Kissed; Christian

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Jessie was on the verge of informing him that she was, in fact, not alone, but something in his expression suggested she should hold her tongue. Quincy was no match for him, and she certainly didn’t want the faithful servant to be hurt.

  “How would you know such a thing?” she asked instead, stalling, knowing the answer before it was given. Instinct told her he was up to no good, but beyond that, she was at a loss. It would help if she knew what she was up against.

  “McCarney,” he disclosed, smiling a thin-lipped smile. “Actually, he made certain of the fact for me. Oh, and of course, I should thank my good friend Moore, as well, for it was his writ that McCarney delivered unto him.”

  Jessie shook her head in disbelief. “But why, my lord? Why would you do such a thing?”

  His jaw turned taut and he answered her inquiry with one of his own. “The question is, I fear, where will you go once it is known that you’ve not gone to England as Robert claimed? Aye, I kept your dirty little secret once, m’dear, but I’ll not do so again. It cost me my pride—dreadfully high price, that was.” He shook his head musingly, thumping his tricorne as he spoke. “To become the object of pity, the laughingstock...” He cocked his head at her, his eyes gleaming strangely. “Do you realize they are all spinning tales that you spurned me?”

  Jessie shook her head in denial, thinking him mad suddenly. “I hardly think you’re any of those things, my lord. If so, then ‘tis only in your own mind, for I’ve heard nothing to that effect at all.”

  “If only it were so,” he demurred. “At any rate, I’ll not under any circumstance be made to look the fool again—leastways not alone! Too many times before has your lover—aye, Jessamine spare me your words of denial—your lover succeeded in doing just so. I’ll not allow you to do so, either—never again!” he swore, his anger rising. His dark eyes narrowed, and for an instant Jessie thought she could see the hurt he was feeling, and she felt for him.

  “By God!” he bellowed suddenly, startling her enough that she retreated upward a step. “I would have thought better of you, Jessamine! Aye, to my mind ‘tis mighty poor thanks you would give me for all that I have done for you!”

  He shook his head, and Jessie remained silent, watching him warily as he approached her.

  She hesitated to speak, but her curiosity won the best of her. “Why did you keep silent, then? If ‘tis the truth that you speak, my lord, then you need only have revealed the facts, and it would have been me they would have scorned, instead. Why do you not simply tell them and be done?”

  “Nay, m’dear,” he said, smiling coldly. “Either way, I’d be the object of pity, for it would be said then that you desired another over me... even at the expense of your own ruination. I might have suffered that well enough had it been any other man but Lord Christian Haukinge. You had to choose a man such as that!”

  “I did not choose him! My father did. I can no more help that than I can commit who my heart should love!”

  His shout reverberated through the hall. “You chose him!”

  She was taken aback by his fury. “How can you say such a thing? My father chose him, not I.”

  “Your father repudiated the contract! I gave him choices, damn it all! And then the bastard went and cocked up his toes! All that money I lost, but I was willing to pay again, and it was you who chose him then, even against your brother’s will!”

  Jessie’s expression was incredulous. “You paid my father to repudiate the contract?”

  He gave her a self-satisfied smirk and replaced his tricorne to his head.

  “Why, pray tell?” He didn’t respond and she moved down a step in her fury to confront him. “This isn’t about us at all, is it, my lord? This is about your hatred for Lord Christian. Why? Why should you despise him so?”

  He ignored her question. “Of course, you might come back with me now,” he proposed, “leave Shadow Moss... and return to Charlestown with me. If so, I should be more than willing to keep your confidence in such case.” He eyed the empty hall meaningfully. “I daresay your life would be a sight better if you did. I can guarantee as much.”

  “Why would you wish me to, my lord? What good could come of it now?”

  He guffawed at her, the sound bitter and hard. “Apart from the fact that I might get a decent little tumble now and again? Why, absolutely nothing, of course. Except that perhaps I need not lose face entirely.”

