Crimson Rapture (31 page)

"You
don't know what you're talking about, Christina—"

"I
do! I was there and saw it... I saw Diego on his knees, begging you... I heard
him—"

"Stop
it!" he yelled sharply. "I'm not going to listen to this from
you."

"No."
She shook her head. "No, you won't listen to me, like you wouldn't listen
to him! Not when he called you his brother, when he said he loved you—"

The
words triggered an explosive response that brought Justin to his feet, moving
to her in two swift strides. All his pain and anger rushed to the surface, and
he stared at her furiously, daring her to say a single other word.

She
did not back away and instead cried, "You're cruel and vicious and I hate
you for it... I hate—"

Justin
grabbed her arm and clamped his hand over her mouth, stopping himself from
shaking her senseless.

Christina
tried futilely to pull free and then in desperation bit her teeth hard into his
hand until she drew blood. His hand jerked back from her mouth but it wasn't
enough. She was suddenly crazed, wild, sending her clenched fists pounding
against his chest as she cried, "I hate you... I hate you! I'll never
forgive you for—"

Justin
grabbed her fists, forcing her assaulting arms behind her back and her entire
body into a tight hold against his. Outwardly he seemed dispassionate, but
inwardly he teemed with emotions as he watched her struggle for all she was
worth. She would not cease, her own emotions fueling a strength she did not
normally own.

He
could not stop his response. He wanted to subdue her; an act to extirpate his
own pain and guilt, if only for the moment. He held her arms with one hand,
while his other grabbed a handful of her loosened hair, forcing her head back.
She cried out once, the shock of it hitting her as his mouth crushed against
hers. She clenched her teeth together but his tongue plunged savagely into her,
prying the warm recesses of her mouth open to him.

She
tried to fight him—oh how she tried to stop him—but his strength was inviolate
and the kiss, given with as much pleasure as pain, seemed interminable. The
force of it drained her as his strength consumed her and she felt herself
growing limp, weak-kneed, and helpless.

His
mouth left hers suddenly and she drew a gasping breath as he lifted her hair
back to press moist lips along her neck. Chills dashed along her spine and she
cried out softly, whether in protest or not she hardly knew, for she could not
separate the fire from the fear and outrage pounding in her heart. Then he was
kissing her again while his free hand tore open the buttons of her ripped
bodice. A simple tug freed her from the loincloth. And his lips never left her,
even as he pulled off his belt and shrugged from his breeches, even as he
brought her to the mossy blanket beneath the canopy of a willow tree.

She
didn't know when exactly the violence of his passion changed, transformed by
the very act itself, but at some point after his joining, his tension and anger
collapsed, dissipated, expelled. He began calling her, whispering impassioned
words of love and never had she been so vulnerable to him. She could not
resist, not mind, body, or soul. He sent her nearly swooning into blackness
with waves of ecstasy only to return to feel his final release pierce her to
the very depth of her soul.

When
she finally lay still in his arms, shielded in the warmth of his body,
listening to the steady beat of his heart, she heard the soft sound of a light
rain falling against the earth. Like an umbrella, the swooping branches of the
tree protected them and created a peaceful illusion of isolation from any
profanity of the outside world, as if they were truly alone. Even Beau would
not disturb this peace; he lay quietly at their side.

She
loved him, and while her resolve was the same, the stirring of the depth of her
love made it that much harder. The thought of just how much she loved him made
her suddenly start to cry. Justin's arms tightened around her, his hand combed
through her hair. "I'm sorry, Christina. I'm sorry."

"Why,
Justin?" she managed to whisper through her tears. "Just tell me
why?"

Justin
remained silent for a long while. She deserved to understand, he knew. In a
perfect world she would have known without being told; or at least her love
would have bid her to trust. Trust him; trust him enough to know he would not
take life ruthlessly. The odd thing was he knew—even before he told her—that
her understanding would still bring condemnation. She would never speak it to
him but her heart would condemn killing in any form, even as an act of mercy.

He
found no words to begin his tale. Where to start? At the beginning of his
friendship with Diego? How the friendship was first filled with times of
laughter and fun, adventure and, more often than not, trouble for two young
lads becoming men, how over the years Diego became like a part of himself, much
as Cajun and Jacob seemed essential parts of his life now. He would do anything
for Diego and, when the disease first struck, rapidly and unexpectedly, he
brought Diego to every blessed surgeon, medicine man, shaman, so-called healer,
in every land they traveled to. Hundreds of cures brought no relief. Relief
came only with morphine, opium, cocaine, and the like, medicines which this
island could not provide.

If
only there had been some way he could have borne his pain for him, he would not
have hesitated. He would have done anything for Diego; anything but the one
thing he wanted from him, or so he had thought. Diego had been Catholic and,
like most Catholics, lapsed until the final call. He could not kill himself.
What she saw was Diego asking him to give up hope, an unceasing hope that they
would ever laugh as brothers again.

Words
were an inadequate vessel to express the emotions of his heart but he knew he
must try. "It is difficult to speak of," he finally began, "and
I suppose what I fear most—" He turned to her, wiping a tear from her
cheek, finishing softly, "is that you'll still condemn me after you
understand."

This
startled her. Not just that he was afraid— afraid of anything—but that he
should fear her condemnation.

"Diego
was indeed as a brother to me; I could not have loved him more. We grew to
manhood together and—"

"Justin!"
The call interrupting him mid-sentence. Justin, like times before, bolted to
his feet, alarmed by the excitement in Jacob's call. Christina sat up dazed and
tried to cover her nakedness. Jacob raced into view all at once and there was
no doubt something had happened.

"A
ship off windward, just like the savage said, a man-of-war, and the lifeboats
already landing. They spotted our fires."

