Crimson Rapture (34 page)

Christina
shook her head.

"It's
Lord Winston Phillips, your Justin's own uncle—or father as some might have it.
He must have been waiting for days to see our ship—to hear word of his
nephew."

Christina
swallowed hard, as suddenly her heart started pounding like a savage drum.
Justin's own father!

"The
captain will say he's dead."

Christina
nodded slowly.

"You
must speak to him, my darling. Spare the old man his grief."

"I
can't."

"You
must."

Christina
bit her lip, then shook her head. "I'll send a note."

"Too
dangerous, it might be intercepted. Besides, it's not really enough; he could
hardly believe some anonymous note."

"Oh,
Richard—"

"No."
He stopped her. "You can't let him think his son's dead when he's not. I
insist." Richard could not stand to see anyone suffer, especially
unnecessarily. "Darrell obviously knows the family. I'll arrange an
introduction. Don't worry," he cautioned her, "I'll stand by
you."

He
was right to insist, she knew. She owed Justin that much, at least that much.
Anxiously her mind traveled to the imminent confrontation and she tried to form
the words she would say, tried to remember the words she couldn't say, but all
she could think of was that she would be meeting Justin's father. The paternal
grandfather to the child she carried.

Distracted,
she could hardly manage the formal good-bye to the good Captain Shaw as he
escorted her down the plank. The captain had been so pleased with their
marriage, one might have thought he was marrying off his own daughter. Her
farewell called for a special note of thanks but she could hardly manage it.
She was relieved to see the captain quickly lost to the demands of his ship.

Then
everything happened at once. With an arrogant crack of his whip, Darrell
pressed his mount through the crowd, forcing people to jump backward or be
trampled. He swung his leg forward and jumped off his horse, and with a loud
yelp of greeting, he fell into Richard's warm embrace.

Darrell
was a small man like Richard. He had long auburn curls and amber eyes too, and
with the same devilish glint in them. But the similarity stopped there. He was
not handsome, his features rather too sharply aristocratic—as arrogant as the
crack of his whip. And his dress! Never had she seen such elegant attire on a
man. None of the dreary black and brown material that was in fashion but gold:
everything a shade of that precious metal. Pale gold velvet breeches,
waistcoat, and vest, all of which were embroidered in what must be the real
thing, and then ruffles and ruffles of lace on a tailored silk shirt.

She
finally watched the amber eyes turned to her with a warm, if not curious smile.
"And who might this lovely creature be?"

"Darrell,"
Richard smiled, taking Christina's hand for a formal introduction. "I'd
like you to meet Christina, recently made my wife."

Darrell's
expression immediately became a curious mixture of incredulous disbelief and,
oddly, humor. "Your
what?"
he demanded in a loud, refined
English voice.

"My
wife." Richard laughed. "Yes, I'm a married man now. You, my friend,
have the good fortune of looking on my lovely wife. Christina, this stunned
gentleman is my good friend, Darrell Bradley Cole."

"Pleased
to meet you, sir. Richard has said much about you."

"No
doubt." His gaze seemed unable to leave her person. "Richard,"
he beckoned slowly, "I think I need an explanation—"

"You'll
get it, but not here. First, I need an introduction to Lord Phillips there and
then, then let's enjoy a mid-morning meal at the Five Crowns together. I don't
know what I've missed more, you or your culinary dining experiences.
Come!" He slapped Darrell's back. "What say you?"

Darrell's
eyes still could not leave her, and he said in a strangely hurt voice,
"Richard, I'm—I'm shocked; I don't know what... to think—"

Richard
saw the explanation could not wait. He excused them both and took his friend
aside and, for what seemed near a half hour, they talked. Christina heard
little of it and cared less, for her attention was riveted on the carriage of
Lord Winston Phillips.

Captain
Shaw approached the carriage. A footman quickly disembarked and swung open the
carriage door. Lord Winston Phillips stepped out and she gasped. Justin was the
very image of his father; no one could mistake their relationship. Tall, nearly
as tall as Justin and with the same commanding carriage, Lord Phillips seemed
but an older version of his son. He had the same impressive features, the same
dark hair and brows. While she could not see his eyes clearly from the
distance, nor was he as broad of shoulder or as muscular as Justin, she felt
she looked upon a love that she had thought lost forever.

She
could not hear what Captain Shaw said but he must have gone straight to the
point. Seven survivors only, no sign of the English prisoner, Justin Phillips.
At first Lord Phillips showed no sign of emotion but he turned quickly,
wordlessly away to hide what feeling he had. Like Richard then, she could not
bear it, and swallowing her nervousness, willing her heart to slow its pace,
she hastened to Richard's side. But Richard must have noticed as well, for he
had already urged Darrell forward.

The
incessant noise and bustling of activity seemed suddenly to grow louder, more
frantic, as she waited. Darrell spoke briefly to the lord and returned quickly.
"He sends his regrets but feels not inclined to receive introductions at
this time." And at the very moment Darrell spoke those words the carriage
took off.

"Oh
catch him! Tell him it concerns his son and is most urgent!"

Darrell
looked briefly at her and then the disappearing carriage, suffering a moment's
indecision. He nodded, took his mount's reins, and mounted to take flight.
Another wait. Christina tried to peer over the heads of the crowd to see if
Darrell had stopped the carriage. But all she saw was the confusion of the
docks.

Darrell
returned in short minutes. "Lord Phillips awaits this news. May I?"
he said, offering his hand to lift Christina up.

"Shall
I go with you?" Richard asked.

She
shook her head and Richard lifted her atop Darrell's mount securely in front of
his friend. The horse moved slowly through the crowd until it reached the
awaiting carriage. Lord Phillips stood outside and even before she spotted him,
she felt—she could actually feel it—the intense scrutiny of painfully familiar
blue eyes.

