by Cheryl Bolen
Christian had no need of light to know that she was weeping now. He could hear the sorrow plainly in her voice, and he had the sudden urge to go to her, but then she spoke again and her anger kept him at bay.
“How can you do treason against the Crown, Christian? And my cousin—my God! I cannot fathom what would make Ben follow—”
“The likes of me?” The implication was clear. “Can you not?” Hearing only her grief for Ben’s sake, he taunted, “Poor, poor Ben. And so you believe I’ve corrupted him?”
Jessie turned away, unable to face him, but it was an unnecessary gesture, for the room was too dark to see more than shadows. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
“Well then, allow me to enlighten you, mon amour.”
Fastening his breeches, he came closer, until he could see her face more clearly—pallid in the light of the moon. “Like me, Ben is appalled by the lack of justice in The Colonies. But I cannot begin—nor have I the time or inclination—to give you all the arguments for what I do. I make no apologies for what I am, Jessamine.”
And yet, giving lie to his words, he sat beside her upon the bed. Prying the tattered gown she held from her hand, he stroked it meditatively between his own fingers, looking down upon it with genuine regret. “I’m sorry, Jessie... this should never have happened between us.”
He peered up at her then, dropping the tatter of her clothing in favor of a strand of her hair, rubbing it wistfully between his fingertips. Her eyes were such a brilliant green, luminous with unshed tears. For a long instant their gazes held, and he felt himself transported in time, to a sweeter moment he’d found beneath an old elm tree. He’d loved her even then, he realized, for she’d made him yearn to be that man she saw in him. Only that man didn’t exist. He almost looked away then, so much sorrow and regret did he feel... and still...
Ah, but Christ... even now, he felt the need to explain himself to her when never before had he even thought to doubt his motives, or himself. He tried to conceive of a way to explain... some way to make her comprehend.
Recalling a certain conversation they’d had once, so very long ago, he said, “Do you remember, Jessie... once, some time ago, we discussed at length Adelard of Bath’s questions on nature?”
She nodded and Christian lifted her chin gently with a finger, searching her eyes through the shadows. “What did he speak of? Being guided by reason? Of authority as a halter?” As he spoke, he never lifted his gaze from her shadowed face. “‘For what else should authority be called but a halter?’“ he recounted, his tone soft but impassioned as he spoke. She closed her eyes, refusing to see him, but he continued nonetheless, “‘Indeed, just as brute beasts are led by any kind of halter, and know neither where nor how they are led, and only follow the rope by which they are held, so the authority of your writers leads into danger not a few who have been seized and bound by animal credulity. For they do not know that reason has been given to each person, so that with it as the first judge he may distinguish between the true and the false. And whosoever does not know or neglects reason,’” he finished, “‘should deservedly be considered blind.’ Is that not what he wrote, Jess?”
A tear slipped through her lashes, silent and wretched, and it tugged at his heart.
She opened her eyes to him then.
“Well, I am not blind!” he told her with feeling, gripping her jaw a little harder to gain her full attention, though not hard enough to hurt her. “Nor am I an animal to be led blindly by a halter to my grave! I am a man, Jessie, and only a man, but with a heart and mind that tell me things are not as they should be. I merely do my part to change what I cannot abide—and I am not alone! Our number is great. Your cousin is only one of many, so do not fault him—nor myself—if you would, until you know and understand our grievances.”
She gripped his wrist firmly. “Then tell me,” she pleaded. “Explain them to me... Make me understand, because I do not!”
He let his hand drop from her face, but still she did not release his wrist. “I’ve not the time just now, but aye, I shall... and soon... just not now.”
Freeing himself from her grasp, Christian rose to stand before her. Jessie averted her gaze, staring at her hands. She clasped and unclasped them, holding them fast in her lap.
Christian shook his head, his jaw working. He couldn’t be weak, knew he couldn’t be weak, but he was. “Dress yourself. We are awaited and the hour grows late. Morning comes swiftly, and I would see you safe at Shadow Moss before the first light.”
