Kissed; Christian (18 page)

Jessie choked, and opened her mouth to scream, but he shoved his fingers down her throat, gagging her as he forced her into the concealing shadows.

The door slammed shut as she struggled free of him. Twisting away from him, she ran back toward the safety of the house, opening her mouth to cry out for help, but suddenly the sound of shattering glass rang in her ears. Something wet and sticky trickled down the side of her face. Jolted by the blow, she wavered and fell back into his arms. The last she heard was an indecipherable Irish curse.

“McCarney, you whoreson! What the blue blazes have you done to her?”

“She wouldna come,” he said without remorse. “She was aboot t’ go and tell her uncle—couldna let her do that, now could I?”

“You didn’t have to strike her so damned hard!” Taking Jessie into his arms, Christian shoved McCarney away.

“I dinna draw blood!”

“God’s teeth!” Christian snarled. “She’s dead to the world. What’d you hit her with?”

McCarney frowned. “Ma whiskey flask, and y’ can well believe I was no’ too pleased o’er wastin’ good whiskey, either—paid good coin fer it, damn it all!”

“You’d bloody well better pray she wakes up!”

“She’s breathin’, ain’t she?”

Christian eyed him speculatively as he placed Jessie gently down within the skiff. Her cloak was twisted wildly about her—damned, if she didn’t look like an Indian corpse being readied for a burning. Untying the cloak, he carefully unraveled it, and removed it.

“Christ!” he muttered, dropping the cloak over her at once to shield her from McCarney’s greedy eyes. He turned to fix McCarney with another glare as he came to his haunches beside her. “What the devil did you do, McCarney, take her from her goddamned bed?”

McCarney shook his head, his eyes flashing insolently. “Nay! She came t’ the door just so!”

Damn her, Christian cursed silently. “Let’s get out of here.” It was a wonder they’d escaped at all. He shook his head in disgust. Someone had cost him dearly this night—damned if he wouldn’t find out exactly who. First Jean Paul—Christ, if his father died...

He forced his thoughts away from that possibility.

And then Ben.

Now Jessie?

He couldn’t bear it.

Within moments the boat was launched and gliding soundlessly down the Cooper River, toward the shadowy harbor.

Jessie groaned, placing a hand to her head, and relief surged through him as he watched her revive. And then she lifted that beautiful green gaze to his, and he had the sudden urge to toss her overboard, so much revulsion was evident there.

“You!” she hissed, scooting away from him as though he were a slug in her bed. She drew herself up, glaring fiercely at him. “I should have known! God, I should have known! You’re a despicable liar, Mister Haukinge!”

Mister, was it?

He’d fallen that far from grace, had he?

Again she scooted backward, and stood, rocking the boat with her hysterics. Her cloak slid away, revealing the dark tips of her breasts through the pristine white nightrail she wore. His jaw tautened. He glanced over his shoulder, scowling. “Turn around, McCarney!” Turning again to Jessie, he apprised her, “Be still, or you’ll topple the boat.”

“You’re a liar!” she shrieked. “Where is Ben? God, he’s not even hurt, is he? What a paperskull I am! God—oh, God, where are you taking me?”

Christian frowned. Why wasn’t there more ruching, or lacing, or bows—or some other goddamned thing on the bodice of her nightrail to conceal her from view?

A memory besieged him; the day he’d pulled her from the fence... how he’d wanted to taste her then. He shuddered, thrusting the sultry image away. “Cover yourself, Jess.”

She didn’t seem to have heard him. “Where are you taking me!”

“Goddamn it, Jess!”

“Where are you taking me?”

He reached for the cloak that lay pooled at her feet. “Cover—”

Thinking he meant to grab her, she recoiled, shrieking her hands flailing as she lost her balance. The boat tipped precariously. Christian reached for her, snatching her down before she could tumble overboard. He brought her safely to her knees. She fought him, shoving wildly, and when that didn’t work, pounded his shoulder with the butt of her hand.

“Be still, damn it—you’ll topple the goddamned boat!”

Her eyes burned with green ire. “I can swim, Mister Haukinge—can you?”

A faint smile quirked at Christian’s lips. Impertinent wench! She ceased her struggles at last and glared at him as though she could will him to burst into flames—the irony of it all was that she could. He burned for her even now. “Aye,” he told her, “I can, though I’d prefer not to.”

“I don’t much care for what you prefer! I demand you return me to my home this very instant!”

Christian shook his head regretfully. “I cannot, I’m afraid.” He smiled slightly as he suggested, “Though you might always hitch a ride with the gators, if you like.”

“Gators!”

As Christian intended, she went perfectly still within his embrace. He nodded. “Out there.” He nodded toward the darkness.

She immediately searched the shadows. “You lie! I see no gators!”

“Ah,” he said, “but are you willing to chance it?”

He released her then, to prove his point.

For a moment she peered hard into the blackness, into the moon’s reflection upon the water, as though to discern whether or not he spoke the truth. There was an ominous splash in the distance, a swish of water, but nothing was discernible through the darkness. Assuming Jessie had heard it as well, he was unprepared for what she did next. He caught her once again as she lunged toward the water, forcing her flat upon her back. He had to lie full upon her in order to still her completely.

Anger clouding her judgment, Jessie fought him, pummeling him with her fists and shoving with all her strength. He seemed as heavy as a mountain—indestructible as one, as well—and the only thing she seemed to accomplish was to rock the boat. Feeling utterly helpless, she boxed his left ear with an open palm.

“Ayyee! Devil hang you, woman!”

