Horsman, Jennifer

by Crimson Rapture

  Justin picked up the sketchbook and flipped slowly through the pages. He had his father's appreciation of fine art; he owned the ability to recognize talent. Christina was definitely talented; he was startled by just how. The landscape sketches of Hyde Park were impressive, good enough to place her in the finest art academies if she were not a woman. In between these sketches were ones of his child, small letters indicating his age—three days, two weeks, one month, and so on. He smiled at these; the progression was plain.

  There were other sketches too. One particularly impressive picture of an old beggar woman selling apples on a busy street. An odd subject. Christina somehow captured the old woman's despair as well as the passersby's indifference. Very talented indeed.

  The last part of the book was sealed, bound by thin strings. He knew what he would find as he untied the gold lacings. Sketch after sketch of a man he recognized only too well. Each was drawn from memories, each offered a different impression; some pleasant, most not. A vision haunting her dreams.

  Yes, Christina, you have frequented my dreams as well...

  The door opened and Justin set the book down. Richard was heard cursing and calling for Betty as he hung up winter bindings. "Betty! Betty, where are you? God, but that's the last time I render service to paupers."

  Upstairs and in a panic, Betty would not descend for her life.

  "I deliver them a beautiful healthy baby girl and it sends them all into tears, even the blessed mother, crying because she was not a he. Betty!" He threw off his coat and turned into the parlor, still angry over the ordeal. "A simple cobbler thinking himself King Henry... imagine, needing an heir to a cobbler throne—"

  Richard took one look at who stood at his mantel and he stopped. It required a long minute to ascertain the certainty of his vision and then he fell limply into a chair. "Oh, God," he whispered to himself after the long pause in which his mind raced over the implications and consequences.

  "You know," he finally looked up to Justin. "I half expected you to show up at some point."

  "I imagine you did," Justin replied in a voice both calm and impassive.

  "I suppose you've come for her."

  Justin nodded.

  "We're married, you know."

  "Yes, I know."

  The ship that had finally rescued them carried a message from of all unexpected people, Mr. Carrington. The brief note told of Christina's marriage as well as alluding to the gossip and rumors that followed her new husband. It hadn't taken great leaps in speculation to imagine the benefits of such a marriage for both parties. And these suspicions were confirmed when he saw his father, who, much to his surprise, had kept updated information on Christina and his grandchild, starting from the day he had met her and guessed all.

  "I also know," Justin added, "that annulments are possible within the Church of England."

  With arms resting on widespread knees, Richard continued to stare at his hands. He did not venture a glance up. "Need I ask on what grounds?"

  "I don't think you have to."

  Richard expected this and nodded. "It will mean a public confession. It will ruin me, you know."

  "I'm sorry. I see no other alternative."

  Richard's gaze shot up at the sound of the sincerity of Justin's remark.

  "I'm not a blind fool, Mr. Morrison," Justin answered his surprise. "Believe me I know only too well how much I owe you." And suddenly he could not hide his pain. "God knows what would have happened to her had not you come into the picture. I would offer financial compensation—"

  "Oh please, Mr. Phillips." Richard shook his head. "That's hardly the problem. It's my reputation. What's the old saying? A man's reputation is better than gold." He sighed emotionally. "It so true. Despite my personal proclivities, I love my work. And I'm damn good at it too."

  These sentiments won Justin's respect. He was not a man interested in another's personal proclivities; he judged a man mainly by his actions and Richard's actions had probably saved Christina's life, if not her well-being and the well-being of his son. This was all he cared about. "If this is true," Justin resumed, "if you want only to practice your trade, I would suggest a move to the New World."

