A Mummers' Play (7 page)

Or his private parts.

The effect of a naked, muscular man was so unsettling to Justina’s nerves that she fought back with a question. “What did Simon die of?”

He stopped halfway to the bed, unconcernedly naked, but frozen by her question. “Of bullet wounds.”

“But where?”

“Justina, it won’t help to know.”

“I need to know. I need to know
everything
.”

It was a warning of sorts, though she didn’t know why she felt compelled to give it. Perhaps because they were both finally running out of disguises and balanced on the razor edge of truth.

His hand tightened around the bedpost. “In the gut.”

“Did he suffer?”

He released that white-knuckled grip. “Yes.” But then he was in the bed and silencing her questions with kisses.

Then she discovered why Senorita Dona Maria Bianca had begged that he be spared, for Jack Beaufort knew how to touch a woman. He knew when to be strong and when to be gentle, and he gave his knowledge as a generous gift this Christmastide.

And Justina found it was a gift she could not spurn. Her long-neglected body responded to him as a parched man might respond to a fountain of sweet water.

She hardly noticed when he stripped away her last trivial disguise, her shift. She made no complaint when he pushed back the covers to absorb her with his all-too-perceptive eyes, for it let her study him in turn. When he ran his hand over her body, she moved toward it like metal to a lodestone and only wanted to touch him as he touched her.

She didn’t, though. That would be too weakening. When his hands and mouth began again to play on her most sensitive spots, she sank into herself, observing with amazement the slow flowering of budding senses she had never known existed. . . .

But even as she inhaled at the wonder of her body, and reveled in its pleasuring, she fought to keep a part of her mind clear. She must not forget her purpose. If she understood this business between men and women at all, at some point he too would fall victim to sensation, and far more deeply than she.

When that happened, she would destroy him, despite this skillful pleasuring. She was more ruthless than Dona Maria.

She couldn’t help hoping, however, that her buds would flower before that moment came.

Then she realized that flowering and clearheaded vengeance just might be incompatible.

Without conscious intent, she was sliding her hand over his body—hard muscle and bone under silken skin. Though she knew she should stop, she couldn’t. What was worse, she longed to taste his salty sweat. She wriggled closer, then paused, tongue on skin, struggling to remember why she shouldn’t entirely surrender. . . .

She did remember.

As his hand slid again between her welcoming thighs she gathered her wits and studied him, desperately seeking signs of his dissolution. She saw only dark-eyed attentiveness, as if she were a delightful book under study.

“Shouldn’t you enter me now?” she asked, deliberately trying to break the spell.

His expression lightened to smiling. “Not yet. Not for a while yet. I’m enjoying this far too much.” His eyes brightened with mischief and his fingers moved so that she gasped.

She seized his wrist. “Where is the pleasure for you?” Her small hand still didn’t encircle him, however, and he twisted free without effort.

“It is pleasure to touch and taste you, Justina, and to see you move to my touch.” Skillfully, he made her move again. “But the real joy is wakening you to this. Truly,” he added with a grin, “it is better to give than to receive at Christmastide.”

Afraid she’d grin back, Justina turned her head away, but he captured it and turned her back to face him as his fingers worked magic. “Look at me, Justina. Please.”

Look at him.

Yes.

How could she tell when he was vulnerable if she did not watch him?

But in the end she did not watch him. Instead, she became lost in him, lost in those dark eyes that seemed to see within her and understand all the newfound mysteries.

With an artist’s skill, he stripped away layer after layer of restraint, coaxing her past every hesitation, pushing her over each barrier, until the Justina entwined panting around him was a new creature entirely, a stranger to herself and to the world.

And then the world itself was gone.

And at the last moment, a tiny protesting part of her cried,
Oh, Simon, Simon, where are you in this?

As Justina struggled to gather her wits, to focus and recall her purpose, he seized her wild hands, overwhelmed her trembling body, and slid slow and deep to burst her maidenhead.

