Crimson Rapture (38 page)

The
puppy seemed to sense that this was a momentous occasion and enthusiastically
licked Christina's face. The mother barked happily. From the looks of their
dress, the boy began an assessment to guess yearly income. And Christina turned
to Richard with wide hopeful eyes.

"Oh
God, I know I'm in trouble."

"I
do have that sense," Darrell agreed.

"No
doubt it's owing to all those mothering chemicals in her body."

"No
doubt," Darrell agreed, then asked, "Did you know the Greek word for
womb is hysterica?"

"It
makes perfect sense suddenly," Richard replied.

Christina
was used to their teasing but this was important. "Oh, Richard, please, I
promise I'll never let—"

"Think
of its fleas!"

"I'll
bathe her regularly, I promise!"

"Where?"
Richard wondered.

"Oh,
Richard, she just reminds me of another dog I knew and, and I want her so
badly—"

Darrell
laughed. "If you can resist those eyes, I can not. How much?" he
asked the boy.

Christina
laughed and jumped up holding her treasure and kissed Darrell's cheek.

"A
quid even," the boy said.

"A
quid?" Richard screamed, "Why you cunning little thief—"

"That's
the pick of the litter, sir!" the boy argued.

"The
pick? You mean the runt! I'll give you—"

And
on and on the bargaining went until finally a price was found. Once they were
settled back in the carriage and Richard saw how happy Christina was, he knew
in truth that had she wanted a hundred of those mongrels, he would have bought
them. Such was his fondness for her.

"What
will you name her?" Darrell had asked.

"Gargantua?"
Richard suggested.

Christina
knew already. "Beauty. Her name will be Beauty."

"Beauty?"
Richard questioned with distaste. "How insipid!"

"Innocuous
at best," Darrell agreed.

Christina
looked from one face to the other. "Oh you two! Really," she sighed,
"I don't know how I ever get along."

But
she had gotten along and wonderfully. She thought of all she had lost: Richard
and Darrell, Betty and Beauty. She loved them all and with all her heart. She
could not believe it was over.

It
was over though; it had been over the minute he walked back into her life.
Peace shattered like a hammer to porcelain. He walked into her life and brought
with him his violence...

They
would be married, bound together forever by the single act of vows. They would
live together; they would see each other every day in the intimate
circumstances of man and wife. Yet he hated her. The very sight of her
solicited his loathing.

Did
he know this would be the cruelest punishment?

She
could live without him, nourished by a thousand precious memories and the joy
and pleasure of raising his son. This was how she had foreseen her life. Peaceful
and quiet, filled with the small pleasures of daily life. She could have
survived with this.

She
could not survive with him and his hatred of her. It would be a slow death, as
insidious as Diego's and just as painful. Love and hatred, two forces clashing
in destruction—her destruction. Yes, it would be her end; he might more easily
shoot her, certainly more merciful.

And
she did love him! She had always and would always love him. Love had been the
only constant throughout the tangle of feelings, thoughts, and motives, the
unfortunate twists in fate that made her turn toward the wind to a British ship
that carried her away from him and his love. Thoughts and feelings and
circumstances that seemed but a jumble in her mind now, fuzzy and elusive like
a dream upon the waking. And now the only clear thing in her mind was her love
and his hatred, a future that was as cold and barren as a snow-filled desert.

The
carriage door opened with an icy burst of wind and Justin slipped into the seat
opposite her. She did not wipe her tears fast enough, though he would have
known she was crying anyway. It seemed his fate to bring tears to those soft
gray eyes.

"I'm
sorry for putting you through that," he said sincerely, though in a
permanent tone of animosity.

She
nodded, not venturing to speak.

"Brahms
said you'd be thirsty." He handed her the cask. "Here, let me,"
he said, lifting the bundle from her arms. She drank thirstily as he stared at
his son's sleeping face. When she looked up again, she found him staring at her.

"That
was your dog, I suppose."

She
nodded.

"I'm
sorry about that too. I had no choice."

"No,"
she whispered softly, "you never do."

That
was not lost on Justin.

The
carriage bounced over a hole with a loud thud. Little Justin woke and first
stretched in his father's arms, arching all the way back. Justin watched with
interest. He yawned, then lazily opened his eyes to see who held him. He stared
in acute interest at the new face and then, as though reaching some happy
conclusion, he grinned ear to ear and reached up to touch.

Justin
chuckled and introduced himself, and for the next twenty or so minutes,
Christina watched their relationship develop. She could not help but be
surprised by both parties' quick affection; she hadn't expected it, at least
not so soon. She had not expected the bittersweet joy of watching this.

Amazing
Justin with his small strength, his son squirmed, and realizing how hungry he
was, he abruptly started screaming. Justin was not intimidated. He leaned back
and looked at Christina.

"He's
hungry," she explained softly, her gaze anxiously fixed on her son's signs
of discomfort. Then to make it perfectly clear to Justin, I have to nurse
him." Nursing was done in private. Richard and Darrell, even Betty, would
excuse themselves from her company.

Save
for the intensity of his gaze, Justin made no move, making something else
perfectly clear. He would do what he wanted with her; she had no say. The
subjugation of her will was not by choice or certainly desire, but rather came
by design the day she bore him a son. The only choice she had was to leave him
again, but now that meant leaving her son.

She
stared in silence, understanding his message all too well. Her eyes dropped to
the child in his arms, squirming in frustration. Then her gaze lowered
altogether.