  Truly, St. John was not an unattractive man, but at the moment the sight of him literally made Jessie ill. How could she have thought to feel sorry for him? Bile rose in her throat and her fingers tightened upon the bare wood rail. “My lord, you may go and tell people anything you so desire. There is nothing you can give me that is worth my becoming your wife.”

  He burst into laughter. “Wife!” he said, aghast. “Why, whoever said I wished you to become my wife, Jessamine dear?”

  Jessie chafed at his words. “You were, in fact, courting me, my lord, only a short time ago. Does your memory fail you so? Surely you might ask anyone in Charlestown and they would be very pleased to refresh your memory.”

  Her dart had been expertly pitched, and his face suddenly became flushed, his eyes narrowing to angry slits. When he laughed again, it sent chills down her spine.

  “Perhaps ’tis you who needs enlightening, my dear girl. Didn’t you realize? The wife, you simply buy; ’tis the mistress you woo.” He laughed then and Jessie cringed at the hateful sound of it.

  “I’d as soon be drowned in the Ashley as to become your mistress, my lord!”

  He shook his head, smiling still, though his lip suddenly curled contemptuously. “Very well... have it your way.” He sounded bored now. He started away, and then stopped abruptly, turning once more. “Though perhaps I might still persuade you as yet... You didn’t happen to wonder how Daniel Moore knew to arrest the Mistral, did you? Or why he would think to suspect Christian? Did you wonder if he knew of Hawk? Aye,” he replied to his own question when her eyes widened. He rubbed his chin pensively. “I see that perhaps you have contemplated such things.” He smiled benevolently. “Well, then, you might be interested in knowing that I also know about Ben. Tell me, how is his limp now? Does he fare well?”

  Jessie’s face paled.

  “Improved, I hope.” He lifted a brow. “I’d like to see him walk tall and proud to the gibbet, m’dear.” He turned from her once more, leaving Jessie confused and speechless. “Oh,” he said, turning to address her yet again. “And you will give my felicitations to Hawk, will you not? that is, if you ever happen to see him again.” With a dirty little laugh, he turned and strode confidently to the door.

  “Wait!” Jessie implored. She could not simply stand by and see Christian hanged—and Ben! She shuddered to think what punishment would be meted them both. “I’ll go with you.”

  “I rather thought you would,” he said with little surprise, and laughed hideously.

  Despite the way things had been left between them, Christian found himself eager to return to Shadow Moss—to see Jessie.

  While her silence had not been promising, he realized, neither was it hopeless, and bearing that in mind, he made his way quickly up the staircase, his footfalls echoing throughout.

  “M’lord!” Quincy exclaimed, appearing in the landing above, his face contorting miserably. Christian halted in his step, sensing something was wrong.

  “’Tis Miss Jessie!”

  Christian took a step upward, then another, staring expectantly at Quincy as he ascended the stairwell. The hair at his nape prickled.

  “St. John was here, my lord.”

  Christian’s jaw grew taut and his eyes began to burn with fury.

  “He took her with him, my lord.”

  Christian halted in his step. “What the hell do you mean he took her with him?”

  “She didn’t go willingly,” he said, and then, as quickly as he was able, related all that he’d overheard.

  “When?”

  “Not long ago, m’lord—jus
t before you arrived.”

  Even before Quincy was finished speaking, Christian had turned and was bolting down the stairwell, racing for the docks.

  “I hope you’re not overly attached to him,” St. John said, lifting an imperious brow as he rowed. “I cannot simply allow him to go free.”

  Cold prickles swept down Jessie’s spine.

  She knew precisely to whom he was referring, but asked nevertheless, “Him?”

  His smile was forbearing. “Hawk, of course.”

  “But you swore you’d leave him be if I returned with you, my lord—you gave me your word! Would you break it now?”

  “I know what I said, Jessamine... but it is out of my hands, m’dear. Hawk is a traitor to the Crown and he’ll hang for his crimes. ’Tis as simple as that—Moore would never set him free. Certainly not now that he has proof against him at last.” He shrugged noncommittally. “Ben, on the other hand, is another matter...”

