Kissed; Christian

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “Hush,” he demanded. “Listen to me, sweet coz. I do know you can never be mine…” He placed her hand to his heart. “I can only hope that someday... someday,” he repeated solemnly, “though I doubt it very much, I shall find another as kind and beautiful as you. Until then, know my heart belongs to you, and only to you.”

  Jessie shook her head, her heart twisting at his disclosure. “Ben... please...”

  He placed his fingers to her lips, shushing her. “Listen to me, please, because I must say this. I swear I’ll not speak of it again, not to anyone. Know I love you, Jess, and know I’ll always be there for you, no matter the circumstances. I pledge that to you here and now.” He groaned suddenly, the sound tormented. “God’s teeth! I feel such a fierce loyalty to Hawk, for he once saved my arse from the gibbet. You see... I risked my father’s ship on a venture—a worthy venture, though it matters not a whit now, for the outcome remains the same.” He shook his head regretfully. “Hawk came to my rescue. He didn’t have to, but he did.” He shrugged. “Had he not, well then... my father would have lost his ship in the Indies, and I...” He chuckled without mirth. “I daresay, I would be as lifeless as this wooden cane in my hand.”

  Placing the staff he spoke of down upon the deck, he reached out, taking her by the arms, drawing her closer, yet gently, as though to gain her full attention.

  “Even so... hear me well... if Hawk so much as touches you in the wrong manner... he’ll answer to me. And yet... I know in my heart you’ll not need me, because Hawk is a good man. I know only too well that he is... and so... you truthfully have no need of me at all.”

  An anguished look crossed his features. And then, as though he could not help himself, he brought her closer still, his lips not far from her own as he spoke to her.

  “Dear God... Jessie...” He groaned. “I might ask only one thing of you... I dream of you so oft, sweet coz—too oft! I would have you put an end to these dreams. I cannot ... Perhaps if you would kiss me, just once ... your soft, sweet lips to my own... just once. I shall not ask it of you again—I swear it on my honor!”

  “Ben!” she choked out, panicking, and tried to withdraw from his embrace. He held her fast and came nearer still, urging her with his compelling gaze to assent.

  “Please, Jess...” He sounded as tortured as a man could possibly sound.

  Jessie’s eyes closed and she swallowed convulsively, knowing in her heart that she could not deny him this once. She nodded, and heard his moan of relief as he pulled her exuberantly into his embrace, touching his lips tenderly to hers at first, tentatively, as though he were afraid she would bolt. His kiss was achingly sweet... and she should have felt something... anything, for he was nearly as masterful with his lips as Christian, yet she could feel nothing. She was numb. Her heart was dull and heavy for she was cursed to love another.

  After a long-suffering moment, he tore himself away. “Christ,” he concluded, scowling fiercely. “I believe that might have been a first-rate mistake.” He winked at her halfheartedly. “Tell me, Jess, can you never...” He paused then, seeming to rethink his words, and said instead, shaking his head, “Never mind. You love him and there is nothing to be done for that. You cannot give full measure... and I can take no less... Only know that I shall always—”

  “How very moving.”

  Jessie whirled about to spy Christian looking down upon them from the upper deck, his expression dark and stormy, his stance threatening, and his dark hair whipping with the breeze. His blue eyes shot her with contempt.

  “It is not what it appears, Hawk,” Ben swore at once, his tone repentant, if only slightly irritated. “She was...” His gaze reverted to Jessie, but he could not bank the look of intense yearning that was there for her to see, then suddenly he did, and he looked again at Christian, slightly more composed. “I stole a kiss from her,” he yielded, “and she had not the heart to refuse me.”

  “How very charitable of her.” Christian cast her a ferocious glare before turning and stalking away.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Jessie shook her head. “It matters not... He couldn’t possibly loathe me more than he does already.”

  Christian felt rage like never before, though he’d be damned if he’d fault Ben for it. It was Jessie he blamed.

  Curse her faithless hide!

