Kissed; Christian

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Much like someone else she knew.

  Her gaze searched the room.

  “You,” he murmured, kissing her proffered hand, “are simply unmistakable, m’dear.”

  She sighed. “And why is that, my lord?” she asked through clenched teeth, thankful for the mask that concealed her expression of disgust.

  “Why, your eyes, of course,” he declared. “They are the rarest of jewels, you see...”

  At his declaration, Jessie fought to hold back the tears. Christian had once said the very same thing to her, and she wondered irately just how many women had been privy to such disingenuous drivel. How many others had Christian whispered such endearments to? The very thought left her bereft, furious too.

  Once again her gaze swept the room, this time meeting his over a snifter of brandy. He raised the glass in silent tribute. She could scarcely read his face from the distance, but she suspected he was congratulating her upon Lord St. John’s renewed quest for her hand. The man was becoming a boor in his pursuit of her. This week alone, St. John had called upon her near a dozen times, and each time she’d claimed an attack of the vapors. Nothing seemed to dissuade him. He simply came again, and again, and again.

  She averted her gaze, pretending interest in Lord St. John’s one-sided discussion. It was insufferable that both men who had caused her so much anguish all those many months ago in England should be here now, so many miles away, making her miserable once more. God was surely punishing her!

  “And where is Ben tonight?” St. John asked, his gaze turning with unconcealed disgust toward Christian. “Jessamine? Are you listening, m’dear?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I beg your pardon, my lord,” she answered sweetly. “What did you say?”

  “I was inquiring over your cousin,” St. John said, silently cursing her. It had not escaped him the way their eyes continued to meet across the room—never mind that their expressions were full of veiled contempt. The woman could barely listen to him for his presence. How many times must he forfeit to Haukinge?

  “I really don’t know, my lord,” she replied, sounding bored.

  St. John gritted his teeth, wanting to smack her for her cut of him once again. He forced himself to remain calm and shook his head gravely. “Well... I daresay... I do hope he doesn’t find himself near the docks this eve...”

  He’d come to believe in her innocence, and that as much as anything had kept his tongue stilled about the incident, but with the way Haukinge watched her now, as though she were a coveted lost possession, he had to consider her part in the affair all over again. He smiled then, for what sweet justice it would be to woo Jessamine from under his very nose.

  “Oh? Why is that, my lord?”

  If she would only cooperate.

  Why, he pondered irately, was Haukinge not with his men tonight?

  His eyes widened with feigned disbelief as he bent to whisper low, “You mean to say you’ve not heard?” He glanced at Haukinge. The man was rabid, he could see. St. John could feel his tension, even with the distance between them. His gaze returned to Jessamine. Perhaps he wouldn’t lose this round after all...

  Perhaps he could use their mutual attraction to his advantage...

  Jessie shook her head, her brow furrowing.

  “Well, m’dear, they’ve seized two of Laurens’ vessels! It seems Daniel Moore—who is a very, very good friend of mine, incidentally—had reason to suspect him of smuggling. And that is not all! Moore has also received word that the infamous Hawk will attempt to smuggle in arms this very night—perhaps as we speak—to those rebel traitors he abets. Imagine that!”

  Watching her expression, he continued, “I daresay it would serve those devils right if each and every one was assigned the gibbet tonight!” Gazing at Jessie speculatively, he then added suggestively, “I do hope your cousin is wise enough to keep his distance from those rabble-rousers... and, of course, the docks... at least for the night...”

  Jessie’s heart began to race wildly.

  “Yes, of course, my lord! Ben would never!” She tried to mask her concern from St. John, smiling and saying, “In truth, I expect him any instant.”

  “Do you?” He smiled softly, his expression oddly triumphant.

  Jessie smiled wanly in return, though her blood ran cold. If Lord St. John spoke the truth... then Ben could very well be with them now—she just couldn’t bear to think of the price he might pay. Recalling the lights flickering at the dock, she remembered Ben’s rapt attention upon them... as though he were watching... a signal? She shuddered at the notion.

