Rebels, Rakes & Rogues

by Cheryl Bolen

  God help her, but she wanted to hurt him, as he’d hurt her!

  “If you will excuse me, my lord,” she said instead, her hands trembling. “I-I believe I shall leave you to your solitude—my apologies if I have intruded!” With halted breath, she stepped around him, but he caught her arm and drew her back.

  Jessie gave a cry of despair as he snatched the hood from her head. She snatched it back, her fingers tightening about the gold and silver cloth as a cruel smile touched his lips. His grip tightened upon her arm.

  “Release me!” She jerked her arm free, and lifted her skirts to bolt past him, but his hand shot out once more, seizing her wrist, jerking her backward.

  Her heart lurched. “Please,” she whispered, desperate to be away from him. “Let me go...”

  “Nay, damn you!”

  God help him, he couldn’t.

  And damn him, too, because he shouldn’t have to think of her every waking moment—because he shouldn’t want to touch her even now—because he shouldn’t know the compelling desire to hold her in his arms and kiss her senseless.

  He’d come to the garden for a minute’s solitude, away from her haunting green gaze, her ingenuous smiles, only to have that peace intruded upon by none other than his tormentor herself.

  Had she truly thought to hide behind that silly mask of hers? Foolish—one need only glimpse into those witch’s eyes to know her.

  Only a blind man could not see.

  “Damn you, Jessamine!” he swore again, drawing her to him and crushing her against him.

  She cried out but did not resist him at once.

  “Damn you, damn you... damn you,” he whispered, lowering his face to hers.

  “Don’t!” she cried, and tried to break free. “No!” He paused briefly to look into her eyes, and then his gaze fell to her mouth, lingering there.

  “Jess,” he said, lifting a dark curl that had fallen from her coif and stroking it between his thumb and forefinger.

  He put his finger to her mouth, caressing her lips, wandering to her cheek, stroking it softly as he held her gaze.

  Shivers coursed down her spine.

  Jessie wasn’t aware he released her until both of his hands tangled within her hair. His fingers curled about her neck, holding her steady for his kiss.

  Her shoulders slumped in defeat as his lips descended once more. “Nay,” she beseeched him, trying in vain to avert her face; he held her imprisoned. “Don’t... don’t... please...” She whimpered.

  “Jessie,” said with a groan, urging her to face him, forcing her to acknowledge him.

  The sound of his voice was low and tormented, undoing her completely, and then his mouth met hers with savage determination, coaxing her trembling lips. Like liquid fire, his tongue slipped within to brush hotly against her own, and a jolt of almost painful pleasure surged through her. His other hand slid down to splay across her back... pressing firmly, forcing her to acknowledge the rest of him as well.

  God help her, she responded wantonly to his tender coercion, letting him take whatever he would in that instant. He tasted of brandy, his mouth so warm and sweet with the taste that she could almost feel the burning liquor gliding down her own throat. He smelled of it, too... the scent heady to her senses. Her hands dropped helplessly at her sides, and the mask and glove slipped forgotten from her fingers.

  “Jessie,” he murmured. “Jessie, Jessie, Jessie…”

  She shook her head, some last vestige of her pride clinging to reality. What was wrong with her that she would weaken so? Even after all that he’d done to her? A sob caught in her throat as she acknowledged the truth. She was in love with him—would always be in love with him—regardless of what he was, regardless of what he’d done to her.

  And she loathed him for it—herself even more!

  With a strength she didn’t know she possessed, she broke free. “Get away from me!”

  With trembling fingers, she swiped his kiss from her lips. Glaring at him, she bent to pick up the discarded mask at her feet, overlooking the satin glove that lay just beneath it. He stepped forward, and she raised her face to look into his eyes. “Stay away from me!” Her eyes misted traitorously. He reached for her and she twisted away. “I loathe it when you touch me!”

  It was a blatant lie, and they both knew it.

  He arched a brow. “Really?”

  Her heart pounded.

