Her Defiant Heart (18 page)

It had been a long time since he had looked at a woman's face with an artist's eye to line and form. The first thing Christian found himself considering was the reason Jenny Holland had awakened his interest. There was no single feature that engaged his attention, yet the whole of her face, especially now while she was at peace, was a work of striking beauty.

Her expression was serene and untroubled. The traces of tears had been wiped away. There were no lingering lines of tension at the corners of her mouth, her eyes, or her brow. Had Christian not seen her earlier, he would not have guessed that she had ever known terror. The shadows in the faint hollows beneath her cheeks and below her eyes were caused by the firelight, not apprehension.

Through thoughtful, narrowed eyes, Christian studied the line of a jaw that was often determinedly set, yet undeniably feminine. The bones of her face were too finely drawn to lay any claim to masculinity, yet there was unquestionable strength there that Christian associated with his own sex not hers. Jenny's dark eyebrows curved in an elegant, feathered arch. Her thick lashes framed expressive eyes when she was awake and fringed delicate, blue-veined lids when she was asleep. Her pared nose was not so much as a centimeter off center, but her mouth was a shade too wide, the bottom lip too full for Jenny to be acknowledged by society as a conventional beauty. Jenny's mouth gave her an erotic sensuousness that was clearly lacking in the refined lines of her other features.

Again and again, Christian found his eyes drawn to the curve of her mouth. When her lips parted on a sigh, and she unconsciously wet them with the tip of her tongue, Christian sucked in his breath. It was not strictly carnal arousal that he felt. Though he did not deny that was part of his reaction, what struck him with all the force of a physical blow was his desire to paint her, to capture on canvas the face whose features were a contradiction of purity and voluptuousness.

Christian stood, agitated. He did not know what to do with his hands. There were no pockets in his nightshirt to jam them in. His robe was still wet. His fingers folded and unfolded. He lit a lamp on the table by the rocker, and then paced the room restlessly, stopping periodically to poke at the fire or add more coals.

The contradiction he saw in Jenny's face existed in her character as well. He did not appreciate Scott handing him this particular female puzzle. According to his friend, Jenny was a virgin. Christian had seen enough to know she was innocent. He had observed her almost painful shyness when she had come upon him in his bath, and she had seemed genuinely distressed when his language turned salty.

But how did that fit with the fact that she had approached him with the shamelessness of a whore?

He could not find a satisfactory answer. He particularly could not accept that Jenny Holland was mad or that two disparate personalities existed within her. The notion seemed as absurd as believing in demons and devils and possession. That left him to believe there was something he was overlooking, some vital missing piece. If he could discover it, the mystery of Jenny Holland would be solved.

All the time Christian had been contemplating Jenny he had studiously avoided looking at his writing desk. Now he approached it, unable to hold himself back. Quietly sliding open the desk's only drawer, he withdrew a single sheet of paper and one charcoal stub.

The pool of light from the lamp erased the shadows on her cheeks. Christian's eyes traced the contours of her face and found his starting point in the strand of hair that outlined the gentle curve of her ear. His grip on the charcoal stub loosened and he made a sweeping line, hardly touching the bit to the paper. He made the same motion several times before the charcoal touched down and produced the exact arc, angle, and curve he wanted.

Christian worked quickly, against time, against his fear that the vision in his mind's eye would dissolve. He caught the smooth planes and hollows that defined her cheeks and forehead, the exact arch of her eyebrows. He used the side of his little finger to smudge the charcoal and suggest the color of her dark brown hair. He found the sharp edge of the charcoal and created each lash individually.

His picture was beginning to take form when the image he held began a subtle metamorphosis. On the bed Jenny continued to sleep, the serenity of her repose unchanged, yet Christian's perception dramatically altered. He was not aware it was happening. The full line that was her mouth became a gaping hole in her face, and a silent scream seemed to erupt from the paper. The bones of her cheeks were accentuated so that the hollows below were deeper. The effect was a certain emaciation that bordered on the skeletal. She looked starved, half-dead, and still she was screaming. He redrew her eyes and opened them this time. They were opaque, without light. They held nothing but death.

By slow degrees Christian began to see what was happening, and when his vision cleared he threw down the charcoal as if it were a hot ember in his hand. His chair scraped harshly against the floor as he pushed away from the desk. He grabbed the drawing, crumpling the haunted death mask that was Jenny's face in his fist. He went to the fireplace and pitched the paper into the flames. It vanished in a brief flash of heat and light. Limping, he returned to the divan and sat down, cradling his head in his hands. His shoulders heaved once as a shudder too powerful to be contained rippled through him and hot tears scalded his eyes.

It was the grating sound of the chair being pushed against the floor that woke Jenny. Her sleep-filled vision cleared in time to see Christian throw something into the fireplace. Watching him through the feathered fan of her lashes, she bit the soft inner side of her lip to keep from making any sound. This was a private moment, and she was an intruder here. His despair was profound and something she was never meant to witness. Yet here she was, unable to turn away because what she saw touched a chord in her heart. She wanted to cry for him. She wanted to comfort him.

Christian drew in a deep breath. What he needed, he decided, was a drink. He didn't remember that Mrs. Brandywine had removed all his liquor until he opened each drawer in the bedside table and found them all empty. He considered whether he wanted a drink badly enough to go out for it. The answer was no. He decided to put on a pair of trousers and go to the kitchen for a cup of warm milk. Just the thought of drinking warm milk was mind numbing. He'd probably fall asleep at the table.

Jenny understood exactly what Christian was looking for when he went through the drawers and assumed when he padded into his dressing room that he was preparing to go out for a drink. She believed she owed him too much to allow that to happen, but she could conceive of only one way to stop him.