She turned her face upward in question, her brows furrowing softly. “Shadow Moss?” She shook her head, uncomprehending.
“My home, Jessamine; ’tis where you’ll stay until such time as Ben heals... and then you’ll return to your uncle.”
“Oh.” Her gaze skidded away.
He studied the shadowed contours of her face a long moment, but there was no emotion discernible there, and he turned from her finally, going to the door, opening it. His hand on the knob, his back to her, he told her, “I shall await you above deck.”
Only silence answered him, but he knew she would come, and he left, closing the door softly behind him.
* * *
The double-storied plantation house was clearly visible from the Ashley. Its whitewashed brick facade reflected the moonlight, making it glow—a silent beacon to those who would navigate the foggy river. Enormous white columns buttressed the stately portico. It was a magnificent house, Jessie admitted to herself as she stood before the massive oak front door, stunningly so, but it seemed oddly unbalanced. In the darkness she couldn’t quite discern why.
No sooner had Christian opened the front door when he again seized hold of her arm, guiding her within. She would have protested save that she was rendered speechless upon entering the house. Nothing could have prepared her for the sight within. Certainly not the perfectly constructed classical architecture of its exterior.
The entrance hall was in a lamentable state at best. At least five hastily constructed scaffolds occupied the room. The ceilings and floors completely lacked decorative molding, and the walls were unsightly, bare of everything save for the gas lit lanterns that now gave the room light. There was not a single stick of furniture within the room.
Jessie could scarcely hide her stupefaction. She peered up at Christian with furrowed brows and saw that he was watching her intently, as though he anticipated her reaction and was bracing himself for the worst.
“It is under construction,” Ben told her when he saw the look that passed between them.
She lifted a brow. “So I’ve gathered.” She cast Ben an amused glance. Did he think she could not tell? Splotches of white paint garnished the wall that faced them, and wood pieces of all sizes and shapes littered the bare wood floor. This, she thought, was likely where Christian had procured the oak for Ben to fashion his walking cane from, and it struck her then that he should have been so attentive to such a small detail, and then again, one so grand. She swallowed, secretly moved that he should be so thoughtful of Ben. And she couldn’t help but recall the cheval glass he’d brought to her aboard the Mistral; she never had thanked him, nor had he ever mentioned it.
Her gaze returned to Ben, for it seemed to her he did, indeed, walk with a slight limp, though his leg was much improved. She watched her cousin hobble before them, trying to clear away the clutter from their path, and her heart felt burdened for him.
Christian left her to aid Ben, and no one spoke another word as they attempted to wade through the chaos of his home. Again to her surprise, Jessie was led up the spiral staircase to a fully furnished chamber decorated in much the same manner as the cabin she’d occupied upon the Mistral. Here, however, there were no stained-glass windows. Instead, there were six full-length panes, one set of them being a double door that led to what she assumed was a balcony.
She went to it, unlocking it and opening the doors. Leaving the lantern behind, upon a table, she stepped out into the black night, taking a deep,
calming breath, for it had not escaped her just where Christian had brought her.
For a long moment she merely stood, staring into the darkness, unsure of what to say or feel. He came up behind her, his footfalls soft and almost inaudible; she sensed more than heard him.
“I take it this is the master’s chamber?” she said after a moment.
“It is.”
“And where am I to sleep?” she dared to ask, her tone dauntless, though she wasn’t quite brave enough to look at him as yet.
“Here, of course,” he said firmly. “As was the case upon the ship, there is no other place but here. As Ben said, the house is still under construction—only the kitchens are complete as yet, the dining room, my office, and the entrance hall. Upstairs, there is this room, and one other, and Jean Paul and Ben will utilize the other. You shall sleep here.”
“And where will you sleep?” She braced herself for his answer. “Here?” she persisted, turning to face him. She shook her head. “If so, Christian, I’ll not stay with you! In case you’ve forgotten, you’ve already ruined my life once—I’ll not let you do so again!”