Strong
hands fitted completely around her small waist to lift her to the ground even
as Darrell quickly made introductions. Lord Phillips's hands seemed unwilling
to leave her, and she could not for her life meet those eyes.

"You
have news of my son?"

Her
eyes shot up at the sound of his voice, that voice, a voice so similar to the
one she had loved. She nodded, then glanced quickly to her sides.

He
understood immediately. "Please step into my carriage. It's the only
privacy I can offer at the moment."

The
footman helped her ascend and she took a seat opposite Lord Phillips on a plush
maroon couch. She kept her eyes hidden beneath long lashes and she, too, got
right to the point. "Justin, sir," she said softly, "is indeed
alive and, I think, well."

"I
know that."

She
looked up, startled.

"I
know my son," he explained. "If there were any survivors, he is among
them. And no matter what Justin insists upon putting himself through, he is
always well."

Christina
suddenly saw from whom Justin inherited his arrogance. "I see, she
countered evenly, though softly. "My intention was to relieve your doubts,
even grief, but since you have none..." She rose, but felt a firm hand
stop her movement, gently guiding her back to her seat.

"Christina—may
I call you by your Christian name?" he asked but did not wait an answer.
"Do not fault me for confidence in my son's abilities. Besides, you have
yet to tell me what happened. You, too, were a survivor, were you not?"

She
hesitated.

"Have
no fear," he answered her hesitancy, "I have not only a father's
pride but a father's love as well. In all truth, I would easier shoot myself
than go to the authorities."

What
were you thinking, sweetheart? That once we were rescued, I would see you to
some port, say a pleasant good-bye, as I ask for your lips for the last time...
I think it would be easier to shoot myself...

Christina
returned to the present and nodded, though this was far from the source of her
hesitancy. "Justin is stranded on an island—the island from which we were
rescued. Obviously he could not board a British vessel in safety."

"Hence
he remains on some faraway island?"

"Yes.
However, one of the survivors has promised to alert a certain captain in London
to launch his rescue."

"I
see," he said. "And is that survivor you?"

She
shook her head.

"Is
this person trustworthy?"

She
paused. "In light of Justin's threats, I think yes."

She
was startled again when he chuckled at this. "Tell me, did Justin's two
ships go down in the storm too?"

"Sadly,
yes. And only a handful of his men survived."

"So,
he had already been rescued at that point," he seemed to say to himself.
"Are Jacob and Diego among the survivors? His man Cajun?"

She
was surprised by how well he did in fact know his son. "Yes, all of them,
but Diego—" She paused again, then added quickly, "Diego died
recently."

"I
am sorry to hear that," he said solemnly, "but then I'm not. His
illness was very trying for all who knew him."

There
came an uncomfortable moment of silence. Christina thought to leave but
suddenly she felt his scrutiny again.

And
indeed, shrewdly observant, Lord Phillips was quickly forming his impression of
her. The young lady's beauty was startling, her intelligence and breeding
obvious. But something was amiss; he sensed her fear. Justin, he knew, had
never fallen in love before but he'd have to have been a fool not to when
presented with this. And his son was not a fool. He knew in just these few
minutes, or at least felt, Christina was as rare a treasure as his own
Elizabeth, Justin's mother.

"Tell
me, did Justin let you leave the island?"

Startled
gray eyes shot up to him. "I... I act on my own volition." She
hastened to add softly, though with clear trepidation, "Your question
seems at once impertinent and irrelevant."

"Impertinent
yes, irrelevant, I think not." He smiled. "And then your answer is
telling. Were you also acting on your own volition when you boarded Justin's
ship from the
Defiant?"
he continued his questions. His answer
appeared immediately in her large expressive eyes. "I see," he said
gently, knowing his son was perfectly capable of such a thing. "But you
did fall in love with him and he you?"

Christina
could not fathom the intelligence behind such quick reasoning and was at a loss
as to how to answer. "Please—" She rose, just wanting to leave.

"Why
did you leave him, Christina?"

He
watched the startling eyes fill with tears and then saw her hand move
protectively across her abdomen, an unconscious gesture with women and one in
which he—being the father of eight—was intimately familiar.
"Christina—" He reached a hand to her but she shook her head.

"No,
please. It's too late." She bit her lip, not thinking of the words that
came unbidden from her as she left. "I'm married now. I'm sorry. Tell him
I'm..." She couldn't finish through her tears as she stumbled out of the
carriage.

Lord
Winston Phillips watched her go, knowing he could not stop her. The situation
definitely required discreet inquiries. Anything to prevent his past from being
Justin's future. He only hoped and this with all his heart, that in fact it
wasn't too late for his son.

After
lighting a warm fire in the nursery, Betty Mae Jones peered into the crib for
the tenth time to make certain her young charge still slept. She smiled at the
lad's sweet angelic face—a face markedly different from the little devil he was
during waking hours. Only five months old and he was already into everything.
She then set about finishing her chores. The supper dishes had yet to be
cleaned and she had still to tidy the gaming room after yesterday's party.

Downstairs
a huge bin of water in the pantry waited for the dishes, but the matronly lady
first opened the front door and stepped out into the chilly night air.

"Beauty!
Beauty!" She called her mistress's dog, his name tripping uneasily on her
tongue. How can any mutt that size be a beauty? Still less than a ten-month-old
puppy, the Saint Bernard filled the fashionable but regrettably small townhouse
on London's west side and, la, she thought not for the first time, the
miserable creature made her cleaning that much harder, what with his fleas and
fur and all. "Beauty! Ye get in 'ere afore I feed ye supper to the cats!
Beauty!"