Mattie looked up from where she sweated by the fire. “Captain home?” she asked, turning back to her long-handled spider and rearranging the vegetables with a wooden spoon.
Christiana nodded. “Aye. How much longer before dinner’s done?”
Mattie tossed a smile over her shoulder. “The bisque and pasties are ready to go. The rest will be done afore ye can get ‘em seated.”
Christiana had recovered enough to carry the first course into the house, built four years earlier, Mattie had told her—though she stubbornly refused to speak Felicia’s name, no matter how much Christiana had hinted. The wide central hall was flanked on one side by a dining room and salon that flowed into each other and which could be used as a ballroom. On the other side was a second, more finely appointed grand salon, reserved for important guests and formal occasions requiring a receiving room; behind it was Vallé’s library, sacrosanct territory where he was concerned and off limits unless an invitation was issued. Stairs that began in the entrance end of the hall led to a small landing and an upstairs hallway. Off of this branched a number of bedchambers, including hers and Vallé’s.
She set the tray on the sideboard, ladled the seafood bisque into three bowls, and set them on the table, along with a tray of hors d’oeuvres. She told herself it was the least she could do, to help where she could, and reminded herself that she was but a guest, that her stay here was only for a time. It frightened her to realize how quickly she’d come to think of the room upstairs as hers—and how often she caught herself eyeing the far door, listening for the sound of masculine footsteps and nearly wishing it would open. But Bryce was the brother who paid court to her, not the elusive man who occupied the suite beyond.
“Bonsoir.”
Both men spoke as one when they entered the dining room. Vallé, she was certain, did it from force of habit, years of ingrained manners surfacing then tamped down, refusing to give her nothing more than civility required.
Bryce offered her a smile and a compliment. “You look ravissant tonight, mademoiselle. Is Mattie planning no dessert, or did you merely wish to put her sweets to shame?”
Mattie prided herself on fanciful confectioneries, often in elaborate shapes but always so beautiful, it seemed a shame to eat them.
At Bryce’s words, Christiana blushed. Her tentative smile vanished the moment she saw his brother’s scowl.
Justin wanted to rail at her for being such a fool where Bryce was concerned, falling for the same honeyed words that had led countless girls astray. Not that his compliments didn’t have a ring of truth, he was reminded grimly. Thanks to Mattie’s cooking, Christiana was regaining the weight she’d lost, and moderate exercise had put some color back into her complexion. His brother usually accompanied her on her walks, his price for keeping his silence about their mother’s ring.
He did it to pique him, of course. Christiana wasn’t a wide-eyed innocent, nor was she a seasoned actress to play the reluctant virgin his brother found so fascinating. Justin figured that she’d understand Bryce’s game soon enough, but until then, he must continue to keep a watchful eye.
Dinner was surprisingly pleasant. Having eaten his fill, Justin slanted a look to the end of the table, where Christiana sat listening with rapt attention to another of Bryce’s stories, this one about the time the two of them had stowed away on one of their father’s ships. A wave of jealousy washed over him, and he felt the fierce urge to drown it in drink. Why, when she wore the clothes he’d had made for her, and the slippers and shoes he’d procured—why did she look at his brother as if he were the one who’d showered her with a wardrobe any woman would envy?
Not that Christiana had asked for it. Au contraire. She’d asked for nothing save brushes for her hair and teeth since she arrived. He nearly wished she would come to him, to ask for another gown or a shawl or some feminine frippery. Perhaps then he could override his conscience and break the promise he’d made to himself, to not touch her again until he freed Ian O’Malley.
He’d hoped to give her time to heal after her brush with death. Her moon cycle had come on its heels, and he’d waited in silence, as bemused by Mattie as Christiana, airing the laundry where they thought no one would see. Part of him was grateful that Christiana was not enceinte. Carrying a child would have consumed what she needed to rebuild her strength. So close to death, she had been, and he thanked God daily for her recovery. Her color was improved. She was regaining the weight she’d lost, and she was learning clever tricks to dress her hair, to give it the illusion of length. When he remembered how he used to help her with it, he shook his head to think that he had not seen through her disguise. If only he had known, everything would have been different. He’d not have her mark on his cheek, and he’d have remained close enough friends with her father, he would have watched her grow up and transform into the beauty she’d become.
