Horsman, Jennifer

by Crimson Rapture

  He stopped with his hand on the door handle. "I'll not bother you again, Christina," he vowed softly.

  She was desperate, more desperate than she had ever been or ever would be. "Justin!" she cried through tears, "how... how could you do this to me?"

  He looked back. She sat on the bed, her knees tucked under her and her hands clasped as though with desperate prayer. The long hair, tousled and wild looking, covered her nakedness and her eyes were wide and misty, and filled with all the pain he brought. She never looked so beautiful.

  A hundred different replies came to his mind but they could all be reduced to the unfortunate fact that he loved her. Loved her so desperately at times—

  He did not finish the thought. He turned away and shut the door. She collapsed to the bed and with all the tears her young heart could afford.

  * * * * *

  Christina sat on the window seat in the nursery with her legs up and staring blankly on to the front lawns. The day after the storm showed small signs of winter's final rest, though she noticed none. By all accounts the winter had been unusually mild for Boston and already it was warming by degrees. No morning frost covered the expansive green lawns. The sun shone through scattered clouds, reflecting back the sky and trees and lawn in puddles; everywhere there were puddles.

  She was remembering idly how, as a young girl, and without the luxury of a looking glass, she used to stare into puddles after a rain and wonder if she was pretty or no. Her father caught her at it one day and harshly cautioned her against any such exercises in vanity. She never did it again.

  Her father... Strange how the older she got the more he changed in her mind's eye. Ever since Justin. She wondered if any man could stand alongside Justin and be favorably compared. Probably not.

  Little Justin's ball rolled to her and she absent-mindedly rolled it back. Justin laughed with delight and did it again. So the game began. Five minutes later he was bored and turned his attention back to his blocks. Christina returned to the window.

  A carriage was drawing down the lane. Another in Justin's endless stream of visitors and business associates. She wondered what other people did the day after a wedding. She thought again of the warmth of his arms, the caress of his lips, and her already red, swollen eyes filled again with the sting of yet more tears...

  No, she wouldn't cry anymore.

  The carriage splashed through puddles as the two chestnut bays pulled it round the circular drive and stopped. A man alighted with great difficulty and with no help from the driver. His back was to the house and, wearing a traditional travel cloak and top hat, he struggled to keep something or someone inside the carriage.

  How odd!

  The man had the same build as Richard and not for the first time she wondered why Richard had yet to answer any of her two dozen letters. Why didn't he send a letter with the annulment papers? At least a simple note? How she missed him, his friendship and intimacy, his easy laughter and quick smiles. How she needed him now.

  The man cursed in Richard's exact manner. She slowly stood up and holding her breath, watching for several seconds as the man, still with his back to her, gave a colorful lashing to the dispassionate driver.

  Then he suddenly turned.

  "Richard!" she cried out loud.

  * * * * *

  Justin sat at his desk, staring blankly at the pile of papers on top, unable to steer his thoughts from the night past. Christina's footsteps were heard racing down the stairs. A blur of pale cream muslin and red-gold hair raced past the open doors of his study. The front door opened and shut. He stood up and went to the window, where he confronted a scene that quite easily tore his heart in two.

  Christina ran into Richard's open arms. Richard lifted her off her feet for the embrace and, laughing, he swung her round and round. She was laughing and crying in her gladness. He finally set her to her feet but only to plant affectionate kisses on her upturned and obviously overjoyed face.

  Any other man and Justin would have had his pistol out. But Richard was another matter. What hurt, forcefully and quite suddenly, was seeing how happy another man could make her.

  He watched as Christina jumped up and down, clapping her hands with excitement and asking a hundred questions in a rush, gestures that all seemed so feminine and girlish and just her. Like two young children, the two could not move a step, the immediate things to say were so very pressing.

  Was any of what happened her fault? Had she asked for any of it? He had given her no choice from the start. Under the convenient guise of saving her life, he had first abducted her and then stolen her innocence. In a very real sense he forced her to fall in love with him.

  She had never wanted to love him.

