by Cheryl Bolen
A barmaid came to him and he shook his head, sending her away without a word. It seemed to him that everyone was staring in his direction, and he fidgeted uneasily under the scrutiny, ignoring them as best he could. Thankful for the dim light of the tavern, he seized up his full tankard, lifting it up to his lips, sipping hastily before stopping to glance once more over his shoulder at the door.
Filthy, the place was filthy!
He loathed the thought of drinking after all these stinking mouths—wouldn’t be surprised to find they didn’t even wash their cups. He eyed the tankard with unveiled disgust.
Again he glanced over his shoulder.
A dark-haired man entered and peered his way, nodding politely before turning away, but it was not the man he awaited, and he cursed softly as a nervous spasm shot through the cords of his neck. Wincing, he squeezed his eyes shut against the pain and set his tankard down, resisting the urge to slam it, for fear of drawing unwanted attention.
Where the devil was McCarney?
Haukinge—damn his hide to hell—he and Hawk were one in the same, and St. John intended to prove it, once and for all. By God! The blackguard had managed to make him look the fool one too many times, and he intended to make him pay, at long last. He gritted his teeth in frustration.
The problem was that Haukinge was much too cunning... his men too loyal—or terrified one.
Still, it was merely a matter of time before he exposed himself. Merely a matter of time... and St. John intended to be there when he did.
Damn it, where was McCarney?
“Ye look like a damned fool!” commented a voice at his back.
St. John leapt from his seat in startle. He swung about, dislodging his tricorne in the process. One hand flew out to catch it.
“About time! I’ve been waiting for over an hour! What have you brought for me, McCarney?” he demanded. “I expect you’ve summoned me for a better reason than to simply admire my dress!”
McCarney adjusted his own tricorne under St. John’s watchful eye, then lifted St. John’s tankard from the table, quaffing the last of his ale without bothering to ask.
“God’s teeth, man! What have you brought? I cannot stand this accursed place!” He glanced about. “Come outside before I suffocate in this filthy pigeonhole!”
With a brief glance about and a shrug, McCarney followed St. John from the tavern. Once outside, St. John made his way to where a groom held his mount, pausing a good fifteen feet away. There, he turned to McCarney expectantly.
“Ye want Hawk?”
Removing his tricorne, St. John crushed it to his chest, thumping an anxious finger against the brim of it. His lips slowly curved into a triumphant grin. “You know I do.”
McCarney paused long enough to create a moment of anticipation, and then revealed, “He’s raidin’ the warehouse at Adger’s wharf tonight... ten, or thereaboots. Seems ’is men mistakenly unloaded somethin’ of consequence late this morn... somethin’ that must be removed by first light... Do ye take my meaning?”
“I do,” St. John said. “How did you discover this?”
McCarney’s eyes gleamed by the light of the moon. “Stone. He’s roundin’ up men for the job even as we speak.”
St. John eyed the man suspiciously. “Why are you telling me this, McCarney? I know you’re in league with them.”
McCarney sneered. “You ain’t the only one with a grudge against the man. Anyhoo,” he added, “I’ve heard ye’re offerin’ coin—might as well do fer money what I’d like tae do fer free.”
St. John’s curiosity was piqued. “Aye? What’s he done to you, McCarney?”
McCarney eyed him balefully. “Not that ’tis any o’ yer concern, mind ye, but the jackal kilt my brother—ain’t aboot to forget a thing like that!”
St. John smiled, satisfied. “How touching... brotherly devotion... but tell me, how do I know you’re not making this up? I can’t say I trust you.”
“I don’t give a brass farthing if you don’t,” McCarney said, his lip curling. “I’ll get ’im on me own someday—tried once already, don’t ye doubt it.” He snorted and spat upon the ground at St. John’s feet.
“You’ll have to stand in line, I’m afraid,” St. John said, producing a silver piece.
McCarney shook his head. “That’s not enough,” he announced, eyeing the coin.
