Kissed; Christian (4 page)

“You think so? I meant only to make a point,
ma belle
.”

“Yes! I truly do!” she scolded, coming to her knees, though he noticed she did not get up for fear that he would spy her stockings. “You are quite debased, sirrah!”

Why did he suddenly feel like a wretch?

“Please accept my humble apologies if I’ve managed to offend. It is a failing of mine, I fear.” He thought he sounded appropriately remorseful, and he must have, for she eyed him discerningly, and smiled slightly, settling back down.

“Truly, my lord…” She flipped the book about, examining the back, and then again met his gaze, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Is there such a question posed to Adelard?”

Inquisitive little vixen.

His lips curved in unadulterated pleasure. “Certainly.”

She gasped and discarded the book at once, setting it down between them. “Well! I would think it safe to say it is Adelard and his inquiring nephew who are the depraved ones! And you, my lord, are ultimately absolved!”

She gave him a coy little smile, blissfully unaware of how close she was coming to being thoroughly and lustily kissed. God, but he was tempted.

Strange as it was, he felt inordinately pleased with her blind defense of him. It had been a long time since anyone had defended him at all—deservingly or nay.

He chuckled. “’Tis most kind of you to absolve me,” he said. And to his amazement, he found himself genuinely enjoying their singularly peculiar conversation. He held her gaze an instant longer, reluctant to release it as yet, wholly mesmerized by the beauty of her pale green eyes.

She wasn’t wholly unaffected by him, he knew, for her blush was no longer one of chagrin. Her head tilted slightly, instinctively, and she leaned so far forward that her face was dangerously near his own. Christian had to constrain himself from leaning forward and brushing his lips against her soft pink ones.

He wondered how she would taste.

Sweet.

He knew she would be sweet. Sweet as the tender blade between his teeth.

She was the first to glance away, her gaze returning inevitably to the book lying between them.

“In fact I was searching for something in particular,” she explained a little breathlessly. “You see, I seem to recall that Adelard wrote of reason as a guide, and of authority as a halter. Are you perchance familiar with that particular passage, my lord?”

Flicking away the blade of grass from his lips with his fingers, Christian lifted the small volume from her hands. It wasn’t an original copy, but ancient, nonetheless. “May I?” he asked, and awaited her consent before opening it.

Her eyes flashed with gleeful anticipation. “Of course, my lord.”

He smiled, pleased, and held her gaze as he quietly flipped through the fragile pages, until he located the text in question. And then he read aloud to her, his voice thick, “‘For what else should authority be called but a halter...’” He cleared his throat. “‘Indeed, just as brute beasts are led by any kind of halter, and know neither where nor how they are led, and only follow the rope by which they are held.” He paused for breath, cocked a brow at her, and thinking he meant it as a challenge for her to finish if she could, she began her recital where he left off.

“‘So the authority of your writers leads into danger not a few who have been seized and bound by animal credulity!’ Yes, and he also claims reason has been given to all individuals, so that with it as the first judge, he may distinguish between the true and the false. Do you not agree with him, my lord? I mean that reason has been given to each of us,” she clarified. “Should we not think for ourselves, men and women alike?”

He lifted a brow, impressed. “
Tres magnifique, m’mselle
. I should have liked to say I knew the text so well myself.” He closed the book and handed it back to her, wondering at such a pointed question. “As to your query, yes. As Adelard suggests, ‘unless reason be the universal judge, it is given in vain to individuals. And whosoever does not know or neglects reason should deservedly be considered blind.’ I believe that fully of men and women both. Are you a dissenter, then?” he teased.

“Oh, nay, my lord!” she replied at once. “Though, at the moment, I believe my brother quite thinks so.”

“I see. And why is that?”

Her eyes, which had been fastened reverently to his, slid now to the book balanced upon her lap. She blinked, peering up into the treetops. “Well, I suppose...” She sighed. “I suppose ’tis because we are of such different minds, he and I.” She lowered her gaze to meet his eyes. “You see, my brother would be immensely pleased were I to see… things… his way.”

He gave her a commiserative smile. “Any one thing particular?”

“Not especially,” she replied, then more firmly. “Nay.”

Christian lifted a brow. “I see. Well, then, you are quite certainly entitled to your own mind, though I doubt Adelard of Bath intended for you to use his writings as evidence to that fact. I rather think he’d turn in his grave to know he’s inspired a young maid’s insurgence. You see, in his time, women weren’t considered individuals at all. Just as they wondered whether beasts had souls, so, too, did they wonder about women.”

“Say it isn’t so, my lord!”

“Ah, but ‘tis the truth,” Christian asserted. And then he had to chuckle because she looked so absolutely horrified at the prospect. She didn’t seem to realize they weren’t so far from those times even now.

“Simply imagine!” Her eyes were wide with incredulity. “Women without souls!” She shook her head despairingly, and shuddered. “Whatever could they have been thinking, my lord?”

Christian chuckled, and shook his head. “I’ve no idea,” he told her. “It does seem a rather ludicrous notion, does it not?”

“Indeed!”

She said the word with such impudence that his shoulders at once shook with mirth. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her she was delightful, but at the temptation, he sobered. It wouldn’t serve him to be losing his head over the winsome chit... something he was beginning to suspect would be quite easily done.

She was beautiful, aye... but she was something more that he’d not anticipated...

