Crimson Rapture (36 page)

These
sentiments won Justin's respect. He was not a man interested in another's
personal proclivities; he judged a man mainly by his actions and Richard's
actions had probably saved Christina's life, if not her well-being and the
well-being of his son. This was all he cared about. "If this is
true," Justin resumed, "if you want only to practice your trade, I
would suggest a move to the New World."

"The
New World?" Richard questioned with proper English indignation. "You
mean America? Good God, I'd rather die than find myself among those barbarians!
Criminals, religious fanatics, the like. Oh no, I can't see that at all—"

"Come
now, Mr. Morrison." Justin almost smiled. "For an educated man, who
himself has been the victim of rumors produced by simple minds, I'm
surprised." Then his voice changed. "Truly, it's a wondrous country.
Land stretching endlessly west, as boundless as the opportunities and
possibilities. A government that's practically nonexistent." He looked at
Richard directly. "Thousands of people, all there for the same reason—to
start fresh. And God knows, we need doctors there. The only doctors to be found
are self-appointed ones, ones ignorant of anything written in a book." He
paused for a long while to let Richard weigh his words. "I could also make
the proper introductions for you and with my connections in Boston, there's the
possibility of a university position."

Richard
could hardly believe this. "I'm taken aback by your generosity, Mr.
Phillips," he said at once, "and I must say I hardly expected such a
reaction. The New World..." To be sure they would need doctors there;
disease surely ran rampant among such lowlifes. The idea of a university
position! He had always wanted to teach medicine! "Then too, it seems I
have no real choice," he said out loud. "And speaking of
choices," he ventured hesitantly, "I'd like you to know that while
our marriage was arranged for the benefit for both of us, I care for Christina.
I care a good deal. Will Christina have a choice in this matter?"

The
fire had died to bright embers, and standing at the mantel, Justin was now
hidden in shadows. Richard could not see the emotion in his face when he
replied, "No, she will not."

"I
see." And indeed he did. He wished he could protect her somehow, and he
felt like he had failed her. He suddenly needed a drink, and knowing Betty
probably lurked just behind the door listening to all, he called for her prompt
service.

Christina
raced ahead of Darrell and flew through the door, still laughing at Darrell's
teasing. Not thinking anyone was home but Betty, and having suffered only one thought
the whole evening, she rushed straight up the stairs and burst in the nursery.

Justin
saw only a brief flash of the maroon velvet of her gown.

Darrell
stepped into the parlor. "Ah, Richard, you're back," he said, falling
with an exhausted laugh into the chair—ignorant of Richard's company.
"Well, that's the last time I do you the favor of escorting your wife
anywhere! She had them beggars lined up all evening and I—imagine it!—nearly
got called out twice! Seems no one cares that a lady's married anymore. My word
but she was such a success! And imagine if you had let me dress her
properly—" He noted Richard's sad expression. "What's wrong, Richard?
Oh dear, did your patient die again?"

Richard
shook his head but glanced toward the shadows where Justin stood. "I have
company, Darrell..."

Justin
climbed the stairs quietly and slipped unnoticed into the nursery. Christina
leaned over the crib singing a soft lullaby to his son as she gently rocked him
in the crib. The vision of her at that moment would be a memory that lived with
him for the rest of his life.

Firelight
lit her face. The long hair was braided and simply wrapped around her head like
a thick crown haloing the delicate features of her face. Her skin was pale and
her cheeks were flushed. She smiled as she sang and a mother's love for her
child shone in her eyes.

He
no doubt had men lined up for her attentions. It mattered not that her husband
could ill afford rich silks or tailored gowns, or that she wore her hair so
simply. The dark maroon color of an obviously homemade gown accented the
paleness of her skin and its simple lines accented the startling femininity of
the shape beneath. And God, how nature had rewarded her for service! Motherhood
pronounced her beauty and changed a girl into a woman and, unbelievably, the
woman was so much more desirable.

Christina
finished her song but remained staring at her sleeping child's face. How many
hours had she spent looking at him? Would she ever tire of it? Each hour filled
with a strange mix of both pain and joy at his arresting likeness to his
father...

The
silence suddenly warned her that she was not alone.

She
slowly looked up and then confronted the man who haunted her dreams. Time
stopped and forever existed in seconds; she could neither move nor speak. She
could only stare at a dream brought suddenly to life before her.

The
emotions rushing through her were suppressed by her shock. Shock that he was
standing there. Shock at how very changed he was. She had only known Justin
bearded, with long hair and dressed like a savage. The finely dressed gentleman
staring back at her was a stranger and yet as familiar as her own image.

"Don't
look so surprised, Christina," he said softly. "You must have known
I'd come—if not for you, then for my son."

Thoughts
and emotions, thoughts and emotions, all clamored for her attention until,
until the shock finally gave way to her greatest fear. One she had lived with
throughout. She slowly shook her head as the full magnitude of it crashed into
consciousness.

"Nooo,"
she cried in a pained gasp and in sheer desperation, she rushed to him and
dropped to her knees. "Don't take him from me! Please, Justin, I beg you!
I—c—c—" She choked on the words.

Justin
stared with shocked incomprehension as her eyes filled with tears.

"I
couldn't live... I would die—"

And
abruptly he understood what he didn't want to believe. "God, girl, is that
what you think?" He seized her arms to lift her to her feet. "That I
would take him from you? Unlike you," his words lashed out like a whip,
"I'm not capable of the cruelty necessary to separate you from our
son."

"But...
but..." The fear still pounding in her breast made it impossible to trust
his words. "Then you will leave him?"

"No."