She cried out, but more in shock at that unique sensation than in pain. As she tried to adjust to the stretched fullness, he moved in her, moved her around him, so that the disintegration threatened again.

She fought it, though. Now was his moment of weakness. This was the moment when she could rip his secrets from his soul.

What naïveté!

Jack Beaufort was certainly overwhelmed by sensation, but he was vulnerable to nothing but his own shattering lust.

When he rolled off her, he gathered her to him, looking at her again with those dangerous eyes. What he saw there killed his sated pleasure. “I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”

She turned her head away. “Yes.”

He stroked her soothingly. “It only hurts the once.”

Justina stared at the dead pheasants, feeling as pathetic as they. It wasn’t pain she spoke of. She had let him destroy her and gained
nothing.

Not true, whispered a small voice. You have gained a new existence.

Not one I want! I have lost my armor. I have lost the battle and the war and am left naked.

“I wanted you to stop,” she said, making herself rigid in his embrace.

After a moment, he freed her and turned onto his back. “Then it must have been too late, for I was not aware of it. I’m sorry. I can apologize all blasted night if you want, but it won’t change anything.”

“Just as you can’t change the fact that Simon is dead.”

He turned back to her with a frown. “What the devil has Simon to do with this?”

And Justina realized that she had, in a sense, won. A Pyrrhic victory, perhaps, but a victory all the same. They were both stripped down to raw truth. “You killed him,” she said. “You caused his death. You betrayed him. And I came here to prove it.”

She expected him to deny it, to throw up his guard again. She did not expect the naked shock and pain. “How did you know?”

Her heart almost stopped. Why had she not realized this moment would be so painful? “I just knew,” she said, almost gently. “I have always known.”

“The letter? There was something in the letter?”

“No. If there had been, I would have reported it to the authorities.”

“Then how did you know?”

“You were just too lucky. You had to be a traitor.”

He rolled over her then, pinning her down in the bed with his angry body. “A
traitor
? Is that what you think? Then why the devil were you so stupid as to come here tonight?”

She struggled fiercely, uselessly. “Because I could not live with you so fortunate!”

He captured her wrists in one strong hand and placed the other around her throat. “If I were a traitor, I’d strangle you now.”

She swallowed, and felt his pressure there. “Then do it! Do it. I’d rather die than live like this!”

His hand jerked up to cover her mouth. “No. Never that! For Simon’s sake, you will live, Justina. You will live as long as I can make you.”

He made it sound like a curse out of hell.

They stared at one another, and Justina realized tears were escaping to slither down her cheeks. She swallowed the rest of them. She did
not
cry.

But she certainly wasn’t made of ice anymore. For good or ill she was thawed, softened, and opened to pain as subtle and complex as the pleasure he’d shown her.

Then she saw the tears in his eyes and knew that some of her pain was his.

Gently, he released her mouth.

She licked her lips. “What happened?”

He rolled out of the bed. Silently, he picked up a gray banjan that lay on the bench at the end of the bed and shrugged into it. Then he went to a wardrobe to fish out another, this time bright blue, and toss it to her. “Put that on and I’ll tell you what you came here to learn.”

She slid her arms into the soft wool robe, but stayed half under the bedcovers, watching him. Her Delilah plot had worked after all. Samson was shorn, and he was going to tell her all.

The only reason she didn’t stop him was because she sensed that he needed to.

He sat on a chair some distance from the bed, once more lounging back, but this time, she thought, more with weary despair than ease. “I told you I become indiscreet when drunk,” he said. “Then I went on to prove it. After that night in the estancia, I touched no more than a sip of wine for the rest of the war.”

“You’re trying to tell me you let something slip because you were drunk?”

“Drunk and in bed with a beautiful woman. A fatal combination, as you can see.”

“And did you give up women, too?” she asked tartly.

His reply surprised her. “Yes, I gave up women, too. I’m sorry if I was out of practice.”

“How would I know?” Horribly off balance, she hit out. “You were going to tell me how you killed Simon.”

He didn’t so much as flinch. “Yes, I was, wasn’t I? I don’t know if I can make it dramatic enough for you, though.”