  “It seemed to me you wanted that kiss as much as I,” he taunted. He reached out to place a finger beneath her chin, raising it slightly. “Don’t dare deny it, love.”

  She slapped his hand away from her face. “I am not your love!” she hissed. “You don’t know the meaning of the word!”

  He stiffened. “And you perchance do?”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw, and she backed away another pace, ready to bolt if he advanced upon her again, but he merely stood, glaring at her with that soul-searing gaze.

  Six months ago, that very same blaze in his eyes had broken her heart. Now it only infuriated her. And fury gave her the courage to ask the one thing she needed to know of him. “What sort of man are you, that you would accept payment for breaking a woman’s heart?”

  For a long instant he merely stared at her, his jaw working, and then he answered, “What kind of man is your brother that he would invite me to do so?”

  “I am not asking you to defend my brother’s honor!” she countered. “Merely your own! And I ask you again—what kind of man are you that you would take payment for such an ignoble deed? Certainly no gentleman!”

  Again he stiffened. “If you find me no gentleman, m’mselle... it is because you are no lady.”

  He laughed then, the sound harsh, and stooped to retrieve her glove from the ground. His accusation wrenched at her soul, for she very much feared it was so. He brought the glove to his lips for a heartless kiss, and tossed it angrily at her breast. Then he turned and walked away, leaving her to stare after him in mute rage.

  With trembling hands, she replaced her hood and mask, and after a moment followed him into the house, hoping he intended to leave, because she, as yet, could not. She cursed Ben to perdition for leaving her here at his mercy. Her heart continued to pound traitorously.

  She found Kathryn still on the dance floor, laughing gaily, and so she stood aside, watching the shimmering silk and satin dresses promenade by. After a moment—or it might have been a lifetime—Lord St. John appeared at her side. Silently she wished him to blazes, as well, but managed to give him a pleasant smile, nevertheless.

  “Jessamine, m’dear,” he crooned. “You look absolutely ravishing this eve.”

  She resisted the urge to kick him squarely in the shin. “Thank you, my lord,” she said sweetly. “However did you know it was me?” She extended her hand in greeting, and he brought it to his lips. Behind her mask, she recoiled at his touch. Only after everyone else in Charlestown had given her such a warm welcome had Lord St. John even bothered to call upon her, fickle fool that he was—not that she wished him to, mind you, but he seemed to flow with the tide of public opinion, wanting her one moment, despising her the next.

  Much like someone else she knew.

  Her gaze searched the room.

  “You,” he murmured, kissing her proffered hand, “are simply unmistakable, m’dear.”

  She sighed. “And why is that, my lord?” she asked through clenched teeth, thankful for the mask that concealed her expression of disgust.

  “Why, your eyes, of course,” he declared. “They are the rarest of jewels, you see...”

  At his declaration, Jessie fought to hold back the tears. Christian had once said the very same thing to her, and she wondered irately just how many women had been privy to such disingenuous drivel. How many others had Christian whispered such endearments to? The very thought left her bereft, furious too.

  Once again her gaze swept the room, this time meeting his over a snifter of brandy. He raised the glass in silent tribute. She could scarcely read his face from t
he distance, but she suspected he was congratulating her upon Lord St. John’s renewed quest for her hand. The man was becoming a boor in his pursuit of her. This week alone, St. John had called upon her near a dozen times, and each time she’d claimed an attack of the vapors. Nothing seemed to dissuade him. He simply came again, and again, and again.

  She averted her gaze, pretending interest in Lord St. John’s one-sided discussion. It was insufferable that both men who had caused her so much anguish all those many months ago in England should be here now, so many miles away, making her miserable once more. God was surely punishing her!

  “And where is Ben tonight?” St. John asked, his gaze turning with unconcealed disgust toward Christian. “Jessamine? Are you listening, m’dear?”

  Chapter 15

  “I beg your pardon, my lord,” she answered sweetly. “What did you say?”