  Jessie resisted the sudden uncontrollable urge to fly at him and thrust him overboard—lying, misbegotten cur that he was! She wanted to tell him that Christian had proof of his innocence—at least this time he did—but what if St. John had already named him as Hawk? She had to know. “Have you accused him as yet?”

  “Not as yet,” he admitted. “There was no one to come forward till now... not with Hawk free to wreak his vengeance upon them. Now, of course, with him in gaol, it shouldn’t take much to convince McCarney to step forward. He wants revenge, you see, because Hawk killed his brother. Still”—he smiled coldly—”you must take comfort in the fact that your dear cousin is free... for now,” he added in cautioning tones. “Though perhaps he shan’t be for long if you don’t prove worthy of my troubles. Perhaps you should remember that,” he taunted, his face flushing slightly. “Perhaps you should remember that tonight.”

  Jessie shuddered with revulsion. Panic burst through her, for in that instant she knew Ben would never be safe. St. John had lied to her. And Christian—she couldn’t bear to stand aside and see him hanged. Well, she wasn’t about to! She had to warn them. Her mind raced. But how?

  She glanced around wildly, and to her surprise, she spotted a small boat approaching swiftly from behind them. Her heart leapt, for somehow she knew it was Christian. Her gaze reverted to St. John, and she wondered if he’d spied the skiff as well, but when he continued with his crowing, she decided he was too full of self-admiration to be aware of anything but his own voice as he spoke. If only she could catch him unawares... jump into the river... but her clothing would make it impossible to out swim him should he decide to come after her...

  She worried her lip, for jumping seemed her only option. She forced herself to inhale slowly and calm her ragged nerves.

  One, two, three, four, she counted silently, trying desperately to quell her fears.

  Five. Six. Seven.

  Could she do this? Lord help her, it didn’t seem to be working. She wasn’t calm at all. In truth, she felt weak with fright. Would Christian reach her in time? Would St. John come after her?

  Eight. Nine. Ten.

  Perhaps there was no need to jump, after all, she reconsidered, for she had every faith in Christian. Hazarding another glance behind her, she drew in a deep breath and released it, for it seemed he would never close the distance. And then, her gaze reverting to St. John, she happened to spy the gleaming silver of his pistol beneath his frock coat, and she froze at the sight of it. God help her, she knew instinctively he would kill Christian if given the chance, his hate was so deep. It was there in his eyes. Christian would reach them, she was certain, but somehow... before then... she had to seize the weapon from St. John...

  Recalling that night so long ago when Christian had been so concerned that she would tip the boat, she lit upon an idea. Not daring to spare the time to think it through properly, she stood abruptly and screamed like a shrew, hurling herself at St. John, scrambling toward him, feigning hysteria. “Oh, my Lord! Something... there’s something in the boat!”

  Snatching at his leg frantically, she attempted to stand.

  The small boat tipped precariously, and St. John bellowed in fear, his face paling. “Nay! Jessamine, do not—be still! You’ll topple the boat!” Jessie ignored him and threw herself at him once more, as though seized by panic. “Nay, but I cannot swim!” He threw up his hands to gain his balance. Catching him unawares, she suddenly snatched away his pistol, and St. John, comprehending too late her ploy, lunged at her to retrieve it. Heaven help her, but Jessie, refused to give him the opportunity to murder Christian in cold blood! She tossed it within the water, but he seemed not to notice, for he continued to struggle. The boat rocked treacherously as she fought him with every ounce of strength she possessed.

  Christian’s heart lurched as he recognized Jessie’s petrified screams. Rowing furiously, he turned to watch from his own skiff as she lunged at St. John, then toppled backward into the small boat with St. John grappling over her. For an instant his blood ran cold as he stared at their struggling forms behind him, and then suddenly their boat pitched violently and overturned, toppling them both into the river.

  There was no time.

  “No!” he exploded, rowing faster, losing precious seconds as he turned again to watch the boat drift away from the struggling pair. “Jessie! Noooo!” All he could think of was that by some sordid twist of fate, he would lose her now—and God help him, he could not bear it!

