by Lady Vixen
Her ready temper rising, Nicole shot back hotly, "And how was I to know you were about to come barging in like a bull with a wasp in his ear?" she snapped.
Warily they regarded each other. Christopher gave her a crooked grin, and then laughed. "Pax, little vixen! Pull in your sharp teeth."
"You started it!" she retorted defensively, angrily conscious of his masculine presence. His face looked leaner to her, harder, and there was an air about him that she couldn't quite place—an aura of recklessness that caused her to wonder exactly what he was doing in Brighton. She managed to ask calmly, "How long are you to stay with us?"
Christopher hesitated a moment, but then he shrugged and replied easily, "I'm afraid I won't be staying here at all." At her look of surprise he said slowly, "Higgins and I will be staying at my cottage near Rottingdean tonight." Flashing her a careless smile, he finished lightly, "As for tomorrow who knows where we'll be." It was as close as he could come to the truth.
But Nicole knew him too well and a premonition chilled her, and with her eyes fixed intently on his, she asked tightly, "You're leaving aren't you? You're going back to Louisiana."
Christopher drew in his breath as if struck a deadly blow, but his face remained impassive as he replied. "Yes. Yes, we are, Nick." The admission shocked him. He had not meant to tell Nicole at all, and certainly not before he had spoken with his grandfather. Yet, when she had unerringly guessed, he could not lie to her. I wonder if that's an improvement, he thought cynically, being unable to lie is supposed to be a virtue.
Nicole froze as a terrible sense of loss spread throughout her entire body. He was leaving. No more Christopher to taunt her and drive her mad with passion and fury. She should be glad, she told herself staunchly. Pride stiffened her spine, and glibly she retorted, "Well, that's very nice!" The big topaz eyes blank behind black spiky lashes, a set smile on her wide mouth, Nicole continued on a determinedly cheerful note, "You must be delighted to be rid of me at last. I have never thanked you for the many things you have done for me, and I hope now that our ways are finally parting that you will allow me—"
"Shut up, Nick!" Christopher snapped tautly, a muscle jumping in his cheek.
Nicole shook her head and the dark fiery curls danced on her shoulders as stubbornly she went on, "No! You must let me! I must tell you—"
Christopher stopped her in the only way he could; his hands roughly grasped her slender arms, pulled her tightly against him as his mouth captured hers. He kissed her a long time. A long, hungry, urgent assault that left her weak and trembling in his crushing embrace. Then cradling her head against his shoulder, his mouth moved with aching tenderness across the soft curls beneath his chin, and he said thickly, "Don't say another word. Words don't mean much to you and me. We say things we don't mean, and we let our tempers rule us too often. Someday maybe we'll be able to talk like sensible human beings, but God forgive me, for where you are concerned, I am not rational."
Astonished, Nicole jerked her head up to stare up at him. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out, and Christopher driven as much by the knowledge that tomorrow he would be putting an ocean between them as by her yielding body, couldn't control the urgent need to taste her mouth once again. Her lips parted sweetly, and at the unexpected surrender a muffled imprecation broke from him. He gathered her slim form nearer to him; his hands caressed her back and hips, making Nicole forcibly aware that he wanted her. But then Christopher, remembering against his wishes where he was, gently pushed her away and said with a wry smile, "You're more potent than any wine, Nick. You make a man lose his head and do things he regrets."
Nicole, not unnaturally, misinterpreted what he was saying and stiffened, but Christopher gave her no chance to reply; instead he compelled her to sit down. After seating her in the center of an elegant fawn-velvet sofa, he lounged negligently on one of the arms, one long leg swinging restlessly. Shooting Nicole a queer look, a look of brooding regret and yet strong resolution, a look of mockery and arrogance, he began slowly, "I haven't always treated you as I should. I won't apologize for what I have done, though." Eyeing her wickedly, he confessed brazenly, "Heaven help me, given the same set of circumstances, I'd probably do the same thing again! I wanted you then, I want you now, and I'll admit that no woman has ever quite had me so entangled and confused as you have! Believe me, minx, I'll be glad to see the last of you!"
