by Cheryl Bolen
A cool nod was Christian’s only greeting as he acknowledged his longtime adversary. His gaze swept over St. John, and his lips formed a snarl as he turned again to Westmoor. “The pleasure has already been mine, I fear.” Turning to St. John, he nodded.
“Haukinge,” he replied disingenuously, “so very good to see you again.”
“I’m certain,” Christian drawled.
Shrewdly assessing the situation at hand, St. John said, “Amos is telling the truth. Dear, lovely Jessamine has agreed to become my bride.”
When Christian looked disbelieving still, he announced, “We shall be departing two weeks hence for The Colonies and shall wed there. Unfortunately circumstances do not permit me a lengthier stay this voyage.” Casting Christian a very meaningful glance, he explained, “Much has gone awry in Charlestown, sir, much indeed—if you know what I mean—and I know you do.”
Turning to Amos, Christian ignored St. John’s carefully worded accusation. “I don’t believe it. She would have told me she was spoken for.”
“Now, Haukinge,” St. John interjected, his voice a sneer. He came forward to stand beside Amos. “Why should Westmoor lie to you? Why would I? I’m quite aware that you frequent”—the word was another insinuation—“Charlestown’s harbor. Wouldn’t it be a rather simple matter for you to investigate my personal affairs if you were so inclined?”
Christian’s gut twisted.
He had the lowering feeling St. John was telling him the truth. But why would Jessie have lied to him? Why would she have whispered of love when she knew full well she belonged to another man? Why had she so eagerly encouraged his suit? From what he knew of her, it didn’t make sense. Then again, when had anything between them ever made a lick of sense? He managed a slow nod. “I take it that Jessie knows?”
Amos smiled victoriously. “Well, of course she knows, Haukinge. How could she not know?”
Once again, the door creaked open and Jessie herself peered warily into the library.
“I knocked,” she told them apologetically, glancing first at St. John, then at Amos. “Jessie knows what?” she asked quickly, and then suddenly she turned and gasped in shock as she spied Christian. “I did not realize you were here, my lord!”
Christian merely stared, holding her gaze, not trusting himself to speak.
“Is something wrong?”
A shiver swept down Jessie’s spine as she scrutinized the occupants of the room. Christian’s expression told her, indubitably, that something was indeed very wrong. The look in his eyes and his rigid stance told her all she needed to know; he was raging mad.
Botheration!
She had no idea what Amos could have said to anger him so, but he looked positively feral, ready to pounce. She swept the room with her gaze and inquired once more, “What is it that Jessie knows?” When there was still no reply to her question, she demanded, “Will someone please speak!”
“The fact that you are to wed Lord St. John, of course.”
Jessie whirled on her brother. “But you said—”
“I remember well what I said,” he returned quickly, flicking Christian a glance. “But the charade must now come to an end, I fear. I never imagined Lord St. John would come to collect you so soon.”
Jessie’s stomach twisted. “Charade?” She swallowed convulsively. “What charade, Amos?”
“Quite simple, sister dear. Haukinge came to court you only because I paid him to, and now I believe he’s come to collect his due.”
Her heart lurched. Jessie turned to Christian; their gazes collided like fire and steel. “He paid you?” He didn’t reply and she knew. “My God!” Her fingers flew to her lips. “He paid you!”
Eyeing her coldly, Christian answered her question with one of his own. “Have you agreed to wed this man or not?”
Their gazes remained locked for a long, painful instant, and then Christian shook his head when Jessie couldn’t speak to deny it. Raking a hand through his hair, he hung his head backward, closing his eyes, and froze in that position when he heard Amos’ next words.
“I’m sorry, Mister Haukinge, but you really cannot have expected Jessamine would wed a bastard. Even if she would, it would be heinous of me to allow such a mesalliance.”
Christian’s head snapped upright, his eyes glittering coldly. He fixed his glare upon Jessie, though his question was directed at Amos. “What did you say?”