Christian had gotten one leg into his pants when he heard Jenny's whimper. He cursed softly. He wasn't up to another battle with her. He hobbled into the bedroom, trying to finish dressing as he went. He tucked in his nightshirt and snapped his suspenders in place just as he reached the bed.

"What is it you want from me?" he asked plaintively. "I'm damn—darn—certain I am not crawling into your bed."

Jenny moaned softly and clutched her pillow. She ground her teeth together, clenching the muscles in her cheeks. Her fingers opened and closed spasmodically.

Resigned, Christian responded by sitting on the edge of the bed. "Oh, hell." He lifted her head and placed it on his lap. "Mrs. B. would be better suited to this." He stroked her hair, gently sifting through it with his fingers. "She likes cats and children. I can't abide either. And there's a bit of both in you, Jenny Holland." Christian grimaced as she snuggled against him. While she made it more difficult for him to ease out from under her, at least he didn't have to wrestle her again.

Christian leaned back against the headboard and tried to find a comfortable position for himself. His bare feet were cold. He adjusted the blankets that covered Jenny so they covered his feet, too. He pushed a pillow behind his back for extra support. Every time he moved, he did so with caution so as not to wake Jenny or frighten her.

It took some ten minutes of adjusting this way and that before Christian was satisfied that he could nap without disturbing her. He would get out of the bed before she woke in the morning, and she'd never know they had shared the same blankets. Christian gave in to a yawn and felt his eyelids growing heavier. He realized he'd forgotten to turn back the lamp. Too late now. It would have to burn itself out because he was not moving. Jenny Holland was a better soporific than a cup of warm milk.

Jenny waited until she was certain Christian was sleeping before she gingerly moved away from him. There was plenty of room in his wide bed for both of them. She scooted to the far side and hoped that Christian, given time, would stretch out more comfortably. She slipped one arm under her pillow, elevating her head slightly, and was deeply asleep in minutes.

It was the unfamiliar heat and hardness against her buttocks that woke her. She knew she had slept a few hours at least. The lamp had burned itself out and the misty gray light of dawn filtered through the drawn curtains. Outside, the storm had stopped and there was a heavy silence beyond the windows that Jenny associated with falling snow.

There was a brief, panicked moment when she thought she was not awake at all but trapped in another nightmare with Billy MacCauley. The truth of her situation, when she understood it, was more difficult to know how to manage. This was Christian Marshall who held her now, and if Billy's grip about her waist had been strong, this man's grasp was unbreakable. His arm curled completely around her middle so that she was actually lying on the hand he had slipped under the curve of her waist.

Jenny held herself very still, afraid to make any movement that might encourage him. Was he sleeping? She hoped so. She could feel the even cadence of his breathing against the sensitive skin of her nape. It was soft and warm and it tickled. She resisted the urge to touch the back of her neck or lower her head out of his way.

When one of Christian's legs nudged Jenny's, she thought she might come out of her skin. His knee was seeking to part her thighs, and it was the first time she realized how far her nightshirt had ridden up her legs. She heard him moan softly, something between a sigh and a yawn, and then he adjusted his position so that his body conformed to the contours of hers. Jenny held her breath until she felt him relax. She exhaled slowly, soundlessly, and began to ease away. She had barely begun when she stopped and bit her lower lip as she realized his fingers were tangled in her hair. What was she supposed to do now? This was not so very different than the times Billy McCauley had come to her in the treatment room. She had suffered his touch and survived. If it came to that, she could bear it again.

But it did not come to that. Christian bent his head so that his cheek rested against the silkiness of Jenny's sable brown hair and whispered a name. "Maggie."

Jenny felt a surge of outraged feminine sensibility and was confounded by it. She elbowed Christian sharply in the ribs.

"Oww!" He grunted, pressed the heel of his hand to the source of his pain, and blinked. His vision remained bleary. "What the hell did you do that for? You used to like it when—"

"I
never
liked it," she said, pushing at his arm. Unable to budge him, she beat his shins with her heels instead. "Let me go."

Christian tried to trap her feet. "Damn it! Stop—"

"I will take it as a kindness if you would stop swearing."

That admonishment brought Christian to his senses as nothing else could have done. He released her immediately and rolled away. "You're not Maggie," he said, sitting up in bed.

Jenny sat up as well, wrapping herself in a blanket. "I certainly am not."

Christian closed his eyes a moment, pressing his thumb and forefinger to his lids. "I don't believe this," he said under his breath. "What are you doing in my bed? God, this
is
my bed, isn't it?" Then he remembered the events of last night and swore again. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was after seven. So much for his intention to return to the divan before she woke. "Never mind," he said wearily. "Stay where you are. I'm getting up."

Jenny immediately felt a stab of remorse. This was, after all, his bed, and she was the intruder. And hadn't she been trying to think of a way to extricate herself from his arms when he called her Maggie?
There
was something she was not prepared to dwell on. She gathered the blanket about her shoulders like a shawl. "No, you stay. I hardly know what I'm doing here myself."

"You don't remember?"

Jenny turned away from him and put her legs over the side of the bed, modestly covering her bare legs with the hem of the nightshirt. "Bits. Only bits. That's the way it usually is." She could have told him she recalled some things more clearly than others, such as the moment when she woke and found him sobbing in the cradle of his hands.

"This has happened to you before?"

"Sleepwalking? Many times." Jenny lifted her chin and regarded him curiously over her shoulder. "Do you think that makes me a demented soul, Mr. Marshall?"

"Demented? No, I don't think so, but if you set one foot on the floor right now, I will question your common sense."

Whatever that was supposed to mean. Frowning, Jenny slid off the edge of the bed. Her toes touched down and she stood. Sharp pinpricks of pain brought immediate alarm to her eyes, and she fell back on the bed. "How could you know?" she asked, raising one foot so she could see the sole. "What have you done to me?"