  His mind tore swiftly over the events of the island that had caused her so much distress, culminating with Diego's death. He never had the chance to explain that to her. Did she know? Would it have made a difference?

  God knows the hell she put him through had indeed been a cruel and severe punishment. But he knew suddenly that his anger had risen from the pain of it, the pain of losing her, the pain of facing the blatant fact that she had been so desperate to escape him she had risked everything from the simplest security to her own virtue, even her very life.

  Christina's rush of questions would not stop. Richard tried to answer each one however briefly, until finally he held up his hand. "Please, Christina." He laughed. "We will have all day to catch up, but right now," he glanced back at the carriage, "there is someone dying to see you again."

  "Darrell!" she guessed excitedly.

  "No." A moment of sadness sprang in Richard's eyes. "Darrell will have naught to do with what he still refers to as 'colonial barbarians—traitors each', though," he smiled, "I did manage to convince him of a long summer visit before I left."

  "Oh good." She smiled. "But who then, if not Betty or Darrell?"

  "Before I let her out, I'll have you know that her very existence, the great effort and labor it took to get her here—including many close partings with my much treasured sanity—is, my dear," he kissed her, "but a small token of my undying affection for you."

  "Oh! Who is it?" She laughed.

  Richard went to the door of the carriage and opened it. Beauty, whose paws had been on the door, fell into a clumsy heap on the ground. Christina only stared, stared as one shocked by a visitor from another world. The huge dog scrambled back to her feet and, with pained yelps, she raced to her. Overwhelmed by Christina's long-sought-for presence, Beauty first ran circles around her but finally, just as Christina overcame her shock and bent to reach her hands to fur, Beauty jumped up and knocked her to her back.

  Justin made a quick dash out, knowing what damage a dog at least sixty pounds plus her weight could do, if even affectionately. He stopped mid-stride at the doorway. Christina lay flat on her back, laughing and crying again as the dog stood firmly over her, kissing her, its great tail wagging hard and fast enough to shake the whole of its body. Obviously as in love as loved.

  The scene brought him in an instant to a resolution. He would have her love again. If it took a year or five, he didn't care. He would have her love again.

  Laughing, Richard shook Justin's hand. "I assure you, I did not intend to put your wife in such a... ah, precarious position."

  "No doubt," Justin said generously, still taken by the scene but seeing the necessity of aiding Christina's effort to rise. He knelt down and called the dog to him. Beauty responded to his voice and obeyed. She sniffed him out, seemed suddenly agitated and excited by his scent, and immediately she began looking for its source. Justin thanked the wisdom of nature for giving the beasts such short memories.

  Richard had helped Christina to her feet, but Justin came to her side. "Are you all right?"

  Christina failed to notice his concern, the other emotion plain in his eyes. She nodded quickly as she called the dog back and then demanded an explanation from Richard.

  Richard got the worst of the wet grass off her clothes as
he explained. "The beast's recovery is actually owing less to my surgical skill than to its clumsy strength, all that fur. The bullet did a bit more than graze her chest but it missed by inches its heart. It took some doing but I managed to patch her up."

  For this, Richard received another long affectionate embrace from Christina. Justin suddenly understood jealousy's irrational and violent nature, something he never before had cause to know.

  Beauty discovered the arresting part of Justin's scent as Beau came lumbering up the hill. A fast friendship was established and the fun began.

  "My God, there are two of them!" Richard exclaimed with great shock. "I am sorry now. Even this house is not big enough for two."

  Christina hit him and giggled and then begged him to stay at least until the ball. Richard looked at Justin, who nodded.

  "Good," Richard said, "and now, let me see our little fellow! I've missed him so! He must be huge by now—"

  "Oh, wait till you see!" She rushed him toward the house, "He's almost walking and he talks all the time..."

  Justin suffered a montage of conflicting emotion, witnessing the easy intimacy of the two as they disappeared into the house. Irrational and violent for sure. He would stifle it with a drink. A very large drink.