If he’d needed proof against her, he certainly had it now.
St. John’s eyes bulged with the declaration. His gaze sought Christian’s to verify the scandalous disclosure.
“I said,” Amos repeated, “that it would be heinous of me to allow—”
“Son of a—” Christian willed his temper to calm. “Did she tell you that?” He turned to Jessie, demanding, “Did you?”
Jessie opened her mouth to deny it, but she was still reeling from Amos’ revelation. Nay, she’d not told him! But how dare he be angry with her when it was he who had committed the dishonor here!
“Christ! Don’t answer,” he snarled. “I’ve had more than enough of your lies already! What a grand little actress you are! If ever you tire of playing the seductress, m’mselle, you might consider taking to the floorboards!”
Jessie felt as though she’d been slapped.
Her eyes misted, and her heart felt as though it would shatter into a thousand tiny shards. She tried desperately not to weep before him. Weeping would accomplish naught, she knew, and yet, even as she restrained herself, a sob seemed to form of its own will. “How could you?” she blurted miserably, “I... I never—”
“Shut up, Jessamine!” Amos exploded. Closing the distance between them, he seized her forcefully by the arm, gripping her hard in warning. “You’ve absolutely nothing to explain to this—this jackal!”
All eyes turned to Jessie, waiting.
She couldn’t speak. Amos’ grip warned her not to—nor could she seem to form the words.
Christian was the first to turn away.
Shaking his head with disgust, he clenched his jaw.
Those pale green eyes of hers had a way of piercing his very heart. Impossible not to feel when they were fixed upon him, and he didn’t want to feel just now. Outwardly his expression remained carefully bland, until he happened to spy the wounded expression she wore.
How could he ever have thought her pure?
Sweet? Caring? How dare she play the injured before him now? He didn’t give a bloody damn who else was present, he wasn’t about to leave this place without giving her a piece of his mind. And to think he’d nearly given her... everything—Christ, what a bloody fool he was! His eyes narrowed. “Tell me, my love, was it difficult to lie there beneath me and whisper words of love, knowing all the while you belonged to another man?” His jaw clenched.
Her face drained of color, but he felt no satisfaction, only pain more intensely.
“So much for love, eh?”
St. John’s face mottled with rage.
“Do not make intimations that can so easily be disproven, Haukinge.” Amos shot a warning glance to Jessie, urging her without words to remain silent while he attempted to acquit her name.
Smoldering with anger, Christian taunted, one brow lifted in contempt, “Can it now?” He turned to Jessie. “Can it, I wonder, my love?”
He was daring her to deny it.
Jessie’s face flamed at his mortifying disclosure. It seemed all eyes were upon her again, probing, questioning, gawking. God help her, but she could not deny Christian’s insinuation, for she was, in truth, no longer innocent. Only that didn’t seem to matter just now; she only felt the pain of his betrayal. She choked on a sob. “I... “
“You what? You do love me? Say it now, so that all may hear your tender declarations.”
Jessie stood silent, her heart breaking, her world collapsing around her. She thought she might swoon. Her palms dampened, and she wet her lips nervously, glancing at her brother, then at St. John, then again at Christian, not kno
wing to whom to turn. Tears welled in her eyes, blinding her to all but Christian’s spiteful glare. His furious expression cut her as surely as a knife. Her hands began to quiver, but she could not speak. She didn’t know what to say in response to all the hurtful things he was saying to her. Oh, God! She stifled a sob. Amos had paid him! And Christian, he’d accepted without compunction.
Her heart felt crushed beyond repair.
She couldn’t bear it. Bile surged in her throat. It was no wonder he believed she would betray him, for he had already betrayed her. Her heart felt as though it would rend in two. And God help her, for she loved him even still. He stared, waiting, inviting her to humiliate herself further by professing an unrequited love, for he couldn’t possibly love her in return.
Well, she wasn’t about to satisfy him.
