by Grace Walton
The statue of Adonis came to life. He dragged a frustrated tanned hand through thick hair the color of a shimmering crow’s wing. He threw back his finely-molded head, exposing the taut strength of his throat. Then he spoke conversationally to the ceiling, “Wonderful, McLeod. Being in prison wasn’t enough. Now you must share your cell with a randy drunk and a half-witted nun.”
Something clicked in her fogged brain at the word half-witted. How dare he suggest that just because she couldn’t speak at the moment, she was lacking in wits.
“I am not half-witted. Is that an earring you’re wearing?” Jess had intended the set down to come out forcefully. But somehow the words issued forth from her lips as a whisper. A frightened whisper at that. She was thoroughly disgusted with herself. She took a deep breath, determined to do better. Instead, she found herself under the full scrutiny of those mesmerizing eyes again.
“It speaks,” he mocked.
She bristled at his sarcasm. The best thing to do, she decided, before she got trapped in those hypnotic eyes of his again, was to establish her superiority. She’d become very practiced at doing this in the last several years. So practiced, in truth, she could turn a man into a pile of quivering jelly when she really set her mind to it. She’d quickly learned men did not favor prickly assertive women. Therefore, Jessamine St. John had turned prickly assertiveness into an art form. She sat up until her face was only a hand’s breath away from his own. By sheer force of will, she narrowed her eyes until they turned to green ice. She corrected him haughtily, “I, sir, am not an it.”
A slight smile settled on his chiseled lips as he replied, unconcerned, “You’re a dried-up, prissy little nun. It’s all the same to a man.”
This whole affair was not working out as she’d planned, not at all. The blackguard didn’t seem intimidated in the least. He hadn’t moved back one iota. In fact, he seemed to be memorizing her face with those dratted eyes of his. If she wasn’t very careful, she might fall right back into the depths of those eyes and be lost forever. Time to bring out the big guns, she decided. If it’s true that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then her brother Dylan should have been flattered indeed. Since he was the most intimidating person she knew, Jess assumed his frosty demeanor.
“Will you please remove yourself from my bed, sir?”
Who was this minx who thought she could order him around like the princess royal, the man thought to himself? On this side of the Atlantic, he might be nothing more than a low pirate. But in Scotland, his father was a duke. Not a wealthy duke. Not a powerful duke. But a duke nonetheless. This cheeky little chit needed to be taken down a peg or two.
“Your bed?” There was a definite edge to his voice. More to the point, he did not retreat in the slightest way. In fact, if anything he seemed made of Carrara marble now.
“My bed.” Her words were far more confident than she was herself. His nearness made her nervous, extremely nervous. In fact, there seemed to be some sort of energy emanating from him. The pesky stuff poured all over her like a shower of fire. “I’m in it now. I slept in it last night. It’s my bed,” she said, not daring to raise her eyes.
“But how do you know you were in it alone?” There was a tantalizing darkness playing through his voice.
Instinctively she glared at him. “You told me you slept on the floor,” Jess protested.
The man moved infinitesimally closer. “I lied.”
She felt the caress of his breath on her cheek. It made her tremble.
“I avoid the truth whenever possible. It’s become an occupational hazard, you might say.” One lean, long-fingered hand reached out to test the texture of a strand of her hair.
Jess’s mind screamed. But her back bone straightened even as she spoke coldly through stiff lips. “You lie for a living? Faith, sir, you must be a lawyer.”
His honey-colored eyes narrowed at the insult. She couldn’t know it of course, but lawyers were a very sore subject for him. He hated them almost as much as he hated clergymen. His brother had set more than one fat, unholy barrister on him in the past. He understood well the slight she aimed at him. Finn McLeod had killed men for less insult. “I think I should be calling you my lady duchess instead of holy sister.”
There was a threatening sound to his voice she didn’t like. If the man was irritated, she thought in frustration, it’s his own fault. With graceful hands, Jess pulled her thick blonde hair over one shoulder. She calmly began to plait it into a neat, fat braid. She seemed to be ignoring the oaf until she spoke condescendingly, “No, you cannot address me as duchess. That title is reserved for my brother’s wife.”