He still burned to think of the passion they had shared in Charlotte Amalie and aboard the Raptor. He had hoped that she would come to him freely, not on the pretense of settling an old score between them but because she wanted him, too. He did not doubt that he could seduce her. To keep from it, he distanced himself, watching her by day and burning in the night, flooded by lust, staring at the door between them and willing himself not to throw it open, not even when she cried out in her sleep, haunted by the night terrors that had returned with her illness.
He forced himself to stay away when he wanted to take her in his arms and hold her to him. He sought to cool the fever in his blood that urged him to join with her and bring them both to the peak of pleasure and know again that sweet surcease. He wanted Christiana and she wanted nothing—nothing except to know how he planned to rescue O’Malley.
He couldn’t tell her. Not yet. If he did, he wouldn’t put it past her to find a way to go herself, since his way was proving too slow for her liking.
His refusal to discuss his plans had been the final break between them. Christiana had withdrawn from him almost completely, finding another Vallé to cajole, to flirt with and to beguile. She and Bryce were a pair, thought Justin, watching his brother, making the most of being seated closer to Christiana at the other end of the table. To give her credit, she made several attempts to draw him into their conversation but finally gave up when he refused to offer his opinion on the Spanish siege of Gibraltar.
Did she think that was what he wanted, to debate politics with her? Did she think a chess match between Spain and Britain, or any chess match, could capture his interest?
Only if she was the one playing him, and he would be playing for keeps.
It was all he could do to remain seated, pretending nonchalance while he watched his sober laughing brother flirt with his dark Irish lass. Her cheeks were fuller. Soft black tendrils of hair framed her animated face, having escaped her coiffure de dentelle. His fingers itched to remove the Alençon lace cap, to tunnel his fingers in the short dark locks and anchor her to the bed with his weight, just before he found the harbor of her body and plunged in deep enough, hard enough, long enough to drive his brother completely from her mind.
She would not laugh then. Non, thought Justin, gazing into his wine glass with hooded eyes rather than look at her and let her see what fools women made of men. Felicia had taught him that women weren’t to be trusted—and yet here he was, trying to convince himself that Christiana Delacorte was different, the exception to the rules he’d set for himself: no guilt, no commitment, no pain. She should know that he cared for her, when he’d worked so hard to see that she survived. He wanted her appreciation. He wanted her devotion. He wanted her to look at him the way she looked at Bryce, with humor curving her lips and a soft glow in her eyes.
Justin pinched the crystal stem and twirled it slowly, sliding his fingers up to grip the thin-blown bowl. It was an expensive piece, trimmed in gold, part of a set he’d taken from one of his father’s competitors to ensure that he’d inherited the same enemies. At that time of his life, he’d felt he had nothing important left
to lose, save for his brother, who’d always been their mother’s favorite. Bryce, the good son who’d stayed behind while he’d gone his prodigal way. Not by choice, at first, granted, but the truth was, for years after that, he’d never wanted to return and face his mother’s disappointment for leaving her alone in Ireland with his ailing grandmother. And when he’d finally made his own fortune, when he was finally ready to heal the breach between them, his mother went and died on him.
Not died, his dark angel whispered. Murdered, along with his father and Felicia en route to Valhalla.
The memory made his whole body tighten. Justin was duty-bound to seek those responsible for their deaths. Knowing they were killed while coming to him merely fed the flame of retribution. And now that the answer to his burning question—who raided his father’s ship—might be as close as Port Royal and Ian O’Malley, he could focus his mind no longer on the loss of his parents or the cruel lessons he’d learned on the fickleness of women.
All he could think of was Christiana. Christiana, who slept alone by choice, who looked at him with hurt in her eyes when she looked at him at all.
