“You’re a liar!” she shrieked. “Where is Ben? God, he’s not even hurt, is he? What a paperskull I am! God—oh, God, where are you taking me?”
Christian frowned. Why wasn’t there more ruching, or lacing, or bows—or some other goddamned thing on the bodice of her nightrail to conceal her from view?
A memory besieged him; the day he’d pulled her from the fence... how he’d wanted to taste her then. He shuddered, thrusting the sultry image away. “Cover yourself, Jess.”
She didn’t seem to have heard him. “Where are you taking me!”
“Goddamn it, Jess!”
“Where are you taking me?”
He reached for the cloak that lay pooled at her feet. “Cover—”
Thinking he meant to grab her, she recoiled, shrieking her hands flailing as she lost her balance. The boat tipped precariously. Christian reached for her, snatching her down before she could tumble overboard. He brought her safely to her knees. She fought him, shoving wildly, and when that didn’t work, pounded his shoulder with the butt of her hand.
“Be still, damn it—you’ll topple the goddamned boat!”
Her eyes burned with green ire. “I can swim, Mister Haukinge—can you?”
A faint smile quirked at Christian’s lips. Impertinent wench! She ceased her struggles at last and glared at him as though she could will him to burst into flames—the irony of it all was that she could. He burned for her even now. “Aye,” he told her, “I can, though I’d prefer not to.”
“I don’t much care for what you prefer! I demand you return me to my home this very instant!”
Christian shook his head regretfully. “I cannot, I’m afraid.” He smiled slightly as he suggested, “Though you might always hitch a ride with the gators, if you like.”
“Gators!”
As Christian intended, she went perfectly still within his embrace. He nodded. “Out there.” He nodded toward the darkness.
She immediately searched the shadows. “You lie! I see no gators!”
“Ah,” he said, “but are you willing to chance it?”
He released her then, to prove his point.
For a moment she peered hard into the blackness, into the moon’s reflection upon the water, as though to discern whether or not he spoke the truth. There was an ominous splash in the distance, a swish of water, but nothing was discernible through the darkness. Assuming Jessie had heard it as well, he was unprepared for what she did next. He caught her once again as she lunged toward the water, forcing her flat upon her back. He had to lie full upon her in order to still her completely.
Anger clouding her judgment, Jessie fought him, pummeling him with her fists and shoving with all her strength. He seemed as heavy as a mountain—indestructible as one, as well—and the only thing she seemed to accomplish was to rock the boat. Feeling utterly helpless, she boxed his left ear with an open palm.
“Ayyee! Devil hang you, woman!”
Christian caught her wrists, pinning them ruthlessly to the planks.
“Damn you! Didn’t you hear me? There are gators in these waters! Do you really loathe me so much that you’d prefer their company to mine?”
“Yes!” she spat. “At least with them, I know what to expect! You, Mister Haukinge, are an impostor of the worst sort!”
Chapter Seventeen
She didn’t know the half of it.
He felt the urge to lash back at her, to make her heart ache as much as his did, but he found he couldn’t bear to do that. There had been far too much grief already this night. He had no idea if Jean Paul even lived at the moment, he only knew that by now they would have reached the Mistral—that he and Jessie, too, must reach the Mistral. He desperately needed her help. “Jess...” God, he loathed the thought of telling her. “Ben was shot tonight.”
Her expression transformed before his eyes, from fiery abhorrence to liquid fear. “Shot?”
“Aye... and Jean Paul, too.”
“The same Jean Paul?”
Christian nodded slowly, his jaw taut. “Aye.”
“Is—” Her voice broke. She shook her head, choking on her words. “Ben...”
Christian knew instinctively what she was asking. “He was alive when last I saw him,” he told her, trying to be merciful, but truthful. “I’ve no idea how he fares just now.”
Jessie’s eyes glistened with tears as she stared up at him. His anguish deepened as he acknowledged her tormented expression. “If I release you,” he asked softly, averting his gaze momentarily, “will you promise to sit quietly?”
