Crimson Rapture (51 page)

"Aye.
The bloody fools got into some tither at the Boar's Inn where they were
drinking last night. I've spent all night trying to get them out, but what with
all the unemployed sailors since the embargo swarming the streets, fights
breakin' out every hour, the magistrate decided to make an example of
them."

Justin
immediately perceived the problem. The
Independence
was being loaded at
the very moment in a hidden cove some twenty miles down the coast. Once loaded,
the ship had to set sail; it could not sit around waiting to get caught.

"Who's
the magistrate?"

"Judge
Claighborne."

"We're
in luck." Justin smiled, remembering the man, remembering how he had been
particularly enchanted by Christina at some or another dinner last week.
"I'll run into town and speak with him."

"Good,
'cause I offered to pay both damages and fines and still the old goat wouldn't
budge. Well." He looked at Justin, still in a robe. "Time's a
wastin'. We got to have them out by nightfall."

"Yes.
Right." He shook his head and chuckled, realizing he had left his thoughts
upstairs. "I'll get dressed."

"A
fine idea!" Jacob nearly shouted.

The
two men left in haste within the half hour. They were halfway to town when
Justin reached into his saddlebag for a water cask. The movement abruptly
reminded him of another pocket, then his letter.

He
cursed out loud. Cursing was beginning to become a habit. It was simply not
like him to forget, forget anything. He did not have to search long for his
excuse; she lay sound asleep in an upstairs bedroom of his house, several miles
back.

"What's
wrong?" Jacob asked.

"I
forgot my letter."

"What
letter?"

"To
my father."

Jacob
knew what this meant. He stopped his mount. "Want me to go back?"

"No,
it's probably safe, but when we get to town, I want you to put some men on
those French agents. They're beginning to make me, ah, nervous."

"Aye,
probably wise," Jacob replied as he spurred his horse on. He would handle
it himself. After all, the French agents had tried to get through Mr. Lowell
and two house servants already. No telling who they'd try next.

"Nothing
serious," Justin decided. "Just have them watched so I know what
moves they're making."

A
wry smile lifted on Jacob's tanned face. "You're going to set them up,
aren't you?"

"Might
as well let them bury themselves and save us the trouble." He discussed
his plan as they rode, and after finally settling on the details, Justin saw a
gray dove suddenly lift from a tree as they passed. "Another thing,"
he said after slowing his mount.

"Yes?"

"It's
time to forgive her. I want you to speak to Hanna."

Jacob
smiled and surprised Justin with "I already have. I left Hanna's note at
the house."

* * * * *

Justin
returned the next day at dawn and the first thing he did was climb the stairs
to Christina's bedroom. An empty room greeted him. She was not there, nor were
her things. Her closets had been emptied and her vanity cleared.

A
smile lifted through his confusion. He went to his bedchambers and, sure
enough, looking small in the large bed and buried in the covers, there she
slept. His son fitted happily in her arms.

The
sight quickened his heart and brought another smile. He placed a thick log into
the fire to bite back the morning chill and then sat on the bed and, like so
many times before, he contented himself to just watch them sleep.

A
sound sleeper but by no means a late sleeper, dawn awakened Christina as the
soft click of his heavy black boots on the polished wood floor could not. She
stirred, turned, and opened her eyes.

"Justin!
You're back!" and hardly expecting her reaction, he chuckled as she fell
into his arms. It was predictable. He lay back against the bed, pulling her
over him. Watching his gaze rake over her, she became conscious of how she must
look. She arched her back to lift partially from him as she brushed a long lock
of her tousled hair back, then tried to keep the thin string of her flimsy
nightgown from falling off her shoulder. "Oh I look a sight," she
began apologetically, but a sudden awareness of his quick arousal brought her
lips to form a perfect "Oh!"

Justin
chuckled as his calloused hands toyed with the silk strings of a nightgown he'd
see in hell. "You look a sight all right," he agreed, pulling a pin
to have the long hair spill over his arms. His hands felt over her shoulders to
the thrusts of her breasts beneath the gown. She bit her lip and held her
breath, her eyes shining with excitement. The feel of her small body, still
warm with sleep and somehow softer than he had imagined, made him sigh in
sudden inexplicable frustration. He suddenly lay back to look at the ceiling,
folding his arms behind his head. "I'm tired, Christina. Do me the favor
of unbuttoning my shirt."

"Oh."
Understandably, confusion spread over her face. Exhaustion never stopped him
before! He was hard with desire and she was acutely conscious of this.
Consciousness somehow connected to her heart, its pace was racing.

Trying
to conceal her disappointment, she undid the buttons of his shirt and pulled it
out from his breeches, so lost to the display of chest, muscle, and bronzed
skin, she failed to notice the telling laughter in his eyes.

"My
belt buckle and breeches please," he said with a convincing yawn, adding,
"My breeches feel suddenly tight." She sat up on him and unfastened
the thick black belt but paused with the buttons that would require intimate
contact with his thriving, vital parts, parts that seemed disconnected from his
intent or manner.

"Would
my wife deny me such small service?" he asked innocently enough.

She
shook her head and giggled.

"Good.
Then on with it, girl."

The
task caused him no small agony and she seemed to be taking her time about it,
her laughter telling him he was creating a tease. He chuckled and reached out
to lift the nightdress above her waist, immediately perceiving the convenient
fact she wore nothing beneath. "This is bothering me," he said and
tugged once at the nightdress, freeing her breasts.

He
pulled her back over his long length while her hands braced on his shoulders.
The arresting position brought excited giggles, giggles interrupted by small
gasps as his hands wasted no time in exploring the objects of his fascination.

"It
occurs to me I've neglected your education."