  "The New World?" Richard questioned with proper English indignation. "You mean America? Good God, I'd rather die than find myself among those barbarians! Criminals, religious fanatics, the like. Oh no, I can't see that at all—"

  "Come now, Mr. Morrison." Justin almost smiled. "For an educated man, who himself has been the victim of rumors produced by simple minds, I'm surprised." Then his voice changed. "Truly, it's a wondrous country. Land stretching endlessly west, as boundless as the opportunities and possibilities. A government that's practically nonexistent." He looked at Richard directly. "Thousands of people, all there for the same reason—to start fresh. And God knows, we need doctors there. The only doctors to be found are self-appointed ones, ones ignorant of anything written in a book." He paused for a long while to let Richard weigh his words. "I could also make the proper introductions for you and with my connections in Boston, there's the possibility of a university position."

  Richard could hardly believe this. "I'm taken aback by your generosity, Mr. Phillips," he said at once, "and I must say I hardly expected such a reaction. The New World..." To be sure they would need doctors there; disease surely ran rampant among such lowlifes. The idea of a university position! He had always wanted to teach medicine! "Then too, it seems I have no real choice," he said out loud. "And speaking of choices," he ventured hesitantly, "I'd like you to know that while our marriage was arranged for the benefit for both of us, I care for Christina. I care a good deal. Will Christina have a choice in this matter?"

  The fire had died to bright embers, and standing at the mantel, Justin was now hidden in shadows. Richard could not see the emotion in his face when he replied, "No, she will not."

  "I see." And indeed he did. He wished he could protect her somehow, and he felt like he had failed her. He suddenly needed a drink, and knowing Betty probably lurked just behind the door listening to all, he called for her prompt service.

  Christina raced ahead of Darrell and flew through the door, still laughing at Darrell's teasing. Not thinking anyone was home but Betty, and having suffered only one thought the whole evening, she rushed straight up the stairs and burst in the nursery.

  Justin saw only a brief flash of the maroon velvet of her gown.

  Darrell stepped into the parlor. "Ah, Richard, you're back," he said, falling with an exhausted laugh into the chair—ignorant of Richard's company. "Well, that's the last time I do you the favor of escorting your wife anywhere! She had them beggars lined up all evening and I—imagine it!—nearly got called out twice! Seems no one cares that a lady's married anymore. My word but she was such a success! And imagine if you had let me dress her properly—" He noted Richard's sad expression. "What's wrong, Richard? Oh dear, did your patient die again?"

  Richard shook his head but glanced toward the shadows where Justin stood. "I have company, Darrell..."

  Justin climbed the stairs quietly and slipped unnoticed into the nursery. Christina leaned over the crib singing a soft lullaby to his son as she gently rocked him in the crib. The vision of her at that moment would be a memory that lived with him for the rest of his life.

  Firelight lit her face. The long hair was braided and simply wrapped around her head like a thick crown haloing the delicate features of her face. Her skin was pale and her cheeks were flushed. She smiled as she sang and a mother's love for her child shone in her eyes.

  He no doubt had men lined up for her attentions. It mattered not that her husband could ill afford rich silks or tailored gowns, or that she wore her hair so simply. The dark maroon color of an obviously homemade gown accented the paleness of her skin and its simple lines accented the startling femininity of the shape beneath. And God, how nature had rewarded her for service! Motherhood pronounced her beauty and changed a girl into a woman and, unbelievably, the woman was so much
more desirable.

  Christina finished her song but remained staring at her sleeping child's face. How many hours had she spent looking at him? Would she ever tire of it? Each hour filled with a strange mix of both pain and joy at his arresting likeness to his father...

  The silence suddenly warned her that she was not alone.

  She slowly looked up and then confronted the man who haunted her dreams. Time stopped and forever existed in seconds; she could neither move nor speak. She could only stare at a dream brought suddenly to life before her.

  The emotions rushing through her were suppressed by her shock. Shock that he was standing there. Shock at how very changed he was. She had only known Justin bearded, with long hair and dressed like a savage. The finely dressed gentleman staring back at her was a stranger and yet as familiar as her own image.

  "Don't look so surprised, Christina," he said softly. "You must have known I'd come—if not for you, then for my son."