  He’d listened with bated breath to her soul-stirring confession a few nights past and had felt her pain.

  The biggest part of him had been elated at the possibility of her innocence; still, he’d not been quite able to bring himself to believe her. For all he knew, she’d performed the dramatics for his benefit alone, knowing he was awake and listening. And yet, though he’d not dared believe in her, the need to hold her had been irrepressible, and he’d reached out to comfort her even against his will.

  How could he have thought to believe her?

  For the last days, and nights, while he’d lain next to her, he’d respectfully let her be, while he’d grappled with his heart and his conscience, coming so close to trusting in her...

  So close.

  He’d not gone to her last night because he hadn’t trusted himself.

  And now...

  Had he been even remotely near them, he might have torn Ben limb from limb. God’s truth, he felt like doing so even now. With a curt nod, he urged his first mate away from the wheel, taking charge of it himself, his expression furious. Black-haired, bushy-browed Tibbs gave up his post immediately, eyeing him warily as he scurried away.

  Damn. He didn’t want to believe her, not now—particularly not now. But her pitiful wails had resounded with truth, tearing his own heart into tortured shreds. But she was lost to him, for it was apparent she loved another... that she despised him as much as she claimed.

  He recalled Ben’s blissful expression as his lips had touched upon Jessie’s, and his chest constricted painfully. Christ, he had come to such foolish conclusions all those months ago in England, and now he would pay for it. He couldn’t stand the thought of her with Ben. Couldn’t bear the thought of Ben’s hands upon her, his lips worshiping her body. He closed his eyes for an instant, feeling dizzy with anger and regret. He’d never loathed himself more than he did at the moment, for he’d had her once, and he’d lost her.

  How could he have been so witless?

  How could she be so faithless?

  So fickle?

  She was a treacherous bitch—even if she had not been the one to betray his confidences. She’d played him false with her inconsistent emotions—damned lady turncoat!

  But she was never yours to love in the first place, he reminded himself bitterly.

  She was never yours to begin with...

  Nor could she ever love the man who had caused the death of her father...

  And he was that man.

  The remainder of the journey passed uneventfully.

  It took just over two weeks to reach their destination, a small, picturesque island as bright and vibrant as the lush background of stained glass with which it competed. Jessie remained within the cabin the entire day they were docked.

  They departed early the next morn, stopping at yet another port two days hence. There they spent merely a few hours, and were gone again by noon.

  If she thought Christian had avoided her before, he certainly did so now. She saw him only fleetingly, when she happened to search him out. God only knows why she should do such a thing, but sometimes before she could stop herself, she would find herself seeking just a glimpse of him.

  So many times she’d been tempted to go to him, to speak with him, but Christian would need only glare at her with that devil’s fire in his eyes and her courage would immediately falter. And then she would scurry back to her cabin.

  God’s truth, were it not for Ben’s and Jean Paul’s company, she would have died of the doldrums along with her broken heart.

  They were half a day from Charlestown when a knock sounded upon her cabin door—Christian’s cabin door, though he had so
generously abandoned it for her. How gracious of him, she thought bitterly.

  “Come in,” she said, knowing instinctively it was not Christian, for he never would have bothered to knock upon his own door.

  The cabin door opened at once and Jean Paul came sauntering in, his expression grim. He took a seat at the claw-footed table without invitation. In so very many ways he was like his son, Jessie mused, but she liked him anyway. She felt sorry for him, in truth, that he should be so close to his only son and have no knowledge of their relationship. He’d told her once already that he’d never married and had never had children.

  How could he not know?

  Once seated, Jean Paul looked at her pensively. Screwing his lips, he gazed at her as though he would speak but was unsure of how to proceed.

  “What is it? Ben?”

  “Non, non, mon ange, not Ben. Fear not, for he is well. His leg seems to be healing and he walks well enough with his cane—although,” he yielded with a regretful shake of his head, “I very much fear he shall be left with a limp for the remainder of his days. And yet he’s quite fortunate, for the leg bone did not shatter, and it well may have.”

