No matter that he’d braced himself against her anger, her stinging words, expertly flung, cut him to the quick. “Suit yourself, then.”
He muttered an inaudible curse and then turned his back on her hapless struggles, reentering his room and slamming the door so hard that it shook the walls.
Later that night,Jessie was forced to admit the truth of the matter: Christian had been right, and he had warned her, so she had not even the solace of blaming him for her misery.
There had, in fact, been no other rooms available for her use. Only the one wing was complete. Below stairs there was the dining hall and Christian’s study, both of them without doors or even curtains on the wretched windows. Anyone could have peered within.
The other wing, the one she now occupied, remained only partially constructed, but at least this room was windowless, because the windows were as yet boarded up. Here, at least, no one could spy her—unless, of course, the person somehow managed to climb atop the high brick walls. She shuddered at the thought.
A strong, sturdy, lockable door separated this one wing from the rest of the house. The only problem, however, was that it locked from the other side, probably to keep out prowlers, judging by the size of the bolt. She’d managed only to drag the one trunk out of his chamber, and it now sat flush against the door, barring it from any who would enter.
Striving for a comfortable position, she fidgeted upon the pallet she had made from scraps of wood in the hall and a lone blanket she’d borrowed, but try as she might, she couldn’t find relief from the stone-hard bed she had made for herself—much less sleep!
Staring despondently through the skeletal roof, she spied the half-moon peeping through a muddy night. It seemed to be eyeing her sleepily. She sighed at her fancy and shivered. The night air was much too cool for comfort. Heaven help her, she wanted desperately to close her eyes and forget where she lay, but she could not. Oh, that man, he was insufferable!
Crickets trilled softly. An owl hooted in the distance. Jessie listened intently to those peaceful night sounds, the tender music of nature, and despite the chilly November air, she felt at last the inexorable lure of sleep. Exhausted by the trials of the day, she closed her eyes, but even as she did so, an ominous roar sounded in the near distance. Her eyes flew wide to see the skies suddenly burst with light.
“Oh, dear God... don’t let it rain! Not now! Not tonight! please, please…” But He was not to hear her; a mere instant later, she felt the first tender droplets, carried all the way to herpallet by the rising wind. Staring incredulously at her hand, at the glistening moonlit raindrops, she felt suddenly like weeping.
She lay there for the longest time, wishing the rain away, telling herself that it was but a dream and mat she would awaken snug and dry and safe in her cousin’s home. “Oh, God,” she sobbed. “’Tis a bloody nightmare!”
Once the rain had thoroughly soaked her blanket, she moved onto the crude unfinished wood floor, into the far corner, but that spot was no better than the first, and she moved back to her pallet to lie there, resigned to her misery. Her eyes squeezed tightly shut as she remembered her pledge to Christian, that she would prefer the cold, bitter rain to his company. God was surely punishing her now for her cruel words.
And curse Christian, for he’d merely smirked at her before turning his back and leaving her in the corridor to fend with her trunks alone. By God, she would not go crawling to him now, even if it rained all blessed night, even if she sickened from it, even if she died of exposure. But she would not die! she told herself firmly. She would not!
She would live to regret this.
25
In his chamber, Christian lay within his bed, listening to the rain pelt the roof. In his hand he held a near-empty flagon of whiskey. Bringing it to his lips, he gulped the last of it. Against his will, he found himself wondering just where Jessie had encamped for the night. He had fully intended to give her his bed, to sleep in the room across the hall, as he’d done the previous night, but her cutting words had angered him, and he’d let her go.
Damn her! A thousand times, damn her! How was it that she could rile him so easily? Tossing away the flagon, he closed his eyes, groaning. God’s teeth, but she could drive a man to drink!
Ignoring the prick of his conscience along with the increasing patter of rain, he strove for sleep. By God, he should let her suffer out the night in misery. It would serve her right. Perhaps tomorrow she would agree to take his bed without a bloody battle of wills. He smiled ruefully then, for he had to give her her due; she had mettle enough for an army of patriots.
A bolt of lightning lit the sky, illuminating his window with a bright, ghostly light, and seconds later came an ominous rumbling.
Lightning.
What if she’d stupidly ensconced herself within the unfinished wing? Stubborn wench—it was likely exactly where she was, trying to prove a point, no doubt.
Cursing her beneath his breath, Christian rose from the bed, found his breeches, and tugged them on, buttoning the top button. With angry strides, he reached the door and threw it wide.
The corridor was dark, but he knew his way well enough by now. Thunder cracked once more, shaking the rafters, and he quickened his step. Taking the stairs two at a time, he made his way to the hall, but halfway down, lightning flashed, illuminating the entrance hall for the briefest second. And he froze, catching the silhouette of a man standing next to the temporary door to the unfinished wing. His eyes searched the impenetrable darkness. Another bolt of lightning came quickly on the heels of the first, and the figure was suddenly gone.
Had he imagined it, then?
He cursed the whiskey, then cursed himself for drinking it to dull his senses. Searching the shadows with keen eyes, he listened for any sound to alert him of danger. He could hear nothing, yet the hair on the back of his neck continued to prickle. After a long moment, he began a cautious descent down the winding staircase, his gut burning.
Reaching the hall without incident, he crossed the room and heaved a sigh of relief when he spied Quincy sprawled across the floor in front of the door. Stooping, he checked the old man’s breathing; his chest rose and fell in the gentle rhythm of sleep. Could it have been Quincy he’d spied? He shook his head. More likely, there was no one about and it was simply his overwrought imagination. He loathed to, but he had to wake Quincy in order to open the door. He shook the old man’s shoulders.
Quincy came awake with a start. “Who? What?” He squinted through the darkness. “M’lord!”
“Yes, Quince, ’tis me. Move now so I can open the door.”
“Aye, m’lord, but she’s barred it.”
“Barred it?”