He met her eyes calmly. “It is simply as I said. I was indiscreet. I assumed Maria Bianca was as silly as she appeared to be and let her tease our next day’s route out of me. She was very clever, actually. She pretended to beg for escort to her cousin’s home, which led me in the end to explain that we were going nowhere near the place. In the course of which I told her where we
were
going.”

His eyes were still steady. “The rest is as I told you. When she knew our route, she knew that our march would overtake the carts carrying the Cabrera wealth. To her credit, Maria Bianca did her damnedest to get us to stay for Christmas Day, but when I insisted on going on, we were doomed. Except me, of course, Maria Bianca’s all too skillful lover.”

He was right. It wasn’t dramatic enough for her. She stared at him, wanting to believe that there was more, but saw, at last, the naked truth.

She put her elbows on her knees and sank her head in her hands. “But why call yourself damned? It was a mistake. A mistake anyone could make!”

She looked up to see him shrug. “It’s the consequences that matter. My carelessness killed them all. If I’d died there, I’d have just felt stupid. But I was condemned to live, and live, and live.”

“I’d think war gave many chances to die, if that was what you truly sought.”

His lips twisted. “How true. But I’m Lucky Jack. A hail of bullets would take everyone but me. One horse threw me just before a cannonball would have shattered my head. A dense fog once stopped my entire regiment from finding one of the bloodiest engagements of the war. Sometimes I thought Simon was watching over me just to get his own back.”

“If Simon was watching over you, it was because he cared.”

As soon as Justina said it, she knew it was true. Simon had never been one for revenge, and would be the last person to hold a grudge over a mistake. If the dead could watch over those left back on earth, Simon must have been tearing his hair out for three years as his closest friend tried to kill himself and his beloved sealed herself in ice and pursued revenge.

Oh, Simon. I’m so sorry.

“So,” Jack said, “now you have it all, though I doubt it will do you much good. In the heat of the war that story might have got me court-martialed. In peacetime, and with my exalted rank and list of war achievements, no one will act on it.”

Justina rested her head in her hands again, trying to think, trying to sort logic from emotion, right from wrong. In the end she realized she couldn’t hate anyone for such a small mistake, even one that had led to tragedy.

But what did that leave for her? She was thoroughly melted now, and as she’d feared, the Justina Travers she knew simply did not exist. That woman had dedicated three years to a pointless crusade; she had shaped herself into a weapon of destruction, armed to fight an enemy who had turned out to be rags and straw.

Simon, Simon. Why did you do this?

For she had no doubt that he had. She remembered that dizzy spell back in Charles’s office, when she’d felt guided to Torlinghurst. But she’d not been brought here for revenge. Simon had guided her here this Christmastide to learn this truth so that she could put all this behind her, pick up her life again, and live it to the full.

She looked at Jack. “I feel lost. I don’t exist.”

He rose slowly and came over to the bed. She saw his deformed but beautiful hand and experienced an insight. Or perhaps it was a message from beyond death.

“One musket ball got you.”

He followed her gaze down to his hand. “In the ambush, yes. How did you know?”

“I guessed. You tried to save him.”

“Of course. I tried to save them all.” He took a deep breath. “I saw the flash of the musket and put out my hand to stop the ball. It was instinctive but futile. It went through and into him. I stood there begging them to shoot me. . . .”

He was lost again in the past—how much time did he spend back there, begging for death?—but then he shook his head and reached out to gently touch her cheek. “Put it behind you, Justina. Please. It’s what he’d want. I remember talking once to a Portuguese priest who’d traveled in the East. He told me that there they believe that too much grief ties the dead to us and stops them from moving on. I think it’s time for us both to let Simon go. Can we try?”

He held out that injured hand and she put hers into it.

He drew her out of the bed and to the window. Clear in the midnight-blue sky shone the Christmas star. “I would consider myself lucky for the first time in years,” he said, “if you would stay with me and help me make something of this strange new life.”

She turned to look at him. “Why?”