by Cheryl Bolen
The old man stared at her a long moment, clearly unused to such apologies and evidently bemused by her defense of him. He nodded suddenly and hurried away to do her bidding.
“You know not what you’re doing, abetting that man,” Ben said, still unable to look at her.
“Shush,” she said.
Reassured that anyone as contrary as Ben was too mean to die, she turned her attention to Jean Paul. In truth, she had no idea what else to say to her cousin, for she was seeing a side of him she’d never known existed. Nor was she entirely certain she wanted to know what had occurred tonight.
Christian moved away as Jessie neared, but she noted the way he watched her so intently. He didn’t trust her, she knew. Well, she didn’t care. She ignored him as best she could, turning to peer down into the slumbering man’s face. Her eyes widened and her gaze immediately returned to Christian. The resemblance between them was uncanny. How, she wondered, could Jean Paul not know Christian was his flesh and blood? Deciding they were a pair of stubborn old fools—and that they deserved one another—she turned again to Jean Paul.
Placing the back of her hand to his nostrils, she felt his warm breath against her skin and sighed in relief. Hesitantly, fearful of what she might discover beneath, she lowered the blanket from his chest to examine the wound at his shoulder.
It didn’t appear nearly as bad as she’d expected—Ben’s was worse, in fact. Still, judging by the stain upon his shirt, he, too, had bled quite a lot. Taking in the wide expanse of his chest, she peered up at Christian, unwittingly comparing the two. Christian gave her a narrow-eyed look, and her cheeks heated. She glanced quickly away, though Lord help her, she could scarcely keep her thoughts from straying where they should not, even now.
She felt suffocated with him so near.
She examined Jean Paul’s wound, completely at a loss as to what to do next. It appeared as though Quincy had ministered to him, as well, and she was silently grateful to the old man, for she truly doubted she could have done the unpleasant task herself. The awful truth was that Jessie wasn’t even certain she’d have known how to remove the ball in the first place—nor did she have the strength of stomach for it. The very sight of so much blood made her dizzy and sick. She wasn’t precisely experienced in this sort of thing, after all. She peered up at Christian in exasperation, silently asking him what he wished of her, because she didn’t know what to do.
“He regained consciousness a short time ago,” Ben revealed, “for an instant.”
Peering over her shoulder at her cousin, Jessie nodded and turned to place a hand to Jean Paul’s forehead. “He’s quite warm,” she added softly. “I-I’m not certain what to do... when I was ill, my maid Hildie would sponge me with cool water. It seemed to help—at least I think it did.”
“Do what you can for him.” The tone of Christian’s voice, the gravity with which he spoke, gave Jessie the impression that he’d come as close to begging as he was able.
She peered up at him.
“That’s all I ask of you.”
Their gazes locked, held, and Jessie fought the urge to throw her arms about him, comfort him. There was so much pain evident in his deep blue eyes. “Christian... I—” Truly, she wanted to help—despite everything—but she just didn’t know how. She shook her head, not in negation, but in regret. And then anger flooded her once more, that he should put her in such a horrible predicament. She averted her gaze. “You should have abducted a physician in my stead! God’s truth, I know nothing of the healing arts!”
“You don’t understand,” Christian murmured low into her ear, and despite the gravity of the situation before them, a chill swept down her spine as his warm breath stirred her hair. “I—” His voice caught. “I had no choice, Jess.”
Jessie shivered. “Why not?” she asked, swallowing. She peered up at him. “Your fa—Jean Paul,” she amended hastily, furiously, glancing briefly about before speaking again. “He could die without a physician’s care—I don’t understand why you would risk that! Why?”
His blue eyes glinted strangely.
“Because,” he snapped. His jaw worked, and then suddenly his expression hardened. “Damn it, I simply cannot! Do what you can, or get the hell out of the way!”
Jessie worried her lower lip, torn between the desire to rail at him and the need to aid Ben and Jean Paul. She pretended an interest in Jean Paul’s frilly sleeve cuff, rubbing it absently between her fingertips. Lord help her, but outrage nearly won out. She dared not meet his gaze, lest he see the awful pain he’d once more managed to inflict upon her. She held her tongue, resigning finally to do all that she could, though it seemed insane not to procure medical aid from a knowledgeable physician. There was so much to lose.