  Thoughts and emotions, thoughts and emotions, all clamored for her attention until, until the shock finally gave way to her greatest fear. One she had lived with throughout. She slowly shook her head as the full magnitude of it crashed into consciousness.

  "Nooo," she cried in a pained gasp and in sheer desperation, she rushed to him and dropped to her knees. "Don't take him from me! Please, Justin, I beg you! I—c—c—" She choked on the words.

  Justin stared with shocked incomprehension as her eyes filled with tears.

  "I couldn't live... I would die—"

  And abruptly he understood what he didn't want to believe. "God, girl, is that what you think?" He seized her arms to lift her to her feet. "That I would take him from you? Unlike you," his words lashed out like a whip, "I'm not capable of the cruelty necessary to separate you from our son."

  "But... but..." The fear still pounding in her breast made it impossible to trust his words. "Then you will leave him?"

  "No."

  It was flat and inexplicable and her eyes were wide and enormous as she searched his face for the understanding that eluded her. He would not separate them, yet he would not leave him with her. He didn't know. "I married," she whispered on a frightened pause. "I married Richard—"

  "So you have." He released her and turned away to hide what he fought desperately to control. "Thankfully your husband has already agreed to an annulment."

  "An annulment?" She drew back, this new shock causing her to practically stutter, "But how? How is that possible? On what grounds could annulment be possible?"

  "The marriage has yet to be consummated."

  "How... how do you know that?"

  "Can you deny it?"

  She looked down, and to his utter disbelief, the answer was written in shame. Shamed that her husband had not wanted her, as though this was a personal failure on her part. He could almost laugh at the bitter irony of it. He had lived through hell imagining her in another man's bed. As long as he lived he'd remember the intensity of his relief when he learned that—of all the men in the world—she found the one man who would leave her untouched.

  She nervously twisted her hands, still unable to look up. "Richard has agreed to this?"

  "Yes."

  "And then you would... marry me?" she finished in a whisper.

  "Yes. But make no mistake, Christina—I will marry you only for our son. I'll not let him carry the burden of his parents' sins nor the title of bastard. Only for those reasons will I take you as my wife."

  The words were delivered so casually as though the cruel reality could be of no consequence to either anymore. She felt her lip tremble slightly. She turned away suddenly.

  Justin went to the window overlooking the quiet street. Fog rolled beneath the street lanterns. The carriage and his mount waited in front of the house. From a small red glow of the driver's pipe, he knew it was Brahms in the driver's seat, one of the best drivers he had. Jacob and his men would be hiding somewhere down the street. There was nothing amiss. Still it could not be long.

  He turned back to her and was about to tell her to pack in haste when he saw her lips trembling with what he knew would be an apology.

  And he lost control of it.

  "Oh no, Christina. Don't you dare say you're sorry. Sorry will not cover the hell you put me through. And it was a hell, Christina," he said with sudden feeling, coming to stand before her, holding on to her as though afraid she would run again. For a brief moment the depth of his pain, anger, and anguish showed in the intensity of his eyes and she almost swooned with the knowledge. Abruptly, he shoved her aside and turned, concealing all signs of emotion in a sudden near-stoic manner. "Love is a strange thing; I don't think I knew what it was before. Do you know what it is, Christina?"

  Another person might have been misled by this— the dispassionate tone he suddenly adopted—but not her. She felt the violence in it, the readied violence of a wounded creature waiting to attack again.

  "Love," he answered for her, "is when a man gives himself—the most vital part of himself—to a woman to care for. The act requires trust, for it leaves one vulnerable. Never," he emphasized, "is a man so vulnerable as when he is in love. Thanks to you, Christina, I will never trust another woman again; I will never be that vulnerable to a woman's deceit again. But stealing my love like that aside, I will survive."

  "That was not the worst of it. Oh no." He shook his head remembering the irrepressible agony of those endless days and nights. "The worst of it was imagining what was happening to you alone and unprotected. You, who I loved with my very life. Do you have any idea of what that was like for me? Do you?"

