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.
“Halt in the name of the Crown!”
Two more shots rang out and the lantern Ben was clutching swung sharply through the darkness, plummeting downward. It shattered against the splintered wood, bursting into flames.
Chapter 16
Pacing the confines of her room, Jessie was torn between fury and fear—and then she heard the cry and fear won.
“Fire!”
A chill swept down her spine.
Racing to the window, she peered down below just in time to hear the man call out once more. “Fire! Fire at the warehouse!” He scurried down the street, bellowing at the top of his lungs; one by one, windows lit along the shadowy lane. Across the alley, a man came stumbling out in his nightwear. Sprinting into the middle of the street, he snatched off his nightcap as he ran, waving it wildly, hailing the crier, who was even now turning the corner to Church Street. More doors burst open. Within moments the narrow lane became congested with the curious and alarmed. A loud rapping at Jessie’s bedroom door startled her away from the window.
“Miss Jessie! Miss Jessie!” cried the voice behind it.
Jessie hurried to the door, thrusting it open to reveal a pudgy, sweet-faced black woman. “Miss Jessie!” the maid squawked. “They’s a man downstairs, waitin’ fo ya at the back doe—he says that Mastah Ben’s in trouble! He tole me to fetch you and only you, not Mastah Robert! He says you is the only one who can help him! Should I wake Mastah Robert?”
Fear clutched at Jessie’s heart; she shook her head. It might be Christian! “Not yet; let me see what the man wants.”
Leaving the door open for the maid to enter, Jessie turned to snatch up her cloak from the wooden peg upon the wall. Too distraught to worry over her appearance, she flung the cape over her shoulders and slipped her feet into the soft blue leather slippers she’d discarded earlier in the eve.
Immogene appeared scandalized. “Oh, Miss Jessie! Ain’t you gonna dress?”
“Once I’ve discovered what the man has to say, I shall.”
Jessie hurried past the fretting maid, into the corridor and down the elegantly carpeted stairwell.
“Well, then I’m comin’ with you!” Immogene hurried down after her, adding, “Ain’t fittin’ fo a lady to be runnin’ round wit’ nothin’ on but her nightie!”
“I’ll be fine,” Jessie swore. “Just see that Aunt Claire and Uncle Robert are told about the fire.”
“Fire?” Immogene halted behind her upon the stairwell. “Lawdy, Miss Jessie, what fire?”
“The warehouse—though I don’t know which one as yet! Please go tell them!”
Immogene turned, hurrying back up the stairs, and Jessie raced through the corridor, into the dark kitchen. Pushing open the back door, she found a man standing upon the back steps.
It wasn’t Christian.
The look he gave her made her wrap her cloak more firmly about her.
“Ma’am. Name’s McCarney,” he told her, his thick brogue made more prominent by drink. She could smell his fetid breath even from where she stood. “I’ve come ta fetch ye for Ben, lass. He’s hurt.”
“What do you mean hurt? How?”
The man’s gaze shifted nervously.
“Has it something to do with the fire?”
He seemed to hesitate a moment, then nodded. “Aye,” he yielded at once. “The fire.”
“Dear God!” Jessie exclaimed, turning and starting back into the house. “Please, Mister McCarney, wait while I fetch my Uncle.”
“Nae, lass!” Without warning, he seized her by the cloak, jerking her backward. He pressed a whiskey-steeped hand against her lips and nostrils.
Jessie choked, and opened her mouth to scream, but he shoved his fingers down her throat, gagging her as he forced her into the concealing shadows.
The
door slammed shut as she struggled free of him. Twisting away from him, she ran back toward the safety of the house, opening her mouth to cry out for help, but suddenly the sound of shattering glass rang in her ears. Something wet and sticky trickled down the side of her face. Jolted by the blow, she wavered and fell back into his arms. The last she heard was an indecipherable Irish curse.
“McCarney, you whoreson! What the blue blazes have you done to her?”
“She wouldna come,” he said without remorse. “She was aboot t’ go and tell her uncle—couldna let her do that, now could I?”
“You didn’t have to strike her so damned hard!” Taking Jessie into his arms, Christian shoved McCarney away.
“I dinna draw blood!”
