12
Charlestown, 1763
“Sacrebleu!‘Ave I grown two heads,mon ami?”
Christian seized up the crowbar, prying the lid from the largest crate. “You’ve still the one, old man, rest assured.” He eyed Jean Paul reproachfully. “Just the same, I strongly suggest you refrain from calling me by that name.”
Jean Paul’s brows rose. “Since when do you take offense tomon ami?”
Christian eyed him narrowly. “You know very well what I’m referring to.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he peered into the newly opened crate. “Damn it! Not in this one either.” He eyed Jean Paul pensively. “Are you certain it was loaded upon the Anastasie?”
“Quite certain,” Jean Paul answered. “Anyway, had they found their way to France, we would have heard by now. They must be here someplace, Hawk.”
“Christian.”
Jean Paul grimaced. “That reminds me,” he said, ignoring Christian’s reproof. “That cantankerous old fool you brought with you from England seems to ’ave taken offense to my sleeping in your room at the big house. I told him it was only till you returned, but non! Again and again he moves my things into the unfinished rooms—and it rained late last night!”
“Only a drizzle,” Christian said, grinning, though he vowed to speak with Quincy at the first opportunity.
“Mon cul! There was two inches of water on the floor where I slept—I swam instead! And this morn, my peruke was ruined!”
Christian chuckled. “Be damned if you need that lice-ridden headpiece, anyway.”
Jean Paul scowled at him. “You should wear yours more, I think! For someone who doesn’t wish attention called to himself, you have a curious way to show it.”
Jessie had oft eschewed her petticoats, as well, Christian couldn’t help but recall, and it occurred to him in that instant that he’d never thought to question it. On the contrary, he’d understood completely. It was her one small rebellion against authority. His had merely been the first of many.
“Alright,” he relented, cursing himself for a bloody fool. Why couldn’t he seem to forget? “I’ll bring Quincy back to the city with me.” He hung his head back to relieve the tension in his neck, massaging the soreness, and then with a grimace of disgust, turned his attention to the crate before him. “Here, old man... give me a hand with this one.”
“What old man!” Jean Paul eyed him reproachfully, but complied at once. “You are disrespectful to your elders,mon fils.” Together they shoved the heavy crate out of the way. “I could be your?—”
“Father?” Christian interjected, sobered by the turn of their conversation. He turned to face Jean Paul, one brow arched in challenge but Jean Paul said nothing. The two merely staredat one another, gazes locked, and then the moment passed and Jean Paul glanced away. Christian bent to retrieve the crowbar.
“I could be,” Jean Paul said suddenly, his declaration barely more than a whisper. Christian’s gaze snapped up, meeting his father’s bright blue eyes. Aye, he knew… but did Jean Paul? Could his mother have told him? Or had he simply come to her rescue, ready to accept a son not his own?
Jean Paul’s expression shuttered suddenly. “What happened to you in England?” he demanded. “That is what I wish to know!”
Christian turned away, his jaw working as he moved to the next crate. “Nothing I care to discuss.”
“I know you too well, Christian. Something has happened to make you so foul-tempered.Quelle barbe! I see you not for months—and now, when I should be glad to find you are not fodder for the fish, or hanging from the gallows, I can scarcely bear to look at you for that hideous scowl you wear!”
Christian grunted as he pried off the lid. “Then don’t look.”
“Never have I known you to take an insult so lightly! Non, the Hawk I know would ’ave taken what was his due! Jesu Christ! I have seen you seize even that which was not your own! If they took something from you, why do you not just take it back and cease all this brooding?”
Christian’s head snapped up. “I am not brooding, devil hang you!” His eyes narrowed in warning. He’d be damned if he’d have his personal affairs questioned by anyone—not even Jean Paul! “Enough to say we didn’t suit—we’re cut of different cloth, she and I. Now... give it up, Jean Paul.”
“Humph!”
Slamming the lid back into place, Christian muttered an oath. “Damn, not here either!” Raking his fingers through his hair, he mused aloud, “They must’ve somehow been unloaded back on Adger’s wharf.”
Jean Paul’s heavy brows lifted.
Christian was at once resigned to what must be done. “We’ll have to go into the warehouse tonight, retrieve them before customs realizes ‘tis there under their bloody noses.”
“Just so?”
