampened, and she wet her lips nervously, glancing at her brother, then at St. John, then again at Christian, not knowing to whom to turn. Tears welled in her eyes, blinding her to all but Christian’s spiteful glare. His furious expression cut her as surely as a knife. Her hands began to quiver, but she could not speak. She didn’t know what to say in response to all the hurtful things he was saying to her. Oh, God! She stifled a sob. Amos had paid him! And Christian, he’d accepted without compunction.

  Her heart felt crushed beyond repair.

  She couldn’t bear it. Bile surged in her throat. It was no wonder he believed she would betray him, for he had already betrayed her. Her heart felt as though it would rend in two. And God help her, for she loved him even still. He stared, waiting, inviting her to humiliate herself further by professing an unrequited love, for he couldn’t possibly love her in return.

  Well, she wasn’t about to satisfy him.

  “You cannot say it, can you? Now, when it matters most! Christ! How witless of me to have ever believed in you!” His eyes came alive with loathing, as he turned to St. John. “My congratulations to you, St. John, on your impending nuptials. You richly deserve one another!” He started toward her. “Keep your stinking money, Westmoor, your sister has already paid me in full.” His gaze locked with hers as he passed her, and he whispered for her ears alone, “Haven’t you, love?” He left then, his footsteps echoing behind him. He opened and slammed the front door, taking with him the promise of Jessie’s future.

  If possible, St. John’s face reddened even more as he turned to face her. The whites of his eyes seemed to bulge from his face. “Is it true?”

  Even without Christian’s presence, she could not answer.

  “I shall not be the butt of every man’s joke!”

  What could she say? Nothing. There was nothing she could possibly say in her own defense.

  Silence permeated the room, damning her.

  “By God!” St. John thundered. “I shall not have that jackal’s leavings! Not this day! Nor any other! Good day to the two of you!”

  “Wait!” Amos demanded as St. John turned from him. “I can explain!”

  St. John shook his head, not bothering to look Amos’ way. “Nay, sirrah, you cannot! I shall be departing Westmoor at once. A good life to you both!” And with that, he, too, left, slamming the door in his wake.

  Jessie was certain the front door would split in two if it were slammed so violently even once more.

  “Damn, damn, bloody damn!” Amos exploded. He glared at Jessie.

  Left to themselves, the room became deathly quiet. Amos shook his powdered and peruked head, hatred and disgust leaping from his eyes.

  Jessie felt anew the condemning sting of tears.

  “Does he speak the truth, Jessamine? Tell me, now!”

  For a long moment she couldn’t say a word, and then she nodded, her lips quivering. Her hands trembling, she wiped away the blur of tears from her eyes.

  Amos gave her a contemptuous snort and shook his head. “Do you realize what you have done?” he asked gravely. “I cannot believe you would do this to me—to Westmoor!”

  His expression was frightening, his tone cold and brutal in its sharpness. She recoiled as he came toward her, raising his hand in anger. He stopped abruptly, held it in midair, as tears pooled and spilled from her eyes. Silently they coursed down her cheeks, onto her lips. She let them, not bothering to wipe the humiliating wetness away. Looking directly into her brother’s vacant eyes, she realized then that there was nothing left of him there. They revealed not a trace of warmth.

  “I thought he loved me,” she sobbed brokenly, tasting the salt of her grief. “I-I thought you—”

  His hand slammed down upon the desk and he glared at her as though to blame her for the violent reaction she’d wrought from him. “You thought too much!”

  “Why, Amos? Why would you do such a thing? I-I don’t understand. Why would Lord Chris—” She choked on the question, unable to finish.

  “’Tis not so difficult to comprehend,” he replied balefully, his words clipped and cool. “For the good of Westmoor, Jessamine, I would sell my soul to the devil himself. And Lord Christian? That is quite the simple deduction as well; he’s the lowest of low, the scourge of society. It is only to be expected from the likes of him.”

  Once again, silence fell. Only Jessie’s sobs broke the hush. She cried softly. “What will you do?”

  Amos shrugged, his look cold, unreachable. “Precisely what I should have done to begin with. Send you to Charlestown, m’dear.”

  She blanched. “But Lord St. John said—”

  Amos eyed her coldly. “Have you no ears? Did you not hear? Nay, you’ll not go with St. John, but to Robert, instead!” He shook his head lamentably. “I can do nothing more for you here—you have seen to that well and good! Robert may fare better than I.”

  He observed the silent tears as they spilled down her cheeks and was unmoved by them.

  “You’ve disgraced us! You’ve dishonored my name. Eliza warned you that Haukinge was a debaucher of women—a penniless one at that!” he scoffed. “But nay, you would not listen. It was also made known to you that he would not stay overlong once he knew you came to him without a dowry. I can only say I told you so!”

  Jessie held her breath momentarily.

  Hope stirred despite the pain.

  “He asked after my dowry?” Pride seemed a forgone thing suddenly. If Christian had asked after her dowry, he must have asked about matrimony. And then it dawned on her suddenly what Amos had said to him and hope surged. You really cannot have expected Jessamine would wed a bastard. “Amos, did he ask to marry me?”