Even in his anger toward her, Finn admired her spirit and her effort to mask her fear. “Are you attempting to make me believe your brother is a duke?”
“I’m not attempting to make you believe anything.” Now she sat about arranging her habit, anything not to have to look at him. She noticed he watched her carefully. “I’m telling you my brother is the Duke of MacAllister.”
“Austin St. John is your brother?” His narrowed eyes watched for her reaction. He knew well the Duke of MacAllister’s given name. And it was certainly not Austin. But he wanted to see if she knew it.
What should she do now? The man knew her dead uncle’s given name. She hadn’t counted on this criminal knowing the intricate vagaries of the British aristocracy. It only took a moment to decide what she must do. Green eyes rolled back in feigned disgust.
“Uncle Austin is dead. My brother is Dylan, Dylan St. John, you oaf. And if you don’t get your big carcass off this bed, he’ll have your liver and lights for breakfast.”
That ought to put the fear of God into him. For good measure, she gave his broad shoulder a shove. It was the wrong thing to do. The second her fingers made contact with his body, she felt the breath rush out of her lungs in a whirlwind. He was solid and hard and although she’d pushed with all her might, he’d not even moved. Instead a deep, hissing stream of profanity that would have impressed even Griffin poured from those perfectly molded lips of his. Jess was confused. Had she angered him to the point of violence? She prayed not.
“Let me see the birthmark,” he commanded quietly.
Jess cringed back against the wall. This was awful. He knew about Uncle Austin. Why hadn’t she thought of that? And he knew about the birthmark, that dratted thing. Dylan was named ‘Heartless St. John’ because of the blasted mark. Cartoons lampooning his adventures with women had been plastered all over London years ago. At least that’s what Griffin told her, she hadn’t actually seen the illustrations herself. The St. John family birthmark-it was always tiny, black, and heart-shaped. All the St. John men had one on their left breast and some of the women did also. Jess did, but no one except her maid and her Aunt Dorcas had ever seen it. And as far as she was concerned, no one ever would, especially not this rakish, lying, physically perfect felon. She crossed her arms protectively across her chest, willing him to believe the lie she was about to tell.
“What? Birthmark? I’d rather know about that pagan hoop you’re wearing in your ear.”
“I said,” he spoke again undeterred by her ploy. “Let me see the St. John birthmark.”
“All right, you win. The truth is, I don’t have a birthmark. I’m not related to the Duke of MacAllister. Truthfully, I don’t even know the man.” She couldn’t keep the trembling out of her voice.
But it didn’t work, he somehow knew. Finn McLeod, younger profligate brother to the Duke of Maitland, knew she was who she claimed to be. This girl dressed in the ridiculous nun’s habit was Dylan St. John’s young sister. No, not just young, he told himself ruefully. This was St. John’s virgin baby sister. And he’d just had the misfortune to spend the night in the same room with her unchaperoned. If the Duke od MacAllister ever found out, Finn would find himself either facing St. John’s pistol across a daybreak dueling field or married, to the little nun. Neither prospect sounded promising. Deep curses rumbled throughout the small confines of
the room again. After a long while they stopped, but the angry glare from his eyes didn’t.
“Lady St. John.” The big man stood respectfully. He gracefully bowed. The gesture was both practiced and elegant. It looked as if it belonged in a London ballroom, not a cold damp gaol cell.
The honorific surprised her. None of the family ever used their titles. If their blasted uncle had ever married one of his legions of mistresses and had a legitimate child, they’d not be bothered with titles now. But the old man hadn’t been the least bit obliging. Privately, Jess was sure the old buzzard coveted the fortune Dylan had made. It had replenished the ancestral family coffers. Uncle Austin hadn’t married just so her oldest brother would have the burden of rebuilding the ancient wreck of St. John Castle in Scotland, as well.
“I’m Jess. Just Jess, not Lady Anything.” She was finally able to speak normally. “Call me Jess.”