Justin
watched as both her arms reached behind to unbutton the buttons of her gown.
The gown finally slipped from her slender shoulders to hang loosely at her
waist. She wore no chemise, only a corset, one laced in front. Her hands slowly
untied the strings and, still without looking up, she parted it and leaned
forward with extended arms to receive her child.

A
jeweled whistle adorned a sight from which he could not take his eyes.

She
waited; the seconds seemed interminable. Justin finally rose, placed his son
carefully in her arms, and left wordlessly, wondering only who was the victim.

The
long journey to Boston was slow and trying for Christina. The seas were wild,
the ship met with frequent storms, and more days than not the cold winter winds
and rain prevented even short walks on deck. She and little Justin were for the
most part confined to their cabin for the duration.

She
met animosity at every turn. Justin hardly spoke to her unless it concerned
their son. She expected this. Only it was so much worse than she imagined. From
watching Justin play with his son, she saw how very important a father's love
was. Justin thought to do things and play with him in ways she had not the
inclination or idea to do. The pain came only when little Justin—with a smile
or scramble to her—tried to include her in their fun, then how quickly and
easily his father would distract him until the capricious little fellow forgot
his mother altogether.

What
she hadn't expected was the cool indifference, sometimes even rudeness, from
the other men whom she knew intimately from the long days on the island. This
hurt most from Jacob. He seemed unable to meet her eyes and the only time he
ever addressed her was when Justin first showed him his son. "He's a
beautiful boy, Christy. Ye did well." That was all. When she inquired
about Hanna and Elsie and Eric, he said only his new wife was waiting in Boston
while Elsie and Eric were now married and apparently living with Eric's parents
in Holland, part of the Prussian empire.

"And
are they well?" she asked hopefully.

"I
don't
see how it matters much to you. After all," he replied softly, "
'twas ye who left us, not the other way around."

"But
I didn't leave you." She tried desperately for his understanding.

"When
you left him, you left us," he cut her off. " 'Tis that simple."
And he excused himself before she could say anything more.

Only
Brahms seemed willing to forgive her and she cherished the few times he kept
her company. He told her everything of Boston, describing at length the climate
and the terrain and especially the people, the similarities and differences
with England. He also filled her in on the details of everyone's life; details
no one else was willing to share.

He
described Hanna and Jacob's wedding, making her wish she had been there. He
told of Eric's hard decision to give up life at sea—surely owing to the
terrifying hours of the monsoon, the subsequent stay on the island. Eric opted
to take his father's trade—of all things, horse trainer for the Prussian army.

The
fate of Carolyn Knolls surprised her most and she made him tell her twice
before she believed it. John had forced Carolyn to stay on the island with him.
He planned to "fill 'er with a string of brats before he'd let her
go," and he asked Justin to send a ship by in a few years. Justin promised
to do just this. Christina could only imagine Carolyn Knolls's fury at such a
long imprisonment, one with such unpleasant consequences for her.

"Cajun?"
was who she inquired about first.

"Well,
apparently he's somewhere in India right now. After we were rescued, and Justin
received the letter from his father and Carrington telling him you were safe,
Justin decided to sail to Boston before coming to England. And Cajun and Justin
decided to part paths at that point."

"But
why?"

"Any
number of reasons, I suppose. First, Justin is not going to be sailing anymore.
Oh, he'll have his ships out, but he won't be on them. And Cajun knows he
doesn't belong in the so-called civilized world."

"What
do you mean?"

"Why,
just imagine Cajun walking down the streets of London or Boston! He looks a
savage and partially is. I've even seen him don proper clothes a few times, but
he still doesn't fit. Cajun has never felt comfortable where his color matters.
The English-speaking world can't accept his dignity; they would try to strip
him of it, beat it out of him, and when they couldn't they'd kill him.
No," he shook his head sadly, "a man like Cajun belongs in Arabia or
India where his color doesn't matter."

She
never thought of this but intuitively knew it as a sad truth. "Will Cajun
never see Justin again?"

"Oh
no. Cajun and Justin are as close as two men can without being—" He
stopped, remembering her husband, then finished, "Cajun will show up
again, no doubt."

Christina
hoped this was true and wondered if, when he did show up, if he would have
found it in his heart to forgive her. She cared most about Cajun and in an odd
way, his opinion mattered most. Redemption or prosecution.

She
was lonely and the ship kept her from any means she might have of coping with
her loneliness. She had no sketchbook or even knitting or embroidery to do.
Justin kept few books on board. If not for the joy of caring, nursing, and
playing with her son, the joy of watching him unfold a little more each day,
she could not have borne it.

Christina
was up in early morning before dawn, suffering from yet another night's sleep
interrupted by—how many times had little Justin roused her? Five? Six? Her
nursing could no longer sustain him and he needed solid food, food that was not
available on board the ship.

Already
washed and dressed, sitting in a chair with little Justin in her arms, she was
lured into a light sleep by the ceaseless motion of the ship on the water. The
call of land sounded loudly from deck and Christina woke, hearing the excited
cheers of the men. She jumped up from the chair. "Finally!" She
laughed out loud. "Land, Justin! Did you hear it? We're going to see our
new home!"

Little
Justin tried desperately to figure out what he just did to cause his mother's
excitement. Perhaps it was a gurgle. He gurgled again and grinned, then waited
for her reaction.

Christina
stopped herself from going up on deck, knowing she had to wait for an escort.
Surely he would send someone soon. She sat back down in the hard wood chair and
waited, trying to contain her excitement. Excitement coupled with a bit of
apprehension. Excitement that she would be seeing the New World for the first
time; apprehension because she knew not what it would bring.