  “It never came to that. With no dowry, you are nothing to him, and I made that clear from the start—that you would be given none. He never bothered to ask.”

  Jessie masked her face with her hands as an anguished sob burst forth.

  Amos watched a moment longer, and then abandoned her, too. Just so easily, everything was gone.

  Everything.

  Part Two

  "There is no greater sorrow than to be mindful of the happy time in misery." —Dante

  Chapter Twelve

  Charlestown, 1763

  “Sacrebleu! ‘Ave I grown two heads, mon ami?”

  Christian seized up the crowbar, prying the lid from the largest crate. “You’ve still the one, old man, rest assured.” He eyed Jean Paul reproachfully. “Just the same, I strongly suggest you refrain from calling me by that name.”

  Jean Paul’s brows rose. “Since when do you take offense to mon ami?”

  Christian eyed him narrowly. “You know very well what I’m referring to.

  Wiping the sweat from his brow, he peered into the newly opened crate. “Damn it! Not in this one either.” He eyed Jean Paul pensively. “Are you certain it was loaded upon the Anastasie?”

  “Quite cert
ain,” Jean Paul answered. “Anyway, had they found their way to France, we would have heard by now. They must be here someplace, Hawk.”

  “Christian.”

  Jean Paul grimaced. “That reminds me,” he said, ignoring Christian’s reproof. “That cantankerous old fool you brought with you from England seems to ’ave taken offense to my sleeping in your room at the big house. I told him it was only till you returned, but non! Again and again he moves my things into the unfinished rooms—and it rained late last night!”

  “Only a drizzle,” Christian said, grinning, though he vowed to speak with Quincy at the first opportunity.

  “Mon cul! There was two inches of water on the floor where I slept—I swam instead! And this morn, my peruke was ruined!”

  Christian chuckled. “Be damned if you need that lice-ridden headpiece, anyway.”

  Jean Paul scowled at him. “You should wear yours more, I think! For someone who doesn’t wish attention called to himself, you have a curious way to show it.”

  Jessie had oft eschewed her petticoats, as well, Christian couldn’t help but recall, and it occurred to him in that instant that he’d never thought to question it. On the contrary, he’d understood completely. It was her one small rebellion against authority. His had merely been the first of many.

  “Alright,” he relented, cursing himself for a bloody fool. Why couldn’t he seem to forget? “I’ll bring Quincy back to the city with me.” He hung his head back to relieve the tension in his neck, massaging the soreness, and then with a grimace of disgust, turned his attention to the crate before him. “Here, old man... give me a hand with this one.”

  “What old man!” Jean Paul eyed him reproachfully, but complied at once. “You are disrespectful to your elders, mon fils.” Together they shoved the heavy crate out of the way. “I could be your—”

  “Father?” Christian interjected, sobered by the turn of their conversation. He turned to face Jean Paul, one brow arched in challenge but Jean Paul said nothing. The two merely stared at one another, gazes locked, and then the moment passed and Jean Paul glanced away. Christian bent to retrieve the crowbar.

  “I could be,” Jean Paul said suddenly, his declaration barely more than a whisper. Christian’s gaze snapped up, meeting his father’s bright blue eyes. Aye, he knew… but did Jean Paul? Could his mother have told him? Or had he simply come to her rescue, ready to accept a son not his own?

  Jean Paul’s expression shuttered suddenly. “What happened to you in England?” he demanded. “That is what I wish to know!”

  Christian turned away, his jaw working as he moved to the next crate. “Nothing I care to discuss.”

  “I know you too well, Christian. Something has happened to make you so foul-tempered. Quelle barbe! I see you not for months—and now, when I should be glad to find you are not fodder for the fish, or hanging from the gallows, I can scarcely bear to look at you for that hideous scowl you wear!”

  Christian grunted as he pried off the lid. “Then don’t look.”

  “Never have I known you to take an insult so lightly! Non, the Hawk I know would ’ave taken what was his due! Jesu Christ! I have seen you seize even that which was not your own! If they took something from you, why do you not just take it back and cease all this brooding?”

  Christian’s head snapped up. “I am not brooding, devil hang you!” His eyes narrowed in warning. He’d be damned if he’d have his personal affairs questioned by anyone—not even Jean Paul! “Enough to say we didn’t suit—we’re cut of different cloth, she and I. Now... give it up, Jean Paul.”

  “Humph!”

  Slamming the lid back into place, Christian muttered an oath. “Damn, not here either!” Raking his fingers through his hair, he mused aloud, “They must’ve somehow been unloaded back on Adger’s wharf.”

  Jean Paul’s heavy brows lifted.

  Christian was at once resigned to what must be done. “We’ll have to go into the warehouse tonight, retrieve them before customs realizes ‘tis there under their bloody noses.”

  “Just so?”

  “What choice have we?”

  “I suppose, not much,” Jean Paul ceded. “But you have an obligation to attend the gala tonight—the oaf knows you’re here. If you make no appearance, St. John will likely suspect and come searching. There have been rumors, Christian.”