“But it’ll do,” St. John told him coolly. “’Tis a good thing for the crown there are still men like you about, McCarney, unfettered as you are by noble sentiments.” He flung the coin into the air and caught it, balancing the silver piece upon the tip of his thumb as he gauged McCarney’s expression. “Tenish, you say?”
“Aye,” McCarney answered, eyeing the coin greedily.
St. John laughed, flipped him the silver piece, then turned and walked away.
* * *
Jessie was grateful for Ben’s company, for the alley seemed strange. The lanterns, which were usually brightly lit at this hour, had for some odd reason all been gutted already. Only the full, luminous moon lit their path, and even that light was minimal, for the buildings along the narrow lane cast shadows that were untouched by the moon’s glow. She recalled the tales Aunt Claire had related to her last eve, and a shiver coursed down her spine, making her shudder.
Sensing her unease, and the cause for it, Ben thought to console her. “Mother worries for naught.”
“I don’t believe that, at all,” Jessie countered. “If what she says is true, we have much to fear with those turncoats wreaking havoc about. I wonder why the lights have been gutted,” she added uneasily.
Ben’s hold tightened upon her hand. “They might be dissenters, Jessie, but turncoats, nay.”
Jessie twisted her fingers out of his painful grip, flexing them. She rubbed her hand, peering up at him. “Dissenters? I rather doubt I would put it quite so mildly,” she told him. “Your mother told me they threatened to hang British officials! ’Tis treachery, plain and simple!”
“My mother embellishes. They wouldn’t have hung the man. They simply intended to make a point—that and nothing more.”
“By building gallows and hanging effigies of stamp collectors upon them? That, Ben Stone, is a threat if ever I have heard one. At any rate, why are you defending them?” She peered warily up at her fair-haired cousin. His golden locks reflected the moonlight and seemed to glow. In contrast, his sun-darkened face was almost invisible to her, so deeply was it cast in shadow. “You’re not in league with them, are you?”
“Me?” He chuckled. “Dear coz, do I look like a turncoat to you?”
She scrutinized him a long moment as they walked. In the darkness she couldn’t quite make out the color of his coat, but she knew it to be a midnight blue; only his crisp white stock stood out, reflecting the moonlight.
He and Christian had so much in common, she considered suddenly, for they both seemed to flaunt fashion. Nor was that all they had in common. Smiling wanly into the shadows, she recalled that Christian, too, had teased her as easily as Ben did now, and the memory brought a sting to her eyes.
“I suppose not,” she yielded at last, “though if Gadsden and Pinkney are in league with those anarchists, who is to say what a turncoat looks like? Certainly not I.”
For a long moment there was only silence between them; only the hollow sound of their echoing footsteps infiltrated it.
“True, coz,” Ben agreed after a moment, snatching up her hand once more. “Though I wonder how it is you know so much.”
“Your mother, of course,” Jessie replied, laughing. “She seems privy to every last morsel of gossip in this province. You should have heard what she learned today.” With a trace of laughter still evident in her voice, she disclosed in a mock whisper, “It seems the notorious Hawk is sailing Carolina waters. Imagine that! Do you know, Ben, that I have heard him referred to as the Prince of Smugglers? I can scarce imagine anyone wearing such an ignoble title so proudly!”
Ben’s hand tightened upon hers. “N
onsense. Hawk has no business here—Charlestown is not like Boston, where smugglers are made welcome and praised for their fearlessness. I wonder where my mother would have heard such a thing.”
Having arrived at their destination, Ben led her without delay onto the Sinclair veranda and halted there. The front door was open to the night. The sounds of festivity, laughter and music, drifted to them. Two men in Sinclair livery stood, each on opposite sides of the door, their expressions cast as though in stone.
Jessie was momentarily taken aback by the agitation in Ben’s tone. She studied the rigid planes of his face, wondering why he seemed so tense tonight. “Really, Ben... I’ve no idea where she might have heard—enough of that; come, let’s go in!” She turned, tugging at his hand, and started to enter the house, but Ben drew her back.