The careless words hit her like a slap in the face. She had always known that he would be happy to see the last of her, but she was stunned by his easy admission. Aimlessly she played with the silk of her gown to hide her trembling hands and kept her face averted from him, fearful she would betray how deeply his indifference hurt her.
Christopher was watching her face intently, the expression in the gold eyes shadowed by the dark lashes. He was painfully aware that he was handling this scene badly, but he was powerless to change it. His usual ready address failed him completely with Nicole. He said the wrong things, did the wrong things, and even when it was the last thing in the world that he wanted, he always seemed to provoke an unholy argument. Trying for the light touch didn't seem to be the answer either, judging from the rigid set of her features.
Nicole, oblivious to Christopher's intent stare, knew she should make some offhand remark, some laughing rejoinder, but the words stuck in her throat. Eventually pride came to her rescue, and with a fixed, bright smile she said, "Well, I suppose confusing you, as you say I have, must be some sort of victory for me!"
"Damnit, Nicole! There is no war between us!" Christopher growled, wanting something more than just a glib statement from her, yet uncertain precisely what it was he sought.
But Nicole, lost in her own bitter battle with her heart, did not hear the odd note of entreaty in Christopher's voice. All she registered was the barely hidden anger on his face. With piercing resignation, she knew why there could never be anything but anger and ugly recriminations between them—because of her mother. Nausea curled in her stomach when she thought of Christopher's brutal betrayal at her mother's hands. Could she blame him for hating her? For hurting her?
Resignedly she said, "Oh, Christopher! Have done with this pretense between us! I know what happened to you all those years ago and I know why you hate me so. You say there is no war between us, but you lie." Some of her spirit came rushing back, and passionately she continued, "There will always be a war between us! My mother saw to that! I could try for a thousand years to make you forget it, I could let you trample me in the dust, but it would never soothe all the hate you've filled yourself with."
Christopher went still, very still; the heavy black brows contracted into a frown above his narrowed eyes. "Exactly what are you talking about?" he asked coldly.
Nicole leaped to her feet; with her fists clenched tightly at her sides, she stated baldly, "Higgins told me about you and my mother! About how Robert and she tricked you and about how he sold you to the press-gang."
Christopher, more icily furious than she had ever seen him, swore long and with astonishing fluency. The gold eyes glittered dangerously, the fine mouth was thin with fury as he snarled, "And is that why you are being so understanding? So willing to have me kiss you? Because that old sad tale has aroused your sympathy? Well, spare me that!"
He stood up abruptly, and throwing Nicole a glance of utter dislike, he muttered fiercely, "You forget about what happened in the past! I have! And certainly I don't need Annabelle's daughter mewling over me like I'm some half-drowned kitten!"
"Mewling!" Nicole spat. Any regret, any sorrow for her mother's actions, even her own anguish over his departure vanished as her temper rose. Her face white, the great dark eyes sparkling, she stepped swiftly forward and before Christopher could guess her intent slapped him open-handed across one cheek. "Why you ass-eared whelp!" she cried furiously, tears of anger glittering in her eyes.
Furious himself, Christopher caught her shoulders, holding her prisoner in a deliberately brutal grip as she fought to free herself. "This, I
believe," he said tightly, "is where I came in. And since we seem to have said everything that need be, I'll bid you good-bye. If we're lucky, we won't have to see each other before I leave. Rest assured I'll damn well take care to stay out of your way!"
Dimly aware that she was hiding behind her anger, Nicole, her temper now in full blaze, sent Christopher a look of mingled despair and defiance. "You do that!" she choked belligerently. "By God, I'll bless the day you sail away. It can't be too soon to suit me!"
With a queer flicker in his eyes he studied her stormy features for a moment, almost, she thought oddly, as if memorizing them; then his lips twisted into a mocking grin, and he said coolly, "Now that's the Nick I remember. And here's something else for you to remember me by!"