  “I know, damn it all, I know!” Christian considered his options. “I suppose I shall have to pay a visit to the Wilkes club to see if Ben can’t round up some of his boys. I’ll head to the tavern just as soon as we finish here.” His gaze returned to Jean Paul. “The two of you can handle it from there, can you not?”

  Jean Paul considered a moment, his eyes narrowing. “Oui... but there is no need to go searching.” He nodded in the direction of Oyster Point. “Stone is there. His men too. I can see them from here.”

  Christian turned and went to the ship’s railing to gaze out over the expanse of blue-gray water that separated the Anastasie from the Charlestown battery. “What the bloody hell would have them congregating so damned conspicuously?”

  Jean Paul came up behind him, clapping a cautioning hand upon his shoulder. “Daniel Moore, the new stamp collector has arrested two of Laurens’ vessels. So have a care now... the situation grows grave.”

  From her vantage point along the bay, Jessie could see clear to Oyster Point. In the harbor itself, hundreds of vessels were at anchor—the breathtaking sight never ceased to awe her. All about, people scurried to and fro. Children played. Merchants peddled their wares, while elegantly dressed women walked simply to be seen—perhaps chattering about tonight’s gala?

  Glancing down at the envelope she held within her hand, she smiled knowingly. Kathryn Sinclair was anxious for Jessie to invite her cousin to attend the masquerade, and Jessie had promised she would attempt to persuade him. To that end, she’d gone to her cousin’s wharf to inquire over Ben’s whereabouts and had been told to seek him out at Oyster Point, though what he was up to away from the wharf so early, she just couldn’t fathom. Nibbling her lip fretfully, she considered the rumors... but nay, she refused to believe them. Ben would never place himself at risk.

  Shuddering, she glanced up, gauging the sky. Even through the lingering storm clouds, the sun shone brightly, warming her. She hoped it wouldn’t rain again tonight—more than that, she wished she wouldn’t cease to breathe every time she passed this blessed street!

  As so many times before, when she passed the brick facade town house she’d discovered belonged to him, she couldn’t resist a glimpse. She was startled to find that today its black protective shutters were open wide to the fresh air.

  Was he here? In Charlestown? After all these months? Her heart lurched at the possibility.

  God curse the rotten scoundrel that he could do this to her even now! What was wrong with her? she wondered peevishly.

  Well, she knew what was wrong with her, of course! Now, at last, when she was able to walk the shell-paved streets without searching for his face in the crowd, he came to torment her once more!

  Yes, she knew Christian had holdings in Charlestown. She had dreaded meeting with him—but he might have given her more time! Not that he would have concerned himself with her preferences. Rotten, deceiving wretch!

  Perhaps it wasn’t him at all, she reasoned. He might have loaned the house, after all.

  She certainly didn’t want it to be him...

  Did she?

  Seagulls dotted the clear blue sky above, wailing as they swooped to the streets in search of scraps. Pigeons wobbled carelessly, dodging carriages and rushing feet, all oblivious to her sinking mood. She walked faster, no longer in the frame of mind to tarry. She intended to deliver the envelope to Ben, and then hurry home and lock herself within her room for the rest of her natural life!

  And then perhaps not...

  Why should she? she thought crossly, resisting the childish urge to stomp her foot and scream. Why should she allow him to terrorize her into hiding aw
ay?

  Well, she wasn’t about to!

  Ben would likely scold her for delivering the invitation by hand when she could have easily sent a messenger instead, but she’d needed the walk and the fresh air—if it could be called fresh. Her nostrils flared slightly at the odor that rose to accost her. Many of Charlestown’s streets were paved with crushed oyster shells, effecting a rather distinct odor that was saved from being fetid only by the sweet breeze of the sea. Once passed it, she glanced over her shoulder, at the brick-facade town house.

  Were the servants merely preparing for his arrival?

  For her peace of mind, she prayed it wasn’t so. She forced her thoughts away from the town house and away from Lord Christian Haukinge.

  A carriage rolled slowly by, crackling noisily over the delicate shells. A white-gloved hand, followed by a shrill female voice, caught Jessie’s attention.

  Waving in greeting, Jessie continued on her way. Despite her fears to the contrary, Charlestown had, in truth, proven to be precisely the haven she’d sought. She’d worried that Lord St. John would sully her name here, and that she would be labeled an outcast upon arriving in the city, but for whatever reason, he’d not so much as breathed a word of the incident to a soul. There were some, in truth, who still believed her betrothed to him... which led her to wonder that perhaps Lord St. John was as humiliated by the ordeal as was she.

  She smiled softly then, with grim satisfaction, for Amos would likely curse himself to Jericho did he know that this penance of his was no penance at all. Her father’s brother and wife had been so good to her. For the first time since her mother’s death, Jessie felt part of a true family. Her cousin Ben was more like a brother to her than Amos could ever have thought to be—even if he was a mite too accommodating at times.

  Ben, who was merely two years Jessie’s senior, had been her Uncle Robert’s sole child. Uncle Robert, Aunt Claire, and Ben had all afforded her such a warm welcome that she couldn’t help but love them all dearly already.