Lady Vixen (67 page)

The
careless words hit her like a slap in the face. She had always known that he
would be happy to see the last of her, but she was stunned by his easy
admission. Aimlessly she played with the silk of her gown to hide her trembling
hands and kept her face averted from him, fearful she would betray how deeply
his indifference hurt her.

Christopher
was watching her face intently, the expression in the gold eyes shadowed by the
dark lashes. He was painfully aware that he was handling this scene badly, but
he was powerless to change it. His usual ready address failed him completely
with Nicole. He said the wrong things, did the wrong things, and even when it
was the last thing in the world that he wanted, he always seemed to provoke an
unholy argument. Trying for the light touch didn't seem to be the answer
either, judging from the rigid set of her features.

Nicole,
oblivious to Christopher's intent stare, knew she should make some offhand
remark, some laughing rejoinder, but the words stuck in her throat. Eventually
pride came to her rescue, and with a fixed, bright smile she said, "Well,
I suppose confusing you, as you say I have, must be some sort of victory for
me!"

"Damnit,
Nicole! There is no war between us!" Christopher growled, wanting
something more than just a glib statement from her, yet uncertain precisely
what it was he sought.

But
Nicole, lost in her own bitter battle with her heart, did not hear the odd note
of entreaty in Christopher's voice. All she registered was the barely hidden
anger on his face. With piercing resignation, she knew why there could never be
anything but anger and ugly recriminations between them—because of her mother.
Nausea curled in her stomach when she thought of Christopher's brutal betrayal
at her mother's hands. Could she blame him for hating her? For hurting her?

Resignedly
she said, "Oh, Christopher! Have done with this pretense between us! I
know what happened to you all those years ago and I know why you hate me so. You
say there is no war between us, but you lie." Some of her spirit came
rushing back, and passionately she continued, "There will always be a war
between us! My mother saw to that! I could try for a thousand years to make you
forget it, I could let you trample me in the dust, but it would never soothe
all the hate you've filled yourself with."

Christopher
went still, very still; the heavy black brows contracted into a frown above his
narrowed eyes. "Exactly what are you talking about?" he asked coldly.

Nicole
leaped to her feet; with her fists clenched tightly at her sides, she stated
baldly, "Higgins told me about you and my mother! About how Robert and she
tricked you and about how he sold you to the press-gang."

Christopher,
more icily furious than she had ever seen him, swore long and with astonishing
fluency. The gold eyes glittered dangerously, the fine mouth was thin with fury
as he snarled, "And is that why you are being so understanding? So willing
to have me kiss you? Because that old sad tale has aroused your sympathy? Well,
spare me
that!"

He
stood up abruptly, and throwing Nicole a glance of utter dislike, he muttered
fiercely, "You forget about what happened in the past! I have! And
certainly I don't need Annabelle's daughter mewling over me like I'm some
half-drowned kitten!"

"Mewling!"
Nicole spat. Any regret, any sorrow for her mother's actions, even her own
anguish over his departure vanished as her temper rose. Her face white, the
great dark eyes sparkling, she stepped swiftly forward and before Christopher
could guess her intent slapped him open-handed across one cheek. "Why you
ass-eared whelp!" she cried furiously, tears of anger glittering in her
eyes.

Furious
himself, Christopher caught her shoulders, holding her prisoner in a deliberately
brutal grip as she fought to free herself. "This, I believe," he said
tightly, "is where I came in. And since we seem to have said everything
that need be, I'll bid you good-bye. If we're lucky, we won't have to see each
other before I leave. Rest assured I'll damn well take care to stay out of your
way!"

Dimly
aware that she was hiding behind her anger, Nicole, her temper now in full
blaze, sent Christopher a look of mingled despair and defiance. "You do
that!" she choked belligerently. "By God, I'll bless the day you sail
away. It can't be too soon to suit me!"