"Are
the men alerted?"

"Nay,
'twas Kafir and meself on the lookout. I came to find you, Kafir went to alert
the men."

"Good,"
Justin responded instantly, already into his breeches and handing Christina her
rags, as he snapped off orders. "You fetch Blake, Carrington, and the
other men from the
Defiant
and get them down to the beach before a
search can begin. They have their story straight, they are the only survivors.
I'll round up the men and head for the high ground."

"Carrington?"
he questioned. "Are you sure we should let him go? I don't think I trust
the bastard—"

"He's
my ace, Jacob; I trust him. However, that lady is to be detained—permanently.
Find her. Take Christina with you and meet us at the high point."

And
Justin was gone.

"Come
on, lass, time's a wastin'!"

He
could hardly comprehend Christina's distant, even dazed stare at a time like
this. For he didn't know that Christina had just realized it was the last time
she would ever see Justin again.

"Jacob,
I need your cape to hide my nakedness," she said in a disturbingly calm
voice.

"Oh
aye, but hurry, hurry." He struggled quickly from the canvas cape,
grumbling. "Don't want a lady's modesty to cause a bloody war."

She
swung the cape over her head. "You go on ahead, Jacob," she said,
thinking that this was the last time too she'd ever see his laughing blue eyes
as well as his silvery hair, that special grin of his as he teased Hanna
unmercifully. She wanted to tell him to take good care of Hanna, to cherish her
always. She wanted to wish them both the happiness she herself could not have.
But she said only, "Go on! I won't tarry; I promise I'll catch up in a
minute. I just have to... to relieve myself."

Jacob
offered a lively curse to women and their untimely ministrations as he turned
to rush on ahead. Christina watched him go with tears in her eyes. Then she
turned into the wind, heading for a British ship that would finally take her
home. Home to England.

Richard
Morrison, the ship's surgeon, knocked on what had once been the door to his
small cabin.

"Who
is it?" Christina asked softly.

"It's
me, Richard, I've come bearing gifts for my lady."

Christina
turned over on the bunk and wiped her cheeks. "Just a moment,
please."

"I'd
wait forever," he answered brightly.

She
quickly washed her face in the dressing water atop a small set of drawers, not
wanting Richard to discern her tears, and pulled the man's coat she wore tight
about her person. She opened the door.

Richard
burst into the small cabin like a breath of fresh wind, his energy and
exuberance following him everywhere. He was a small man, not much taller than
Christina, but mayhap one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. Fair,
with a crown of golden curls and dancing amber eyes, he reminded her of
Fielding's Tom Jones in both appearance and character. He had a quick smile and
an easy laugh and yet a sensitivity that astonished her. After just a week of
being on board the English man-of-war, the
Kyte,
Christina wondered how
she might have fared if not for Richard's kindness and attention.

Taking
care to keep his present hidden behind his back, Richard took one long look at
her and he knew. "You've been crying."

"Oh
no." She thought quickly. "Just a little seasickness. I'm afraid I
still haven't got my sea legs back," which was also true.

"Hmmm."
He eyed her speculatively and with a doctor's concern. "Well, nothing a
little wine and bread won't cure. Which brings me straight to my purpose. The
captain has asked you again to share his table tonight. Before you
decline," he held his hand up to stop her protest, "I must warn you,
I'll not take no for an answer this time. 'Twill just be Captain Shaw and
myself, none of the other survivors this time. Make me a happy man and say
yes."

"Richard,
I can't, not like this." She glanced at the baggy breeches and oversized
man's shirt and coat, the only clothes they could find for the only woman on
board. But she was glad for the excuse.

"If
you had proper clothes would you accept the captain's humble invitation?"

"Well,
I suppose, but—"

"Good!
Then here it is," and he handed her a large brown package tied with a
string.

Christina
stared in surprise.

"Open
it" came Richard's command.

She
slowly unraveled her treasure and lifted a pastel pink evening gown. The
exquisite dress had fashionable short puffy sleeves, a low neckline decorated
with tiny silk pink and white flowers, an unusually high waist, and flowing
skirt. There were matching slippers and ribbons, silk undergarments galore,
though no cumbersome hoops.

She
was speechless.

"It
was Edith's favorite gown."

"Edith?"
she questioned.

"Yes,
Edith, the general's daughter. I had to seduce the homely thing, then sneak
into her trunks to steal it. Yes." He chuckled at Christina's shock.
"These," he held up the dress, "are stolen goods. I shall spare
you a retelling of the difficulties involved, especially in finding the
undergarments."

"Richard!"
She almost laughed. "But... how?"

"Yesterday
in port."

"But
I thought no one was to leave ship, except for supplies and—"

"These
are supplies. India, that heathen sewer, may not have any dress shops to speak
of, but fortunately it has plenty of generals with spoiled, homely daughters
who wear only the latest fashions."

She
laughed, indeed she could not help herself. She only prayed it wasn't true.
"I don't believe it," she said hopefully, after calming down.

"Believe
it," he said. "I'm just glad we're safely out at sea, for on the
morrow I'm supposed to meet poor Edith for a quick elopement."

Even
the fact that he could make up such a tale made Christina's eyes widen
dramatically. Richard only laughed, kissed her cheek, and told her he would be
back in an hour to escort her to the captain's table before leaving.

A
while later, Christina squirmed in her seat, pricked by the dozen or so pins
holding her—or rather Edith's—gown together. Edith must have been a very large
girl, and she had not time to make the necessary alterations. She stared at her
plate of fish, boiled potatoes, bread, and various odd fruits taken from
India's port and felt torn between persistent seasickness and hunger. Hunger
won and she dug in.