She nodded dumbly, and Christian removed himself from atop her at once. Comfort was there within his grasp—within her arms—but they were not alone, nor did he feel she’d welcome his embrace. She sat slowly, hugging her knees to her breast, staring numbly into the darkness. Unsure of what to say to ease her, Christian retrieved her cloak, tossing it about her shoulders.
“How?”
She couldn’t seem to bear to look at him.
“You’ll have to ask Ben,” he told her softly. “If he wishes you to know, he’ll tell you himself.”
Jessie nodded glumly, and Christian wondered if he was making a mistake involving her.
Could she be trusted?
Though she’d betrayed him once already, the truth was that he had little choice in the matter: Jean Paul needed someone to nurse him, Ben, too, and Jessie, inexperienced as she might be, was all that was available to him. He could trust no one else—sad state of affairs, but these were treacherous times.
He told himself she had every reason to keep silent... for Ben’s sake. And judging by the sorrowful look upon her face, he had nothing to fear; she cared for her cousin.
The question was... how much?
His gut twisted at the thought of the two of them together.
Night sounds filled the air. Frogs and crickets that only moments before had been silent croaked and trilled so loudly that their din overwhelmed all other sound.
Hugging herself against the crisp night air, Jessie turned to meet Christian’s gaze. He was watching her with an odd intensity, his dark hair gleaming in the moonlight. His jaw taut, and his mouth set determinedly. However much she loathed him, now was not the time for it, she decided.
Ben needed her.
“What of Jean Paul?”
“Alive,” he revealed with a shrug that attempted to conceal his pain. “I really don’t know.” With a glance toward McCarney, he shook his head and repeated softly, “I really don’t know.”
The Mistral was anchored offshore, far enough that there was no light to guide them, yet close enough that they dared not use a lantern for fear of discovery.
The faint glow of a single lantern illumined one of the portholes of the Mistral, and by that light, Jessie could make out the rope ladder that had been left for their use.
McCarney maneuvered the skiff alongside it, and with a curt nod and a wave of his hand, Christian motioned for her to climb it. She hesitated and he asked her, “Perhaps you’d like to remain with McCarney, instead?”
That veiled warning sent Jessie scrambling up the ladder at once. God’s truth, but she had no wish to be alone with that man ever again! Certainly he’d not needed to employ such appalling violence to gain her compliance. He might have simply tried explaining Ben’s predicament. She would have flown to his aid.
She reached the top rung and started to feel Christian’s hand suddenly upon her, steadying her until she was safely over the railing. She’d not realized he was following so close behind. Even as she planted her feet firmly upon the decking, he heaved himself over the side after her. He said not a word, guided her instead, toward the feeble light belowdecks. He led her within a cabin at the midway point along the dusky passage.
Clasping her cloak together, she froze upon entering the room, tendrils of fear clutching at her heart. Two cots occupied the small cabin. Jean Paul lay so very still upon one, Ben upon the other. Christian at once went to his father’s side, his prof
ile as rigid as steel as he stooped over his still form. His jaw twitched, only slightly, though enough to reveal his pain. Jessie’s heart ached for him.
Taking a deep breath, she followed within. Ben turned to face her at once.
“Jessie!” Ben exclaimed. “What the devil are you doing here, sweet coz?”
“How do they fare?” she heard Christian ask.
Jessie’s eyes misted as she dropped to her knees beside Ben. “Where... were you shot?” Her voice faltered with joy and relief. Her fingers trembled as she took his hand.
Ben’s gaze skidded away. He closed his eyes for the briefest instant, his jaw working. “Who... who told you?”
Jessie’s gaze turned to where Christian knelt, examining Jean Paul, and then quickly returned to Ben.
Ben sighed, understanding her silent message. “It merely grazed me,” he yielded at last, turning to show her a small gash at his temple.
“Balderdash!”
Startled by the exclamation, Jessie immediately searched the cabin for the bearer of the voice. A white-haired man rose from beside Christian and started toward them, shaking his head. Bending purposely over Ben, he very unceremoniously yanked the coverlet from his limbs. Pointing to the wound upon Ben’s leg, he asked, “Does that look like a graze to ye, mum?” ‘
Jessie gasped, for Ben was bare beneath the blanket. She forced her gaze to remain, for the wound seemed hideous and she wanted so desperately to help. It was evident that he had bled a great deal, for there was blood encrusted upon his leg and a fair amount soaking the pallet beneath him. Yet it no longer bled, and for that she was deeply gratified.
