Despite the way things had been left between them, Christian found himself eager to return to Shadow Moss—to see Jessie.
While her silence had not been promising, he realized, neither was it hopeless, and bearing that in mind, he made his way quickly up the staircase, his footfalls echoing throughout.
“M’lord!” Quincy exclaimed, appearing in the landing above, his face contorting miserably. Christian halted in his step, sensing something was wrong.
“’Tis Miss Jessie!”
Christian took a step upward, then another, staring expectantly at Quincy as he ascended the stairwell. The hair at his nape prickled.
“St. John was here, my lord.”
Christian’s jaw grew taut and his eyes began to burn with fury.
“He took her with him, my lord.”
Christian halted in his step. “What the hell do you mean he took her with him?”
“She didn’t go willingly,” he said, and then, as quickly as he was able, related all that he’d overheard.
“When?”
“Not long ago, m’lord—just before you arrived.”
Even before Quincy was finished speaking, Christian had turned and was bolting down the stairwell, racing for the docks.
“I hope you’re not overly attached to him,” St. John said, lifting an imperious brow as he rowed. “I cannot simply allow him to go free.”
Cold prickles swept down Jessie’s spine.
She knew precisely to whom he was referring, but asked nevertheless, “Him?”
His smile was forbearing. “Hawk, of course.”
“But you swore you’d leave him be if I returned with you, my lord—you gave me your word! Would you break it now?”
“I know what I said, Jessamine... but it is out of my hands, m’dear. Hawk is a traitor to the Crown and he’ll hang for his crimes. ’Tis as simple as that—Moore would never set him free. Certainly not now that he has proof against him at last.” He shrugged noncommittally. “Ben, on the other hand, is another matter...”
Jessie resisted the sudden uncontrollable urge to fly at him and thrust him overboard—lying, misbegotten cur that he was! She wanted to tell him that Christian had proof of his innocence—at least this time he did—but what if St. John had already named him as Hawk? She had to know. “Have you accused him as yet?”
“Not as yet,” he admitted. “There was no one to come forward till now... not with Hawk free to wreak his vengeance upon them. Now, of course, with him in gaol, it shouldn’t take much to convince McCarney to step forward. He wants revenge, you see, because Hawk killed his brother. Still”—he smiled coldly—”you must take comfort in the fact that your dear cousin is free... for now,” he added in cautioning tones. “Though perhaps he shan’t be for long if you don’t prove worthy of my troubles. Perhaps you should remember that,” he taunted, his face flushing slightly. “Perhaps you should remember that tonight.”
Jessie shuddered with revulsion. Panic burst through her, for in that instant she knew Ben would never be safe. St. John had lied to her. And Christian—she couldn’t bear to stand aside and see him hanged. Well, she wasn’t about to! She had to warn them. Her mind raced. But how?
She glanced around wildly, and to her surprise, she spotted a small boat approaching swiftly from behind them. Her heart leapt, for somehow she knew it was Christian. Her gaze reverted to St. John, and she wondered if he’d spied the skiff as well, but when he continued with his crowing, she decided he was too full of self-admiration to be aware of anything but his own voice as he spoke. If only she could catch him unawares... jump into the river... but her clothing would make it impossible to out swim him should he decide to come after her...
She worried her lip, for jumping seemed her only option. She forced herself to inhale slowly and calm her ragged nerves.
One, two, three, four, she counted silently, trying desperately to quell her fears.
Five. Six. Seven.
Could she do this? Lord help her, it didn’t seem to be working. She wasn’t calm at all. In truth, she felt weak with fright. Would Christian reach her in time? Would St. John come after her?
Eight. Nine. Ten.
Perhaps there was no need to jump, after all, she reconsidered, for she had every faith in Christian. Hazarding another glance behind her, she drew in a deep breath and released it, for it seemed he would never close the distance. And then, her gaze reverting to St. John, she happened to spy the gleaming silver of his pistol beneath his frock coat, and she froze at the sight of it. God help her, she knew instinctively he would kill Christian if given the chance, his hate was so deep. It was there in his eyes. Christian would reach them, she was certain, but somehow... before then... she had to seize the weapon from St. John...
