The colonel thanked Cajun, attempting to sound sincere, sounding awkward instead. It was as if the savage knew he had trouble with such sentiments, for with the nod of acknowledgment came a glint of amusement. He had learned, too, that Cajun spoke little, at least to him. As a matter of fact the only time Cajun said anything not related to his health had been the first time he could focus his gaze and he saw Christina Marks.
She looked like a starving man's delusion. Christina Marks had been pretty before but now, with her skin slightly colored, the long hair left unbound, and her figure barely concealed in the short shift, he had thought he was dreaming. Her picture looked drawn from the most exotic imagination, perhaps a fairy queen or some such fanciful creature. His thoughts must have been plain to read, for Cajun had simply said, "She belongs to another. Conceal your thoughts."
He did not have to be warned twice.
Two of the patients had recovered enough to leave what they had taken to call the sick room and only six remained. Each day their recovery seemed to leap in larger increments. Caring for them became easier and more routine. Christina and Elsie had just finished the noon feeding when Christina noticed a cut on Lady Knolls's arm that did not seem to be healing.
"Cajun," she said, coming to his side. "The Lady has a cut that needs your medicine."
Sitting up to finish the potion of daily gruel, Carolyn Knolls watched the huge savage come to her pallet and kneel to examine her bare arm. He held a coconut shell of wretched-smelling ointment. He was obviously intent on using it. "Just what do you think you're doing?"
Spoon-feeding another with Elsie's help, Christina called over, "That cut on your arm needs some medicine."
"I'll not have him touch me."
Christina and Elsie both stopped what they were doing and looked over.
"You heard me," she addressed Cajun. "Just because the others may not care if they are defiled so doesn't mean I would stoop so low. I may be stuck on this god-forsaken island, almost dead—certainly wishing I were—but that doesn't mean I'll let a nigger's hands touch my skin."
"Christina," Cajun called softly.
Christina quickly handed Marianna's food to Elsie, hastening to Cajun's side. She searched his face for a sign of hurt or insult and seeing this made Cajun almost smile. "No, la niña, I cannot be hurt by the workings of a small mind." He handed her the shell of salve and finished evenly. "Apply it as thickly as possible, then bandage the arm loosely." And he left.
"It is wrong of you to speak so." Christina finally found her voice as she began applying the salve to the Lady's arm. "Cajun, more than anyone I know, deserves our respect, nay, even admiration. He is good and kind and noble—why there just aren't enough superlatives to describe him, and if not for his knowledge, I daresay you wouldn't be nearly as well so quickly."
"Aye, she's right, my lady," Elsie added. "Cajun be a fine—"
"Quiet yourself!" Carolyn interrupted harshly. "It's difficult enough listening to her impertinence—" she looked at Christina, then at Elsie—"but I'll not tolerate yours."
Christina stopped, shocked by her ill temper, the cruel biting of her tongue. She must be quite ill still; it was the only possible excuse.
"Oh, yes," she said, turning a sly smile on Christina, "that's the Miss Marks I remember—shocked by rudeness, so easily intimidated into speechlessness. The timid little Miss Marks, all insufferable English properness. Of course," her gaze traveled over Christina's scanty dress, the ridiculous orchid in her hair, "we're not very 'proper' anymore, are we? Tell me," she asked in a pretense of nonchalance, "has he at least promised marriage, a life of 'happily ever afters'?"
"I... I—" she stuttered and suddenly she was tongue-tied once again, feeling her cheeks flush crimson.
"Oh, I see he has not. Well, I for one admire the men who drop all pretenses. There are certain benefits after all. It's much better to know you're just a whore than to suffer the naive delusions of a young girl's broken heart. Was he at least kind enough to add the word love to help soften the blow?" The fact that Justin had, registered on Christina's expression. "But then again," the woman smiled, "God knows how many bastards a man like that could leave one with—"
Christina quickly rose and left before another cruel word could be said. Elsie stood up too, and trying to control her temper, she said, " 'Twill be very interestin' to see w'at becomes of the likes of you 'ere on the island. Yes, it will. Very interesting."