“The night is much too lovely to go inside as yet. Keep my company an instant longer.”
She stared at him through the shadows, not liking what she heard. “You aren’t coming in?”
“Nay, I”—he sighed, looked away, then back— “I can’t.”
“Oh, Ben! Kathryn will be so disappointed! How could you break her heart so!”
He turned away, staring in the direction of the harbor. “Give her my best regards,” he said somewhat absently.
Had Jessie not had her gaze centered on the harbor, as well, she might have missed the sudden flash of light that pierced the darkness. Even as she stared, there was another. And then another.
“I wonder what that was.”
“Hmmm?” Following the direction of her gaze, Ben assured her, “Nothing, I’m certain ’tis nothing, sweet coz.” He untied his stock and slid it off, looping it gently about her neck, drawing her close. “I’d best be going, at any rate. Go inside and enjoy yourself. Kathryn will be waiting, and I shall return to collect you soon.” With a wink, he added, “You’ll save me a dance, won’t you?” Jessie nodded, and he bent to kiss her forehead, abandoning the stock about her shoulders.
Leaving her with another wink, he leapt down from the veranda; shells crackled noisily as his boots lit upon the street. Jessie stood, watching with a frown as he slipped into the shadows. He’d left behind his snow white cravat, and his garments blended consummately with the night.
A feeling of unease swept through her as she watched him go, but she ignored it, telling herself there was nothing to be concerned with—perhaps he was meeting a woman...
Removing his cravat from her shoulders, she gazed at it pensively, and then deciding that must be so, she shoved it within her reticule and made her way past the servants, into the festively decorated hall.
Chapter 14
Moonlight spilled over the open veranda, lighting most of its length, but within the garden, beneath the oaks, there was only blissful darkness. It was precisely the haven Jessie sought, and she quickly made her way into the shadows, grateful for having escaped the crush without having gained anyone’s notice.
Beguiled by the peace of her surroundings, she stood gazing wistfully into the lantern lit gardens as the soothing strains of a familiar ballad drifted through the air. For an instant she was lost in reverie.
If only things had been different.
Perhaps she, too, would be within... dancing gaily under the dazzling chandeliers... in his arms... gazing lovingly into his remarkable eyes.
But it was not to be.
And she was no child to muse away her life on shattered dreams.
Sighing wistfully, she drew the domino mask from her head and stared at it. Most of the guests wore one in lieu of a full costume, for fine cloth was not so easily procured here. Her own was gold and silver to match her gown, and though it was truly a work of art, it looked rather dismal with its pouty mouth and exotic eyes. No matter, it matched her mood.
Lord Christian Haukinge was a contemptible blackguard, a swine, a lecher. He was every woman’s nightmare.
The problem was she loved him still.
The music faded and she came aware of another sound in the distance—the gentle rushing of water from a garden fountain. It was such a peaceful, lulling sound that when the music recommenced, a minuet, seemingly louder than before, it grated on her nerves and she went in search of the font. Following the well-worn garden path, she left behind the sounds of the masquerade and entered the serenity of the central garden. The font was there in the heart of the hedged enclosure, water spouting from its moonlit core, cascading into an illuminated pool. The scent of wild honeysuckle and roses wafted sweetly upon the air, filling her senses—making her forget, if only for the instant.
Hidden in shadow, Christian watched as she passed him. At the font, she removed her glove and like some bloody seductress, slid her bare fingers into the curtain of water. She sighed softly as she brought the moisture to her skin, cooling her wonderfully soft flesh.
Damn him, but he couldn’t seem to forget the feel of her.
Her performance was such a seductive one that he found himself at once aroused. And then again, he thought ruefully, it didn’t seem to take much. He needed only remember the day they’d lain together under the elm tree... the way she’d trembled at his touch... the expression upon her face as she’d come to completion...
It haunted him still.
He clenched his jaw and thrust the image away.
It served no purpose to remember now.