  * * * * *

  The two secretaries sat at their desks in Mr. Lowell's outer office on the famed State Street lane. Mr. Ferguson and his apprenticed son busily went about their tasks, tasks comprised mostly of bookkeeping. Bookkeeping and more bookkeeping; for no single fortune multiplied faster than Mr. Lowell's.

  A gentleman walked in unannounced, followed by two young men obviously acting as some sort of foot soldiers. Mr. Ferguson's warning signal went up. The man's brisk walk and determined stare fitted perfectly with his poorly tailored blue coat and worn boots. He had closely cropped burnt red hair and he sported a neat goatee, and this taken with the intensity of his cold blue eyes, reminded him—for some reason—of a religious fanatic. But this was a government man, he knew. He glanced at the appointment book. Empty till two. Mr. Lowell was in conference with his captains. He would not want to be disturbed.

  "Yes?" Mr. Ferguson rose.

  "I'm here to see Mr. Lowell."

  "Have you an appointment?"

  "No, but I insist on seeing him anyway."

  "I'm afraid that's not possible. If you leave me your name and business, I'll set up an appointment as Mr. Lowell sees fit."

  "We'll proceed my way," he said forcefully, knowing that this was only Mr. Lowell's secretary. If he could not get through a secretary, what hope was there of success with Mr. Lowell himself? A little intimidation should do the trick. "Either you can announce me or I shall do the honor myself."

  "I see." Mr. Ferguson decided against calling the guards, not because he was intimidated; he wasn't. Only he didn't know this man's business and it seemed both pertinent and expedient to let Mr. Lowell decide for himself. "Your name?"

  "Jean Petiers."

  Mr. Ferguson rose and entered Mr. Lowell's elegant and certainly ostentatious office, interrupting the conference to announce Mr. Jean Petiers. "A government man, I think," he explained.

  "Hmmm," and Mr. Lowell decided in a pause, "Show him in. Just who I want to see—a government man. Give him a piece of my mind!"

  The eight captains all laughed at this, for each was intimately familiar with their employer's inclination for outspoken address, especially with anything having to do with politics.

  "Gentlemen," Mr. Lowell addressed the assembly of eight men, "Mr. Ferguson will show you where we keep that French brandy. If you'll excuse me."

  The captain arose amidst much talk and stepped through the wide hand-carved double doors into the outer office. Mr. Petiers, in turn, stepped inside. He ignored the lavish display of artifacts from around the world, the fine tapestry carpets, paintings, and drapes, the expensive French furnishings, the impressive collection of books behind glass cabinets, and turned his attention directly to Mr. Lowell.

  For the first time in Mr. Lowell's forty odd years, his wealth—so carefully displayed—seemed at first unable to protect him. The man had not even spoken yet and for some reason he felt he already lost the upper hand. An upper hand he had always enjoyed. An upper hand he would get back before this man left the room.

  "Yes, Mr. Petiers, is it?" Mr. Lowell said uncertainly, shifting his corpulent weight uneasily as he ran jeweled fingers over his balding head, always wishing for the time when wigs were in fashion. He then took to unconsciously fondling a solid gold paperweight as he studied the man. "What can I do for you?" He quickly changed his mind. "What is it you want?"

  The cold blue eyes did not waver. He went directly to the point. "We want Mr. Justin Phillips and we want you to get him for us."

  "You what? Mr. Phillips? Whatever do you mean?" came all at once. Then, "Who are you?"

  "An agent acting for the government." This was not entirely true. In truth he was acting for the French government, but Mr. Lowell need never know this. "You, of course, are, ah friends with the party in question?"

  "Why yes." Mr. Lowell heard the faintest hint of a French Canadian accent in the man's voice. Plenty of French Canadians around, some probably even worked for the government, but it bothered him for some reason. "Please, sir, you must explain yourself."

  "As you know, the Embargo Act has outlawed all American shipping."