“I’m certain you’ll at least do what you can for Ben,” he said, and his tone was almost an accusation.
Jessie met Ben’s sympathetic brown eyes over her shoulder. Her cousin seemed angered by Christian’s disregard of her, yet he said nothing. Out of deference? Loyalty? What?
Rising abruptly, Christian peered down at her, his fists clenched at his sides. He closed his eyes, and when he reopened them, his expression was shuttered; only his eyes revealed his pain. “Please, Jess...”
He couldn’t know what he was asking of her—what if she failed? She nodded, placing a hand to Jean Paul’s chest, taking comfort in his smooth, even breath.
Silence seemed to permeate the small cabin, and then suddenly Christian turned and walked away, his footsteps a hollow echo upon the planking.
How could he put her in such a dreadful position? How could he drag Ben into his sordid affairs—and yes, she was certain the blame for everything, everything that had transpired this night, fell to none other than Christian. Gritting her teeth, she set about the task of removing Jean Paul’s bloodied shirt.
“You love him don’t you, coz?”
Jessie shot Ben a wrathful glare. He was watching her intently, his knowing gaze as penetrating as Christian’s.
“As I love walking barefoot through snow,” she replied. But even as she spoke the words, her heart ached with the lie; she feared she did love the rotten knave.
Quincy reentered the room, lugging in a small black kettle filled with water and a handful of rags. The kettle, he set down before her, sloshing water onto the floor; the rags, he dropped beside her. “That’s it, mum.”
“Thank you,” she said woodenly.
The old man sighed wearily and stooped to speak softly to her. “I’ve seen worse, mum. He’s just all out from my removing the slug, is all. Ye watch an’ see iffen he don’t wake up soon.” He winked conspiratorially. “Now... his lordship, on the other hand...” His gaze locked with hers. “ ’Tis him what needs you, Miss Jessie.”
Jessie averted her gaze. “Thank you,” she murmured, flustered. For the first time, she thought to wonder how the old man knew her name.
How could he possibly think Christian needed her?
She listened to the protest of his bones as he stood with a groan and waited for his footsteps to fade as he left her, then she set out to do the best she was able, using the scalding water to cleanse both Ben’s and Jean Paul’s injuries. She ripped up the rags into small strips and bandaged their wounds, and later, once Ben had dozed and the water had cooled, she used it to sponge Jean Paul.
Only when her eyes began to droop did she leave off, curling beside Ben upon the floor. She lay there, with her head pillowed upon his chest, listening to the smooth, even rhythm of his breathing, and fell asleep just so.
Chapter 18
Christian didn’t quite expect the sight that greeted him as he entered the cabin—should have, perhaps, but didn’t. Yet, it didn’t surprise him either. It did make his gut turn to see Jessie curled so familiarly beside her cousin upon the floor.
God’s teeth, at least she was still wearing her cloak, he told himself, though it had ridden up her leg along with her gown, exposing her for God’s and just about anyone’s eyes. He strode pu
rposely toward them, muttering curses as he stooped to cover her with her cloak.
Unable to sleep, he’d come several times during the night; each time he’d found her awake, holding her damnable cousin’s hand, or gently sponging Jean Paul’s brow. And so he’d remained hidden in the shadows, observing unheeded, not trusting himself to remain in the same room with her. After a while, he’d not been able to bear even that, and he’d withdrawn to the solitude of his own cabin. Now he had to wonder over the wisdom of his decision.
It was obvious the woman was a dim-witted fool to be lying so near a half-nude, half-conscious man—cousin or not! What the devil was wrong with her? Didn’t she realize what she could do to a man with aught more than her presence? Christian might have been dead as a doornail and would have still scented her beside him; hers was a siren’s perfume that called to his senses more keenly than he cared to admit.
God’s bones, she’d nursed her cousin so tenderly that he’d found himself wishing it were him lying there wounded instead... with her soft hand stroking his so lovingly. What ailed him that he would crave her touch so interminably? Even to such a degree?