Casting the old man an angry glare, Ben snatched the blanket back before Jessie could see more. He flushed, but noting her horrified expression, he turned again to the old man. “What the devil do you know!” he snapped. “What are you trying to do? Frighten her to death?”
Amazingly, the old man glowered back at him. He snorted. “Tryin’ to save yer ungrateful hide, is all,” he grumbled. “What do ye think she’s here fer, anyhow?”
Returning his gaze to Jessie, Ben assured her, “Really, coz, ‘tis not as bad as it appears.” He gave a resentful nod in the old man’s direction. “The slug’s already been removed—and not too gently, I might add. ’Tis why it looks so bad and bled so much.”
“I see,” Jessie replied. “Who removed it?”
Turning to pierce the scowling white-haired old man with an indignant glare, he ground out, “Take one guess.”
“I’m certain, Ben, that he was only trying to help.” She shook her head, trying to keep at bay her emotions. “At any rate,” she told him, her eyes questioning, “It is not his fault you were wounded tonight, was it?”
“Crotchety pain-in-the-arse old man!” Ben grumbled, but his eyes misted suspiciously. He averted his gaze.
“Please...” She glanced up into the old man’s gentle brown eyes. “Bring me water and rags, and accept my apologies for my cousin’s discourteous behavior. It must be the pain that dims his sense of gratitude.”
The old man stared at her a long moment, clearly unused to such apologies and evidently bemused by her defense of him. He nodded suddenly and hurried away to do her bidding.
“You know not what you’re doing, abetting that man,” Ben said, still unable to look at her.
“Shush,” she said.
Reassured that anyone as contrary as Ben was too mean to die, she turned her attention to Jean Paul. In truth, she had no idea what else to say to her cousin, for she was seeing a side of him she’d never known existed. Nor was she entirely certain she wanted to know what had occurred tonight.
Christian moved away as Jessie neared, but she noted the way he watched her so intently. He didn’t trust her, she knew. Well, she didn’t care. She ignored him as best she could, turning to peer down into the slumbering man’s face. Her eyes widened and her gaze immediately returned to Christian. The resemblance between them was uncanny. How, she wondered, could Jean Paul not know Christian was his flesh and blood? Deciding they were a pair of stubborn old fools—and that they deserved one another—she turned again to Jean Paul.
Placing the back of her hand to his nostrils, she felt his warm breath against her skin and sighed in relief. Hesitantly, fearful of what she might discover beneath, she lowered the blanket from his chest to examine the wound at his shoulder.
It didn’t appear nearly as bad as she’d expected—Ben’s was worse, in fact. Still, judging by the stain upon his shirt, he, too, had bled quite a lot. Taking in the wide expanse of his chest, she peered up at Christian, unwittingly comparing the two. Christian gave her a narrow-eyed look, and her cheeks heated. She glanced quickly away, though Lord help her, she could scarcely keep her thoughts from straying where they should not, even now.
She felt suffocated with him so near.
She examined Jean Paul’s wound, completely at a loss as to what to do next. It appeared as though Quincy had ministered to him, as well, and she was silently grateful to the old man, for she truly doubted she could have done the unpleasant task herself. The awful truth was that Jessie wasn’t even certain she’d have known how to remove the ball in the first place—nor did she have the strength of stomach for it. The very sight of so much blood made her dizzy and sick. She wasn’t precisely experienced in this sort of thing, after all. She peered up at Christian in exasperation, silently asking him what he wished of her, because she didn’t know what to do.
“He regained consciousness a short time ago,” Ben revealed, “for an instant.”
Peering over her shoulder at her cousin, Jessie nodded and turned to place a hand to Jean Paul’s forehead. “He’s quite warm,” she added softly. “I-I’m not certain what to do... when I was ill, my maid Hildie would sponge me with cool water. It seemed to help—at least I think it did.”