Recalling that night so long ago when Christian had been so concerned that she would tip the boat, she lit upon an idea. Not daring to spare the time to think it through properly, she stood abruptly and screamed like a shrew, hurling herself at St. John, scrambling toward him, feigning hysteria. “Oh, my Lord! Something... there’s something in the boat!”
Snatching at his leg frantically, she attempted to stand.
The small boat tipped precariously, and St. John bellowed in fear, his face paling. “Nay! Jessamine, do not—be still! You’ll topple the boat!” Jessie ignored him and threw herself at him once more, as though seized by panic. “Nay, but I cannot swim!” He threw up his hands to gain his balance. Catching him unawares, she suddenly snatched away his pistol, and St. John, comprehending too late her ploy, lunged at her to retrieve it. Heaven help her, but Jessie, refused to give him the opportunity to murder Christian in cold blood! She tossed it within the water, but he seemed not to notice, for he continued to struggle. The boat rocked treacherously as she fought him with every ounce of strength she possessed.
Christian’s heart lurched as he recognized Jessie’s petrified screams. Rowing furiously, he turned to watch from his own skiff as she lunged at St. John, then toppled backward into the small boat with St. John grappling over her. For an instant his blood ran cold as he stared at their struggling forms behind him, and then suddenly their boat pitched violently and overturned, toppling them both into the river.
There was no time.
“No!” he exploded, rowing faster, losing precious seconds as he turned again to watch the boat drift away from the struggling pair. “Jessie! Noooo!” All he could think of was that by some sordid twist of fate, he would lose her now—and God help him, he could not bear it!
Sputtering and kicking wildly, Jessie tried to free herself from St. John’s fatal grip. He wouldn’t release her! Try as she might, she couldn’t break free.
Dear God, she was going to die here!
She wasn’t going to make it!
Her sodden skirts weighed her down... down... and with sudden inspiration, she took a deep breath, allowing herself to sink with them. Her ploy worked. St. John released her at once, catapulting desperately toward the rippling surface, freeing her.
Relief flooded her—short-lived, for as she tried to resurface, the impossibility of it struck her like a blow to her breast. She panicked. And still her skirts carried her down ... down... down . . .
Nay! She was going to die, and there was nothing she could do about it!
But nay—she refused to!
God help her, but she refused to die! Her breast ached terribly with her pent-up breath, but she remained composed enough to know that she needed to dispose of her sopping skirts. Tearing wildly at her garments, she struggled free of them. It seemed to take a lifetime, but with that done, she shot back toward the surface, desperate for even a small breath of sweet, lifesaving air.
Yet the light was too far now! The air, too far! And her lungs felt near to bursting.
Breaking through the surface suddenly, she sucked in a desperate breath, but it was immediately stolen from her when St. John once again seized her by the shoulders, climbing atop her, pushing her down, struggling to remain aloft at h
er expense.
His words came back to her then: Nay, Jessamine... I cannot swim.
Oh, dear God! What cruel fate! She and St. John were going to die here together! She would breathe her last without ever having told Christian that she loved him first and foremost, that nothing else mattered as long as they were together, that she did not blame him for what he claimed to have done to her father.
Oh God, Christian, I love you... I love you so very much, her heart cried out, but she couldn’t speak the words, for her lungs were burning for air... and she was entombed in ice-cold water...
“Son of a bitch!” Christian roared. “Get off her, bloody whoreson!”
Christ! He was so close now, so close—yet not nearly close enough! And then he spotted the gator, gliding swiftly through the water, converging upon its struggling prey, and he lost priceless seconds over the shock of the sight.