"Oh?"
She gasped again as his mouth teased where his hands had just left. Those hands
finally wandered to her buttocks, where he began moving her back and forth.

"I've
not taught you to mount or ride yet, have I?" She could not now reply,
though the rosy flush told him he was on the right path, and he chuckled as he
slipped his shaft into the moist recess awaiting him.

"Ah
you've handled the mounting like a trouper," he told her. "Let's see
about the riding. One starts slow." His hand on her hips determined the
pace. Her eyes widened and a giggle escaped from the hot passion quickly
overwhelming her. "Quiet," he warned in a husky whisper, "our
son would ruin this lesson."

She
could not stop laughing though, even as his hot length fanned heated fires
through her.

"Where
was I?" he asked after fighting a pleasurable battle for some control.

"The
pace!" she reminded him in an excited though hushed whisper.

"Ah
yes, the pace! A good rider will gradually increase his mount's pace. Should I
demonstrate?"

"Please!"

The
point was made as Justin, using his impressive expertise, brought the lesson to
a wondrous climax for both of them. When she finally fell on top of him, dazed
and exhausted, she could only wonder at him. She had laughed many times before
and many times after but never during his lovemaking. The thought made her
giggle again and the sound was as happy and sweet as the warm afterglow that
surrounded them.

They
were laughing and teasing just as before and, oddly, it was this very thought
that gave Justin a moment's pause. He was loving her again—how he was loving
her!—and as vulnerable as he had ever been, perhaps more so. It was a gambler's
game and the stakes were high, to have loved once and lost was enough for any
lifetime. The only thing worth the risk of losing again was the thought of a
life with her and this love.

With
laughter still in her eyes and a pretty blush, Christina sat up and tried to
piece back together some semblance of her nightgown. The sleeping garment was
in hopeless disarray; her attempt was futile and Justin, watching this,
suddenly chuckled. "Once never seems enough with you," he said, and
reached to pull her back, but just as the third party decided to wake up too.

They
spent the next half hour or so as three young children—instead of one—playing
on an oversized bed. While Justin could entertain his son like no one else, but
a half hour was a very long time in his son's life and the little tyke finally,
rather abruptly, grew tired of his parents. Oh he loved the laughter, teasing,
tickling, the wild tosses in the air, but it was time for him to get on with
his own life. After all, he was hungry.

Justin
leaned against the bedpost to watch Christina as she attended to his son,
bathing and dressing him for the day. He wondered if it was normal to
experience moments of jealousy of one's own son.

Wearing
his discarded shirt, Christina held back her news to inquire about his trip.
Justin related the difficulties of getting forty-three men from jail. "It
couldn't have been done if Judge Claighborne hadn't been so taken by you—I had
to promise him a dinner. I think the lascivious bastard just wants to look at
you.

"That's
not true!" She pretended affront. "We two have a lot in common. Why,
he's very interested in art."

"Among
other things." Watching her bend over, his shirt dropping to present him
with a maddening view, he was quite certain old Judge Claighborne had far more
in common with him than her.

"Guess
what!" she said in sudden excitement, setting little Justin to the floor
to explore the fascinating space of his father's room. "You're not going
to believe it, but—" She stopped to steer little Justin from the fire
poker.

Justin
was trying hard to believe he was restraining himself from throwing her to the bed.
He thought he could believe anything else.

"Hanna
wrote me a letter."

He
smiled. "I know. Jacob told me. What did she say?"

"Oh
so much! I must have read the letter a dozen times, over and over. I tried to
write back. I started and stopped as many times, until the wastebasket was
overflowing with my attempts. I have to see her. Oh please—let me go to
town?"

"I
can't, sweetheart. Since the embargo, the town is just bursting with idle
sailors, all looking for trouble." His gaze tried to penetrate the material
of his shirt. "And you," he finished meaningfully, "look like
trouble."

"Oh,
but with Chessy—"

"Chessy,"
he chuckled, shaking his head. "I can't spare the number of men I would
need to see you safe." Her disappointment was plain. "Jacob will be
gone in another week. Hanna can stay with us for the two or three months he's gone.
You can wait a week, can't you?"

"It
seems an eternity."

"Come
here," he said. "I'll help you pass it. Eternity sounds almost long
enough."

She
giggled and just as she was about to fall into his arms again, little Justin
discovered the wonders of his father's drawer. As Christina rushed to save her
son's freshly donned clothes from the ink jar in his hand, Justin found a new
keen appreciation of something he spent a good part of his childhood
hating—governesses. But he had to laugh when his ink not only smeared across
his son's face, but was also tossed on to his mother's, or rather his, shirt
and this with the unmistakable grin of malicious forethought.

The
time for discipline had just arrived, only Justin was laughing too hard to do
anything about it.

Christina
heard his laughter only too clearly. "Darling." She smiled sweetly,
picking up her son who still held tight to the half-empty ink jar. "That's
wonderful fun, isn't it? Let's show your father just how much fun it is to
throw ink on people."

Little
Justin giggled with anticipation. Ink did not wash off skin easily and Justin
was quick to rise. He grabbed his robe from the foot of the bed and held it up
to protect himself. And he found himself looking down into two empty pockets.
"Wait, Christina."

His
voice warned her.

He
felt into each pocket. Empty. "Did you take a letter from my robe?"

"No.
Was it important?"

"Christina,
I—" and he began explaining, even as his eyes searched the floor. She took
the jar from Justin's hands, lifted his shirt, and set him to the floor. Justin
quickly explained the importance of the letter, then told of Rosarn, Chessy,
and Mr. Lowell, the French agents. Christina was all concern, suddenly remembering
the maid's conversation, which she had completely forgotten about.
"God," he finished. "In the wrong hands, the letter could see me
hanged."