“You cannot say it, can you? Now, when it matters most! Christ! How witless of me to have ever believed in you!” His eyes came alive with loathing, as he turned to St. John. “My congratulations to you, St. John, on your impending nuptials. You richly deserve one another!” He started toward her. “Keep your stinking money, Westmoor, your sister has already paid me in full.” His gaze locked with hers as he passed her, and he whispered for her ears alone, “Haven’t you, love?” He left then, his footsteps echoing behind him. He opened and slammed the front door, taking with him the promise of Jessie’s future.
If possible, St. John’s face reddened even more as he turned to face her. The whites of his eyes seemed to bulge from his face. “Is it true?”
Even without Christian’s presence, she could not answer.
“I shall not be the butt of every man’s joke!”
What could she say? Nothing. There was nothing she could possibly say in her own defense.
Silence permeated the room, damning her.
“By God!” St. John thundered. “I shall not have that jackal’s leavings! Not this day! Nor any other! Good day to the two of you!”
“Wait!” Amos demanded as St. John turned from him. “I can explain!”
St. John shook his head, not bothering to look Amos’ way. “Nay, sirrah, you cannot! I shall be departing Westmoor at once. A good life to you both!” And with that, he, too, left, slamming the door in his wake.
Jessie was certain the front door would split in two if it were slammed so violently even once more.
“Damn, damn, bloody damn!” Amos exploded. He glared at Jessie.
Left to themselves, the room became deathly quiet. Amos shook his powdered and peruked head, hatred and disgust leaping from his eyes.
Jessie felt anew the condemning sting of tears.
“Does he speak the truth, Jessamine? Tell me, now!”
For a long moment she couldn’t say a word, and then she nodded, her lips quivering. Her hands trembling, she wiped away the blur of tears from her eyes.
Amos gave her a contemptuous snort and shook his head. “Do you realize what you have done?” he asked gravely. “I cannot believe you would do this to me—to Westmoor!”
His expression was frightening, his tone cold and brutal in its sharpness. She recoiled as he came toward her, raising his hand in anger. He stopped abruptly, held it in midair, as tears pooled and spilled from her eyes. Silently they coursed down her cheeks, onto her lips. She let them, not bothering to wipe the humiliating wetness away. Looking directly into her brother’s vacant eyes, she realized then that there was nothing left of him there. They revealed not a trace of warmth.
“I thought he loved me,” she sobbed brokenly, tasting the salt of her grief. “I-I thought you—”
His hand slammed down upon the desk and he glared at her as though to blame her for the violent reaction she’d wrought from him. “You thought too much!”
“Why, Amos? Why would you do such a thing? I-I don’t understand. Why would Lord Chris—” She choked on the question, unable to finish.
“’Tis not so difficult to comprehend,” he replied balefully, his words clipped and cool. “For the good of Westmoor, Jessamine, I would sell my soul to the devil himself. And Lord Christian? That is quite the simple deduction as well; he’s the lowest of low, the scourge of society. It is only to be expected from the likes of him.”
Once again, silence fell. Only Jessie’s sobs broke the hush. She cried softly. “What will you do?”
Amos shrugged, his look cold, unreachable. “Precisely what I should have done to begin with. Send you to Charlestown, m’dear.”
She blanched. “But Lord St. John said—”
Amos eyed her coldly. “Have you no ears? Did you not hear? Nay, you’ll not go with St. John, but to Robert, instead!” He shook his head lamentably. “I can do nothing more for you here—you have seen to that well and good! Robert may fare better than I.”
He observed the silent tears as they spilled down her cheeks and was unmoved by them.
“You’ve disgraced us! You’ve dishonored my name. Eliza warned you that Haukinge was a debaucher of women—a penniless one at that!” he scoffed. “But nay, you would not listen. It was also made known to you that he would not stay overlong once he knew you came to him without a dowry. I can only say I told you so!”
Jessie held her breath momentarily.
Hope stirred despite the pain.