K
indred spirits, that’s what they were.

Jessie lay fidgeting upon her bed, thinking that they saw so much through the same eyes. Uncanny was what it was. But comfortable, too. She sighed dreamily, for Lord Christian seemed simply too wonderful to be true.

And monstrously wicked, too.

Her maid had long since retired for the eve; eager for the day to end and the morning to arrive, Jessie had dismissed her even before her hasty bath was complete. Only now that she lay within the darkness of her room, sleep stubbornly eluded her.

Exhausted, but too exhilarated to be frustrated by it, she resigned herself to her wakeful state, sat up, and tossed the coverlets aside. She rose and made her way to the window, drawing open the draperies just enough to allow her to survey the night sky, so full of brilliant, winking stars. Perhaps he was… too good to be true.

She peered down into the garden below, at the little bench she’d occupied so regularly this past week. Christian had called upon her every day. They’d done little more than sit, chaperoned by Hildie, and converse.

To her wonder, it seemed he truly enjoyed her company, as well as her conversation. Unlike Amos, he seemed to encourage her to speak her mind at every turn, and never took sport in ridiculing her for some perspective he did not happen to share. Instead, he made it a point to ask why she’d come to such a conclusion, and then he’d weigh her explanation before offering his own, thus leading her into refreshingly direct discussions. She found she so enjoyed his company—respected him, too, for he had such noble views.

She was nearly certain now that he was courting her—nearly because she truly had no idea how one went about a courtship—a true courtship, that was. Not one the likes of which Lord St. John had embarked upon. That, she thought grimly, had been little more than a business proposal, with herself as the article of trade. She was heartily thankful Christian had responded to her brother’s missive, for she could never have borne Lord St. John as a husband.

Perhaps she wouldn’t have to.

Hope surged, and she smiled, releasing the drapery. She made her way back to the bed, slipping beneath the cool blankets, and closed her eyes, unable to think of anything other than Christian. He was everything she’d imagined he would be and more: gentle but strong, thoughtful yet amusing. God had surely favored her, she reflected happily, for he was as noble a soul as ever had existed upon the face of the earth. More so than the heroes of legend, for Christian was flesh and blood, and he had come to her rescue even after having been so wronged by her father.

Yes, indeed, he was her knight in shining armor... and she... she was the damsel in distress for whom he would battle friend and foe in the name of love.

Love.

Perhaps it was possible after all.

Sighing wistfully at the fanciful notion, she sent a hasty thank you heavenward and snuggled deeply within the blankets.

If this is a dream, don’t let me wake, she prayed.

Sleep discovered her smiling serenely.

“Please! oh, please!”

A harried sigh was Amos’ response, together with a most disapproving scowl as he rifled through the morning’s correspondence. He chose a particularly large envelope, tossing the rest aside, and sprawled backward within his chair, hiding behind the envelope, as though to escape her.

Jessie wasn’t about to give up. “Please,” she begged.

Still he sat, peering over the top of the envelope, his green eyes, so like her own, glittering with annoyance. Jessie suppressed a shudder at the cold feeling that swept over her. “Just this once,” she swore. “I’ll not ask again!”

He tore open the envelope with a vengeance, sighing a masterful reproduction of their father’s disapproving lament. “Very well, Jessamine. Do as you wish. Extend our invitation to the miscreant.” He didn’t bother glancing up. “Tomorrow eve, if you must.”

Jessie stepped away from the desk in surprise, eyeing her brother with disbelief. “Yes?” Her voice caught. “You said... yes?”

Amos gave her his full regard at last, though his expression was liberally laced with discontentment. “Can you not hear, girl? Yes! Do! Invite the cur to dine with us, if ’tis your wish, but leave me be now!” Unfolding the doubled parchment he’d extracted from the envelope, he apprised her, “And I shall, indeed, hold you to your word; do not ask this of me again.”

Wide-eyed with disbelief and too delirious to stop herself, Jessie hurried around the. desk to give her brother an affectionate hug, the first such embrace between them in years.

Amos recoiled from her at once. Grasping her upper arms, he peeled her from his person. “Jessamine! Please! Recall yourself at once!”

Jessie retreated, stung. “Yes, of course. I... thank you, Amos. I-I don’t know what came over me,” she said as stoically as she was able, and then turned to go, her eyes misting.

She didn’t know why it should surprise her so each time he rebuffed her, but it never failed to do so. And yet, this once, she had a concession from him, at least. She refused to feel dispirited.

He’d not always been so heartless, and she couldn’t help but ponder what could have changed him so—though she had a very good idea.
Their father.
Always it came back to their father. His Grace the Duke of Westmoor had lived the most unapproachable of lives, and Amos, in trying to prove his worthiness, was fast becoming a perfect replica of him.

Her older brother, Thomas, who’d been two years Amos’ senior, had been their father’s indisputable favorite. Poor Amos had lived in the shadow of that fact, trying so very hard to measure up, even unto the end. All for naught; after word had arrived of Thomas’ death, their father had simply lost the will to live. She and Amos had not been enough to keep him happy and healthy. It had happened so quickly that Jessie sometimes wondered whether her father’s death had, indeed, been a natural passing. But then, just as quickly, she discarded the ugly notion. His physician had declared it to be his heart, and that’s what Jessie wished to believe.