Chapter 6 #2
Damned if he didn’t have more important things to do.
Such as securing a base port for his orphaned ships.
He clenched his teeth at the thought.
Word had arrived from Le Havre that one of his ships, the Belle Terre, had come into port there, and that the authorities had come aboard.
While he’d been assured everything had been found in proper order, the officers of the vessel were now being interrogated.
Procedure, he’d been told. Yet the thought of his men in the hands of the haughty French officials unsettled him—despite that he trusted his crew implicitly—mostly because after this incident, his ships would need to stay clear of France.
At least until he discovered the cause behind this surprise inspection.
Doubtless someone had pointed the finger at him, though who it was, he couldn’t fathom.
The list of possibilities was endless.
Fortunately France supplied very little of his illicit trade. Most of what he procured there was transported quite legitimately—as was the case with his English wares, but it was an inconvenience at least.
At worst it was treachery.
The drizzle that had plagued him most of the day had subsided, and the scent of wet loam rose with the heat-mist, lingering in the air, filling the senses.
It was a familiar odor, though not a comforting one, for it forced Christian to consider his losses.
Soothing to him was the scent of the sea; salt-mist so thick, it could be tasted upon the wind.
Aye, he could nearly smell it now. He lapped at his lips and could almost taste the spray.
He closed his eyes, diverting his thoughts.
Soon enough, he’d be back aboard the Mistral.
Even now, the ship was being prepared for his return.
His lips curved as he thought of his newest acquisition.
She was, by far, the largest of his vessels, a beautiful but costly ship made of sturdy live oak, and he counted himself fortunate to have her.
The demand for well-crafted vessels was high, and Carolina-wrought ships were sought most of all for their exceptional durability.
Their workmanship was unsurpassable. The Mistral was one such prize.
In his absence, she was being coated with pitch and tar; she’d be scoured and repainted next.
Hell, he’d even commissioned stained glass for his cabin windows—extravagant, aye, but he spent far more time aboard his vessels than anywhere else, and he’d have one place for himself that didn’t scream of meagerness.
He inhaled deeply, anticipating his return to the sea, and the scent of sodden earth jolted him rudely from his pleasures.
At some point during the course of their first visit together, he’d concluded that vengeance against Jessie’s brother was pointless.
She would doubtless be the one to suffer its consequences, and the last thing he wished was to hurt her. After his last evening with her, he was more determined than ever not to wound her sweet little heart.
She deserved more.
So much more than he could offer her.
Christ, but he’d managed even to convince himself that he’d never intended to follow through with her brother’s asinine proposal to begin with, that curiosity, and curiosity alone, had prompted him to accept when he should have spat in the bastard’s face instead.
And having convinced himself of that much, he’d determined never to see her again.
His curiosity had been appeased, after all, and there was simply no point to it.
He couldn’t have her.
Didn’t want her.
Of that, too, he endeavored to convince himself. But it hadn’t quite worked that way. Like a besotted youth, he’d gone to see her again and again—even after that wise decision had been arrived at—bloody fool that he was! Who would have figured he would find the chit so damned engaging?
Damn it all to hell and back.
Grimacing at the turn of his thoughts, he tried to focus upon his commerce once more.
Nay... England would never do as a safe harbor. There was no way he’d bring his ships anywhere near her with illicit cargo aboard. Even if he could pull it off, he wanted no trace of scandal to mark his future here—concern not for himself, but for his heirs, of course.
Perhaps the West Indies—or even Charlestown would do... though Charlestown had never really been a smuggler’s haven.
The image of a black-haired child rose up to taunt him... hair as silky soft and shiny as a raven’s wings, a daughter with eyes so luminous a green, they made his heart melt with a single glance and his heart squeezed with a longing so keen, it was physical.
Snarling in self-contempt, he sawed the reins.
The truth was that the cab he had ordered had long since arrived.
Nothing more required him to keep residence in this godforsaken place—certainly it wasn’t fond memories that kept him here.
He’d written off the estate long ago. Along with his relationship with Philip, he’d banished every last trace of his former life from his heart.
So then, he was left with only one explanation for lingering.