It
was flat and inexplicable and her eyes were wide and enormous as she searched
his face for the understanding that eluded her. He would not separate them, yet
he would not leave him with her. He didn't know. "I married," she
whispered on a frightened pause. "I married Richard—"

"So
you have." He released her and turned away to hide what he fought
desperately to control. "Thankfully your husband has already agreed to an
annulment."

"An
annulment?" She drew back, this new shock causing her to practically
stutter, "But how? How is that possible? On what grounds could annulment
be possible?"

"The
marriage has yet to be consummated."

"How...
how do you know that?"

"Can
you deny it?"

She
looked down, and to his utter disbelief, the answer was written in shame.
Shamed that her husband had not wanted her, as though this was a personal
failure on her part. He could almost laugh at the bitter irony of it. He had
lived through hell imagining her in another man's bed. As long as he lived he'd
remember the intensity of his relief when he learned that—of all the men in the
world—she found the one man who would leave her untouched.

She
nervously twisted her hands, still unable to look up. "Richard has agreed
to this?"

"Yes."

"And
then you would... marry me?" she finished in a whisper.

"Yes.
But make no mistake, Christina—I will marry you only for our son. I'll not let
him carry the burden of his parents' sins nor the title of bastard. Only for
those reasons will I take you as my wife."

The
words were delivered so casually as though the cruel reality could be of no
consequence to either anymore. She felt her lip tremble slightly. She turned
away suddenly.

Justin
went to the window overlooking the quiet street. Fog rolled beneath the street
lanterns. The carriage and his mount waited in front of the house. From a small
red glow of the driver's pipe, he knew it was Brahms in the driver's seat, one
of the best drivers he had. Jacob and his men would be hiding somewhere down
the street. There was nothing amiss. Still it could not be long.

He
turned back to her and was about to tell her to pack in haste when he saw her
lips trembling with what he knew would be an apology.

And
he lost control of it.

"Oh
no, Christina. Don't you dare say you're sorry. Sorry will not cover the hell
you put me through. And it was a hell, Christina," he said with sudden
feeling, coming to stand before her, holding on to her as though afraid she
would run again. For a brief moment the depth of his pain, anger, and anguish
showed in the intensity of his eyes and she almost swooned with the knowledge.
Abruptly, he shoved her aside and turned, concealing all signs of emotion in a
sudden near-stoic manner. "Love is a strange thing; I don't think I knew
what it was before. Do you know what it is, Christina?"

Another
person might have been misled by this— the dispassionate tone he suddenly
adopted—but not her. She felt the violence in it, the readied violence of a
wounded creature waiting to attack again.

"Love,"
he answered for her, "is when a man gives himself—the most vital part of
himself—to a woman to care for. The act requires trust, for it leaves one
vulnerable. Never," he emphasized, "is a man so vulnerable as when he
is in love. Thanks to you, Christina, I will never trust another woman again; I
will never be that vulnerable to a woman's deceit again. But stealing my love
like that aside, I will survive."

"That
was not the worst of it. Oh no." He shook his head remembering the
irrepressible agony of those endless days and nights. "The worst of it was
imagining what was happening to you alone and unprotected. You, who I loved
with my very life. Do you have any idea of what that was like for me? Do
you?"

She
shook her head, crying now and scared, just scared, more scared when he was
suddenly there, his hand reaching under her chin to force her face to his.

"The
simplest questions drove me mad! Mad!" His voice hardened with fury.
"What would she do to eat? What would a man make her do to eat? The
visions that followed—you lying naked and hurt and bloodied, raped not by one
man but by ten—"

"No!
Stop it... stop it!" She struggled to pull away but he held her still.
"It didn't happen... it didn't—"

"But
it did, Christina! It happened in my mind over and over again! I lived with
that and damn you for it! Damn myself if I ever forgive you for it!"

He
held her small weight up, and she was shaking as tears fell to the floor from
her closed lids. His hell was not over and he knew it would never be over, for
now he had to live with her. And that would be anything but easy, for—
"And God, even after all that, I still want you—"

Her
eyes opened in shock, confusion, a question, and he answered in a haunting
whisper. "And I hate myself for it."

Nothing
hurt more than that single statement and if his purpose was retribution, he was
successful; she might have chosen death easier. A silence followed, broken only
by her tears. A silence that made him wish for another time and place when he
could have pulled her into his arms and comforted her with a love he now
disowned.

A
rush of horses suddenly sounded from down the street. Justin reluctantly tore
his gaze from her, then stepped quickly to the window. He pushed open the glass
and called down to an alarmed Brahms. "How many?"

Brahms
swung around. "Too many!"

"Stay
where you are. Alert the others and tell them to hold fire. I'll handle it from
inside. Fetch a cloak," he said to her as he withdrew a long pistol from a
holster hidden in his cape, still watching the street. Christina was frozen on
the spot, for still dazed by the turbulence of emotions shaking her, she could
not comprehend what was happening. "Move it. We won't have much
time."

Brahms
could make no sense of this but he knew better than to ever question Justin's
orders. If Justin thought he could handle a dozen or so redcoats alone, no
doubt he would. He quickly signaled with the carriage lantern to hold fire. Too
late. A shot ricocheted from down the street, then another and another. A man
cried out, the sound buried in the clamoring of horses' hooves.

Instantly
Justin's voice thundered from above. "I ordered no fire!"

"Aye,
but—" He stopped as soldiers rushed up from down the street. No less than
twenty men on mounts, with others behind them. They quickly surrounded the
carriage and Brahms found himself looking at five pistols aimed at his head.
Men scrambled off their mounts and within seconds the house, too, was
surrounded. Soldiers raced up the front steps.