“Do what you can for him.” The tone of Christian’s voice, the gravity with which he spoke, gave Jessie the impression that he’d come as close to begging as he was able.
She peered up at him.
“That’s all I ask of you.”
Their gazes locked, held, and Jessie fought the urge to throw her arms about him, comfort him. There was so much pain evident in his deep blue eyes. “Christian... I—” Truly, she wanted to help—despite everything—but she just didn’t know how. She shook her head, not in negation, but in regret. And then anger flooded her once more, that he should put her in such a horrible predicament. She averted her gaze. “You should have abducted a physician in my stead! God’s truth, I know nothing of the healing arts!”
“You don’t understand,” Christian murmured low into her ear, and despite the gravity of the situation before them, a chill swept down her spine as his warm breath stirred her hair. “I—” His voice caught. “I had no choice, Jess.”
Jessie shivered. “Why not?” she asked, swallowing. She peered up at him. “Your fa—Jean Paul,” she amended hastily, furiously, glancing briefly about before speaking again. “He could die without a physician’s care—I don’t understand why you would risk that! Why?”
His blue eyes glinted strangely.
“Because,” he snapped. His jaw worked, and then suddenly his expression hardened. “Damn it, I simply cannot! Do what you can, or get the hell out of the way!”
Jessie worried her lower lip, torn between the desire to rail at him and the need to aid Ben and Jean Paul. She pretended an interest in Jean Paul’s frilly sleeve cuff, rubbing it absently between her fingertips. Lord help her, but outrage nearly won out. She dared not meet his gaze, lest he see the awful pain he’d once more managed to inflict upon her. She held her tongue, resigning finally to do all that she could, though it seemed insane not to procure medical aid from a knowledgeable physician. There was so much to lose.
“I’m certain you’ll at least do what you can for Ben,” he said, and his tone was almost an accusation.
Jessie met Ben’s sympathetic brown eyes over her shoulder. Her cousin seemed angered by
Christian’s disregard of her, yet he said nothing. Out of deference? Loyalty? What?
Rising abruptly, Christian peered down at her, his fists clenched at his sides. He closed his eyes, and when he reopened them, his expression was shuttered; only his eyes revealed his pain. “Please, Jess...”
He couldn’t know what he was asking of her—what if she failed? She nodded, placing a hand to Jean Paul’s chest, taking comfort in his smooth, even breath.
Silence seemed to permeate the small cabin, and then suddenly Christian turned and walked away, his footsteps a hollow echo upon the planking.
How could he put her in such a dreadful position? How could he drag Ben into his sordid affairs—and yes, she was certain the blame for everything, everything that had transpired this night, fell to none other than Christian. Gritting her teeth, she set about the task of removing Jean Paul’s bloodied shirt.
“You love him don’t you, coz?”
Jessie shot Ben a wrathful glare. He was watching her intently, his knowing gaze as penetrating as Christian’s.
“As I love walking barefoot through snow,” she replied. But even as she spoke the words, her heart ached with the lie; she feared she did love the rotten knave.
Quincy reentered the room, lugging in a small black kettle filled with water and a handful of rags. The kettle, he set down before her, sloshing water onto the floor; the rags, he dropped beside her. “That’s it, mum.”
“Thank you,” she said woodenly.
The old man sighed wearily and stooped to speak softly to her. “I’ve seen worse, mum. He’s just all out from my removing the slug, is all. Ye watch an’ see iffen he don’t wake up soon.” He winked conspiratorially. “Now... his lordship, on the other hand...” His gaze locked with hers. “ ’Tis him what needs you, Miss Jessie.”
Jessie averted her gaze. “Thank you,” she murmured, flustered. For the first time, she thought to wonder how the old man knew her name.
How could he possibly think Christian needed her?
She listened to the protest of his bones as he stood with a groan and waited for his footsteps to fade as he left her, then she set out to do the best she was able, using the scalding water to cleanse both Ben’s and Jean Paul’s injuries. She ripped up the rags into small strips and bandaged their wounds, and later, once Ben had dozed and the water had cooled, she used it to sponge Jean Paul.
Kissed; Christian Page 13
