This morning he’d saddled one of his brother’s Arabians, telling himself he meant only to ride.
The one blessing of this ill-begotten sojourn was that Philip and his nagging wife were not in residence. He’d made it a point to learn his brother’s schedule and had bristled to hear that the place that had once meant so much to him was used so bloody little. It burned his gut, and only served to prove that Philip had taken his one and only bequest simply because he could.
God, what was he doing here?
Damned if he didn’t have more important things to do.
Such as securing a base port for his orphaned ships.
He clenched his teeth at the thought.
Word had arrived from Le Havre that one of his ships, the Belle Terre, had come into port there, and that the authorities had come aboard. While he’d been assured everything had been found in proper order, the officers of the vessel were now beinginterrogated. Procedure, he’d been told. Yet the thought of his men in the hands of the haughty French officials unsettled him—despite that he trusted his crew implicitly—mostly because after this incident, his ships would need to stay clear of France. At least until he discovered the cause behind this surprise inspection. Doubtless someone had pointed the finger at him, though who it was, he couldn’t fathom.
The list of possibilities was endless.
Fortunately France supplied very little of his illicit trade. Most of what he procured there was transported quite legitimately—as was the case with his English wares, but it was an inconvenience at least.
At worst it was treachery.
The drizzle that had plagued him most of the day had subsided, and the scent of wet loam rose with the heat-mist, lingering in the air, filling the senses. It was a familiar odor, though not a comforting one, for it forced Christian to consider his losses. Soothing to him was the scent of the sea; salt-mist so thick, it could be tasted upon the wind. Aye, he could nearly smell it now. He lapped at his lips and could almost taste the spray.
He closed his eyes, diverting his thoughts.
Soon enough, he’d be back aboard the Mistral. Even now, the ship was being prepared for his return. His lips curved as he thought of his newest acquisition. She was, by far, the largest of his vessels, a beautiful but costly ship made of sturdy live oak, and he counted himself fortunate to have her. The demand for well-crafted vessels was high, and Carolina-wrought ships were sought most of all for their exceptional durability. Their workmanship was unsurpassable. The Mistral was one such prize.
In his absence, she was being coated with pitch and tar; she’d be scoured and repainted next.
Hell, he’d even commissioned stained glass for his cabin windows—extravagant, aye, but he spent far more time aboard his vessels than anywhere else, and he’d have one place for himself that didn’t scream of meagerness. He inhaled deeply, anticipating his return to the sea, and the scent of sodden earth jolted him rudely from his pleasures.
At some point during the course of their first visit together, he’d concluded that vengeance against Jessie’s brother was pointless.
She would doubtless be the one to suffer its consequences, and the last thing he wished was to hurt her. After his last evening with her, he was more determined than ever not to wound her sweet little heart.
She deserved more.
So much more than he could offer her.
Christ, but he’d managed even to convince himself that he’d never intended to follow through with her brother’s asinine proposal to begin with, that curiosity, and curiosity alone, had prompted him to accept when he should have spat in the bastard’s face instead. And having convinced himself of that much, he’d determined never to see her again. His curiosity had been appeased, after all, and there was simply no point to it.
He couldn’t have her.
Didn’t want her.
Of that, too, he endeavored to convince himself. But it hadn’t quite worked that way. Like a besotted youth, he’d gone to see her again and again—even after that wise decision had been arrived at—bloody fool that he was! Who would have figured he would find the chit so damned engaging?
Damn it all to hell and back.
Grimacing at the turn of his thoughts, he tried to focus upon his commerce once more.
Nay... England would never do as a safe harbor. There was no way he’d bring his ships anywhere near her with illicit cargo aboard. Even if he could pull it off, he wanted no trace of scandal to mark his future here—concern not for himself, but for his heirs, of course.
Perhaps the West Indies—or even Charlestown would do... though Charlestown had never really been a smuggler’s haven.
The image of a black-haired child rose up to taunt him... hair as silky soft and shiny as a raven’s wings, a daughter with eyes so luminous a green, they made his heart melt with a single glance and his heart squeezed with a longing so keen, it was physical.
Snarling in self-contempt, he sawed the reins.
The truth was that the cab he had ordered had long since arrived. Nothing more required him to keep residence in this godforsaken place—certainly it wasn’t fond memories that kept him here. He’d written off the estate long ago. Along with his relationship with Philip, he’d banished every last trace of his former life from his heart. So then, he was left with only one explanation for lingering.