With
a queer flicker in his eyes he studied her stormy features for a moment,
almost, she thought oddly, as if memorizing them; then his lips twisted into a
mocking grin, and he said coolly, "Now that's the Nick I remember. And
here's something else for you to remember me by!"

Jerking
her into his arms and catching her half-opened lips possessively, his tongue
ravening her mouth, he pinioned her body against his. His lips seemed to sear
hers like a flame, commanding, demanding that she respond to this deliberate
cold-blooded arousal. Blindly, Nicole fought desperately against the insidious
languor, the blaze of urgent desire that spread through her body. His mouth
allowed no escape; his lips compelled her to yield, to give in to the physical
craving that washed through her veins. Unconsciously she molded herself closer
to him. Damn him! she thought furiously with one part of her mind. Damn him,
for making me want him.
Damn him!

Christopher
was fighting his own battle; rigid with barely leashed desire, he wanted Nicole
unbearably for one last time—just once more to lose himself in that flesh, to
feel her shudder beneath him, to have the taste of that silken skin in his
mouth, that perfume peculiarly hers in his nostrils. Ah, Jesus, he wondered
with dull rage, why her of all women? Hadn't he learned once that an Ash-ford
woman was a beautiful witch of uncanny power, a creature of lust and lies, of
passion and betrayal? Frantic himself now to break the tenuous silken web
around him, Christopher tore his mouth from Nicole's and with a jerky movement
set her away from him. He was breathing heavily, his eyes still blurred with
desire, but his voice was detached as he said, "I think we'll each have
something to remember of the other, Nick—whether we want to or not!" He
spun on his heel but then, as if recalling something, stopped and glanced over
his shoulder. "I haven't as yet made definite plans for leaving and I
haven't said anything to my grandfather. I would appreciate it if you would say
nothing to anyone, until I have told him myself."

Nicole
couldn't bear to look at him, afraid of her own emotions. She nodded dumbly,
concentrating on fighting back the foolish tears that shimmered in her eyes.

Unable
to help himself, Christopher gave her one long last look, sealing the achingly
beautiful picture she made away in some buried part of his heart. Almost
hungrily he stared at her, taking in the flawless features, the mass of dark
flaming curls, the wide-spaced topaz eyes, the willful, passionately full
mouth, and that tall, slender body that fitted his so exquisitely. Oh, God, he
thought with a tearing pain in his gut, why does it have to end like this? He
took one more look, and without another word he stalked to the door and left
the room.

With
the sound of the slammed door ringing in her ears, Nicole sank down slowly on
the sofa. He's gone, she thought dully. No, that's not true, she argued
feverishly, it'll be a few days yet. A few days in which I'll have to act
normal, smile and laugh and pretend that I'm not dying inside. She closed her
eyes tightly in anguish, thinking of the bitter facade to come. I'll do it. I
can! And someday I'll forget him. I will! I have to.

Driven
by different emotions than those that beset Nicole, Robert Saxon had been
making inquiries all over London in search of the elusive Captain Saber. He had
learned that indeed there was a Captain Saber, and yes, he was an American
privateer, and yes, there was a price on his head. But beyond Jennings-Smythe's
startled remark, Robert had nothing to go on. He had no doubt that Christopher
was Captain Saber, and he longed to throw that information in Simon's face. He
would see that everyone did know the truth, see that all of them learned what a
scoundrel Christopher really was!

Robert
called in the afternoon to speak to Nicole, hoping he could coax her into
taking a short ride in the country. That it was nearing five o'clock when he
arrived at the house on Kings Road, bothered Robert not at all. Darkness did
not fall until almost seven and he would have Nicole home long before that.

But
he was disappointed. Nicole, he was informed, had gone walking in the park and
wouldn't return home for a half hour. Undeterred, Robert was on the point of
leaving to seek out Nicole as she took her walk, determined to convince her to
accompany him, when Simon spoke to him.

"Robert,
I'd like a word with you if you don't mind!" Simon demanded.

Annoyed,
Robert glanced at him. "Does it have to be this very moment? I was just
leaving to find Nicole."