  Sputtering and kicking wildly, Jessie tried to free herself from St. John’s fatal grip. He wouldn’t release her! Try as she might, she couldn’t break free.

  Dear God, she was going to die here!

  She wasn’t going to make it!

  Her sodden skirts weighed her down... down... and with sudden inspiration, she took a deep breath, allowing herself to sink with them. Her ploy worked. St. John released her at once, catapulting desperately toward the rippling surface, freeing her.

  Relief flooded her—short-lived, for as she tried to resurface, the impossibility of it struck her like a blow to her breast. She panicked. And still her skirts carried her down ... down... down . . .

  Nay! She was going to die, and there was nothing she could do about it!

  But nay—she refused to!

  God help her, but she refused to die! Her breast ached terribly with her pent-up breath, but she remained composed enough to know that she needed to dispose of her sopping skirts. Tearing wildly at her garments, she struggled free of them. It seemed to take a lifetime, but with that done, she shot back toward the surface, desperate for even a small breath of sweet, lifesaving air.

  Yet the light was too far now! The air, too far! And her lungs felt near to bursting.

  Breaking through the surface suddenly, she sucked in a desperate breath, but it was immediately stolen from her when St. John once again seized her by the shoulders, climbing atop her, pushing her down, struggling to remain aloft at her expense.

  His words came back to her then: Nay, Jessamine... I cannot swim.

  Oh, dear God! What cruel fate! She and St. John were going to die here together! She would breathe her last without ever having told Christian that she loved him first and foremost, that nothing else mattered as long as they were together, that she did not blame him for what he claimed to have done to her father.

  Oh God, Christian, I love you... I love you so very much, her heart cried out, but she couldn’t speak the words, for her lungs were burning for air... and she was entombed in ice-cold water...

  “Son of a bitch!” Christian roared. “Get off her, bloody whoreson!”

  Christ! He was so close now, so close—yet not nearly close enough! And then he spotted the gator, gliding swiftly through the water, converging upon its struggling prey, and he lost priceless seconds over the shock of the sight.

  His blood pounding through his temples, he began to row more furiously still, shouting warnings, cursing the beast at the top of his lungs. Jessie and St. John were so involved in the effort to stay afloat that he doubte
d either of them heard a word or sensed the danger. His gut twisting, he realized there was no way he could make it in time; but his heart would not surrender. A strangled, keening sound escaped him as he rowed, hoping against hope, watching with pent-up breath as the gator sped in Jessie’s direction.

  God help him, he had the sudden urge to stand and hurl the oar at the beast, but that would be the worst thing he could do, he knew, for if by chance the gator chose St. John instead, he would need both oars to reach Jessie still.

  “Ah, God,” he prayed aloud, casting his head back as he rowed, “she doesn’t deserve to die! If You’ve never listened to me before... please... please... please... listen to me now.”

  Even as he spoke, the enormous beast submerged, and Christian watched over his shoulder, fear gripping him as never before. An instant later, both Jessie’s and St. John’s heads jerked beneath the surface, and then an explosion of bubbles ripped the water as the river churned violently against the deadly struggle.

  There was little blood, for the gator’s kill was a clean one. Clamping its jaws about its victim, it thrashed over, and over, and over again, beneath the water, until every last trace of air emptied from the victim’s lungs. Christian could little bear it were that fate Jessie’s.

  Neither St. John’s nor Jessie’s head resurfaced, and Christian rowed toward them with all his might, muttering angry curses at God, at St. John, at Jessie for going with the bastard to begin with!

  His relief was tangible as he spied Jessie’s glistening locks rising from the silvery water, at last. Her face upturned, she gasped for air, and he nearly cried out for joy. Just then, another splash caught his attention and yet another gator slipped into the river. Christian swore he’d kill the son of a bitch if it touched even a hair on her head. He reached her as the beast approached the midway point in the river. Tossing the oars into the skiff, he hauled Jessie quickly aboard, and drew her into his arms.