Chapter 8
True to his word, Christian materialized by the brook precisely at noon—equipped for a picnic. Jessie was delighted that he’d taken the time to consider so much, and she chided herself for worrying over naught.
Once again they whiled away the hours conversing, and she sighed contentedly as she listened to him. He was so wonderful, so very wonderful—magnificently handsome, too.
Languishing in the heat of the day, he’d removed his frock coat.
It lay forgotten now upon the grass. His crisp white shirt, with its perfect pristine ruffles and folds, he wore recklessly unbuttoned at the neckline, long having discarded the stock.
Jessie found herself staring at him more oft than not, powerless to dispel from her mind the memory of his kiss; it kindled a strange warmth within her every time she thought of it.
Plucking a small yellow blossom, she peered up -at him through her lashes, praying he couldn’t discern the wickedness of her thoughts. She twirled the bloom between her fingertips, wondering how long it would be before he would try to kiss her again.
Would he?
Did she wish him to?
Her cheeks burned as she acknowledged the truth, impossible as it was to deny.
She’d broken the rules of propriety by coming alone to this secluded place without a chaperon.
Why else would she have done so, but in hopes that he would.
.. if only once more? She cast him another surreptitious glance, and her heart fluttered wildly.
God have mercy, she yearned for it, even, as one would hunger for food or thirst for drink, or even want for sleep.
She was consumed by the desire for it. His kiss had somehow awakened some unfamiliar yearning within her, and even when she’d fallen asleep last eve, tossing and turning, it had not fled her.
Lord help her, she’d dreamed of him even then.
Seeing the adoring look in her eyes, Christian felt his stomach knot. She seemed to see in him only what she wished to and nothing more.
What might she think if she knew him for what he truly was? If she knew what base thoughts burned through his mind, what sordid desires slithered through his veins?
Christ, the things he wanted to do to her even now as she gazed up at him so worshipfully. He could think of little more than taking her within his arms and initiating her beautiful body into glorious womanhood.
Only, for the first time in his life... there was something more than mere lust that compelled him. And still....
His jaw turned taut, for it was merely a matter of time before she discovered his true nature.
She might as well know it of him now.
This moment.
Before he might be tempted to lay his heart at her mercy. And God save him if that ever came to be, for if he allowed it... she had it within her power to crush him beneath those precious feet of hers.
Suddenly he felt the need to shock her. “What might you think, Jess, if I told you I was bastard born? Would you still look at me with such reverence?” The words had come bluntly, his tone hinting at all that was loathsome about his life.
A vision came upon him of himself as a superstitious peasant warding away evil with a makeshift cross. If it weren’t such a pathetic image, he might have been amused.
Was he so desperate to save himself from the devotion so evident in her beautiful eyes?
Christ... but those eyes had the power to reach so deep into his soul... the power to touch his very heart. Somehow she made him want to be all that she believed of him.
All that he was not.
And more.
He couldn’t hurt her, he realized.
He wouldn’t hurt her.
She looked stricken by the unexpected revelation. “Is it true?” she asked, sounding horrified.
He laughed derisively, casting her a dispassionate glance. “Aye.”
“How—” She shook her head, refusing to believe it. “However did you discover such a thing?”
“It doesn’t matter?”
“Of course it matters!” Her brows drew together. “Your brother might have been lying, don’t you see!”
Christian shook his head soberly, wondering belatedly over the wisdom in telling her such a thing.
To reveal this, his darkest secret, was to open a vein for her to draw on.
That someone other than himself and his mother—he refused to acknowledge the rest of his family—should possess the knowledge of his bastardy would make him vulnerable as he’d never been before.
“Nay, Jess.”
She seemed dumbstruck, and then sputtered, “Y-Your father?”
He wasn’t certain what it was she was asking. “Maxwell Haukinge?”
“Nay,” she said softly, and looked disconcerted. “Did he know?”
He nodded, understanding. “Ah, well, yes... I believe he did.” Something in her expression compelled him to go on.
“And my real father… I believe he would as soon hang himself from the tallest masthead rather than defame my mother’s good name.