  Jessie shuddered at that ghastly thought.

  “Oui, demoiselle, I have seen it before.” He raised a brow. “But enough of Ben—’tis my son I’ve come to discuss with you just now.”

  Jessie’s eyes widened and her jaw fell. She closed her mouth abruptly, for she had no idea what to say in response. “You know?”

  His face contorted. “I take it Hawk has confided in you, then, for you seem to know precisely who it is I’m speaking of.” He nodded, seeming pleased with the discovery. “But then, of course, he would have,” he addressed himself. He sighed. “So much makes sense to me now.” He chuckled softly, the sound so oddly familiar that it sent a chill down Jessie’s spine. “I take it you think I did not know?” He clucked his tongue, casting Jessie a reproachful glance. “But I ask you, ma petite, now could I not know? A man would have to be blind—nay, there can be no mistaking it; Hawk is my son.”

  Jessie’s shock was evident in her expression. “I—” She shook her head in stunned disbelief. “He has no idea that you know,” she told him after a moment.

  “Aye,” Jean Paul confirmed, “and that is my own fault, I fear. I made his sweet maman swear to me that she would never tell him... and then, when I thought he knew, I pretended ignorance. I just could not seem to meet his eyes when he spoke of her, for then he would know, cherie, that I love her still.”

  “But... I don’t understand...”

  “I was not certain until now that he knew, you see. But if my son has confided in you, then indeed he knows. And still... I must allow Hawk to decide to accept me of his own accord. I would not betray his mother by speaking of it first. So until the day he acknowledges it, I am content simply to have Hawk as my friend. Tell me, how blessed can a man hope to be? I cannot give him my name, but my son has my friendship, and that is so much more. How many fathers can say as much? Non, non, fear not, mon ange, I am perfectly content with my lot—but enough of me! I came because I must know for certain... do you love him... do you love my son?”

  Jessie frowned. “He’s a rude, contemptible boor!” she told him with conviction, taking the seat across from him.

  Jean Paul watched her with probing blue eyes, as though to see through her words. He chuckled softly. “Yes, I know… but do you love him, cherie? That was the question.”

  “Nay!” Jessie said much too quickly. She shook her head emphatically. Perhaps a bit too zealously, for something in Jean Paul’s expression told her that he did not believe her.

  Suddenly Jean Paul slapped his hand down upon the table. “I see,” he said, smiling slyly.

  He nibbled at the side of his mouth for a moment as he stared at her. “Very well then.” He nodded, rising from his chair, obviously through with his interrogation of her, brief as it was. “Yes, I do think I know what must be done then, demoiselle. And you are quite certain you do not love him?”

  Misunderstanding his question, Jessie shook her head, and then realizing what she was saying, nodded at once with a certainty she didn’t quite feel.

  Jean Paul chuckled, giving her a conspiratorial wink, and Jessie had the most awful premonition as he turned to leave, yet before she could question him about it, he was gone. She spent the rest of the afternoon worrying over Jean Paul’s strange visit, wondering at his cryptic remarks.

  That night, however, her curiosity came to an end when the door to the cabin burst open and slammed shut behind Christian.

  The room was pitch black, the lanterns having been snuffed for the night, but Jessie knew it was him. Her skin prickled, and gooseflesh erupted.

  “Why isn’t the door bolted?”

  Jessie didn’t have time to reply to his question before he spoke again, this time his tone somewhat less angry, though ominous still.

  “That whoreson cousin of yours!” he muttered irately, his words slightly slurred. “And that damned Jean Paul! Those two are enough to tax a dead man’s soul! I swear before God, woman, did I remain one more instant in that bloody cabin with those two bickering idiots for company, I would like to have shot them both again!”

  He turned to her, searching the darkness as though to be certain he was not talking to himself, for Jessie had yet to give him indication she was awake. She knew the moment his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he saw her, for his scowl immediately disappeared.

  His features softened, illuminated by the light from the window, and the strange tenderness evident in his gaze gave lie to the brutality of his words.