  “I was inquiring over your cousin,” St. John said, silently cursing her. It had not escaped him the way their eyes continued to meet across the room—never mind that their expressions were full of veiled contempt. The woman could barely listen to him for his presence. How many times must he forfeit to Haukinge?

  “I really don’t know, my lord,” she replied, sounding bored.

  St. John gritted his teeth, wanting to smack her for her cut of him once again. He forced himself to remain calm and shook his head gravely. “Well... I daresay... I do hope he doesn’t find himself near the docks this eve...”

  He’d come to believe in her innocence, and that as much as anything had kept his tongue stilled about the incident, but with the way Haukinge watched her now, as though she were a coveted lost possession, he had to consider her part in the affair all over again. He smiled then, for what sweet justice it would be to woo Jessamine from under his very nose.

  “Oh? Why is that, my lord?”

  If she would only cooperate.

  Why, he pondered irately, was Haukinge not with his men tonight?

  His eyes widened with feigned disbelief as he bent to whisper low, “You mean to say you’ve not heard?” He glanced at Haukinge. The man was rabid, he could see. St. John could feel his tension, even with the distance between them. His gaze returned to Jessamine. Perhaps he wouldn’t lose this round after all...

  Perhaps he could use their mutual attraction to his advantage...

  Jessie shook her head, her brow furrowing.

  “Well, m’dear, they’ve seized two of Laurens’ vessels! It seems Daniel Moore—who is a very, very good friend of mine, incidentally—had reason to suspect him of smuggling. And that is not all! Moore has also received word that the infamous Hawk will attempt to smuggle in arms this very night—perhaps as we speak—to those rebel traitors he abets. Imagine that!”

  Watching her expression, he continued, “I daresay it would serve those devils right if each and every one was assigned the gibbet tonight!” Gazing at Jessie speculatively, he then added suggestively, “I do hope your cousin is wise enough to keep his distance from those rabble-rousers... and, of course, the docks... at least for the night...”

  Jessie’s heart began to race wildly.

  “Yes, of course, my lord! Ben would never!” She tried to mask her concern from St. John, smiling and saying, “In truth, I expect him any instant.”

  “Do you?” He smiled softly, his expression oddly triumphant.

  Jessie smiled wanly in return, though her blood ran cold. If Lord St. John spoke the truth... then Ben could very well be with them now—she just couldn’t bear to think of the price he might pay. Recalling the lights flickering at the dock, she remembered Ben’s rapt attention upon them... as though he were watching... a signal? She shuddered at the notion.

  “Very good,” St. John said, “Because I daresay Adger’s wharf is no place to be tonight.”

  Jessie followed the direction of his gaze to where Christian stood, and wondered at the fact that St. John made it a point to raise his chin in greeting, when she knew they despised one another. When St. John’s gaze returned to her, he was smiling victoriously, and another shudder seized her.

  “Dance with me, dear,” he entreated, giving her no opportunity to resist, for he took her hand and led her without delay amidst the dancers.

  Unwilling to create a scene, Jessie went, though her gaze strayed once more across the room.

  Christian watched them together, his fury barely contained.

  It was obvious by the expression on St. John’s face, and by the way the bastard’s gaze kept straying in his direction, that he had burned Jessie’s ears with information intended for him. Maggot. He smiled in disgust. Little did he know that he was investing in the wrong stratagem; Jessie would never willingly come near him—particularly after what had transpired between them in the garden. She’d studiously avoided his gaze ever since.

  Damn St. John.

  Damn her.

  Well, by damn, he felt compelled to oblige—if St. John wished to convey information through her treacherous lips, he was certainly willing to hear it. He moved purposefully through the dancers and bent to whisper in her ear.

  “Might I have this dance, m’mselle?”

  Startled, Jessie swung about to discover Christian behind her, smiling coldly, though for once, not at her, but at Lord St. John. St. John’s gaze, too, held some private, undecipherable message, and she shuddered at the feeling that came over her suddenly—as though somehow she were caught in the midst of some war raging between them.

  Releasing her, St. John smiled as he stepped away. “Of course,” he said, relenting much too easily.

