“You asked me once,” he said, “why I chose to make Shadow Moss my home instead of Rose Park. I’d like to show you today, if you wish?”
For a moment she said nothing, and then, “I’d like that very much.” Her eyes shone suspiciously.
“First,” he whispered, giving her his most engaging grin, “there is something else I would show you.” If she would despise him... he wanted this one last time... this one last memory to carry him through.
One arm encircled her waist and he drew her close against him, kissing the tip of her nose, her cheek, her closed eyelids, and her brow with a fever that could not be denied. She was so beautiful, and the feel of her warm bare flesh beneath him made his heart pound and his breath strangle. He refused to let her feel regret—refused to feel any himself.
God’s truth, this morning he had not the stamina for foreplay, and when he found her wet and ready for him, it nearly unmanned him where he lay. He needed only to undulate into her softness and she opened to him willingly, wrapping her legs about his hips and closing her eyes.
Sliding up, he entered her, and no sooner had he done so when she began to undulate softly of her own accord, instinctively, moaning beneath him. He held himself fast, letting her guide his strokes at first, but when her hands moved to his buttocks to urge him deeper into her sweet warmth, he at once lost his resolve.
Driving himself into her, he loved her as though there were no tomorrow, as though in truth this were their last joining. Her nails dug painfully into his flesh and he reached back to grasp her hands, unable to bear the sweetness of it, bringing them above her head and holding them fast against the headboard. With a mindless fervor he withdrew and thrust, sweat breaking upon his brow, and still he held his own release until he felt her quiver and moan beneath him. The sweet sound of her release wrenched away the last vestiges of his restraint and he went headlong into his own climax, crying out savagely.
The paththat brought them to the stables was wide, with oaks lining both sides of it, their sweeping limbs arcing and meetingabove them, forming a leafy underpass of sorts. It was fall, but the weather was so mild that the flora was still inclined to bloom.
“’Tis lovely,” Jessie said with a sigh. “Truly lovely!”
“Aye,” he agreed, pride in his tone. “Rose Park cannot begin to compare, though I swear there was a time when I was blind to this splendor. No more. I can see now, quite clearly, that I was not meant to make my home in England. Come now, there is more I would show you.” He took her firmly by the hand, releasing it only when they entered the stable itself.
A youth came forth from the shadows, a straw broom in hand. “My lord, you wish to ride?” he asked, his brown eyes flashing with obvious admiration.
“Aye, Peter, aye,” Christian replied. “Fetch my mount, if you would, and then give my lady the finest mare to be had—the bay, I think.”
“Very well, m’lord.” When the fair-haired youth would have turned away, Christian stopped him with a gentle hand to his shoulder. “On second thought, she’ll ride with me... Leave off with the mare and simply fetch my own.” Turning to Jessie, he said, “The area is still somewhat unknown to me and I would not put you at risk.”
Jessie nodded, though the thought of sitting so near him made her heart flutter wildly and her breath quicken painfully. Even now, in the full light of day, he affected her so.
Peter brought forth from the stall a great black beast with a white streak blazing down its forehead. It was a beautiful specimen of a horse with eyes set wide apart and an exquisitely formed muzzle. The lad prepared the mount while they waited, and then led it outside. Its blue-black coat shone brightly in the daylight. Jessie followed them out, and Christian lifted her upon the animal without a word, mounting behind her, bringing her close against him as he urged the steed into a slow canter.
Instead of taking her back through the tunnel of trees whence they’d come, he chose another path that led briefly through a dense thicket of pines.
They rode in silence, and after some time, came to a clearing, a meadow so green and lush that it seemed chimerical. In the center of the grove stood the gutted remains of a brick building.
She turned to him, her brow furrowing. “What is it?”
He kissed her temple, smiling slightly, but said nothing until they’d circled the ruins, halting abruptly at what appeared to be the front steps. “It is the remains of someone’s home,” he answered at last. “Though whose, I cannot rightly know, but this land before us was the first site of Charlestown. ’Tis private property now, but have no fear, I know the holder.” He winked at her then.
“Yours?”
He chuckled softly. “Nay... at least not as yet, though it borders my land and the proprietor is presently weighing my offer for purchase. If he sells to me, it will give me access to Old Town Creek as well as the Ashley.”
“Does he live here still?” Her curiosity was piqued.
“Aye.” He pointed out a direction. “His plantation lies beyond that small copse of trees.”
Jessie nodded, but could see nothing.
Pointing out the river that glittered like diamonds on the horizon, he continued, “That was once known to us as St. George’s Bay, named so by the Spaniards, for the Indians themselves did not name the waters. They called this land Kayawah—all of it—after their tribe.” He hugged her as he spoke.
He kissed her neck affectionately and then his gaze lifted to the horizon. The tall grass grazed his boots, tickled the horse’s belly. The breeze riffled through them, lifting her hair into his face. Before them, the remains of the house were only partially visible through the weeds. Most of the masonry lay in ruin.Weeds and moss worked at the rest of the structure. Before long, if not taken into hand, the wilderness would reduce it to little more than piles of mortar and stone.
“’Tis a beautiful, wild country, still in its birth,” he mused aloud, “and I mean to be a part of it, Jessie.”
Jessie turned to him, hearing the note of pride in his voice, and saw that his eyes were glittering strangely with his words.
Christian looked down into her face and smiled warmly, his harsh features softening into a wry grin as he scrutinized her. With his hair so dark and long, falling unbound behind him, Jessie thought he seemed as primitive as the very natives of whom he spoke.
“’Tis an incredible feeling,” he admitted, “to be involved in the shaping of this wilderness—an experience I might never have known had I clung so stubbornly to Rose Park and to England. And that,mon amour, is the truth of it. I fear I’ve grown to love this savage place, for it suits me better than any I’ve known.”