  “Very good,” St. John said, “Because I daresay Adger’s wharf is no place to be tonight.”

  Jessie followed the direction of his gaze to where Christian stood, and wondered at the fact that St. John made it a point to raise his chin in greeting, when she knew they despised one another. When St. John’s gaze returned to her, he was smiling victoriously, and another shudder seized her.

  “Dance with me, dear,” he entreated, giving her no opportunity to resist, for he took her hand and led her without delay amidst the dancers.

  Unwilling to create a scene, Jessie went, though her gaze strayed once more across the room.

  Christian watched them together, his fury barely contained.

  It was obvious by the expression on St. John’s face, and by the way the bastard’s gaze kept straying in his direction, that he had burned Jessie’s ears with information intended for him. Maggot. He smiled in disgust. Little did he know that he was investing in the wrong stratagem; Jessie would never willingly come near him—particularly after what had transpired between them in the garden. She’d studiously avoided his gaze ever since.

  Damn St. John.

  Damn her.

  Well, by damn, he felt compelled to oblige—if St. John wished to convey information through her treacherous lips, he was certainly willing to hear it. He moved purposefully through the dancers and bent to whisper in her ear.

  “Might I have this dance, m’mselle?”

  Startled, Jessie swung about to discover Christian behind her, smiling coldly, though for once, not at her, but at Lord St. John. St. John’s gaze, too, held some private, undecipherable message, and she shuddered at the feeling that came over her suddenly—as though somehow she were caught in the midst of some war raging between them.

  Releasing her, St. John smiled as he stepped away. “Of course,” he said, relenting much too easily.

  Jessie started to protest, but he gave her no opportunity. Without awaiting her assent, Christian swept her into his arms, leading her away from St. John.

  “I don’t believe I recall agreeing to dance with you, my lord,” she said evenly. “You’re rude, to say the least!”

  He smiled without mirth. “You flatter me, ma belle. Now, tell me... what were you discussing so privately with St. John.”

  “Of all the arrogant, vainglory—” She gnashed her teeth. “It was none of your concern!”

  “M’mselle,” he said, smiling down at her with all the devastating charm that had once been her downfall. Nothing about his tone or expression hinted at the threat she sensed in the affectionate address. “I will know this moment what you discussed,” he demanded, “or I promise you will sorely wish you’d stayed at home this eve instead of coming out to parade your”—his gaze swept down, lingering over her carefully exposed bosom— “many assets,” he finished. “I didn’t realize you had quite so much. You would do Eliza proud, I think.”

  “How dare you! Arrogant cur!” Jessie gritted her teeth and glared at him. “What makes you think our discourse was any of your concern, my lord?”

  “Let us simply call it mother wit, love.”

  Jessie’s eyes burned with contempt. “I asked you not to call me that!”

  Christian grinned a slow, unrepentant grin. “Pardonnez-moi, ma pauvre petite.”

  “Nay!” she spat. “I will not give you pardon!”

  He gave her a wintry little smile, but said n
othing.

  A thought occurred to her suddenly; much as she despised the fact, she knew that Christian and Ben were acquainted...

  If Ben was, in truth, in danger, she would need someone’s aid. There was nothing she could accomplish alone, especially at this late hour of the night. The sad truth was that there was no one else she knew to ask for help save Christian. Still, she loathed to ask anything of him.

  “Very well!” she relented. “He said there was to be trouble on the docks this eve... that Ben should stay away.”

  “Is that what he said?” His gaze was as cold and unyielding as steel. “And?”

  “That the notorious Prince of Smugglers himself would be raiding the warehouse at Adger’s wharf! He—”

  Without warning, Christian seized her firmly by the arm, turning her about. She gave a small cry of pain and he released her at once. With a hand at her back, he forced her off the dance floor, walking so close behind her that she could feel the heat of his body. “Do as I say,” he whispered for her ears alone, “or so help me God, you will live to regret it.”

  He led her directly toward their hostess, made a hasty apology for their early departure, and within moments, they were out the front door.