The crystal shattered in his hand, cutting a gash that ran with the wine, bleeding onto the snowy white linen tablecloth. Bryce swung his gaze about, his countenance beautiful and blank, not a clue as to what ran beneath the surface. His brother said nothing, just quirked the corner of his mouth, naming him the veriest fool. Christiana squeaked, her eyes widened in surprise, her perfect lips shaped in an “o” that merely tempted the devil in him, when he ignored the pain in his hand and thought of the pleasure her mouth could bring.
“Are you all right?” she whispered throatily, rushing to his aid with her napkin to staunch the tide. Enjoying this change from her usual aloofness, Justin let her be a ministering angel, suffering through her lecture on the importance of being more careful, while his gaze fastened on the tender swell of her bosom that rose above the boned stomacher of her silk overdress, knowing that underneath, no corset impeded access to her feminine charms.
He put it down to a youth spent in breeches. She had a continued disdain for women’s fashions and absolutely refused to be laced into stays. Knowing this, he’d selected the fabrics for her garments himself, dressed her as he wished to see her gowned, his way of making up for all the years she’d had to pose as a lad, wearing rough seaman’s jerseys and loose-legged pantaloons, her hair tied in a queue under a black knit cap. Those days, when O’Malley was on duty early, he’d been the one to help with “Christian’s” hair, working out rats with a wooden comb before tying the tail with a leather thong. Sometimes, for God knew what reason, when “Christian” wanted to look nice for Ian, Justin had loaned his own black silk ribbon, if only for the pleasure of hearing a gush of thanks, spoken in a flood of his native français.
Now that she was grown into womanhood, he wanted to hear her gush again, not soft exclamations over clothes or laughing commentaries on Jamaica’s kittens, but cries of delight, echoing in the night.
“There,” she said, nodding at the perfect knot she’d executed after stemming the crimson tide and wrapping her napkin around his hand. “That will do until Mattie can find me proper bandages. Permittez-moi?”
She didn’t wait for permission, of course, simply rose and swept out of the dining room, skirts swishing, the seductive sound of silk against silk that made him want her all the more.
Bryce watched her go as well, stroking his upper lip thoughtfully. “She has an enchanting air of innocence about her, don’t you think, for having such a checkered past? I’ve always found that element more stirring to my blood than any other, even when I know it’s merely an act.”
Justin felt the floor give way beneath him. He was more than familiar with Bryce’s tastes. When the real thing wasn’t available, his brother paid well for a pubescent whore to play the virgin. And he paid above that when he chose rougher play than the debauching of innocents, either real or imagined.
“What do you intend for her, Bryce?” he asked softly, turning his gaze from the far door to his brother, who sat staring pensively into his empty glass. “Is Christiana simply another prize to be won in the game you think we play? Like Felicia? Or do you care for her at all?”
Ah, now he had his brother’s full attention.
Bryce glared at Justin. His mouth tightened grimly. “Felicia was more than that, and you know it! She should have been mine,” he gritted. “You never wanted her. Admit it!”
Pain etched Bryce’s face, carving lines in its beauty. Justin wondered, had Bryce managed to seduce Felicia because of affection she bore for his handsome brother, or was it simply because Bryce was there and available for his proxy bride? Then again, perhaps they had been lovers for years, his brother and his bride, whom Justin had never touched, whom Bryce still mourned, along with the loss of their mother, numbing his guilt and drowning his sorrow in bourbon and brandy. And Justin, honoring a promise made to his mother to take care of Bryce, had tried his best to forget and forgive, but Christiana’s presence had them on contending sides once more, and the fragile truce they’d shared was broken once he’d spoken Felicia’s name—a name he had refused to utter three years gone, since learning of her betrayal.
“But I’m the one she married,” Justin reminded him grimly. “And I’ll not let you harm Christiana because of some misplaced notion of besting me.”
Bryce looked at him, hostile and hurting, and finally asked him outright: “You want her for yourself, then?”