Christian caught her wrists, pinning them ruthlessly to the planks.

“Damn you! Didn’t you hear me? There are gators in these waters! Do you really loathe me so much that you’d prefer their company to mine?”

“Yes!” she spat. “At least with them, I know what to expect! You, Mister Haukinge, are an impostor of the worst sort!”

S
he didn’t know the half of it.

He felt the urge to lash back at her, to make her heart ache as much as his did, but he found he couldn’t bear to do that. There had been far too much grief already this night. He had no idea if Jean Paul even lived at the moment, he only knew that by now they would have reached the Mistral—that he and Jessie, too, must reach the Mistral. He desperately needed her help. “Jess...” God, he loathed the thought of telling her. “Ben was shot tonight.”

Her expression transformed before his eyes, from fiery abhorrence to liquid fear. “Shot?”

“Aye... and Jean Paul, too.”

“The same Jean Paul?”

Christian nodded slowly, his jaw taut. “Aye.”

“Is—” Her voice broke. She shook her head, choking on her words. “Ben...”

Christian knew instinctively what she was asking. “He was alive when last I saw him,” he told her, trying to be merciful, but truthful. “I’ve no idea how he fares just now.”

Jessie’s eyes glistened with tears as she stared up at him. His anguish deepened as he acknowledged her tormented expression. “If I release you,” he asked softly, averting his gaze momentarily, “will you promise to sit quietly?”

She nodded dumbly, and Christian removed himself from atop her at once. Comfort was there within his grasp—within her arms—but they were not alone, nor did he feel she’d welcome his embrace. She sat slowly, hugging her knees to her breast, staring numbly into the darkness. Unsure of what to say to ease her, Christian retrieved her cloak, tossing it about her shoulders.

“How?”

She couldn’t seem to bear to look at him.

“You’ll have to ask Ben,” he told her softly. “If he wishes you to know, he’ll tell you himself.”

Jessie nodded glumly, and Christian wondered if he was making a mistake involving her.

Could she be trusted?

Though she’d betrayed him once already, the truth was that he had little choice in the matter: Jean Paul needed someone to nurse him, Ben, too, and Jessie, inexperienced as she might be, was all that was available to him. He could trust no one else—sad state of affairs, but these were treacherous times.

He told himself she had every reason to keep silent... for Ben’s sake. And judging by the sorrowful look upon her face, he had nothing to fear; she cared for her cousin.

The question was... how much?

His gut twisted at the thought of the two of them together.

Night sounds filled the air. Frogs and crickets that only moments before had been silent croaked and trilled so loudly that their din overwhelmed all other sound.

Hugging herself against the crisp night air, Jessie turned to meet Christian’s gaze. He was watching her with an odd intensity, his dark hair gleaming in the moonlight. His jaw taut, and his mouth set determinedly. However much she loathed him, now was not the time for it, she decided.

Ben needed her.

“What of Jean Paul?”

“Alive,” he revealed with a shrug that attempted to conceal his pain. “I really don’t know.” With a glance toward McCarney, he shook his head and repeated softly, “I really don’t know.”

The Mistral was anchored offshore, far enough that there was no light to guide them, yet close enough that they dared not use a lantern for fear of discovery.

The faint glow of a single lantern illumined one of the portholes of the Mistral, and by that light, Jessie could make out the rope ladder that had been left for their use.

McCarney maneuvered the skiff alongside it, and with a curt nod and a wave of his hand, Christian motioned for her to climb it. She hesitated and he asked her, “Perhaps you’d like to remain with McCarney, instead?”

That veiled warning sent Jessie scrambling up the ladder at once. God’s truth, but she had no wish to be alone with that man ever again! Certainly he’d not needed to employ such appalling violence to gain her compliance. He might have simply tried explaining Ben’s predicament. She would have flown to his aid.

She reached the top rung and started to feel Christian’s hand suddenly upon her, steadying her until she was safely over the railing. She’d not realized he was following so close behind. Even as she planted her feet firmly upon the decking, he heaved himself over the side after her. He said not a word, guided her instead, toward the feeble light belowdecks. He led her within a cabin at the midway point along the dusky passage.

Clasping her cloak together, she froze upon entering the room, tendrils of fear clutching at her heart. Two cots occupied the small cabin. Jean Paul lay so very still upon one, Ben upon the other. Christian at once went to his father’s side, his profile as rigid as steel as he stooped over his still form. His jaw twitched, only slightly, though enough to reveal his pain. Jessie’s heart ached for him.

Taking a deep breath, she followed within. Ben turned to face her at once.

“Jessie!” Ben exclaimed. “What the devil are you doing here, sweet coz?”

“How do they fare?” she heard Christian ask.

Jessie’s eyes misted as she dropped to her knees beside Ben. “Where... were you shot?” Her voice faltered with joy and relief. Her fingers trembled as she took his hand.

Ben’s gaze skidded away. He closed his eyes for the briefest instant, his jaw working. “Who... who told you?”

Jessie’s gaze turned to where Christian knelt, examining Jean Paul, and then quickly returned to Ben.

Ben sighed, understanding her silent message. “It merely grazed me,” he yielded at last, turning to show her a small gash at his temple.

“Balderdash!”

Startled by the exclamation, Jessie immediately searched the cabin for the bearer of the voice. A white-haired man rose from beside Christian and started toward them, shaking his head. Bending purposely over Ben, he very unceremoniously yanked the coverlet from his limbs. Pointing to the wound upon Ben’s leg, he asked, “Does that look like a graze to ye, mum?” ‘