“No, I think not,” he answered urbanely.
What sort of game was the minx up to? McLeod was not prepared to address the sister of Heartless St. John by her given name. He would have no mistakes between them as to the formality of their acquaintance. The mere circumstance that they’d spent a night together, however innocent it had been, would be impossible to explain to her brother. The fact of the matter was, with McLeod’s reputation, St. John would probably try to murder him before the pirate could speak a word in his own defense.
He’d had women try to trap him into compromising situations with the hope of marriage, many times. He’d become uncommonly adept at foiling their plans. There was the pretty contessa in Italy last year who’d tried to pass her babe off as his. Then there was the Lady Jane Emberly. She’d locked herself in his water closet for a whole day waiting to catch him unawares and undressed. Actually, women had been pursuing him since he was fourteen. And for the most part, Finn McLeod had been glad to oblige. He took what they offered. And he made sure the encounters were completely satisfying to both parties. He also kept those same encounters brief, to the point of offense. But he had no intention of having anything to do with the lovely girl on the bed. She might look like God’s gift to mankind come down to earth, but he knew she was a mantrap. She had to be, no woman could be as beautiful and vulnerable as she seemed. It was a lie. She was a lie. She had to be. All these things were rolling through his cynical mind as he prepared to speak. He moved a few steps away from her.
“Lady St. John, what in the name of all that’s holy are you doing in this gaol?”
The entrancing smile she gave him made his eyes narrow.
“Why, I’m persuaded I came just to find you Captain McLeod,” the young woman said with perfect candor.
He cursed again under his breath. Then he walked across the room to put even more distance between them.
“I must ask you to stop all this heathen cursing,” Jess said primly, swinging her black-clad legs over the edge of the rough cot. They didn’t quite reach the floor.
He thought she looked for all the world like a naughty angel. But this woman was no angel. No matter that she was masquerading as a nun.
“I know it’s difficult to remedy such a bad habit. But with prayer and strict discipline it can be done,” she lectured sternly.
He cocked his dark head in her direction and taunted, “Thank you for instructing me Sister Whoever-You-Are.”
“I’m serious,” Jess insisted. “We’re going to be in each other’s company a great deal and I will not tolerate your cursing.”
McLeod folded his arms across his chest. He leaned back against the wall of the gaol. “That’s where you’re wrong. We will not be spending any time at all in each other’s company, none. The night, that’s just passed is enough. More than enough.”
Jess got up. She stamped over to him arguing, “We will be spending time on the same ship. As much time as it takes to get to London. But you can be assured we will not be seeing each other. I will be staying in my cabin so that I can avoid you.”
“Listen well, Sister St. John.” His eyes bore into her. “We are not going anywhere together. The only ship in the harbor is mine and once I get out of this dirty little toad hole, I’m sailing her to Bermuda. And I don’t carry passengers.”
She planted her hands on her hips and glared. “No, you are not going to Bermuda. You are taking me to London.”
A mocking smile settled on his lips as he shook his head. “I’d rather stay here and rot.”
“That would suit me fine,” she replied sweetly. “But Mother Marguerite Marie is sending me to London and you’re taking me.”
“Sister, I wouldn’t take you out to the garden privy, if you paid me,” he said sourly.
“Will you two shet up?” said a surly lump under a threadbare blanket on the floor between them. “How’s a man supposed to git rest if you two keep a yammerin’ at each other?” Horace was awake.
Jess jumped in fright, tripping on the long skirt of her habit. With a helpless squeak she plummeted down. McLeod caught her in his arms to stop her fall. He held her captive there. “Go back to your safe little convent, Sister St. John,” he growled.
Their conversation was halted by the sound of a key wrenching in the keyhole of the gaol’s locked door. Jess squinted her eyes against the sudden bright sunshine that flooded the stuffy chamber.
“Jess, are you in there?” asked the matronly voice from the open doorway. Finn felt the girl stiffen suddenly in his arms.
“Aunt Dorcas?” the girl whispered towards the light. Her eyes silently pleaded with him to release her.
