Cursing, Christian withdrew just a little, but the incredible tightness was his undoing. It seemed he’d waited for this moment a bloody lifetime.
A lifetime too long.
Crying out hoarsely, he lost control, surging down against her, tearing her maiden’s flesh in one fell swoop.
The fierceness of their joining drowned Jessie’s pleasure with such unbelievable pain that she instinctively recoiled with the shock of it. “Christian!’’ she cried as he began to thrust wildly. “Christian! Oh God!” But he would not stop. His movements were swift and hard and his handsome face contorted as though in pain.
Suddenly Jessie felt the heat again, and understood completely this deep joining of the flesh, for he’d somehow touched her all the way to her womb... and it seemed to ease the bittersweet ache so deep within her.
He filled her completely, her body, her heart, her soul.
His hands moved to her buttocks, lifting her slightly, as though to raise her more evenly for his thrusts, holding her immobile as he pumped savagely, furiously, within. Jessie tried to give back full measure, but he was too strong and too quick, and his thrusts too unbearably sweet, and then he stopped, crying out savagely, casting his head back to reveal the taut cords of his neck. He held her so tightly that she thought he would crush her as his body shook, violent spasms wracking his entire form. After an eternity, he fell listlessly atop her, though he supported the majority of his weight upon his arms. His cheek was to her bosom, his breath ragged and spent.
She wanted to demand that he continue, for she’d been on the brink of something wonderful, something exquisite, but the muscles of his jaw tautened against her breast, and he whispered fiercely, gravely, “Pardonnez-moi... pardonnez-moi... forgive me, Jessie.”
And then the warmth and the need were suddenly gone, replaced by an anguish and disappointment so great that Jessie could scarcely bear it. Her heart hammering without mercy, and anger surging through her veins, she shoved him from atop her. He went willingly enough, giving a low, tormented growl as he turned from her to face the door.
Frustrated, and too furious to care that he was angry once again, Jessie turned her back to him, facing the blasphemous window. As she stared out at the inky black sky and pale moon above the oak tree, ignoring the figures beneath, she felt more bereft than ever.
Chapter 22
The rap upon the door awoke her at once—or so Jessie thought, for when she opened her eyes she saw through the shadows that Christian had already readied it and was turning the knob. She wondered then if he’d slept at all.
Frantically she searched out the discarded sheet to cover her nakedness. Scarcely had she found it and shielded herself when the door opened. The light from a single lantern spilled into the cabin. It was McCarney. A frisson passed down Jessie’s spine as the man spoke.
“Hawk, ye asked me to tell ye when we’ve arrived at the mouth o’ the Ashley. We’ve come in as silently as the mist, as ye said we should—none ha’e seen us, I’m certain.”
Christian nodded. “Lower the boat... we’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Aye, sir, will do.”
When McCarney would have peered into the cabin, Christian slammed the door in his face. Turning to the bed, he saw that Jessie was sitting, facing him, the sheets pressed protectively to her bosom. His head pounded fiercely—his conscience worse. Unable to face her, he turned from her, seeking out his breeches in the darkness, not bothering to light a lantern.
The less light, the better, for they were not so far from land that they might not be discovered yet.
“Get up and get dressed.”
“I don’t understand... It is the middle of the night,” she protested.
“Just do it,” he directed. “Or I shall do it for you.”
She moved hesitantly from the bed, drawing the coverlet away, and came away with a torn fragment of her gown within her hand. Her face contorted, and his heart twisted. “Why must we go about in the dead of the night, when only thieves and rogues prowl about? I cannot bear to be part of such depravity!”
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.
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