Christian sighed regretfully. “It’s too late for that, don’t you think?”
Her vision blurred at his insinuation. “You are heartless!” she choked out, refusing to cry.
“The truth is, Jessie, that you have no choice.” He sighed deeply, shaking his head. “You cannot leave Shadow Moss, as you well know. Everyone believes you’ve sailed to England with Ben. If you go back now, you’ll raise suspicions—not to mention the fact that your reputation would surely be in tatters then. After all, there were no other women aboard the Mistral.”
“Yes!” she hissed, her lips trembling in her fury. “Though what difference does it make if I go now, or wait until Ben heals? Either way my reputation will be ruined—and ’tis all your fault!” Her face twisted with grief. “Why couldn’t you have simply let me be? Why? You didn’t need me.”
Christian averted his gaze, his jaw working. “It seemed the thing to do at the time. I thought Ben and Jean Paul were injured more seriously than they were.” He met her eyes once more, his own sparkling with some emotion Jessie couldn’t quite decipher. He shuttered it quickly, masking it with sarcasm. “Aren’t you pleased I was wrong?”
Jessie shook her head, unable to speak, and he cast his head backward staring into the sky, closing his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said without opening his eyes. The rigid planes of his face were so taut, he seemed carved of stone. “I wish...” He shuddered and said slowly, “I wish I’d left you alone, but I did not. What we’ve done cannot be undone, much as I wish it.” His eyes flew open, piercing her with their blue intensity. “And now... much as I loathe to... I must insist you stay.”
“And will you build a gaol for me?”
His tone was unyielding. “Nay, Jessamine, but you will, indeed, remain here. The only way back to Charlestown is by boat—my boat,” he pointed out coldly, “and everyone already knows you are to stay as my guest, willing or nay. You might make the best of it. After last eve,” he added cruelly, “what have you left to lose?”
Jessie gasped in shock and outrage. Her palm cracked furiously against his shadowed jaw. “How dare you say such a thing to me?”
He caught her wrist as she retreated. His jaw taut, he clenched his teeth, rubbing his face with his free hand. His eyes flashed with anger. “Because,” he said, his eyes narrowing, “’tis the bloody damned truth!”
Jessie tried again to slap him with her free hand, but he caught that wrist too, encircling it with fingers of steel. “Once,” he allowed, “but never again, mon amour.” His whisper was frightening in its violent intensity. Had he shouted, Jessie doubted his words would have been more ominous. “Never think to strike me again.”
Their gazes clashed, warring—Jessie refused to cow before him this time—and then he suddenly released her, pivoted about on his boot heels, and left her upon the balcony.
Chapter 23
Only when she heard the door slam behind him did Jessie re-enter the room.
He’d left the lantern beside the bed. By the light of it, she removed her cloak and slippers. She was so weary by the time she put out the lamp and climbed into the bed that her lids seemed heavy as lead.
She’d gotten so little sleep during the night, for it seemed the moment she’d managed to close her eyes, they’d been awakened again by McCarney’s knock. She didn’t like the man—could scarcely bear his presence. There was something about him... something she couldn’t quite place—aside from the fact that he was violent when he had no cause to be. Before she could contemplate it further, she drifted to sleep.
When she awoke hours later, she was alone, sunshine filtering through the windows; dust motes danced in their brilliance. She turned to peer at the far side of the bed, and reached out to touch the cold sheets. As far as she could tell, he’d not slept there. Nor had he come to her. And then she spied her trunks against the far wall. Had he brought them? Or had he sent them, instead, unable to bear the sight of her?
God’s truth, she didn’t want to think about him. Rising at once, she washed her face in the small basin of water that had been supplied for her, then dressed, spying the green silk gown that was once again spread out over a chair. So... he’d come after all.
And then had left her alone.
As she’d asked him to.