There was a bustling, rustling sound as the old lady stepped in. “Jess girl, you’ve landed yourself in the briars for good and sure this time. I’m thinking your brothers will be a mite upset to find their precious little sister has been sleeping in a gaol. You could be put right back in that excuse for a nunnery, if you don’t take care,” she joked until her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Then she got a clear look at the man cradling her relative. “Get your hands off my niece, you blackguard,” Dorcas barked.
“What’s this? Get away from her, McLeod,” ordered a grizzled man from behind the old lady. He was the same one who’d locked Jess up the night before. Only now he was bowing and scraping for all he was worth. “Miss St. John, are you all right? I’m sorry, right sorry. I didn’t know who you were until your aunt knocked on my door this morning. I hope you won’t hold this against me, Miss St. John. I surely don’t want your brothers peeved with me.” He swallowed and wiped his brow. No, he thought, Lord knows I don’t want the St. Johns after me.
Jessamine’s face was suddenly wreathed with a smile, as she watched the nervous man at the door. A plan was born. One that would get her to London with as little fuss as possible.
“Aunt Dorcas, help me.” It was a weak pitiful whisper. “Please, please help me...”
Finn’s golden eyes narrowed. He released her as if she’d suddenly burned him. What was the cursed minx up to now, he wondered? Her arms shot out to encircle his waist, effectively trapping him. His mouth settled into a straight, hard line as she leaned limply against his broad chest.
“Jess?” her aunt murmured in concern. “What’s wrong, dear?” The older woman quickly moved into the chamber. “What have you done to my niece?” She bristled up at McLeod.
“Nothing, Madam,” he tried to explain. “I swear, I have been aught but a model of Christian rectitude.”
That statement drew forth, first a snort, then a shuddering sob from the girl along with pitiful answer. “Oh, Aunt Dorcas, it was awful... so very awful. I tried to tell him who I was. But he wouldn’t listen. He wouldn’t believe me.”
The girl crossed her fingers against the captain’s impressive chest. It was only a partial untruth, she rationalized. She’d tried to convince the night watch she was not a thief. Her Aunt Dorcas could interpret the statement any way she liked. And about any of the men currently in the small room with them. It would not be Jess’s fault, if a grievous mistake was made in her aunt’s understanding
.
“Madam, she’s lying...,” Finn started to defend himself, but didn’t get very far.
“Scoundrel, Blackguard!” the old lady shouted as she made to hit him about the head with her reticule. She was short. Her aim was bad. So she only ended up thrashing his shoulder with the soft, knitted purse.
The big man instinctively turned to shield the girl in his arms from the attacking banshee.
“Do you know who you’re calling a liar, you foul animal?” Dorcas huffed as she realized her strength was no match for his. “That’s Miss Jessamine St. John you’re handling like a common doxy. She’s going to be a nun, for Heaven’s sake. Nuns don’t lie, you miserable excuse for a man.”
“Amen!” the cell’s other occupant added his opinion. “I tried to protect her, Your Worship,” he whined. “I tried to tell him she were a nun. But he wouldn’t listen to me.” Horace always did like to get the quality to be on his side. Maybe the old hag would be so grateful, she’d get him out of gaol. He shrugged to himself, it couldn’t hurt.
“The bloke’s a raving beast when it comes to wimmen, you know.” Horace paused to let his words sink in. “Pore lady.” He shook his shaggy head soulfully. “Pore, pore lady.”
“Get your filthy hands off her!” Dorcas was at her wit’s end.
Finn calmly lifted both of his hands to show her he was not the one holding on with a death grip. And that brought the old lady up short, indeed it did. Also, Jess was hiding her face in the tall man’s shirt. Something passing strange was going on here. The girl could never get by with a lie, if her aunt could see her eyes. It just didn’t work, Dorcas knew her too well. So the chit was hoaxing them, but why? Dorcas heaved out a relieved sigh. At least Jess was all right. Her aunt decided to go along with whatever freak the girl was up to. After all, things couldn’t get much worse.