Christina could not be found. Elsie searched for nearly an hour and finally gave up. She found Justin working with Jacob to create stairs up to his dwelling that would allow Beau access. The humidity was so great as to be nearly tactile and sweat poured from both men's backs as they chopped away at the side of the mountain.
She interrupted what seemed to be a rather heated argument between the two men. She first related what was said to Cajun but to her surprise neither man was concerned. They even laughed at it.
"Known Cajun for years and I've yet to see him bested by anyone or anything," Jacob said. "He's a rock that I'd wager the devil himself couldn't move."
Justin agreed with the sentiments. Anyone who knew Cajun realized he had a strange peacefulness of soul and this internal elevation would not, could not, be affected by anything external, certainly not the ramblings of a "small mind."
"But that's not all," Elsie continued, then turned her tongue on Christy and it got worse, much worse. She said...
At the end of it, Justin interrupted Jacob's cursing to ask, "What did Christina say?"
"Well, that's just it, she got all tongue-tied just like before and she couldn't say anything, let alone deliver the lashing that she-dog deserved. She left and I've been looking all over but 'aven't been able to find 'er."
Justin dove into the water to cool off and then left to find her. He knew just where she'd be. The other day they had taken a picnic up to the top of the mud flats. About half-way up they discovered a wide plateau overlooking the beach, lagoon, and the boundless blue ocean beyond. One of the island's many waterfalls fell from a steep cliff into a shallow pond and all this was surrounded by lush tropical foliage, a chaotic array of wildflowers. It was a picture of tropical beauty and they had spent all afternoon swimming, eating, talking of nothing and everything, making love.
Sure enough, Justin reached the plateau to find her sitting on the edge of the cliff staring out at the ocean. Her back was to him and, not wanting to startle her, he called softly, "Christina?"
Lost in her thoughts, struggling not to believe the ugly truth, she jerked slightly at the sound of her name. She quickly wiped her cheeks before turning around. "Oh... Justin, I—" She stopped, wanting to sound normal but unable to hide the tears inflected in her voice. She stood up and turned away to gather her wits.
Justin watched this struggle and moved quickly to her side. He turned her around and gently lifted her face to him, then wiped her cheek. "You've been crying."
His tenderness drew her to him, making her want to collapse in his arms and beg him to tell her that his love was not pretense and that he would marry her someday. But she had not the courage and, besides, such things cannot be asked for, only volunteered. She would never ask him to promise something he didn't mean or want.
Justin sat down and drew her sideways into his arms so he could study her. His hand brushed lovingly through her hair. "Could that woman have given you such doubts? Could your love and trust of me be so fragile?"
She looked up, surprised he knew and wanting to deny it, but unable to.
"How could that be? How could you doubt the depth of my love for you? What are you thinking, sweetheart? That once we're rescued, I would see you to some port, say a pleasant good-bye as I taste your lips for the last time?" He chuckled softly. "I think it would be easier to shoot myself."
Wide, misty eyes met his bluer ones, reflecting the ocean stretched beyond. She felt his love as a tangible force and then the tenderness in his kiss spoke the same message. She wanted it never to stop.
But for a long while Justin was content to just study the contours of her form, seeing her beauty as yet unchanged but knowing with sudden certainty that she would soon be with his child. He didn't know how he knew, only that he did, and he was less surprised by the thought than he was by the surge of emotions it brought.
He had known few women long enough to know or care whether they came with his child. Most women took precautions, the penny royal tea that forced a bleeding and rid the woman's womb of the unwanted seed. Then too there were always a surgeon's services. Christina was, to say the least, different. As long as he was alive he would see that her innocence kept her ignorant of such measures, for he wanted every child that came from their bed.
He brushed his hand over her flattened stomach, and thought of his own childhood, so thankful that he could give his child a better life.