His blood pounding through his temples, he began to row more furiously still, shouting warnings, cursing the beast at the top of his lungs. Jessie and St. John were so involved in the effort to stay afloat that he doubted either of them heard a word or sensed the danger. His gut twisting, he realized there was no way he could make it in time; but his heart would not surrender. A strangled, keening sound escaped him as he rowed, hoping against hope, watching with pent-up breath as the gator sped in Jessie’s direction.
God help him, he had the sudden urge to stand and hurl the oar at the beast, but that would be the worst thing he could do, he knew, for if by chance the gator chose St. John instead, he would need both oars to reach Jessie still.
“Ah, God,” he prayed aloud, casting his head back as he rowed, “she doesn’t deserve to die! If You’ve never listened to me before... please... please... please... listen to me now.”
Even as he spoke, the enormous beast submerged, and Christian watched over his shoulder, fear gripping him as never before. An instant later, both Jessie’s and St. John’s heads jerked beneath the surface, and then an explosion of bubbles ripped the water as the river churned violently against the deadly struggle.
There was little blood, for the gator’s kill was a clean one. Clamping its jaws about its victim, it thrashed over, and over, and over again, beneath the water, until every last trace of air emptied from the victim’s lungs. Christian could little bear it were that fate Jessie’s.
Neither St. John’s nor Jessie’s head resurfaced, and Christian rowed toward them with all his might, muttering angry curses at God, at St. John, at Jessie for going with the bastard to begin with!
His relief was tangible as he spied Jessie’s glistening locks rising from the silvery water, at last. Her face upturned, she gasped for air, and he nearly cried out for joy. Just then, another splash caught his attention and yet another gator slipped into the river. Christian swore he’d kill the son of a bitch if it touched even a hair on her head. He reached her as the beast approached the midway point in the river. Tossing the oars into the skiff, he hauled Jessie quickly aboard, and drew her into his arms.
Her hands clutched at him wildly as she sobbed, not quite mindful of her surroundings. She was like a dreamer in the throes of a nightmare, unable to wake. She was drowning still, clutching for life.
“Jessie!” he shouted, anger vying with relief. He held her so tightly that he wondered she did not cease to breathe. “Damn you! Why did you go with him? Why did you go?” He released his hold only slightly and shook her gently, his eyes stinging raw with tears he couldn’t shed. Tears he didn’t know how to shed. “Jess...” His voice broke. “Jessie... love... listen to me, you’re safe. I have you now,” he crooned, clutching her desperately.
She struggled a moment longer, and then as his words penetrated, she stopped abruptly and threw her arms about his neck and began to cry. Her hands slipping from his shoulders to clutch at his shirtfront, she set her wet face against his chest. She was soaking him to the bone, but he didn’t give a bloody damn. She was alive, and he loved her—and God help him, he would strangle the life from her if she ever did something so witless again!
“That’s it, love,” he soothed, his voice choked with emotion. “ ‘Tis over now...”
“S-St. John!”
“He’s gone, love,” Christian told her, grimacing as he searched the river over the top of her head. There was no sign of St. John anywhere. As much as he loathed the man, he couldn’t help but feel for him; he wouldn’t have wished such an end for his worst enemy—and St. John, though far from being a saint, had never been his worst. He knew instinctively that a search would prove futile—and yet he would search, despite the incredible sense of justice he was feeling this moment. The bastard might have killed her.
“H-He w-wouldn’t l-let me g-go! I couldn’t b-breathe!” she wailed, and then her words were jumbled and incoherent as she hauled herself up and buried her wet lips against his neck. He sat there upon his knees, stroking her soggy mop of hair, pressing his lips to her forehead. Clasping her cold, damp body tightly against him, he thanked God and vowed never again to let her out of his sight.
Chapter 28
The cool breeze brought Jessie awake shivering.
The nightmares had been horrid and so very real, but when she opened her eyes, it was to find bright morning light streaming past her face. Shadow Moss. Christian. She was alone as far as she could tell, but she could sense his presence still... like a comforting heat in the chill of the room. His musky male scent lingered, and she knew he’d not been gone long.