He glanced away, unable to bear the sight of her. The image of Ben Stone, the way he’d held her this afternoon, twisted his gut. He shouldn’t care—didn’t want to care—but devil hang him if he didn’t. Like metal to a lodestone, his gaze returned to the font, drawn despite his resolve against it. He watched her sway seductively against the cement monstrosity, her face upturned to the inky sky as she caressed her neck with the moistened tips of her fingers. Inexplicable anger surged within him. Did she know he was watching?
He thought it likely so—no doubt another devilish form of torture she’d devised. All evening she’d danced so light-heartedly, smiled so brilliantly with all her beaux—as though nothing in the world troubled her.
And aye, she’d managed to make his heart bleed all over again.
Before he could be tempted to go to her, he sat upon the ironwork bench, watching. God help him, he was drawn to her like a drunkard to wine, knowing she was no good for him, and yet... craving her with a need that was too painful to deny.
This time he would resist.
Closing her eyes, Jessie wished herself away from the smiling faces and blissful couples she envied so.
Though she was glad for them, it was much too difficult to watch their gaiety when every promise of happiness had vanished from her life. Lord, how she wished she’d never set eyes upon him again—more than that, even, she wished she’d never known him at all.
If only she’d known then what she knew now—that he was a contemptible blackguard who cared only for his own mean pleasures. He’d used her heartlessly, without so much as a thought for her feelings.
From the bottom of her soul she wished herself back in time... so that she might undo her mistakes—or, at the very least, prayed she would open her eyes and find it had all been a dreadful nightmare, that she would awaken and find herself capable of feeling again. Turning her face up to the stars, she squeezed her eyes shut and whispered a fervent, “I wish...”
“What is it you wish, m’mselle?” a painfully familiar voice inquired, startling her.
Her heart slammed against her ribs, and for a moment she was paralyzed with dread. Panicking at the thought of facing him again, she drew the domino mask over her face at once and spun around.
She had to search a moment to spy him.
He was seated upon the arm of an ornately carved bench, his arms crossed, his legs spread before him, linked casually at the ankles. He stood slowly, flinging a lit cheroot upon the ground, crushing it beneath his boot before coming forward out of the shadows, regarding her all the while with an expression of supreme boredom.
Please, Lord, she begged,
don’t let him realize it is me.
Her heart thundered painfully. She glanced about anxiously, hoping for a hasty retreat. God curse them, her feet refused to move. And then it was too late, he was standing before her.
His dark lashes fell momentarily, masking his eyes, and then he glanced up once more, meeting her gaze directly. “You were wishing for?”
Her nerves were near the breaking point, and his scrutiny managed to fragment her composure completely.
Should she lie? Should she run? The truth barreled out. “I-I was merely indulging in a whim, my lord. Woolgathering you might say.” She frowned behind her mask, hoping he wouldn’t read the truth behind her words.
His gaze left her as he considered her answer, and in that brief instant Jessie was able to observe him unheeded.
He was as handsome as ever—God curse him for that. Dressed in black, he blended consummately with the night. Like Ben. Unlike the other guests, however, he wore neither costume nor mask. She prayed he didn’t know it was her.
But when he looked at her again it was with narrowed eyes, and his cold, unmerciful gaze took her breath away. In that discomfiting instant, she knew... concealing her face from him was pointless. Her mask might have been made of glass, for all it seemed to conceal. His gaze converged upon the glove she’d removed from her hand, and then reverted to the font, lingering there an excruciating moment before returning to her.
His smile was chilling. “You make an alluring picture, my love,” he said at last. “Tell me... was that performance entirely for my benefit... or would you by chance be meeting a lover?”
His question stung like a slap to the face.
Her eyes misted traitorously at his accusation. “I-I was merely seeking air,” she told him, suppressing the urge to slap his wickedly handsome face. She wanted to kick at him, and rail at him, and might have given in to such childish ravings had her dress not restricted her so. She loathed these trappings, loathed the social order that forbade an open show of her anger.
