Crimson Rapture (22 page)

After
two long weeks of recovering, she was doing much better—at least she knew she'd
live and if Cajun was right, she'd be walking in another week. After the
multitude of cuts healed the only permanent damage seemed to be scars. Two
large scars on her leg, a long one on her stomach, side, and arm, and a very
small one on her chin. One Justin swore could not detract from her beauty.

But
then, there was that nightmare...

"I'm
tellin' ya," Jacob's voice rose suddenly to jolt her awake, "your
Mister Robinson is the shrewdest and most greedy bastard I've ever known. And I
wager he's spent your fortune twice already."

"Not
a chance," Justin replied after a sip of ale that his men had drawn up
from the shipwreck that day. "True, he's a shrewd bastard but that's why I
employ him. However, I do trust him. He agreed to wait seven years before he
declared me dead and I believe he will."

"Who's
Mr. Robinson?" Christina asked.

"The
man I hired to manage my fortune."

"Aye,
manage it—spend it." Jacob laughed. "Take my word, you'll return to
Boston to find not only did Mr. Robinson declare you dead and buried, but the
bastard will have forgotten your name."

"I'm
not worried," Justin replied with an easy-shrug. "Should that happen,
I'll just have to round up the men and start over again."

Jacob
laughed in earnest and tossed another log into the pit. "Justin, you're
the only man I know who could lose that much with a shrug. Over five years of our
hard work, and you would just start over again."

"I
would and I could, Jacob, for I have plans for that money."

Christina
knew of some of those plans. Justin had said his money was being invested in
various holdings in the New World: mines, mills, and some munitions factories.
More ships too. She tried to stifle her natural response to someone who would
make money for money's sake, for such efforts were considered sinful by most,
merely distasteful by others. Justin had laughed at such sentiments, said they
were archaic English notions and would soon die, for "what could be more
noble than building things and seeing men to work?" His men had readily
agreed and she would like to believe this true but still...

Their
small party was soon joined by others. Eric and Elsie returned from a walk,
then Brahms and Kafir returned from hunting. Having caught three plump birds
for supper, they immediately set about cleaning. Christina liked both Brahms
and Kafir tremendously; Brahms's stoic peacefulness and his kindness, and
Kafir's good humor, nothing and no one excluded from his quick tongue. Knowing
them, it made sense that these two men should prefer the company of Justin,
Jacob, and Cajun, rather than the other group that was presently engaged in a
boisterous, surely drunken party somewhere down the beach.

Eventually
Cajun joined them, silently slipping into the light of the fire. He mentioned
something to Justin, who nodded in turn. It was something about the men down
the beach but she couldn't catch what, for suddenly everyone seemed to be
talking at once.

Elsie
was lamenting about a fresh rip in her now hopelessly battered chemise; how in
no time they were all going to be left stark naked. The men, for some reason,
began a discussion of the European political situation, Napoleon's war with
England, and America's response and this oddly, inexplicably, somehow turned
into a heated debate over what foods were missed most. Cajun rolled his eyes
with a smile at this inane twist in the conversation and Christina laughed when
Jacob described his mother's strawberry tarts and Justin said it sounded as
though he was talking about a woman.

"Well,
since Hanna's not here I can say I might be willin' to trade one or two nights
with the lass for just one of them sweet strawberry tarts."

Justin
chuckled and pointed to who stood behind Jacob, obviously having just overheard
his remark. "Trade me in for a lousy tart, will you?" Hanna asked and
then Christina gasped as Hanna dumped the contents of a coconut jar directly
over Jacob's head. Jacob cursed, jumped to his feet, and to everyone's
amusement, a chase was on.

All
this detracted from who Hanna had brought from the sickroom to join the
campfire. Still weak and thin but sufficiently recovered, Carolyn Knolls sat
down on a log. Wrapped in the blanket, only her frail face showed to the
others. She looked decidedly uncomfortable and indeed was. The only reason she
let Hanna talk her into coming out was to escape persistent frights from
spiders in the cave. On the other hand, too, this was the only society on the
island and she might as well start to get used to it.

Conversation
continued but there was no denying the tension her presence brought to the
group. Carolyn Knolls never ventured a word, nor did anyone attempt to engage
her. Everyone knew of her rude, ungracious, and often cruel comments and
unpleasant disposition, except when she wanted something. Wanted something like
her own private house some of Justin's men were building for her. Jacob had
said the house was going to cause a riot of trouble. Christina had not
understood the comment; it was one of the things she had planned to ask Justin
about that night.

"You
know," Justin suddenly commented with but mild interest, "I thought
the Knolls name sounded familiar. I knew your husband's father. A Lord Knolls
often visited my father at Ash Manor," he explained, "and I met him
once or twice while home on holidays. He was a kindly old man and a fair chess
player, and I remember once how he helped me out of a pretty bad spot..."

Justin
drifted momentarily with the thought, remembering the day and the man. He had
been in a particularly bad brawl with three older boys, including his older
half-brother, Clinton. Their taunting over his bastard status had been
particularly cruel, and not only did he get the worst of it in the brawl, but
Lady Cynthia was willing to have him bear the brunt of the punishment
alone—three days locked in a room. But Lord Knolls, having overheard the entire
incident and acting for his father who had been gone that day, interceded on
his behalf. More than that, the old man seemed to sense it was one of the few
times, perhaps the only time, Justin had reached the end of his rope. He wanted
to return to Jamaica, hating Lady Cynthia, his half-brothers, England, and all
that meant, hating life and himself, wishing he could be someone else, anyone
else.