"She
can wait," Simon retorted testily. "I have something to say to you,
and I want to say it now!"

Robert
shrugged and followed his father into the study. The small study was a pleasant
room, paneled in oak. A Boulle cabinet in ebony inlaid with a tortoise-shell
pattern gave an Oriental effect to the room, but the curled maple desk that
Simon seated himself behind was definitely English in design. Robert, clearly
impatient to be off, stood aggressively in the center of the room, his York tan
gloves and small chimney-pot hat held carelessly in one hand.

"Well,"
he interrogated irritably, "what is it? I haven't much time."

"Sit
down," Simon said quietly, his eyes cool and contemptuous as he pointed to
a nearby chair. Somewhat reluctantly Robert did so, alerted by his father's odd
manner that all was not well.

Simon
had spent the two days since Letitia had told him what had passed between his
son and grandson in great mental agony. He had loved his black-sheep son, despite
many disappointments throughout the years, but the infamous act against
Christopher he could not forgive. When the first horror and repugnance had died
away, he had thought he could bury it—that while his affection for Robert would
never be the same, he could, in a fashion, continue to view him with some
fondness. But after two sleepless nights, tortured by what his own flesh and
blood had done, he knew it was not true. Whatever love he had borne his son had
died, and he felt it only fair and right to tell Robert precisely why he would
no longer be welcome in his home. It was the hardest decision of his life. But
he had finally in his heart acknowledged that Robert was a bad one, rotten
throughout, and that he could never change that. Nor could he ignore it and thereby
condone his son's despicable actions. It had been a bitter, painful admission
and now that the moment was upon him, he found he was curiously unmoved by it.
He had dreaded this time, had feared he would not be able to do it. But it was
not so.

His
face was cold and stony as he said unemotionally, "This will be the last
time I shall have you in my home —any of my homes. I have put up with a great
deal from you throughout the years—I have suffered scandal after scandal with
you: I have paid off debts, intervened for you on countless occasions. But that
is finished. You went too far, Robert, with what you did to Christopher. I
cannot, may the Lord God forgive me, pardon you for it. It was bad enough that
you and Annabelle Ashford used him to hide your adulterous liaison, but to sell
him! To sell him into what was almost certain death!
That
I cannot
tolerate!" Simon's formidable control broke, and almost pleadingly, he
asked, "Why, Robert? Why in God's name? He was so fine a youth, such a joy
to me. He did you no harm. I tell you, I will never understand how you could
have done it." Simon paused, his face suddenly heavily lined and very sad.
"You could have been the cause of his death. Doesn't that engender some
feeling of remorse?"

Robert
had blanched at his father's first words, his worst fears at last realized.
Christopher had turned his own father against him! An intense surge of
bitterness swept through him, and sullenly he retorted, "It didn't hurt
him. You can see for yourself that he profited by what happened."

Disbelievingly
Simon stared at him. With a shudder of revulsion, he realized that Robert saw
no wrong in what he had done, A sense of futility crept along his veins, and tiredly
he admitted, "Yes, it appears he did profit by it. But that wasn't what
you had in mind, was it?" Knowing the answer, weary of the scene, Simon
said harshly, "Good-bye, Robert. Thank God that despite what he has been
through, Christopher has grown into such a fine young man. At least I have a
grandson I can be proud of, if not a son."

His
sense of ill-usage breaking its frail bonds, Robert leaped to his feet. With a
wild look in his eyes, he shouted, "You're wrong! You think he is so
wonderful. Ha! He is nothing but a common pirate. A sea rogue wanted by the
Admiralty for his crimes against our own ships. Ask your precious Christopher
about Captain Saber! Ask him! You'll see. You'll see that he is not the godlike
being you think. He's a bloody pirate!"

"Silence!"
Simon thundered, his face dark with rage. "You're lying, casting
aspersions on him, to exonerate yourself. I will not have it! Leave my house
this instant! This instant, I say, or I shall wrench your lying tongue from
your throat!"