  She shook her head, crying now and scared, just scared, more scared when he was suddenly there, his hand reaching under her chin to force her face to his.

  "The simplest questions drove me mad! Mad!" His voice hardened with fury. "What would she do to eat? What would a man make her do to eat? The visions that followed—you lying naked and hurt and bloodied, raped not by one man but by ten—"

  "No! Stop it... stop it!" She struggled to pull away but he held her still. "It didn't happen... it didn't—"

  "But it did, Christina! It happened in my mind over and over again! I lived with that and damn you for it! Damn myself if I ever forgive you for it!"

  He held her small weight up, and she was shaking as tears fell to the floor from her closed lids. His hell was not over and he knew it would never be over, for now he had to live with her. And that would be anything but easy, for— "And God, even after all that, I still want you—"

  Her eyes opened in shock, confusion, a question, and he answered in a haunting whisper. "And I hate myself for it."

  Nothing hurt more than that single statement and if his purpose was retribution, he was successful; she might have chosen death easier. A silence followed, broken only by her tears. A silence that made him wish for another time and place when he could have pulled her into his arms and comforted her with a love he now disowned.

  A rush of horses suddenly sounded from down the street. Justin reluctantly tore his gaze from her, then stepped quickly to the window. He pushed open the glass and called down to an alarmed Brahms. "How many?"

  Brahms swung around. "Too many!"

  "Stay where you are. Alert the others and tell them to hold fire. I'll handle it from inside. Fetch a cloak," he said to her as he withdrew a long pistol from a holster hidden in his cape, still watching the street. Christina was frozen on the spot, for still dazed by the turbulence of emotions shaking her, she could not comprehend what was happening. "Move it. We won't have much time."

  Brahms could make no sense of this but he knew better than to ever question Justin's orders. If Justin thought he could handle a dozen or so redcoats alone, no doubt he would. He quickly signaled with the carriage lantern to hold fire. Too late. A shot ricocheted from down the street, then another and another. A man cried out, the sound buried in the clamoring of horses' hooves.

  Instantly Justin's voice thundered from above. "I ordered no fire!"

/>   "Aye, but—" He stopped as soldiers rushed up from down the street. No less than twenty men on mounts, with others behind them. They quickly surrounded the carriage and Brahms found himself looking at five pistols aimed at his head. Men scrambled off their mounts and within seconds the house, too, was surrounded. Soldiers raced up the front steps.

  Christina heard the shots from the other room. She suffered the only thought a mother could have and she rushed back into the nursery, thinking only of grabbing her child to hide under the bed. She flew through the door and immediately Justin placed his son in her arms. Little Justin partially woke from his sleep and felt the comfort of his mother. He half smiled and unbelievably fell back to sleep.

  Richard burst in the room. "Soldiers! Everywhere! What should I do?"

  "Do, Dr. Morrison?" Justin questioned all too calmly. "Why, do what any man would do seeing his wife and child abducted, but do make the charade good, my life will depend on it."

  Richard watched in frightened stupefaction as Justin stepped behind Christina and holding her tightly to himself, he raised his pistol to her head.

  Christina blanched white and pressed her child to her bosom. "And oh—" Justin suddenly remembered, "get those annulment papers to Boston as soon as possible."

  A half dozen soldiers burst through the front door with a frantic clamoring as they immediately started to search for Justin Phillips. Darrell was heard screaming murder, identifying himself and his connections—everyone who was anyone in court—all of whom were going to be notified of this outrage against Dr. Morrison's house.

  "Scream, Christina."

  She turned frightened and confused eyes to him.

  "Do as I say, sweetheart," he whispered.

  She screamed.

  "Dr. Morrison, please—add to the clamor."

  Richard suddenly made sense of it. He turned and raced down the hall to the stairs. "My wife! Help me! He's got my wife!"