"Ah,
they got to you this time, didn't they lad?" the old man had first said,
kneeling to press a damp cloth to his bruised eye and bloodied lip. Justin
still remembered the violent heaving of his chest as he tried to fight the
tears that he never allowed anyone to see. "Son, it's a hard lot you have
in this life and I daresay, you're going to be called a lot worse before you're
through. You've got to remember that it hardly matters what others call you.
What counts is yourself, what you make of yourself." He smiled. "I
have a sneaking suspicion the lord is making you suffer now, so that you can
become someone special. Does that make sense?"

He
had nodded and desperately hoped it was true; that he was someone special. The
old man had chuckled then. "Damn, but I wish I had been blessed with a
son, and I'll tell you, I'd want him to be just like you—not some dandyish fop
who had everything handed to him on a silver platter..."

Justin
looked up from his thoughts with a smile. "I didn't know Lord Knolls had a
son?"

"He
didn't," Carolyn replied simply.

It
took Justin a moment to assimilate this and when he did, he chuckled. "Ah,
the lovely things money and title will buy a man." Carolyn remained silent
as did everyone else. Justin asked with renewed interest, "Tell me, will
the good lord be waiting for your return?"

"I
shouldn't think so. He's quite dead now."

"I'm
sorry," Justin said sincerely.

"I'm
not," she added, not wanting Justin Phillips—indeed anyone—to think she
ever cared for such an old fool.

"No,
I see you wouldn't be." Justin felt Christina tense at the cruel remark,
saw her look away in embarrassment. He knew such sentiments shocked her, but he
wanted to see how far this woman would go. "I knew the lord wanted a son.
It's too bad your ah, marriage couldn't accommodate him that far."

She
wasted no time in replying. "No one but no one has that much wealth,"
and she shook her head with a shiver of disgust. "Believe me, nothing on
earth could ever persuade me to let those old hands—" She stopped but not
in time.

Justin
had one last question. "And just how did the good lord die?"

She
met Justin's gaze directly. For some reason she wanted him to know. She, like
all of England, knew of Justin Phillip's reputation; his bold courage, the
ruthlessness, his traitorous activities, his clever ability to make all things
English look foolish. Having neither the mind nor the inclination to examine
the values behind Justin's activities, she foolishly thought she'd gain such a
man's respect by confessing.

"Wouldn't
you know," she began and in a rather seductive voice, "the good lord
died suddenly and I must say 'quite unexpectedly' in his sleep." She
paused for effect. "Some short time after he finished his will."

A
thick silence descended over the campfire and everyone, even Cajun who always
seemed unaffected, was taken aback by the woman's admission of coldblooded
murder. Everyone but Christina, who completely missed the point, missed it
because such an idea was quite literally unconscionable.

Justin
rose suddenly. "The air grows cold and foul suddenly. Christina?" he
said and swept her up to his arms.

Carolyn
Knolls was forced to see that she'd made a horrible mistake and, to her
surprise, she felt an honest blush of shame rise in her cheeks.

Everyone
else rose as well. Moving with the others, the men were heard muttering things
like, "Thank God women like that are few and far between." 'Tisn't
natural, I say..."

Once
in the privacy of their cave, Christina ventured, "I don't believe she
really meant that."

Justin
looked down at her. He had thought she hadn't grasped the meaning of the woman's
last statement. "Meant what?"

"That
she's not sorry her husband died. Oh perhaps at first she truly did marry him
for his wealth and title. As awful as that is, many families still arrange
marriages for that reason," she informed him. "But, well, I'm sure
after a time, she cared for him a little. Especially if he was, as you said,
such a kind and good person."

Justin
could not imagine any artist drawing a more startling contrast between two
women than that which existed between Christina and Carolyn Knolls. He gently
lifted back her head and stared at her intently to whisper with a strange
intensity, "I love you, Christina."

* * * * *

Christina
woke to the dark space of the cave. She knew immediately what had awakened her.
Justin, both his arms and his warmth, was gone again. The stars shone bright
through the skylight and except for the ever-present sound of the waterfalls,
all was still. It was surely the middle of the night.

With
hands bracing on the cavern wall, she lifted herself slowly, always cautious of
tearing the stitches but especially now that they were almost healed. The floor
of the cave felt cool and moist on her bare feet. She limped awkwardly to the
mouth of the cave and stared out into the dark night. It was so quiet. The moon
shone a bright ribbon of light over the sea in the distance. Not a breeze
stirred.

She
listened intently for a sound, that sound, the muted cries of Diego. The sound
that would take Justin from her. Almost every night now those cries would bring
Justin, and often Jacob and Cajun as well, to Diego's hut. Moving him into a
small hut down the beach hardly helped, though it did bring some peace to all
others.

The
silence suggested once again that Cajun knocked the man out with a blow. A blow
was sometimes the only merciful thing to do. She had heard though that a blow
to the head can cause one to lose their wits and make them simple. Repeated
blows surely caused more damage.

How
long could Diego last?

If
it was up to Justin's men, Diego would be murdered immediately. She still heard
rumblings from the men to that effect, at least every time Diego's gross pain
was heard in his cries, and this despite his obvious suffering, the equally
obvious fact that he was a dying man without help of a murderous hand. How
could they think Justin's mercy as weakness?

Wondering
and concerned, she limped back to bed and carefully lay down. But sleep was
elusive. It was not only the tumult of thoughts about Diego, wondering still
what crime he had committed, but more to the present, it required the sheer
force of her will not to scratch the stitches.

"Jacob!
I'm warning you—" Justin's whispered voice came from outside.

"John
was right—I'm your friend, Justin, and 'tis my place to speak. Lord, you've got
to do it, you've got to. 'Tisn't just that Diego—of all men—deserves it, but
it's startin' to wear on your men—"

"Damn
you! I can't, I just can't! Not yet—"