There was little blood, for the gator’s kill was a clean one. Clamping its jaws about its victim, it thrashed over, and over, and over again, beneath the water, until every last trace of air emptied from the victim’s lungs. Christian could little bear it were that fate Jessie’s.
Neither St. John’s nor Jessie’s head resurfaced, and Christian rowed toward them with all his might, mutteringangry curses at God, at St. John, at Jessie for going with the bastard to begin with!
His relief was tangible as he spied Jessie’s glistening locks rising from the silvery water, at last. Her face upturned, she gasped for air, and he nearly cried out for joy. Just then, another splash caught his attention and yet another gator slipped into the river. Christian swore he’d kill the son of a bitch if it touched even a hair on her head. He reached her as the beast approached the midway point in the river. Tossing the oars into the skiff, he hauled Jessie quickly aboard, and drew her into his arms.
Her hands clutched at him wildly as she sobbed, not quite mindful of her surroundings. She was like a dreamer in the throes of a nightmare, unable to wake. She was drowning still, clutching for life.
“Jessie!” he shouted, anger vying with relief. He held her so tightly that he wondered she did not cease to breathe. “Damn you! Why did you go with him? Why did you go?” He released his hold only slightly and shook her gently, his eyes stinging raw with tears he couldn’t shed. Tears he didn’t know how to shed. “Jess...” His voice broke. “Jessie... love... listen to me, you’re safe. I have you now,” he crooned, clutching her desperately.
She struggled a moment longer, and then as his words penetrated, she stopped abruptly and threw her arms about his neck and began to cry. Her hands slipping from his shoulders to clutch at his shirtfront, she set her wet face against his chest. She was soaking him to the bone, but he didn’t give a bloody damn. She was alive, and he loved her—and God help him, he would strangle the life from her if she ever did something so witless again!
“That’s it, love,” he soothed, his voice choked with emotion. “ ‘Tis over now...”
“S-St. John!”
“He’s gone, love,” Christian told her, grimacing as he searched the river over the top of her head. There was no sign of St. John anywhere. As much as he loathed the man, he couldn’t help but feel for him; he wouldn’t have wished such an end for his worst enemy—and St. John, though far from being a saint, had never been his worst. He knew instinctively that a search would prove futile—and yet he would search, despite the incredible sense of justice he was feeling this moment. The bastard might have killed her.
“H-He w-wouldn’t l-let me g-go! I couldn’t b-breathe!” she wailed, and then her words were jumbled and incoherent as she hauled herself up and buried her wet lips against his neck. He sat there upon his knees, stroking her soggy mop of hair, pressing his lips to her forehead. Clasping her cold, damp body tightly against him, he thanked God and vowed never again to let her out of his sight.
28
The cool breeze brought Jessie awake shivering.
The nightmares had been horrid and so very real, but when she opened her eyes, it was to find bright morning light streaming past her face. Shadow Moss. Christian. She was alone as far as she could tell, but she could sense his presence still... like a comforting heat in the chill of the room. His musky male scent lingered, and she knew he’d not been gone long.
In the peaceful morning surroundings, with the birds chirping merrily outside, she could almost believe it had all been no more than a gruesome dream, but her ruined gown, the one Christian had liked so well, sat drying upon a wooden chair in the sunlight, providing indisputable evidence. She shivered at the memory. And then she noticed the balcony door was left ajar, and she rose. Wrapping herself within the dressing gown Christian had left for her, she walked toward the open door.
She found him outside, gazing silently down upon the crush of new workers who were busy this morning laboring over the unfinished wing. Sensing her presence, he turned to her, a lit cheroot in hand.
“Jessie?”
Her eyes focused upon the smoking cigar, for she’d never seen him smoke before now, and yet when the odor reached her, she recognized the rich scent at once. It was part of him, part of his mystique and part of his person.
“Should you be up?”
“I’m fine,” she replied. “Truly.” The way he stared made her heart trip painfully, for he seemed so lost somehow, so sad. “How long have I slept?” Self-consciously she wrapped the robe more tightly about her.
His face was more deeply stubbled than usual this morn, giving his swarthy complexion an even darker shadow. Smoke-colored stains rimmed his deep blue eyes. He was carelessly dressed in snug black breeches and a white shirt that was properly buttoned while left untucked, and it appeared to Jessie as though he’d not slept in an age. Indeed, he seemed vanquished somehow, and yet never more hardened.
“Since yester eve,” he disclosed, smiling slightly. He shrugged. “If you might call it sleep. You tossed and turned more’n a boulder down a mountainside.”
“I was dreaming.”
“Aye,” Christian acknowledged, averting his gaze. He’d tried his damnedest to soothe her, but she’d begun to prattle... about him... about her father... Ben. He’d understood mere fragments; had to go... hang you... Ben .. .father’s murderer... Christian. Yet those fragments had been more than enough. They twisted his gut. Even now.
“You stayed with me?”
“I wouldn’t have left you,” he said without turning. And he wouldn’t have. He didn’t wish to even now, but he would if it was her wish. He couldn’t bear to hurt her any more than he had already.
“What came of your meeting with Daniel Moore? Quincy said you had papers … ”
“I did. St. John’s accusations were dismissed with the proof I brought before him. He had no grounds to hold me, or Ben either; no matter that he might have suspected us. Your cousin has gone back to the city, and I was returning to tell you that you were free to go, as well.”
The moment of silence lengthened.
“Christian,” she began, and he winced at the solemn tone of her voice. “There is something I wish to say to you—something I meant to say before you left for Charlestown...” He turned to face her, hurling the smoking cheroot upon the balcony floor. He tamped it down with his boot and mentally braced himself for her pain... her disdain.
“You see... I was looking for you when St. John—oh, God, this is so difficult!” She shook her head, averting her gaze. “I’ve no idea how to say this, so I shall simply do so and be done with it.”