  The very words Embargo Act triggered his famed explosive response. "I damn well do!" He slammed a closed fist to his desk. "And since you're a government agent, you can tell our Mr. Jefferson what a foolhardy act it is! I'm all for staying out of the war— any war—but to try and stop shipping! Well, I'll tell you, the city is already swinging into a severe depression. Unemployed sailors swarming the streets like packs of hungry rats, businesses failing—"

  "I am not here to discuss the wisdom of the new law, though your sentiments, sir, are noted," he calmly interrupted. "We all want to end the act and as soon as possible," he said significantly. "Which leads me to the point. The act will indeed force England and France to acknowledge American rights to the seas but only if smuggling can be stopped. And we both know the most successful venturer in this enterprise is—Mr. Phillips."

  Mr. Lowell did in fact know this and Justin's astounding abilities had not only earned his respect and admiration but had often nourished many profitable deals between himself and Mr. Phillips.

  What he wondered and what made no sense to him was that he, too, ran one of the most successful smuggling operations in the country. Did this man know of Mr. Phillips's smuggling but not his own?

  "Over four hundred American ships seized," Mr. Petiers continued, unable to read Mr. Lowell's response so far. "And only one of them Mr. Phillips's. The one in which he was captured and somehow—no doubt owing to English incompetence—escaped from. Mr. Phillips sees the Embargo Act only as yet another ripe opportunity to make a fortune. And we have already gathered the arresting information that he will be working this time with his own uncle—or father, as some say—Lord Winston Phillips. What we want you to do is to find out where and when Mr. Phillips's ships will receive the stolen goods and where and when his father will receive them in England. The shipping plans."

  Mr. Lowell stoically concealed his incredulity. He was not stupid; no one reached his lofty position of wealth and power on idle brains. Presently, his mind clicked into action and quickly reached a series of startling conclusions.

  "So, you want me to, ah, spy? On Mr. Phillips. And is there a reason I should do this? I mean— besides the obvious service, turning traitors in to our young republic?"

  "Besides the obvious service to your country," he now lowered his bait, "we will in turn leave your own prosperous smuggling activities uninhibited. Neither the navy nor the militia will interfere with your ships."

  So he did know. "Let me get this straight now." He stopped himself from laughing in this man's face outright. "You will let one smuggler go in order to catch another?"

 
"The lesser of two evils."

  "I see. And can you guarantee that my ships will be ah, 'uninhibited'."

  "Well, there are no guarantees in this world, but—"

  "Just as I thought," Mr. Lowell interrupted. He leaned back, folded his hands across his stomach where he stroked a shiny gold chain. "I beg to disagree. There are a few guarantees. One is that you are not a government agent, at least American agent. I know my fellow countrymen and I know," he said with the innocent self-righteousness shared by nearly all Americans, "we do not do business by back-stabbing each other. I'll wager you're French. Yes," he said to himself, "you must be. Secondly, I'll guarantee that if you do not leave this office in two minutes, you will certainly wish you had." He then rose and calmly moved to the doors. "Good day, Mr. Petiers."

  Jean Petiers's face had reddened in stages and he too quickly rose. "Not so fast, Mr. Lowell," he cautioned. "I wouldn't turn down our offer so quickly—"

  "Oh? Let me guess—now you're going to blackmail me? Perhaps you've discovered my mistresses—something of that sort?"

  That was exactly where he was headed.

  "Well, when you tell my wife, do me the favor and also inform her I'll be late for supper tonight, will you?"

  Mr. Petiers stiffly, though quickly, walked out the door into the outer office where his men followed him out. He had not expected such formidable difficulties with Mr. Lowell. No indeed. The failure would force him to take the next, more extreme measures. While he did not normally like to involve women in any spy activities, he was probably left no choice now. He would first try a house servant and in the event that failed—and he thought it might—he would have to involve Phillips's young wife.

  Before he resumed the meeting with his captains, Mr. Lowell called his secretary into his office. "Ferguson, send a message to Justin Phillips. No, wait—he's not in town right now. Get me that captain of his then—Jacob Robbins. Tell him it's important that I see him. Right away."