It was evident he favored that particular gown, but Jessie couldn’t quite bring herself to wear it for him. Instead, she chose a soft lavender-dyed calico with white lace peeking out at the bodice. Without her petticoats, this particular gown was far too large, but it couldn’t be helped. It didn’t matter; what need for such propriety now? She brought her hair away from her face, securing it low upon her nape with a strip of lavender ribbon. And then, feeling an overwhelming craving for fresh air, she went in search of it.
In the broad light of day, it was perfectly discernible why the house seemed imbalanced, for the right wing, for some odd reason, was still under construction. The brick walls were complete, but in place of the roof, only the framework stood, like a wooden skeleton against the greenery behind and above it.
The extensive lawn boasted only overgrown weeds and felled trees, and then closer to the riverbank, golden-tipped marsh grass swayed with the breeze. The dodder grass seemed to grow as far as the eye could see. Lord, she missed England suddenly. Nay, not her brother or his wife, for they had made her life intolerable before banishing her to this godforsaken place, but she missed the comfort to be found in her family’s ancestral home, the sprawling, manicured gardens in which she so often took refuge. There was no order to this place, no order at all, and it made her feel strangely out of sorts.
Finally, finding repose amid a small cluster of trees, upon a half-buried, half-rotten log near the marsh’s edge, she sat and, for the first time since her banishment, allowed herself to grieve for all that was lost in her life. She had lost everything, and it was all his fault—Christian, or Hawk, or whatever the devil his name was! This instant she loathed him, despised him for every shred of her lost dignity. He’d taken her greatest possession without a single word of love, or even comfort. Her eyes blurred with tears she refused to shed. How could she have allowed it?
A flock of seagulls swooped silently toward the water in the distance, all of them flying out of formation. She watched them, curiously mesmerized by their graceful, airy dance. One sailed just above the surface of the water, so close that it seemed its flapping wings were skimming the water’s edge, and yet never did it so much as immerse a talon into the river. One bird led the flock above the trees, and the three behind made the ascent as though it were a dance they’d choreographed and rehearsed. In their wake, a small fish vaulted into the air. So quickly did it do so that by the time she turned in its direction, all that was left to show of its hasty retreat was a small circle of ripples that filtered its way past the waterlogged marsh grass and ultimately faded into nothingnes
s.
For a long while, Jessie sat in that nothingness, hearing nothing, seeing nothing. When suddenly she heard Christian’s voice calling her, so close, she started, and nearly panicked. God’s truth, but she had no wish to see the lying cur just now! Searching about desperately, she spotted the low limb upon an enormous oak behind her, and made her way quickly toward it. The trunk itself must have measured at least twenty feet in circumference, and massive, weepy limbs stretched groundward, grazing the leafy ground as though their groaning weight were somehow too much for the poor oak to bear. Its majestic stature reminded her of a protective old grandfather, arms outstretched and bending earthward to pluck even the tiniest of insects from the perils of the forest floor. Just now, it was she in need of shielding.
Starting at the lowest point, shoving the hem of her gown between her teeth, she scrambled upward upon the thick limb until she was perched safely out of sight. She was probably behaving foolishly, she knew, but she couldn’t bear to face Christian this moment. Sheltered here, she didn’t have to worry about it. Nope, she thought somewhat flippantly, and almost giggled at the absurdity of the situation. She would simply wait until he was gone and then hurry to the house; surely there was someplace in his accursed mausoleum where she could find sanctuary?
It was only another moment before Christian found his way to the decaying old log she’d been sitting upon only an instant before. As though by instinct, he stopped there, gazing out over the expanse of river, shading his eyes with a hand. Then, as though sensing her presence, he turned, and Jessie held her breath as he scanned the area. Cursing him under her breath, she watched his movements.
Good Lord, but even now he was much too handsome for her peace of mind. His hair caught the glow of afternoon sun, making it seem lighter than it actually was. He stood there a long instant and his profile mesmerized her, with his thick, lightly whiskered jaw, and those deep-set blue eyes that could liquefy her limbs with scarcely a glance.