Why had he felt compelled to seek her out last night, when somewhere within, he had to have known she couldn’t help him.
Because he’d needed her.
The admission tormented him.
Stirring at last, Jean Paul groaned, and Christian turned as his father opened weary blue eyes to the morning light.
Behind him, Jessie roused at once; he was painfully aware of her every move, every gesture and sound. She hurried to Jean Paul’s side, ignoring him—or perhaps she did not see him—turning the full impact of her stunning emerald gaze upon his father instead.
“Mon Dieu... un ange,” Jean Paul murmured weakly. He blinked at Jessie, his eyes glassy with fever. “I am gone to heaven, ma petite cherie, yes?”
“You’ve been ill,” Jessie whispered, smiling sweetly down at him. She touched his brow and Christian shuddered. He found himself envying his father, as well; he couldn’t help himself.
“I thought you were on your deathbed, old man.”
Jean Paul turned to face him. “I’m much too stubborn to die, you realize.”
Christian flashed him a grin.
“Who is this divine ange, Hawk?”
Jean Paul seized Jessie’s hand, squeezing it. She snatched it away at once, so startled was she by the name he’d spoken.
Christian stiffened.
As she turned slowly toward him, he saw that her expression was one of shock and horror, and he braced himself for her anger.
“Nay!” she whispered, her face twisting. “It cannot be!”
Her gaze reverted to Jean Paul. Jean Paul wore a guarded expression now, his eyes shifting uneasily from her to Christian and then to Ben, who was now awake, watching. Jessie met Ben’s gaze then, her eyes searching his face for confirmation. And then her eyes narrowed as her gaze returned to Christian. She glared at him.
“What did you call him?” she asked Jean Paul, though her gaze never wavered from Christian’s.
“Not a bloody damned thing!” Christian thundered. Shoving away from the doorframe, he eyed Jean Paul wrathfully.
Jessie stood. “Well! No need to repeat yourself, sirrah,” she said with a glower for Jean Paul. “I believe I heard well enough the first time!” Her gaze met Christian’s. “Hawk!” she spat, as though the word were an oath. “I cannot believe I have been so dull-witted!” She spun about, going to the port window to gaze out into the harbor. “Good God, I should have known!” she whispered furiously, casting a wounded glance back at them.
For a long instant she was silent, and Christian hung his head back and closed his eyes.
She turned to the window.
Before her, the ocean was a blanket of molten silver beneath the cloudy heavens; Charlestown no more than a blur on the misty horizon—as were her emotions, for she couldn’t seem to feel them. “And Ben?” Jessie asked. “How long have you known?”
“From the first. I’m not sorry for it, coz.”
For a long moment, Jessie couldn’t bring herself to face them, much less respond to Ben’s confession. How well she understood, for she herself had tried in vain to feel regret for all that had passed between her and Christian.
Hawk.
The loathsome appellation twisted her heart, filled her with confusion and anger.
Fear.
Another lie.
She shook her head, the ache in her heart growing tangible now. How very, very, very stupid she’d been. She let her forehead strike against the pane and gave a wounded little laugh. She spun to face them abruptly.
“Of course you wouldn’t be, Ben,” she yielded bitterly. “He has a certain cunning about him, does he not?” She eyed Christian coldly “The ability to twist a person’s mind until that person sees him as all that is noble and good!”
She laughed derisively, though it was directed more at herself—for her stupidity and blind devotion. She gave a small cry of despair and said, “What a travesty of a man you are, Hawk! I—” Her voice broke. “God help me—I despise you!” Herself, as well! What an undeniable fool she was, for even now she wanted to fling herself into his arms, beg him to love her. God’s truth, if he only halfheartedly denied everything, she would believe in him even now... because fool that she was, she wanted to trust in him still... wanted to love him still.
She couldn’t help herself.
Christian’s eyes glittered cruelly, piercing her heart.