“He asked after my dowry?” Pride seemed a forgone thing suddenly. If Christian had asked after her dowry, he must have asked about matrimony. And then it dawned on her suddenly what Amos had said to him and hope surged. You really cannot have expected Jessamine would wed a bastard. “Amos, did he ask to marry me?”
“It never came to that. With no dowry, you are nothing to him, and I made that clear from the start—that you would be given none. He never bothered to ask.”
Jessie masked her face with her hands as an anguished sob burst forth.
Amos watched a moment longer, and then abandoned her, too. Just so easily, everything was gone.
Everything.
Part II
There is no greater sorrow than to be mindful
of the happy time in misery.
—Dante
Chapter 12
1763
Charlestown
“Sacrebleu! ‘Ave I grown two heads, mon ami?”
Christian seized up the crowbar, prying the lid from the largest crate. “You’ve still the one, old man, rest assured.” He eyed Jean Paul reproachfully. “Just the same, I strongly suggest you refrain from calling me by that name.”
Jean Paul’s brows rose. “Since when do you take offense to mon ami?”
Christian eyed him narrowly. “You know very well what I’m referring to.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he peered into the newly opened crate. “Damn it! Not in this one either.” He eyed Jean Paul pensively. “Are you certain it was loaded upon the Anastasie?”
“Quite certain,” Jean Paul answered. “Anyway, had they found their way to France, we would have heard by now. They must be here someplace, Hawk.”
“Christian.”
Jean Paul grimaced. “That reminds me,” he said, ignoring Christian’s reproof. “That cantankerous old fool you brought with you from England seems to ’ave taken offense to my sleeping in your room at the big house. I told him it was only till you returned, but non! Again and again he moves my things into the unfinished rooms—and it rained late last night!”
“Only a drizzle,” Christian said, grinning, though he vowed to speak with Quincy at the first opportunity.
“Mon cul! There was two inches of water on the floor where I slept—I swam instead! And this morn, my peruke was ruined!”
Christian chuckled. “Be damned if you need that lice-ridden headpiece, anyway.”
Jean Paul scowled at him. “You should wear yours more, I think! For someone who doesn’t wish attention called to himself, you have a curious way to show it.”
Jessie had oft eschewed her petticoats, as well, Christian couldn’t help but recall, and it occurred to him in that instant that he’d never thought to
question it. On the contrary, he’d understood completely. It was her one small rebellion against authority. His had merely been the first of many.
“Alright,” he relented, cursing himself for a bloody fool. Why couldn’t he seem to forget? “I’ll bring Quincy back to the city with me.” He hung his head back to relieve the tension in his neck, massaging the soreness, and then with a grimace of disgust, turned his attention to the crate before him. “Here, old man... give me a hand with this one.”
“What old man!” Jean Paul eyed him reproachfully, but complied at once. “You are disrespectful to your elders, mon fils.” Together they shoved the heavy crate out of the way. “I could be your—”
“Father?” Christian interjected, sobered by the turn of their conversation. He turned to face Jean Paul, one brow arched in challenge but Jean Paul said nothing. The two merely stared at one another, gazes locked, and then the moment passed and Jean Paul glanced away. Christian bent to retrieve the crowbar.
“I could be,” Jean Paul said suddenly, his declaration barely more than a whisper. Christian’s gaze snapped up, meeting his father’s bright blue eyes. Aye, he knew… but did Jean Paul? Could his mother have told him? Or had he simply come to her rescue, ready to accept a son not his own?
Jean Paul’s expression shuttered suddenly. “What happened to you in England?” he demanded. “That is what I wish to know!”
Christian turned away, his jaw working as he moved to the next crate. “Nothing I care to discuss.”
“I know you too well, Christian. Something has happened to make you so foul-tempered. Quelle barbe! I see you not for months—and now, when I should be glad to find you are not fodder for the fish, or hanging from the gallows, I can scarcely bear to look at you for that hideous scowl you wear!”
Christian grunted as he pried off the lid. “Then don’t look.”