“God’s teeth!” Christian snarled. “She’s dead to the world. What’d you hit her with?”
McCarney frowned. “Ma whiskey flask, and y’ can well believe I was no’ too pleased o’er wastin’ good whiskey, either—paid good coin fer it, damn it all!”
“You’d bloody well better pray she wakes up!”
“She’s breathin’, ain’t she?”
Christian eyed him speculatively as he placed Jessie gently down within the skiff. Her cloak was twisted wildly about her—damned, if she didn’t look like an Indian corpse being readied for a burning. Untying the cloak, he carefully unraveled it, and removed it.
“Christ!” he muttered, dropping the cloak over her at once to shield her from McCarney’s greedy eyes. He turned to fix McCarney with another glare as he came to his haunches beside her. “What the devil did you do, McCarney, take her from her goddamned bed?”
McCarney shook his head, his eyes flashing insolently. “Nay! She came t’ the door just so!”
Damn her, Christian cursed silently. “Let’s get out of here.” It was a wonder they’d escaped at all. He shook his head in disgust. Someone had cost him dearly this night—damned if he wouldn’t find out exactly who. First Jean Paul—Christ, if his father died...
He forced his thoughts away from that possibility.
And then Ben.
Now Jessie?
He couldn’t bear it.
Within moments the boat was launched and gliding soundlessly down the Cooper River, toward the shadowy harbor.
Jessie groaned, placing a hand to her head, and relief surged through him as he watched her revive. And then she lifted that beautiful green gaze to his, and he had the sudden urge to toss her overboard, so much revulsion was evident there.
“You!” she hissed, scooting away from him as though he were a slug in her bed. She drew herself up, glaring fiercely at him. “I should have known! God, I should have known! You’re a despicable liar, Mister Haukinge!”
Mister, was it?
He’d fallen that far from grace, had he?
Again she scooted backward, and stood, rocking the boat with her hysterics. Her cloak slid away, revealing the dark tips of her breasts through the pristine white nightrail she wore. His jaw tautened. He glanced over his shoulder, scowling. “Turn around, McCarney!” Turning again to Jessie, he apprised her, “Be still, or you’ll topple the boat.”
“You’re a liar!” she shrieked. “Where is Ben? God, he’s not even hurt, is he? What a paperskull I am! God—oh, God, where are you taking me?”
Christian frowned. Why wasn’t there more ruching, or lacing, or bows—or some other goddamned thing on the bodice of her nightrail to conceal her from view?
A memory besieged him; the day he’d pulled her from the fence... how he’d wanted to taste her then. He shuddered, thrusting the sultry image away. “Cover yourself, Jess.”
She didn’t seem to have heard him. “Where are you taking me!”
“Goddamn it, Jess!”
“Where are you taking me?”
He reached for the cloak that lay pooled at her feet. “Cover—”
Thinking he meant to grab her, she recoiled, shrieking her hands flailing as she lost her balance. The boat tipped precariously. Christian reached for her, snatching her down before she could tumble overboard. He brought her safely to her knees. She fought him, shoving wildly, and when that didn’t work, pounded his shoulder with the butt of her hand.
“Be still, damn it—you’ll topple the goddamned boat!”
Her eyes burned with green ire. “I can swim, Mister Haukinge—can you?”
A faint smile quirked at Christian’s lips. Impertinent wench! She ceased her struggles at last and glared at him as though she could will him to burst into flames—the irony of it all was that she could. He burned for her even now. “Aye,” he told her, “I can, though I’d prefer not to.”
“I don’t much care for what you prefer! I demand you return me to my home this very instant!”
Christian shook his head regretfully. “I cannot, I’m afraid.” He smiled slightly as he suggested, “Though you might always hitch a ride with the gators, if you like.”
“Gators!”
As Christian intended, she went perfectly still within his embrace. He nodded. “Out there.” He nodded toward the darkness.
She immediately searched the shadows. “You lie! I see no gators!”
“Ah,” he said, “but are you willing to chance it?”
He released her then, to prove his point.