The question was a two-edged blade. If he said no, there was nothing to stand in the way of Bryce’s pursuit. And if he said yes, he was equally certain that Bryce could twist his conscience and wring out any qualms he might have about seducing her. He’d done it before, with Felicia. Of course, Justin would never have known of their affair, except that another vessel had come upon the Gabrielle immediately after the raid. The boarding party discovered Felicia’s body, blood congealing from the vicious stab wounds in her breasts and from between her legs. They thought that she’d been raped, violently. Closer examination revealed only proof of her infidelity, the small speck of life that had died with her.
Bryce’s child.
Staring at the linen banding his hand, thinking of the one who’d put it there, Justin nodded.
Bryce’s hoot of laughter was punctuated by the bang of his fist upon the table. “What a joke!” he cried. “What irony! Mon Dieu, do you never lose? You’ve had her here for a week, at your mercy, living beneath your roof, sleeping a door away, and you haven’t bedded her?”
“That’s none of your damned business.”
“You haven’t,” he accused. “And don’t think I haven’t guessed. She’d hardly have a blush left in her once you tutored her, even if she could be persuaded to practice her lessons elsewhere. Non, what surprises me is that Capitaine Vallé has developed scruples. What a unique concept.” Bryce leaned toward him, his tone intimate. “Tell me, brother, does Christiana have any idea that you lust for her?”
Non, she didn’t. Upon learning that he wouldn’t confide his plans, they’d had a parting of their ways. Oh, they were polite, cautiously civil, steering clear of each other but for very different reasons. While she nursed her wounded pride, he was torn between soothing it and demanding that she swallow it and come to him, confess her love…and let him try to love her in return.
Damn Felicia, for teaching him to mistrust women, for making him shudder at the thought of commitment, for spoiling what might be the only chance he’d have at happiness, a home, a family.
“We…have not been on the best of terms,” Justin said slowly. “However, I’ve noticed that she does not seem to mind your company.”
“I do my best.” Bryce’s mouth curved in the devil’s own smile. It spoke his intentions as clearly as words: I plan to have her, too.
Justin held himself savagely in check until the urge to smash his good fist in Bryce’s pretty face had passed. “You’ll not hurt her,” he warned after glancing
at the door to make sure Christiana was still gone.
Bryce only smiled wider, white teeth flashing, a wolf in peacock’s clothing. “Hurt her? Why, brother, you do me an injustice. I have every intention of courting Christiana, with or without your permission.”
“I’ve noticed that she does not seem to mind your company….”
Christiana stood outside the door, a tin of herbal ointment in one hand and clean bandages in the other, trying to still her beating heart and wondering how she’d managed to botch things up so badly.
They were arguing over her.
Here she’d hoped to heal the breach between the brothers and instead, she’d proven to be a wedge, destined to drive in deeper, divide them even further.
Holy Mother.
What had happened to her plans? she wondered, half dazed.
They’d gone the same way as her dreams—astray. She’d reconciled herself to the facts that no man was perfect save Christ, and that Vallé was not the childhood hero she remembered. But Vallé retained enough good in him to have redeemed himself somewhat in her eyes. The night of the storm, when he’d seen her tears and called them rain, he could have scoffed, could have cut her down and left her dignity in shreds, but he didn’t. Later that night, when he could have easily bent her to his will and had his wicked way with her, he’d settled for a cuddle, albeit given grudgingly.
And then, in her sickness, he’d nursed her. No, more than that. Caleb let it slip that he’d burned candles after lights out, something he never, ever did. The act amazed the lad, she could tell, but then he was Anglican, with no inkling of the significance Vallé’s actions held.
Christiana hugged the bandages to her heart, still touched to the quick by the thought that Vallé had prayed for her. The memory gave her hope…until she saw how he continued to avoid her, even though she was looking healthier, thanks to Mattie’s cooking.
If only Vallé had been the one to declare his intentions, she might yet succeed in banishing Felicia’s ghost and reuniting the brothers. But, Jesus and Mary, to have Bryce announce his romantic interest in her when she looked upon him merely as a friend—it was beyond considering.
Touch the Wind: Touch the Wind Book 1 Page 12