The biggest part of him had been elated at the possibility of her innocence; still, he’d not been quite able to bring himself to believe her. For all he knew, she’d performed the dramatics for his benefit alone, knowing he was awake and listening. And yet, though he’d not dared believe in her, the need to hold her had been irrepressible, and he’d reached out to comfort her even against his will.
How could he have thought to believe her?
For the last days, and nights, while he’d lain next to her, he’d respectfully let her be, while he’d grappled with his heart and his conscience, coming so close to trusting in her...
So close.
He’d not gone to her last night because he hadn’t trusted himself.
And now...
Had he been even remotely near them, he might have torn Ben limb from limb. God’s truth, he felt like doing so even now. With a curt nod, he urged his first mate away from the wheel, taking charge of it himself, his expression furious. Black-haired, bushy-browed Tibbs gave up his post immediately, eyeing him warily as he scurried away.
Damn. He didn’t want to believe her, not now—particularly not now. But her pitiful wails had resounded with truth, tearing his own heart into tortured shreds. But she was lost to him, for it was apparent she loved another... that she despised him as much as she claimed.
He recalled Ben’s blissful expression as his lips had touched upon Jessie’s, and his chest constricted painfully. Christ, he had come to such foolish conclusions all those months ago in England, and now he would pay for it. He couldn’t stand the thought of her with Ben. Couldn’t bear the thought of Ben’s hands upon her, his lips worshiping her body. He closed his eyes for an instant, feeling dizzy with anger and regret. He’d never loathed himself more than he did at the moment, for he’d had her once, and he’d lost her.
How could he have been so witless?
How could she be so faithless?
So fickle?
She was a treacherous bitch—even if she had not been the one to betray his confidences. She’d played him false with her inconsistent emotions—damned lady turncoat!
But she was never yours to love in the first place, he reminded himself bitterly.
She was never yours to begin with...
Nor could she ever love the man who had caused the death of her father...
And he was that man.
The remainderof the journey passed uneventfully.
It took just over two weeks to reach their destination, a small, picturesque island as bright and vibrant as the lush backgroundof stained glass with which it competed. Jessie remained within the cabin the entire day they were docked.
They departed early the next morn, stopping at yet another port two days hence. There they spent merely a few hours, and were gone again by noon.
If she thought Christian had avoided her before, he certainly did so now. She saw him only fleetingly, when she happened to search him out. God only knows why she should do such a thing, but sometimes before she could stop herself, she would find herself seeking just a glimpse of him.
So many times she’d been tempted to go to him, to speak with him, but Christian would need only glare at her with that devil’s fire in his eyes and her courage would immediately falter. And then she would scurry back to her cabin.
God’s truth, were it not for Ben’s and Jean Paul’s company, she would have died of the doldrums along with her broken heart.
They were half a day from Charlestown when a knock sounded upon her cabin door—Christian’s cabin door, though he had so generously abandoned it for her. How gracious of him, she thought bitterly.
“Come in,” she said, knowing instinctively it was not Christian, for he never would have bothered to knock upon his own door.
The cabin door opened at once and Jean Paul came sauntering in, his expression grim. He took a seat at the claw-footed table without invitation. In so very many ways he was like his son, Jessie mused, but she liked him anyway. She felt sorry for him, in truth, that he should be so close to his only son and have no knowledge of their relationship. He’d told her once already that he’d never married and had never had children.
How could he not know?
Once seated, Jean Paul looked at her pensively. Screwing his lips, he gazed at her as though he would speak but was unsure of how to proceed.
“What is it? Ben?”
“Non, non, mon ange, not Ben. Fear not, for he is well. His leg seems to be healing and he walks well enough with his cane—although,” he yielded with a regretful shake of his head, “I very much fear he shall be left with a limp for the remainder of his days. And yet he’s quite fortunate, for the leg bone did not shatter, and it well may have.”