My captain, you see, is the man who sired me, and loved my mother. ”
For a long moment, there was silence between them. When she spoke again there was only concern in her tone, and he was warmed by it. “When did you discover the truth?”
He inhaled sharply. “As a lad. Though I didn’t learn who until about a year ago.” Gazing at her sweet face, he wondered why he felt compelled to drive her away when he craved more than anything the sweet fulfillment he suspected she could give him.
Try as he might, he couldn’t find the answer.
“Please,” she entreated softly. “Tell me of it.”
He cocked his brows uncertainly.
Inconceivably, there was no condemnation in her voice, no loathing in her eyes. God, it felt so good to reveal himself to her. A strange calm threatened to steal over him, and for the first time in his life he felt he could trust, truly trust, another human being.
Plucking a grape from the platter before them, he pitched it at her. It fell halfway between them, and he retrieved it, pitching it again. “There’s isn’t much to the tale... nothing sensational to speak of.” He went still, remembering. “I simply looked into his eyes and knew the truth.”
He shook his head and reached out to pluck another grape, placing it within his mouth.
Plucking another, he fed it to Jessie. She accepted his offering with a sad smile, urging him, with her silence and her persuasive green gaze, to continue.
Her eyes... God... how they seemed to reach into his soul and draw out the words, never mind that they’d never been spoken before now.
Uncomfortable with her scrutiny, he lay back upon the blanket, locking his hands behind his head, and peered into the treetops as he continued, “It was the strangest thing,” he said, “but for the space of an instant, the years were stripped away... and it was as though I were left gazing into a looking glass at my own reflection, blue eyes and all. I just knew.”
Staring past the lush greenery into the clear azure sky, Christian waited for her to speak—to say something, anything—words that would give him some small hint of how she felt about his shocking disclosure.
When she said nothing for a long moment, he rolled to face her.
Propping his head upon his hand, he stared into her eyes, hoping to see into her heart.
What he saw there in the shimmering depth of her eyes gave root to his burgeoning sense of peace.
Once again he felt compelled to go on; the need to purge himself of the blackness was strong, and it seemed that she, and she alone, had the ability to absolve him with her soul-cleansing gaze.
“My brother has gray eyes,” he told her softly, “as did our father. My mother has beautiful brown eyes, so deep and dark, they seem almost fathomless. And I, well, I was the only one in the brood with eyes of blue—and God... at that moment, Jessie... looking into Jean Paul’s face.
.. his eyes... so many things became comprehensible at last.”
“What sort of things?” Taking a grape for herself, she offered another to Christian, as he had done for her. He repaid her gesture with a lopsided grin.
“For one...” He took it, but placed it against her own lips, and smiled when she accepted it so easily.
This ease between them felt good—better than anything had in all his years.
“Jean Paul appointed himself guardian over my mother and me when first we took up residence with my grandparents in France—a fact that always bedeviled me, that this man, so in love with the sea, would bind himself to a woman and child not his own. It made no sense at all.”
“Do you think, perhaps, he did so out of guilt for his part in your mother’s... predicament? She left England, I know. Only it was never known precisely why.”
“She was banished by my father, actually—we both were.” He glanced away, uncomfortable with the emotions that surfaced in that instant. “She was glad enough to go, I think. I always believed she was in love with Jean Paul, though for my sake she masked it well.”
His gaze returned to her, gauging her expression. Nothing. He could discern nothing.
“For her parents, as well, of course; she would have spared them any injury.”
He plucked another grape, squeezing it gently, anticipating her reaction; veiled disgust, revulsion perhaps.
He was unprepared for sympathy. “How very sad. I’m so sorry for you,” she whispered.
The grape burst, spurting juice everywhere. She cried softly, wincing as it sprayed her face. Wiping a droplet from her lip with a fingertip, she held his gaze, smiling wanly. Christian tossed the grape over his shoulder. Sympathy was not precisely the emotion he’d sought from her.
“Don’t be. I was rendered quite speechless by the discovery at the time, but I’ve no contention in my soul over it a’tall. I welcomed the knowledge of Jean Paul as my father wholeheartedly, embraced it even, for it made so many things bearable.”
“Truly?”
Their gazes met and held; stark blue and healing green.