Crimson Rapture (48 page)

She
heard herself responding, even initiating occasionally. She heard herself
laughing too. But there remained a part of herself on a warm sand beach on a
distant island, wrapped in his arms before a campfire. She kept looking to him
only to discover his gaze had already been upon her.

Mr.
Lowell went into great detail to explain how he got his title "King of
State Street," this somehow following an inquiry into Christina's initial
association with Justin. He was a determined man, and while he had a number of
agendas tonight: discussing the current political situation with Mr. Phillips,
sharing a good laugh over the bumbling French idiots, enjoying music and
dancing with his lovely wife—now he would capture the elusive Christina
Phillips.

Toward
this last measure, the older gent raised his glass in toast. "A
toast," he announced to the group at large. "To Christina, the
newest, most welcomed, and certainly loveliest addition to our society."

Christina
blushed prettily but refused to share the honor alone. "And to Dr.
Morrison," she added softly, "whom I'm sure will prove a far more
valuable addition to society."

Glasses
were raised again but Mr. Lowell chuckled. "You deferred yet again,
Christina, but this time I shall not let you escape. Besides," he looked
at his wife, "Muriel has cautioned me that tonight will be my last if I
don't ascertain the truth of those delicious rumors about you." The group
laughed good-naturedly. "Once and for all," he said, "do
tell—could the fairy-tale romance with your husband possibly be true?"

"Do
tell" came from all corners of the table, echoing all at once.

Christina
looked first shocked, then pale. She suddenly found the napkin on her lap fascinating.
She glanced quickly at Justin. He nodded slightly; his smile told her she had
naught to fear, that she trespassed safe ground. She turned back to Mr. Lowell.
"Dare I ask what rumors need my verification?"

"The
one that has it you met on the ship that carried Justin to prison in
what," he growled, "what was yet another attempt by the English to
rid our young republic of its best privateers and," he added with a smile,
"it was love at first sight?"

She
could not look at the anxious, expectant gazes of the party at large. How had
anyone come across this information? Would she never adjust to the American's
brass forwardness? "Yes, that's true." She fondled her crystal goblet
as she softly replied. "I met Justin on a ship sailing to Australia and,
yes, he was an English prisoner."

"Yes?"

She
paused nervously, then looked at Justin. "I can't answer the rest. I've
been taught not to answer for my husband."

Polite
chuckles followed this clever evasion and all heads turned to Justin, whose own
gaze rested on Christina. There might not have been anyone else in the room.
"A lesson well learned, for I can indeed answer that myself. Yes," he
said, remembering the young girl, that long rope of hair and the black widow's
weeds, hiding in the corner. "I fell in love the moment I saw her."

Christina
felt his love as a tangible force that bridged the distance between them. No,
don't let him make you hope again. It was only for the night. One night to love
him again...

"And
you, Christina? Did you fall in love at first sight?" Mr. Lowell
persisted.

"My
wife," Justin smiled, "needed a bit more convincing." The group
laughed at this. "As for the rest of our auspicious beginnings," he
looked directly at Mr. Lowell, "suffice to say," he smiled, "no
gentleman would inquire further."

Hearty
laughter followed this obvious end to their curiosity and Christina breathed a
sigh of relief. She then rose and, following the age-old tradition, she asked
the ladies to join her for tea and music in the parlor before the other guests
arrived for the ball while the men enjoyed brandy, tobacco, and, of course,
politics.

The
rest of the evening was a blur in her mind. A blur created by a whirlwind of
people and laughter, music and dancing. The ball was a huge success. It was
well past midnight and closer to dawn when the last of their guests took leave,
and when the servants were congratulated and dismissed, when the lights were
extinguished and Christina found herself alone in her room.

She
sat at the dressing table in her nightclothes, brushing out her hair. Still
filled with the night's excitement, she knew she could find no rest, not after
all the people, dancing, and laughter. She thought over all parts of the
evening, but again and again she kept returning to those times she found herself
dancing in his arms.

Holding
a bottle of sherry and two glasses in his hand, Justin entered her bedroom and,
just as he had twelve hours ago, he stepped behind her in the mirror unnoticed.
Her hair was brushed smooth, spreading like a giant gold fan over her
nightclothes. The less he noticed of the nightclothes, the better, he
immediately realized. A single candle lit her reflection. She had a strange,
faraway look. What thoughts caused that sweet smile on those lips?

"What
are you thinking of?"

"Oh!"
She turned, rising all at once. "Justin... you startled me!"

"I
didn't mean to. I came to congratulate you." He held up the bottle and
glasses, then after setting them on the sitting table, he returned to stand by
her. "You were a wonderful success."

"My
thanks to you," she replied sincerely. "You were with me the whole
evening and—"

"No.
I'll take no credit for your success," he interrupted with a smile,
knowing well how to stop her deferment. "I don't think you realize how
quickly people take to you, how much they like you." She watched him
expectantly, though with obvious uncertainty. He stood so close she could feel
his warmth, a pleasant scent of brandy mixed with tobacco. His hand was
suddenly brushing through her hair. "I would ask again. What were you thinking
of just then?"

"I...
I was thinking of dancing."

"Oh?
With anyone in particular?"

She
nodded.

"Dare
I inquire who?"

"I
was thinking of you," she whispered but then frightened by the intimacy,
she added quickly, "You're a marvelous dancer."

"So
are you." He smiled. Never had any lady fitted so naturally in his arms,
or danced so with such light grace. "Especially since your only dance
instruction came from Richard and Darrell."

"How
did you know that?"