  “How dare you tell her I was ill!” She spun about to face him. “My God, you are a despicable liar, as well!”

  Christian shook her hard in warning. “Shut up! Shut up, and listen to me, before I lose what bloody little patience I’ve left! You’ll take my carriage and go directly home, tu me comprends? Go directly!” His tone brooked no argument. He waved a hand, signaling his driver.

  “I cannot go now!”

  He jerked her arm, warning her without words to be silent.

  She stumbled slightly, tripping over her skirts. “Oh! You! Give me one accursed reason I should do as you say—just one!”

  His lips curved contemptuously as he peered down into her face, his eyes shadowed. “Because, my love,” he said, “you care too bloody much for your cousin to see him hang, that’s why!” Shoving her into his carriage, he hailed the driver off, and then disappeared into the darkness, toward the docks.

  Jessie watched him go, fear gripping her heart.

  “Jean Paul!” Christian’s angry summons slashed the darkness of the warehouse.

  “We found it, Hawk. Here!” As proof, Ben swung the lantern quickly over the wooden crates in question.

  Pistol in hand, Christian made his way quickly to where they stood.

  “The rest have already been hauled aboard the ship.”

  “Good—get the bloody things up and get out of here! St. John knows.”

  Christian belted his pistol to help with the crates, but no sooner had he seized up one end when there was a muffled hiss from across the room. Within seconds, a thunderous report ripped through the air. Jean Paul’s end of the crate crashed to the floor; he took a single step, floundered, and then collapsed upon the crate.

  “Halt in the name of the Crown!”

  Two more shots rang out and the lantern Ben was clutching swung sharply through the darkness, plummeting downward. It shattered against the splintered wood, bursting into flames.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Pacing the confines of her room, Jessie was torn between fury and fear—and then she heard the cry and fear won.

  “Fire!”

  A chill swept down her spine.

  Racing to the window, she peered down below just in time to hear the man call out once more. “Fire! Fire at the warehouse!” He scurried down the street, bellowing at the top of his lungs; one by one, windows lit along the shadowy lane. Across the alley, a man came stumbling out in his nightwear. Sprinting into the middle of the street, he snatched off his nightcap as he ran, waving it wildly, hailing the crier, who was even now turning the corner to Church Street. More doors burst open. Within moments the narrow lane became congested with the curious and alarmed. A loud rapping at Jessie’s bedroom door startled her away from the window.

  “Miss Jessie! Miss Jessie!” cried the voice behind it.

  Jessie hurried to the door, thrusting it open to reveal a pudgy, sweet-faced black woman. “Miss Jessie!” the maid squawked. “They’s a man downstairs, waitin’ fo ya at the back doe—he says that Mastah Ben’s in trouble! He tole me to fetch you and only you, not Mastah Robert! He says you is the only one who can help him! Should I wake Mastah Robert?”

  Fear clutched at Jessie’s heart; she shook her head. It might be Christian! “Not yet; let me see what the man wants.”

  Leaving the door open for the maid to enter, Jessie turned to snatch up her cloak from the wooden peg upon the wall. Too distraught to worry over her appearance, she flung the cape over her shoulders and slipped her feet into the soft blue leather slippers she’d discarded earlier in the eve.

  Immogene appeared scandalized. “Oh, Miss Jessie! Ain’t you gonna dress?”

  “Once I’ve discovered what the man has to say, I shall.”

  Jessie hurried past the fretting maid, into the corridor and down the elegantly carpeted stairwell.

  “Well, then I’m comin’ with you!” Immogene hurried down after her, adding, “Ain’t fittin’ fo a lady to be runnin’ round wit’ nothin’ on but her nightie!”

  “I’ll be fine,” Jessie swore. “Just see that Aunt Claire and Uncle Robert are told about the fire.”

  “Fire?” Immogene halted behind her upon the stairwell. “Lawdy, Miss Jessie, what fire?”

  “The warehouse—though I don’t know which one as yet! Please go tell them!”