Jerking her into his arms and catching her half-opened lips possessively, his tongue ravening her mouth, he pinioned her body against his. His lips seemed to sear hers like a flame, commanding, demanding that she respond to this deliberate cold-blooded arousal. Blindly, Nicole fought desperately against the insidious languor, the blaze of urgent desire that spread through her body. His mouth allowed no escape; his lips compelled her to yield, to give in to the physical craving that washed through her veins. Unconsciously she molded herself closer to him. Damn him! she thought furiously with one part of her mind. Damn him, for making me want him. Damn him!
Christopher was fighting his own battle; rigid with barely leashed desire, he wanted Nicole unbearably for one last time—just once more to lose himself in that flesh, to feel her shudder beneath him, to have the taste of that silken skin in his mouth, that perfume peculiarly hers in his nostrils. Ah, Jesus, he wondered with dull rage, why her of all women? Hadn't he learned once that an Ash-ford woman was a beautiful witch of uncanny power, a creature of lust and lies, of passion and betrayal? Frantic himself now to break the tenuous silken web around him, Christopher tore his mouth from Nicole's and with a jerky movement set her away from him. He was breathing heavily, his eyes still blurred with desire, but his voice was detached as he said, "I think we'll each have something to remember of the other, Nick—whether we want to or not!" He spun on his heel but then, as if recalling something, stopped and glanced over his shoulder. "I haven't as yet made definite plans for leaving and I haven't said anything to my grandfather. I would appreciate it if you would say nothing to anyone, until I have told him myself."
Nicole couldn't bear to look at him, afraid of her own emotions. She nodded dumbly, concentrating on fighting back the foolish tears that shimmered in her eyes.
Unable to help himself, Christopher gave her one long last look, sealing the achingly beautiful picture she made away in some buried part of his heart. Almost hungrily he stared at her, taking in the flawless features, the mass of dark flaming curls, the wide-spaced topaz eyes, the willful, passionately full mouth, and that tall, slender body that fitted his so exquisitely. Oh, God, he thought with a tearing pain in his gut, why does it have to end like this? He took one more look, and without another word he stalked to the door and left the room.
With the sound of the slammed door ringing in her ears, Nicole sank down slowly on the sofa. He's gone, she thought dully. No, that's not true, she argued feverishly, it'll be a few days yet. A few days in which I'll have to act normal, smile and laugh and pretend that I'm not dying inside. She closed her eyes tightly in anguish, thinking of the bitter facade to come. I'll do it. I can! And someday I'll forget him. I will! I have to.
Driven by different emotions than those that beset Nicole, Robert Saxon had been making inquiries all over London in search of the elusive Captain Saber. He had learned that indeed there was a Captain Saber, and yes, he was an American privateer, and yes, there was a price on his head. But beyond Jennings-Smythe's startled remark, Robert had nothing to go on. He had no doubt that Christopher was Captain Saber, and he longed to throw that information in Simon's face. He would see that everyone did know the truth, see that all of them learned what a scoundrel Christopher really was!
Robert called in the afternoon to speak to Nicole, hoping he could coax her into taking a short ride in the country. That it was nearing five o'clock when he arrived at the house on Kings Road, bothered Robert not at all. Darkness did not fall until almost seven and he would have Nicole home long before that.
But he was disappointed. Nicole, he was informed, had gone walking in the park and wouldn't return home for a half hour. Undeterred, Robert was on the point of leaving to seek out Nicole as she took her walk, determined to convince her to accompany him, when Simon spoke to him.
"Robert, I'd like a word with you if you don't mind!" Simon demanded.
Annoyed, Robert glanced at him. "Does it have to be this very moment? I was just leaving to find Nicole."
"She can wait," Simon retorted testily. "I have something to say to you, and I want to say it now!"
Robert shrugged and followed his father into the study. The small study was a pleasant room, paneled in oak. A Boulle cabinet in ebony inlaid with a tortoise-shell pattern gave an Oriental effect to the room, but the curled maple desk that Simon seated himself behind was definitely English in design. Robert, clearly impatient to be off, stood aggressively in the center of the room, his York tan gloves and small chimney-pot hat held carelessly in one hand.
"Well," he interrogated irritably, "what is it? I haven't much time."