"Richard
commented as we watched you. He tried to take credit." Justin laughed and
Christina smiled. "What happened anyway? Didn't your father know the
importance of dance instruction to a young lady's education?" The question
was asked lightly and teasingly but he immediately saw in her eyes his mistake.

"No,
he didn't. He thought dance instruction—"

"—Frivolous,
like your sketchbooks," he finished for her. She nodded and he expected
her to next excuse her father's petty tyrannies and was surprised when she
didn't.

"It's
such a small thing really, but sometimes I don't think men realize that,
that..." She groped for the right words.

"That
small things can be important?"

"Yes."
She nodded and with a wave of her hand to dismiss what she would next say.
"I remember trying to understand, even believe that dance instruction was
frivolous. In my youth and idolization I tried to believe everything he did.
Yet, the dance instructor would come to town and I would watch all the other
young girls run off to lessons. They would each carry these special cotton, sometimes
even silk slippers in their hands—to replace their boots and oh—" she
smiled thinking of it, "how I wanted a pair of slippers like that. If ever
I have a daughter, I'm going to get her a dozen—" She stopped abruptly
realizing her reference to a daughter and she looked at Justin for his
response.

He
made no response at first, though his eyes were suddenly alive with amusement
and, yes, fondness. He was looking at her as before, when they had been very
much in love. She felt suddenly confused again, unable to understand his
apparent change in attitude, still unwilling to harbor any hope.

"No,"
his hand lightly caressed her cheek, "don't be frightened. I'll ignore the
reference to our daughter, at least for now." He smiled. He then led her
to the sitting table, where he poured the sherry. "At the risk of ruining
our lovely evening, I want to explain something to you," he began.
"I, too, was thinking of dancing. I was thinking that after all I've known
you, after all we've been through together, I have not— until this very
night—shared such a simple thing as dancing with you. It made me think of a
hundred other things I've not done with you. The small things that are indeed
important."

He
struggled for several long moments. What he was trying to say was that he
wanted a new beginning. He wanted to start at the beginning he had never given
to her. He wanted to court her; to take her wining and dining, dancing and to
the theater. He wanted to buy her things: dresses and hats and trinkets, send
her flowers and cards—the whole lot of what he had never given her. He wanted
to win her love back again.

Beginnings
were fragile, theirs more so than most. And he was not even sure it was
possible. But if it were possible, he needed to understand what had happened.

Christina
had waited through his pause, not knowing what to make of it, yet alone knowing
what to make of his speech. She would not hope, not matter what—she would not
hope and, despite this, her best effort, a small twinge of expectancy made her
pulse flutter wildly.

"I
once said that I would never trust to love again; I'm not sure of that
anymore."

She
held her breath.

"I
also realized that I've never asked you. I always assumed I knew." He
looked at her intently. "Why did you leave me, Christina?"

He
might have thought she hadn't heard the question, except a montage of emotions
suddenly played through her eyes, as though she was reliving the event. Then
she suddenly stood and turned away from him.

"I
was confused," she finally began. "Terribly confused. Part of me was
always afraid of you—of the way you settle matters so forcefully and with...
violence." She told of seeing the haunting scene with Diego, of how Cajun
had warned her not to pass judgment and then much later how Richard had known
of Diego and how he had explained what had happened. "I only knew what I
had seen and this coming after what your men did to her and oh, so many other
incidents. Justin," she whispered, "I loved you very, very much but I
did not think I could live your life with you."

Justin
tried to consider this, the implications and all that it meant but his mind had
stopped on the past tense she used with love and so the next question came
without thought. "Why didn't you tell me these things?"

She
swung around with a look part incredulous and part something he rarely had a
chance to see from her. A brief flash of anger, quickly concealed with lowered
lashes. The message was clear, however. She had told him; in a hundred
different ways, she had tried to tell him. And he had paid no heed.

"I'm
sorry," and indeed he was, "but, God, Christina, if you had only told
me you wanted to leave—"

"Would
you have let me go?"

Again
he was rebuked and in his silence rest the obvious answer.

She
turned back around and said softly, "Only in retrospect did I understand
my mistake. A mistake I know you can't forgive."

He
came to stand behind her, turning her around to see a question in her eyes.
"We both made mistakes that need forgiving. But you're my wife now, the
mother of my son and nothing can change that. We have a lifetime ahead of us
and, God, Christina," he said with feeling, "if we gave our love
another chance, it could be a good life. I want to start over. And I want to
know if it's possible."

Words
that made dreams come true. Christina managed a quick nod, one she felt through
every fiber of her being. Had Justin any idea of her desperate struggle not to
throw her arms around him and demonstrate just how much she loved him, he would
have ended the night in the way he so often imagined. But as it was, he
remembered only too well her tears from their wedding night. He would not force
her love. He would wait until she came to him.

"All
beginnings are fragile," he said softly. "Ours more than most. We
must trespass cautiously."

She
nodded quickly.

"Are
you going to cry again?" He was smiling.

She
lied and shook her head.

"Then
I want you to end the night like you started it. Seal our beginning with a
kiss, my lady."

He
watched her reaction carefully. A smile of pure joy lifted through her as her
arms reached up and around his neck, and with no temerity whatsoever, their
beginning was sealed. Sealed with a kiss so sweet he felt his firm resolve
melt. The taste of lavender and sherry, the small weight pressed against him,
and a passion he suddenly knew could never die. He broke the kiss and for a
long moment studied the joy so plainly apparent and wanted her happiness far
more than his own; he kissed her forehead and said good night.