Her brows collided, the ache in her heart nearly strangling her. “Amos was right,” she spat, wanting to hurt him as he’d hurt her, “you are the lowest of low! A filthy, rotten scoundrel!” Blinded by unwanted tears, Jessie bolted past him, wrapping her cloak more securely about her as she fled the cabin.
He caught her in the corridor, seizing her by the arm and wrenching her about, dragging her in the opposite direction from which she’d intended to go. “Release me!” she demanded, struggling against him.
“I don’t think so, my love; you’re in no condition to go anywhere.”
“Unhand me!” she insisted, struggling in vain against his merciless grip.
Kicking open the door at the end of the passage, he dragged her within his cabin.
To Jessie’s shock, this room was immense, disorienting her momentarily. Beautifully furnished, it came complete with window dressings and exquisite paintings. The curtains were drawn over what appeared to be an enormous window, keeping all trace of sunlight from the room and leaving them bathed in shadows. The bed itself was a massive canopied platform, ornately carved with beautiful rice blooms and steps beside it. Dark blue silks, nearly black, cascaded from the canopy, fluttering wildly as he slammed the door behind them.
His face a mask of fury, he led her toward the monstrous bed, thrusting her down; the mattress was soft, cushioning her fall. She settled deep within it, parting her lips for a scream. He held his hand up abruptly, silencing her, for she thought he meant to strike her. He didn’t; he merely stood, glaring instead.
“Damn you,” he warned, “I don’t want to hear another bloody word from you!” Towering over her as he was, he suddenly appeared nothing like the man she’d come to love in England. She saw him in that instant for what he was: a ruthless outlaw against the Crown. How could she not have known before? All the signs... only she had been too blind and too stupid to recognize them all. His hair, his dress, his manner—everything about him!
Wide-eyed, Jessie scooted backward across the bed, glaring wrathfully at him, her anger making her bold, despite her fear. “Of course not,” she taunted, “Hawk! Heaven forbid that you should hear the truth about yourself. Lord knows, I should have listened to my brother! God’s truth, even Lord St. John would have been a better man to love than you! God, I loathe you!”
“Do you?” His expression turned suddenly colder. His eyes glittering, he bent over the bed and said, “Do you truly, ma pauvre petite?”
He reached out, snatching the cloak from her body. Jessie gasped as he hurled it across the room. Without warning, he caught her by the leg, jerking her down to the end of the bed, and then he leaned over her fully, trapping her between his arms, beneath him. He hovered above her, his breath ragged with anger, and his body taut. Panicked by the savage look in his eyes, she tried to wriggle free; he descended upon her at once, pinning her beneath his weight.
He caught her by the neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, his eyes glittering coldly as he tilted her face to meet his smoldering gaze.
“Do you truly despise me?” he asked softly, menacingly. He didn’t wait for her to respond; his lips descended swiftly—hot, branding, stifling in their intensity. Lord help her, but she couldn’t breathe—she thought she’d suffocate, his kiss was so unrelenting.
Her fingers grasped wildly at his back, closing about his queue. Tugging desperately, she tried to draw him away, twist free of his kiss, if only to catch her breath, but the uncompromising hand at the back of her neck prevented it. He squeezed her nape and she released his hair. She was well and duly trapped, yet even as she acknowledged the fact, she was suddenly so very desperate to hold him close to her.
It was like nothing Jessie had ever experienced. Gone was the gentle coercion Christian had exercised before. His lips were hard and punishing as they moved over hers, yet intoxicating nevertheless. She whimpered as his tongue masterfully pillaged her mouth. She struggled to rid herself of the warm, silky intrusion in her mouth, but his kiss only deepened in response.
He groaned, suddenly softening in his response to her as his other hand sought her breast. She was startled by the gentleness of his fingers as they caressed her. Her heart leapt, and she fought her treacherous body as it reacted to his touch. Gasping at the incredible sensations his shocking touch aroused, she tried to will herself to breathe. Her heartbeat quickened and her breath became more labored still.
She was mortified that he could affect her so, even as angry as she was, but she couldn’t help it, she sank into the mattress, reaching out to clutch him to her, returning his caresses; her fingers stroked his back.