"Sit down," Simon said quietly, his eyes cool and contemptuous as he pointed to a nearby chair. Somewhat reluctantly Robert did so, alerted by his father's odd manner that all was not well.
Simon had spent the two days since Letitia had told him what had passed between his son and grandson in great mental agony. He had loved his black-sheep son, despite many disappointments throughout the years, but the infamous act against Christopher he could not forgive. When the first horror and repugnance had died away, he had thought he could bury it—that while his affection for Robert would never be the same, he could, in a fashion, continue to view him with some fondness. But after two sleepless nights, tortured by what his own flesh and blood had done, he knew it was not true. Whatever love he had borne his son had died, and he felt it only fair and right to tell Robert precisely why he would no longer be welcome in his home. It was the hardest decision of his life. But he had finally in his heart acknowledged that Robert was a bad one, rotten throughout, and that he could never change that. Nor could he ignore it and thereby condone his son's despicable actions. It had been a bitter, painful admission and now that the moment was upon him, he found he was curiously unmoved by it. He had dreaded this time, had feared he would not be able to do it. But it was not so.
His face was cold and stony as he said unemotionally, "This will be the last time I shall have you in my home —any of my homes. I have put up with a great deal from you throughout the years—I have suffered scandal after scandal with you: I have paid off debts, intervened for you on countless occasions. But that is finished. You went too far, Robert, with what you did to Christopher. I cannot, may the Lord God forgive me, pardon you for it. It was bad enough that you and Annabelle Ashford used him to hide your adulterous liaison, but to sell him! To sell him into what was almost certain death! That I cannot tolerate!" Simon's formidable control broke, and almost pleadingly, he asked, "Why, Robert? Why in God's name? He was so fine a youth, such a joy to me. He did you no harm. I tell you, I will never understand how you could have done it." Simon paused, his face suddenly heavily lined and very sad. "You could have been the cause of his death. Doesn't that engender some feeling of remorse?"
Robert had blanched at his father's first words, his worst fears at last realized. Christopher had turned his own father against him! An intense surge of bitterness swept through him, and sullenly he retorted, "It didn't hurt him. You can see for yourself that he profited by what happened."
Disbelievingly Simon stared at him. With a shudder of revulsion, he realized that Robert saw no wrong in what he had done, A sense of futility crept along his veins, and tiredly he admitted, "Yes, it appea
rs he did profit by it. But that wasn't what you had in mind, was it?" Knowing the answer, weary of the scene, Simon said harshly, "Good-bye, Robert. Thank God that despite what he has been through, Christopher has grown into such a fine young man. At least I have a grandson I can be proud of, if not a son."
His sense of ill-usage breaking its frail bonds, Robert leaped to his feet. With a wild look in his eyes, he shouted, "You're wrong! You think he is so wonderful. Ha! He is nothing but a common pirate. A sea rogue wanted by the Admiralty for his crimes against our own ships. Ask your precious Christopher about Captain Saber! Ask him! You'll see. You'll see that he is not the godlike being you think. He's a bloody pirate!"
"Silence!" Simon thundered, his face dark with rage. "You're lying, casting aspersions on him, to exonerate yourself. I will not have it! Leave my house this instant! This instant, I say, or I shall wrench your lying tongue from your throat!"
Beyond rational action, Robert placed both hands on the desk and, thrusting his face near Simon's, ranted, "It's not fair! He is the one you should treat so. He is a pirate! Lieutenant Jennings-Smythe recognized him." Frantically fabricating his story as he went on, Robert continued passionately, "It's true! He told me! If you don't believe it, ask him! You'll see!"
For a long minute Simon stared at him. Robert was so earnest that it gave him pause. With startling insight he acknowledged that Robert's accusations didn't really disturb him. Christopher could very well be a pirate—it made little difference to Simon. Hadn't Sir Francis Drake been labeled such? Yet he felt as one last concession to his son, he should face Christopher. Quietly he said. "Very well, I will. But whether he is or not, does not change the situation between us. Once I have spoken to him, you will leave this house and spare me the distasteful pleasure of ever seeing you again." Rising from his seat, Simon strode swiftly from the study, intent upon finishing this painful affair as soon as possible.