For a moment she peered hard into the blackness, into the moon’s reflection upon the water, as though to discern whether or not he spoke the truth. There was an ominous splash in the distance, a swish of water, but nothing was discernible through the darkness. Assuming Jessie had heard it as well, he was unprepared for what she did next. He caught her once again as she lunged toward the water, forcing her flat upon her back. He had to lie full upon her in order to still her completely.
Anger clouding her judgment, Jessie fought him, pummeling him with her fists and shoving with all her strength. He seemed as heavy as a mountain—indestructible as one, as well—and the only thing she seemed to accomplish was to rock the boat. Feeling utterly helpless, she boxed his left ear with an open palm.
“Ayyee! Devil hang you, woman!”
Christian caught her wrists, pinning them ruthlessly to the planks.
“Damn you! Didn’t you hear me? There are gators in these waters! Do you really loathe me so much that you’d prefer their company to mine?”
“Yes!” she spat. “At least with them, I know what to expect! You, Mister Haukinge, are an impostor of the worst sort!”
Chapter 17
She didn’t know the half of it.
He felt the urge to lash back at her, to make her heart ache as much as his did, but he found he couldn’t bear to do that. There had been far too much grief already this night. He had no idea if Jean Paul even lived at the moment, he only knew that by now they would have reached the Mistral—that he and Jessie, too, must reach the Mistral. He desperately needed her help. “Jess...” God, he loathed the thought of telling her. “Ben was shot tonight.”
Her expression transformed before his eyes, from fiery abhorrence to liquid fear. “Shot?”
“Aye... and Jean Paul, too.”
“The same Jean Paul?”
Christian nodded slowly, his jaw taut. “Aye.”
“Is—” Her voice broke. She shook her head, choking on her words. “Ben...”
Christian knew instinctively what she was asking. “He was alive when last I saw him,” he told her, trying to be merciful, but truthful. “I’ve no idea how he fares just now.”
Jessie’s eyes glistened with tears as she stared up at him. His anguish deepened as he acknowledged her tormented expression. “If I release you,” he asked softly, averting his gaze momentarily, “will you promise to sit quietly?”
She nodded dumbly, and Christian removed himself from atop her at once. Comfort was there within his grasp—within her arms—but they were not alone, nor did he feel she’d welcome his embrace. She sat slowly, hugging her knees to her breast, staring numbly into the darkness. Unsure of what to say to ease her, Christian retrieved her cl
oak, tossing it about her shoulders.
“How?”
She couldn’t seem to bear to look at him.
“You’ll have to ask Ben,” he told her softly. “If he wishes you to know, he’ll tell you himself.”
Jessie nodded glumly, and Christian wondered if he was making a mistake involving her.
Could she be trusted?
Though she’d betrayed him once already, the truth was that he had little choice in the matter: Jean Paul needed someone to nurse him, Ben, too, and Jessie, inexperienced as she might be, was all that was available to him. He could trust no one else—sad state of affairs, but these were treacherous times.
He told himself she had every reason to keep silent... for Ben’s sake. And judging by the sorrowful look upon her face, he had nothing to fear; she cared for her cousin.
The question was... how much?
His gut twisted at the thought of the two of them together.
Night sounds filled the air. Frogs and crickets that only moments before had been silent croaked and trilled so loudly that their din overwhelmed all other sound.
Hugging herself against the crisp night air, Jessie turned to meet Christian’s gaze. He was watching her with an odd intensity, his dark hair gleaming in the moonlight. His jaw taut, and his mouth set determinedly. However much she loathed him, now was not the time for it, she decided.
Ben needed her.
“What of Jean Paul?”
“Alive,” he revealed with a shrug that attempted to conceal his pain. “I really don’t know.” With a glance toward McCarney, he shook his head and repeated softly, “I really don’t know.”
The Mistral was anchored offshore, far enough that there was no light to guide them, yet close enough that they dared not use a lantern for fear of discovery.
The faint glow of a single lantern illumined one of the portholes of the Mistral, and by that light, Jessie could make out the rope ladder that had been left for their use.
McCarney maneuvered the skiff alongside it, and with a curt nod and a wave of his hand, Christian motioned for her to climb it. She hesitated and he asked her, “Perhaps you’d like to remain with McCarney, instead?”
Three Redeemable Rogues Page 38