  Immogene turned, hurrying back up the stairs, and Jessie raced through the corridor, into the dark kitchen. Pushing open the back door, she found a man standing upon the back steps.

  It wasn’t Christian.

  The look he gave her made her wrap her cloak more firmly about her.

  “Ma’am. Name’s McCarney,” he told her, his thick brogue made more prominent by drink. She could smell his fetid breath even from where she stood. “I’ve come ta fetch ye for Ben, lass. He’s hurt.”

  “What do you mean hurt? How?”

  The man’s gaze shifted nervously.

  “Has it something to do with the fire?”

  He seemed to hesitate a moment, then nodded. “Aye,” he yielded at once. “The fire.”

  “Dear God!” Jessie exclaimed, turning and starting back into the house. “Please, Mister McCarney, wait while I fetch my Uncle.”

  “Nae, lass!” Without warning, he seized her by the cloak, jerking her backward. He pressed a whiskey-steeped hand against her lips and nostrils.

  Jessie choked, and opened her mouth to scream, but he shoved his fingers down her throat, gagging her as he forced her into the concealing shadows.

  The door slammed shut as she struggled free of him. Twisting away from him, she ran back toward the safety of the house, opening her mouth to cry out for help, but suddenly the sound of shattering glass rang in her ears. Something wet and sticky trickled down the side of her face. Jolted by the blow, she wavered and fell back into his arms. The last she heard was an indecipherable Irish curse.

  “McCarney, you whoreson! What the blue blazes have you done to her?”

  “She wouldna come,” he said without remorse. “She was aboot t’ go and tell her uncle—couldna let her do that, now could I?”

  “You didn’t have to strike her so damned hard!” Taking Jessie into his arms, Christian shoved McCarney away.

  “I dinna draw blood!”

  “God’s teeth!” Christian snarled. “She’s dead to the world. What’d you hit her with?”

  McCarney frowned. “Ma whiskey flask, and y’ can well believe I was no’ too pleased o’er wastin’ good whiskey, either—paid good coin fer it, damn it all!”

  “You’d bloody well better pray she wakes up!”

  “She’s breathin’, ain’t she?”

  Christian eyed him speculatively as he placed Jessie gently down within the skiff. Her cloak was twisted wildly about her—damned, if she di
dn’t look like an Indian corpse being readied for a burning. Untying the cloak, he carefully unraveled it, and removed it.

  “Christ!” he muttered, dropping the cloak over her at once to shield her from McCarney’s greedy eyes. He turned to fix McCarney with another glare as he came to his haunches beside her. “What the devil did you do, McCarney, take her from her goddamned bed?”

  McCarney shook his head, his eyes flashing insolently. “Nay! She came t’ the door just so!”

  Damn her, Christian cursed silently. “Let’s get out of here.” It was a wonder they’d escaped at all. He shook his head in disgust. Someone had cost him dearly this night—damned if he wouldn’t find out exactly who. First Jean Paul—Christ, if his father died...

  He forced his thoughts away from that possibility.

  And then Ben.

  Now Jessie?

  He couldn’t bear it.

  Within moments the boat was launched and gliding soundlessly down the Cooper River, toward the shadowy harbor.

  Jessie groaned, placing a hand to her head, and relief surged through him as he watched her revive. And then she lifted that beautiful green gaze to his, and he had the sudden urge to toss her overboard, so much revulsion was evident there.

  “You!” she hissed, scooting away from him as though he were a slug in her bed. She drew herself up, glaring fiercely at him. “I should have known! God, I should have known! You’re a despicable liar, Mister Haukinge!”

  Mister, was it?

  He’d fallen that far from grace, had he?

  Again she scooted backward, and stood, rocking the boat with her hysterics. Her cloak slid away, revealing the dark tips of her breasts through the pristine white nightrail she wore. His jaw tautened. He glanced over his shoulder, scowling. “Turn around, McCarney!” Turning again to Jessie, he apprised her, “Be still, or you’ll topple the boat.”