He had been born in Jamaica to an English lady, Elizabeth Dowell. His mother had died during childbirth and probably to the intense relief of her sister's family whose care she had been under, for there was no marriage and the father had not been named. All Justin knew of his mother was that she had been tall and pretty, given over to books, the writing of poetry, and music. The only thing her sister's family had missed upon her death was her music, of which she had been accomplished, in both piano and voice.
Being a bastard and an embarrassment to the family, Justin had been turned over to a nursemaid and quite literally forgotten for almost five years, left to be raised in the servants' quarter of the huge plantation and not particularly welcomed there either. The greatest shock of Justin's life—one he still remembered—was when his mammy told him, "Youse gettin' too big to pretend youse colored. Somethin'— lord willin'—has to be done."
Nothing was done, though, not until his father, Lord Winston Phillips, returned to his older brother's plantation and chanced to encounter a young five-year-old boy whose heritage was written plainly on his features. Justin often wondered what would have become of him had he not been the exact image of Lord Winston Phillips. The man had picked him up, swung him around and laughed, just before launching into a heated curse of his brother for never telling him that Elizabeth had got with what was so obviously his child. All he had been told was that Elizabeth was dead.
The next week Justin had been on a huge sailing ship—the kind in which he had spent endless hours watching and dreaming of—off to the land of his forefathers, England. Which was not to say he was accepted with open arms into the Phillips's household. Quite the contrary. While he had been introduced as his lord's young nephew, this fooled no one, especially Lady Cynthia, who he once heard comment, "I had always assumed seven children were enough for any man, even Lord Phillips." Nor had his seven older half-brothers and sisters ever let Justin forget—not for a day—his status as a bastard child.
Oddly, it was only his father who seemed glad for his presence in the world and, in a strange way, Justin was his favorite son. His father could not bring himself to place the same standards on the young, half-wild and already quite extraordinary boy, and he never but never managed to discipline the lad—not the first nor the tenth time Justin was sent home from the boarding schools for incorrigibility, various monstrosities to the family name. This was usually fighting to defend the bastard title that preceded his every entrance, or for his undying curiosity, what was often described as disturbing, and peculiar questions, rather too loudly voiced opinions, all of which were, to say the least, iconoclastic in the extreme. Why, his father could hardly contain his amusement those many times Justin ran away, found sometime later wandering the docks like a lost pup, dreaming about the great ships he loved. And amusement could describe the scene of any of the many times he got caught in a tumble with one of the upstairs maids, the first at the shockingly innocent age of thirteen. No, Lord Phillips could only shake his head and laugh.
Thinking of this troubled childhood, Justin suddenly vowed to himself never to leave his child and it caused him to say out loud, "I wish I could marry you, Christina."
Christina suffered a moment's bewilderment. She could not deny their love, neither hers nor his, but as Carolyn Knolls had cruelly made clear, he had not yet mentioned marriage. Did this mean he couldn't marry her or wouldn't marry her?
Justin chuckled at the look of apprehension crossing her features. He rolled over and lifted her lengthwise on him, wanting to feel her body against his. Thoughts of procreation manifest in desire for the act; he wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of the afternoon filling her with his seed.
"No, sweetheart, rest assured I will marry you," he said, brushing his hands through her hair. "What I meant was that I wish I could marry you before you come with child."
Christina searched the features of his face, not understanding. "Then again, God knows how many bastards a man like that could leave one with." She had always thought that a woman's womb would not accept a child unless blessed by the sanctity of marriage. The rare case of the unwed mother was owing to unfortunate mistakes, to... to—
She looked at him in shock. It had simply never occurred to her before but it did so now—everything, especially her naivete and ignorance, and she lifted from him. "That won't happen to me!"
"A woman doesn't always have a choice," he replied softly, seeing her fear and surprised it had not occurred to her before.