  “Say one word against my presence, and you shall find yourself overboard in a twinkling!” Having said that, he lapsed into a strained silence as he proceeded to tug off his boots. They fell to the floor, each with a thud. Without preamble, he began removing his breeches, then deciding against it, left them on, but unclasped. His shirt, which was already gaping, he removed quickly. Jessie thanked God for the shadows that concealed—to hide not him, but the flush that even now was burning through her body.

  And then he asked, more softly this time, as he wadded his shirt and hurled it to the floor, “Why in bloody blue blazes wasn’t the door bolted, Jessie?”

  Jessie tried, but couldn’t find her voice to speak.

  “You were perhaps expecting someone?” He stood there, awaiting her reply, and when it was not forthcoming he demanded, “Scoot over.”

  Apparently Jessie didn’t move quickly enough for him, for he very nearly lay upon her as he plopped himself down next to her upon the bed. She did scoot away then—at once—to the far, far side of the bed.

  Christian gave her a cynical little laugh. “Can’t bear to touch me, love? Damn, but you are a deceiving little prude. Pardonnez-moi,” he said scornfully, “but I’ll bloody well not sleep on the floor for you, so you might as well bear my presence as best you can and simply go to sleep.”

  With that, he promptly snatched the pillow from under her head. Jessie’s cheek hit the bed with a soft thud as he then proceeded to pound the pillow with his clenched fist, as though to remove all trace of her presence from it. She didn’t bother protesting. It wouldn’t have done any good. The man was an insensitive oaf!

  “Bon nuit,” he whispered “Pleasant dreams, mon amour!”

  Tears filled her eyes, and she cursed herself, for it seemed with him, she was always weeping over something. She tried to stifle her sobs, but they seemed to find a way of their own, forcing themselves through her throat in pitiful little whimpers.

  Christian heard her and fury gripped him.

  “Christ! What have you to weep over now, woman!”

  With a snarl of disgust, he reached out for her, snatching her into his arms, hating his body’s reaction to her even as he did so. She screeched and tried desperately to move away, but he was too strong. Her back to him, he wrapped his arms about her, holding her close, imprisoning her within them. And no sooner was she within hi
s embrace than he felt himself pulse and swell against her luscious little bottom. He closed his eyes, grimacing, trying to ignore the reality of her within his arms... after so long... trying to ignore his raging desire for her.

  It had been so bloody long.

  He held her tighter, closer, but her wails only increased, and so did his need, for she was squirming without mercy against him. He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs, commanding restraint of himself, but her hair smelled so very sweet... like lilacs and fresh sea air combined; the two shouldn’t have mingled so exquisitely, but they did.

  Unable to stop himself, he pressed his lips to the back of her head. He was quickly losing himself, losing his will. He moved to her neck, feeling the strands of her silky hair brush between his heated lips, and he took a deep breath, never releasing it, for he could have sworn she trembled within his arms. It took very little, just that simple gesture to remind him of the passion she’d once shown him. Her sobs ceased at once and she froze, bringing a measure of sanity to his fogged senses.

  Perhaps she feared him instead?

  He exhaled finally and breathed in deeply the scent of her. Christ, she smelled so devilishly good. He’d consumed an entire bottle of whiskey tonight, straight from the flask like a mindless drunkard, before coming to her in hopes that he would be numbed to her presence beside him. What was it about her that made him buckle to such weaknesses? Maxwell Haukinge had been a bloody sot—his brother Philip as well—and he loathed them for their condescending arrogance and their flaws, yet here he was, no better than they, in truth.

  His breathing quickened and he groaned, holding her closer as he tried to regain his reason. She was no good for him, he argued. He was no good for her. But it was no use, the noble gentleman had fled, probably cowering in some dark corner, terrified of the beast within his soul.

  It was about time, he thought grimly.

  It felt damned good to have himself back.

  His hands unlocked and roamed her body at will, her breasts, her belly, her thighs, and then slid between them, committing the feel of her to his memory.