In the peaceful morning surroundings, with the birds chirping merrily outside, she could almost believe it had all been no more than a gruesome dream, but her ruined gown, the one Christian had liked so well, sat drying upon a wooden chair in the sunlight, providing indisputable evidence. She shivered at the memory. And then she noticed the balcony door was left ajar, and she rose. Wrapping herself within the dressing gown Christian had left for her, she walked toward the open door.
She found him outside, gazing silently down upon the crush of new workers who were busy this morning laboring over the unfinished wing. Sensing her presence, he turned to her, a lit cheroot in hand.
“Jessie?”
Her eyes focused upon the smoking cigar, for she’d never seen him smoke before now, and yet when the odor reached her, she recognized the rich scent at once. It was part of him, part of his mystique and part of his person.
“Should you be up?”
“I’m fine,” she replied. “Truly.” The way he stared made her heart trip painfully, for he seemed so lost somehow, so sad. “How long have I slept?” Self-consciously she wrapped the robe more tightly about her.
His face was more deeply stubbled than usual this morn, giving his swarthy complexion an even darker shadow. Smoke-colored stains rimmed his deep blue eyes. He was carelessly dressed in snug black breeches and a white shirt that was properly buttoned while left untucked, and it appeared to Jessie as though he’d not slept in an age. Indeed, he seemed vanquished somehow, and yet never more hardened.
“Since yester eve,” he disclosed, smiling slightly. He shrugged. “If you might call it sleep. You tossed and turned more’n a boulder down a mountainside.”
“I was dreaming.”
“Aye,” Christian acknowledged, averting his gaze. He’d tried his damnedest to soothe her, but she’d begun to prattle... about him... about her father... Ben. He’d understood mere fragments; had to go... hang you... Ben .. .father’s murderer... Christian. Yet those fragments had been more than enough. They twisted his gut. Even now.
“You stayed with me?”
“I wouldn’t have left you,” he said without turning. And he wouldn’t have. He didn’t wish to even now, but he would if it was her wish. He couldn’t bear to hurt her any more than he had already.
“What came of your meeting with Daniel Moore? Quincy said you had papers … ”
“I did. St. John’s accusations were dismissed with the proof I brought before him. He had no grounds to hold me, or Ben either; no matter th
at he might have suspected us. Your cousin has gone back to the city, and I was returning to tell you that you were free to go, as well.”
The moment of silence lengthened.
“Christian,” she began, and he winced at the solemn tone of her voice. “There is something I wish to say to you—something I meant to say before you left for Charlestown...” He turned to face her, hurling the smoking cheroot upon the balcony floor. He tamped it down with his boot and mentally braced himself for her pain... her disdain.
“You see... I was looking for you when St. John—oh, God, this is so difficult!” She shook her head, averting her gaze. “I’ve no idea how to say this, so I shall simply do so and be done with it.”
Christian’s chest constricted painfully.
Her gaze returned to him. “I refuse to allow you to blame yourself for my father’s death! If in fact he...” She swallowed and hugged herself, holding his gaze with her lucid green eyes. “If he ended his own life... then it was his own decision to do so, his alone. That would be his sin to bear, not yours, not mine, not Amos’—though I very much doubt my brother will ever be free of the guilt!”
Christian swallowed, shook his head. He wanted to stop her before she said something she would regret. “Jessie...” He took a shuddering breath, moved as he was by her generosity. “You need not absolve me... I am what I am. I did what I did.” He shook his head. “Much as I wish it, I cannot, in truth, be judged innocent.”
“Please,” she said, holding up her hand in protest. “I listened to you when you confessed yourself to me. Now... please, do me the courtesy. Aye, ’tis the truth you bear some responsibility, but even still, the burden of his death falls solely upon my father. It was not as though we were left completely destitute, after all,” she reasoned. “Nay, for my father had resources to draw on—myself, for one—had it suited him to do so. Amos certainly had no qualms over using me,” she added somewhat bitterly. “The truth is that my father chose not to do so.” She sighed heavily before continuing.
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