"No." She shook her head, though with less resolve. "It can't... I—"
Justin pulled her back into his arms, not understanding this at all. "It can happen and it probably will. I am not a man who could restrain himself, not with you, not seeing you like this." His gaze fell over her almost bare form, the long hair spilling over his arms, and then he looked back at her face. "Not being stranded with you on this island." He chuckled. "I could never wait for you," and he kissed her in a way she could not resist. "Is that so bad?"
She couldn't answer. Not only were his lips upon hers again, his hand awakening her to the pleasure of his love, but she had no answer. For part of her did not want to have his child, not now, not while stranded on this island, perhaps not ever.
During the dark quiet hours of that night, Christina lay again in Justin's arms. She stared up at the skylight, seeing a hundred bright twinkling stars, listening to the easy sound of his sleep, the ceaseless lure of the waterfalls and the sea beyond and thinking...
She belonged to him, claimed by the act of love, and it was not her place to question him much less refuse. Not that refusal was a viable choice anyway. Oh yes, she loved him; she was drawn to him, drawn to him in a timeless way that she didn't understand and was helpless to stop. As though he was the earth and she was the moon destined for the eternity to be at his side.
And sometimes her love filled her heart, seizing her with a frightening intensity. How he affected her! His smile, his lips and caress, the ecstasy of his lovemaking... Was there anything in the world more special than those times at night when they lay in each other's arms laughing and whispering over nothing and everything? Then her love filled every fiber of her being.
She shifted restlessly as the familiar disturbing images surfaced unwillingly in her mind. She saw Justin breaking the colonel's leg with brute strength; Justin carrying her forcibly from the Defiant; Justin firing a pistol through sheets of rain to kill a man; Justin turning on her with a violent eruption of anger; Justin over John with a dagger; Justin kicking a drunken man once and that man's lifeless body beneath Justin's dark shadow...
The words echoed through her thoughts, "He's not the first and I daresay he's not the last."
How many other lifeless bodies have fallen beneath his shadow?
A dream spun from a young girl's heart slipped into her consciousness and she saw herself as she always imagined she would be. She was married, perhaps to a surgeo
n or reverend or even a scholar. Life contentedly followed a predictable pattern; days to nights, weeks to years, the peacefulness of this life happily interrupted by picnics and outings and church, celebrations of the birth of children, Michaelmas, May Day, and the like. A happy home filled with warmth and love and peace. Peace...
Christina was only vaguely aware of the tears slipping down her cheeks as sleep finally stole this— the last sliver of her consciousness.
CHAPTER 6
"I can't find my brush anywhere," Christina said as she sat alongside Hanna in the warm sand the next afternoon. She began the struggle to get the comb through a long mess of tangles.
"I 'ope it's not buried in this sand—you'll never lay eyes on it again."
"I was certain I placed it back in the trunk. I asked Elsie but she hasn't seen it either. Honestly, if I lost it, I'll have to spend half the day in company with the comb—oh, look at them," she finished in the same breath.
Justin, Jacob, and a handful of others were playing a ball game—with a coconut shell—in the lagoon. The game was lively and aggressive, the shouts, mostly curses, could be heard for miles. Beau ran up and down along the shore barking encouragement. It was as much fun to watch as it was to play and Hanna and Christina soon found themselves laughing and cheering.
Hanna laughed as Jacob dunked Eric, only to get bested by Justin and Brahms as his back turned. She rolled onto her stomach, stretched lazily beneath the warm sun, and with dreamy eyes, stared into the dark forest a few feet away.
"Oh Christy," she whispered, "sometimes I don't think any soul 'as a right to such 'appiness. If only me mum could see me—wouldn't she be proud?" She laughed. "Fancy 'er only daughter planning' to wed a sea captain! Who'd ever believe it?"
Christina smiled and turned from the game, stretching out on her stomach too. The two women took to whispering between themselves; intimacies coming effortlessly with Hanna as though they had always been sisters or relations to each other.
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