  Jessie started to protest, but he gave her no opportunity. Without awaiting her assent, Christian swept her into his arms, leading her away from St. John.

  “I don’t believe I recall agreeing to dance with you, my lord,” she said evenly. “You’re rude, to say the least!”

  He smiled without mirth. “You flatter me, ma belle. Now, tell me... what were you discussing so privately with St. John.”

  “Of all the arrogant, vainglory—” She gnashed her teeth. “It was none of your concern!”

  “M’mselle,” he said, smiling down at her with all the devastating charm that had once been her downfall. Nothing about his tone or expression hinted at the threat she sensed in the affectionate address. “I will know this moment what you discussed,” he demanded, “or I promise you will sorely wish you’d stayed at home this eve instead of coming out to parade your”—his gaze swept down, lingering over her carefully exposed bosom— “many assets,” he finished. “I didn’t realize you had quite so much. You would do Eliza proud, I think.”

  “How dare you! Arrogant cur!” Jessie gritted her teeth and glared at him. “What makes you think our discourse was any of your concern, my lord?”

  “Let us simply call it mother wit, love.”

  Jessie’s eyes burned with contempt. “I asked you not to call me that!”

  Christian grinned a slow, unrepentant grin. “Pardonnez-moi, ma pauvre petite.”

  “Nay!” she spat. “I will not give you pardon!”

  He gave her a wintry little smile, but said nothing.

  A thought occurred to her suddenly; much as she despised the fact, she knew that Christian and Ben were acquainted...

  If Ben was, in truth, in danger, she would need someone’s aid. There was nothing she could accomplish alone, especially at this late hour of the night. The sad truth was that there was no one else she knew to ask for help save Christian. Still, she loathed to ask anything of him.

  “Very well!” she relented. “He said there was to be trouble on the docks this eve... that Ben should stay away.”

  “Is that what he said?” His gaze was as cold and unyielding as steel. “And?”

  “That the notorious Prince of Smugglers himself would be raiding the warehouse at Adger’s wharf! He—”

  Without warning, Christian seized her firmly by the arm, turning her about. She gave a small cry of pain and he released her at once. With a hand at her back,
he forced her off the dance floor, walking so close behind her that she could feel the heat of his body. “Do as I say,” he whispered for her ears alone, “or so help me God, you will live to regret it.”

  He led her directly toward their hostess, made a hasty apology for their early departure, and within moments, they were out the front door.

  “How dare you tell her I was ill!” She spun about to face him. “My God, you are a despicable liar, as well!”

  Christian shook her hard in warning. “Shut up! Shut up, and listen to me, before I lose what bloody little patience I’ve left! You’ll take my carriage and go directly home, tu me comprends? Go directly!” His tone brooked no argument. He waved a hand, signaling his driver.

  “I cannot go now!”

  He jerked her arm, warning her without words to be silent.

  She stumbled slightly, tripping over her skirts. “Oh! You! Give me one accursed reason I should do as you say—just one!”

  His lips curved contemptuously as he peered down into her face, his eyes shadowed. “Because, my love,” he said, “you care too bloody much for your cousin to see him hang, that’s why!” Shoving her into his carriage, he hailed the driver off, and then disappeared into the darkness, toward the docks.

  Jessie watched him go, fear gripping her heart.

  * * *

  “Jean Paul!” Christian’s angry summons slashed the darkness of the warehouse.

  “We found it, Hawk. Here!” As proof, Ben swung the lantern quickly over the wooden crates in question.

  Pistol in hand, Christian made his way quickly to where they stood.

  “The rest have already been hauled aboard the ship.”

  “Good—get the bloody things up and get out of here! St. John knows.”

  Christian belted his pistol to help with the crates, but no sooner had he seized up one end when there was a muffled hiss from across the room. Within seconds, a thunderous report ripped through the air. Jean Paul’s end of the crate crashed to the floor; he took a single step, floundered, and then collapsed upon the crate.