Jessie; he was reluctant to leave her.
Now that he’d made her acquaintance, he found he could not so easily put her from his thoughts, or his life.
He felt some measure of responsibility for her father’s death, he told himself.
He’d never expected the man to be such a weak-kneed, feckless fool.
Nor had he ever expected to feel any remorse.
Yet as much as he’d like to deny it now, he felt duty-bound to look after Jessamine’s welfare.
He’d purposely set out to devastate both her father’s name and his resources.
And God damn him to hell, he’d succeeded.
What he hadn’t counted on was the man losing a son, as well, and then taking his life over his losses. It had merely been his intention to give The Duke of Westmoor a small taste of what he himself had been dealt. The man had proven a weak-minded fool.
God’s teeth, why the devil should he feel guilty for any of it?
He shook his head in self-disgust, his jaw working, for the fact was that he did. Pivoting his mount about, he headed towards Westmoor, ignoring the warnings that sounded like foghorns in his head. But he had the distinct feeling he was going to sorely regret this.
Jessie marveled that no matter how oft the colt was brought outdoors, it reacted as surprised and delighted with the warm sun upon its back as it had upon its first outing.
The instant she detached the leading rein, it darted away, bucking and twisting in a dance of euphoria.
Then suddenly it stopped, ears perked, only to dance again without warning.
She giggled softly at its antics. There was no question that the animal was altogether enchanted with life. She only wished she were, too.
Her knight in shining armor was somewhat tarnished.
Nearby, the dam stood nibbling at the grass. Every so oft she’d glance up to eye the colt, and nicker softly as though to reproach him—a useless gesture, for the colt merely dismissed her gentle rebuke, and her whinny managed only to attract Mrs. Brown’s attention.
Mrs. Brown, the old goat, had been a faithful companion to many a brood mare, and seemed to have grown particularly fond of the stable’s newest addition.
The faithful animal seemed content as long as she had something to nibble, grass, leaves, the mare’s mane or tail.
Jessie smiled. Once, even, the goat had managed to swallow a goodly portion of her skirt before she’d even realized it stood behind her.
Just now, Mrs. Brown’s ancient face appeared between the fence slats, head cocked inquisitively.
As Jessie watched, the goat shimmied beneath the fence to join her companions.
Hoisting herself up, Jessie sat upon the fence to watch the goat and mare sniff proper greetings to one another.
Afterward, as though they’d shared some great parental confidence, the mare nodded and Mrs. Brown turned to scrutinize the spirited colt with a commiserative bleat.
Despite her glum mood, Jessie found herself smiling at the amusing exchange, for they were not unlike a pair of gossiping old maids.
Christian spotted her at once, sitting upon the stable fence, her back to him.
He didn’t bother dismounting. She was so enthralled with the young foal gamboling before her that she didn’t seem to realize his presence even once he was directly behind her. She laughed suddenly, the sound low and musical, and warmth spread through his veins.
“Good morning, m’mselle.”
She swung about, nearly toppling from her perch upon the fence. “My lord!” Regaining her composure, she cast him a reproachful glance. “You startled me. How do you manage to appear so suddenly?”
Christian swung down from his mount, forcing levity, offering a wink and a smile. If she asked him to leave, he didn’t know what he’d do. “My apologies if I’ve disturbed you, cherie.”
“Not at all,” she said, somewhat sullenly, looking almost like a child with her slumped shoulders. There was no chance, however, she could be mistaken for a child, for her femininity was nothing if not conspicuous.
She turned away to watch the colt, avoiding his gaze. “I wasn’t expecting you,” she said. “In truth, I thought perhaps you’d taken your leave of Hakewell, for ’tis been an age since I saw you last.”
Christian felt certain she wasn’t aware how much she had disclosed with her carefully worded grievance.
“I had business to attend,” he lied, and hobbled his mount to the fence, then hoisted himself up to sit beside her, facing her, his back to the enclosure to better see her.
She looked at him, brows drawn. Devil hang him if she didn’t have the most beautiful eyes. They were his undoing.
“Didn’t you miss me at all?” he whispered at her ear.