Whispers of Heaven (21 page)

"That wasn't fair."

"Wasn't it?" He swung his head to look at her. "She was right. I did love her, but not enough for it to stop me from doing what I felt needed to be done."

She knew, then, that whatever it was he had done that he thought would block the petition for his pardon, it had little to do with illegal societies, or even the overseer Leo Lamb. And she knew, too, that she wasn't ready to hear what it was.

"The man Caroline married," he said, still looking at her, "he was a giant of man, and his babe was big, too. Too big for her. She was such a wee dainty thing. She looked a fair bit like yourself, only with hair the color of rose hips and autumn leaves, rather than the liquid gold of the morning sun."

She felt his gaze, warm and lingering, on her hair, and thought for one wild moment that he might touch her, there, where a stray lock tumbled against her neck. Except of course he could never touch her hair, just like he could never kiss her lips, no matter how much she wanted him to. And she did want him to, God help her. She wanted to feel his touch, to know his kiss, more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life.

"It wasn't your fault," she said softly.

He closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath of air that shuddered his chest. "Wasn't it then? If I hadn't done those things, if I hadn't got myself transported, if that'd been my baby she'd been having, she wouldn't have died."

"You can't know."

He looked at her again, and this time, all of the pain, all of the anguished guilt he'd kept hidden before broke through. "Can't I?"

She reached out to him then, the need to touch him, to somehow try to ease his pain, suddenly too great to be resisted. Her fingertips brushed his cheek, and it happened again, that hum of sensation that stole her breath, filled her with fire. She felt the roughness of the several days' growth of beard on his face, and the smoothness of his skin, and the warmth of his being. He went suddenly, utterly still beneath her touch.

"Miss Corbett—" he began.

"No." She brought her hand to his lips. "Don't call me that. Don't say anything. Don't—" She sucked in a sharp, quick breath, her gaze tangling with his, her fingertips sliding over his hard mouth to curl around the back of his neck. "Don't... stop me."

And then, because he couldn't kiss her, because she knew he would never kiss her, she tipped her head, and kissed him.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

It was an awkward kiss, a naive brushing of her lips against his. But his mouth was so warm and sweet, and it moved gently beneath hers. She heard him let out a throaty groan, felt his hands grip her arms, slide up to her shoulders, clench in her hair to hold her tight. Then his mouth opened against hers, turned the kiss into something she'd never known a kiss could be.

She hadn't known .. . that a man's mouth could look so hard and yet be so soft, or that it could feel so exquisite sliding across her own. She hadn't known that a man put his tongue in a woman's mouth when he kissed her, or that it felt so wonderful, beyond wonderful to sinful. She hadn't known that a kiss could steal her breath and set her blood on fire and awaken this yawning, aching need, so deep within her.

She clenched her fists in the cloth of his coat, felt the hardness of the muscles in his tense shoulders and back as she pulled him closer to her. The rush of the waterfall roared in her ears, threw up a fine spray that felt damp against her face, but she was barely aware of it. Her world had narrowed to the heat of his man's body hard up against her own and the magic of his softly demanding mouth, moving against hers. Then he tore his lips from hers, and their world shattered.

He looked down at her, his breath ragged, his face dark and tortured with need.

"Don't," she said, her grip on his shoulders tightening, her own breath coming so hard and fast she could barely push out

the words. "Don't tell me you're sorry. And don't you dare say this was a mistake."

She saw the crease flash in his cheek with a smile that was there, then gone. "Sure then, but you're very free with your
don 'ts
this afternoon, Miss Corbett."

"Don't call me that," she said, then smiled wryly when she saw his brows shoot up. "Please. Call me Jessie."

He brought his hands up to smooth the tangled hair from her face, his work-scarred fingers gentle and a little shaky against her skin. "It seems a dangerously familiar line to cross, that one."

"Not such a great step, surely, after you've had your tongue in my mouth."

He laughed then, a laugh that was low and throaty and somehow intensely, evocatively erotic. She saw the flicker of fire in his emerald green eyes, the flare of his nostrils as he sucked in a quick breath of air. For one heady moment, she thought he would kiss her again. Instead, he swung away from her, his head tipping back as he stared up at the frothy white cascade of the falls. "Whether you want me to say it or not, lass, it's true. It was a terrible mistake, what we did here today."

She wanted to argue with him, but she couldn't because she knew he was right. How could she have known? she thought in despair. How could she have known that one kiss would never be enough? That it would only make her want him more. That it would leave her body trembling and on fire with an aching, burning need.

"You know what they would do to me, don't you," he said, "your brother, and Mr. Harrison Bloody District Magistrate Tate, between them, if they found out I'd even thought about touching you, let alone actually kissed you?"

"They wouldn't—Harrison wouldn't—"

He turned to meet her gaze, his face set, his eyes hard and a little frightening. "Yes he would, and you know it."

Her fist came up to press against her chest, as if she could somehow hold back this terrible inner welling of despair and fear. "Perhaps you're wrong. Perhaps my brother's petition will be accepted."

"Perhaps," he said, although she knew he didn't believe it. "In the meantime, Miss Corbett, it might be best if you didn't go riding too much."

She heard the rush of the wind moving through the canopy of leaves high overhead, stirring the branches and shifting the pattern of light that filtered down through the breaks in the trees. She could stay away from him, she thought.

For a day, or perhaps two.

She was reining in beside the stable door when the braying of a donkey brought her head around.

"Warrick," she said, slipping from the saddle with an unexpected laugh as her brother trotted, swearing, into the yard, an unhappy dun-colored donkey balking at the end of a lead behind him. "Whatever are you doing with that donkey?" Then she saw the dark, still form tied across the animal's back, and the laughter died on her lips.

She threw a quick, silent glance at Gallagher's face, but he was wearing that hard, flat look, the one that always disturbed her somehow, perhaps because it hinted at all the things that had been done to him, all the things he'd had to endure.

"Don't look at him, Jess," said Warrick, swinging out of the saddle to throw both his reins and the donkey's lead to Gallagher. It took her a moment to realize her brother was talking about the dead man.

"Did you kill him?" she asked, staring anyway at the black man's wooly head. He had frightened her, this man. Frightened her and threatened her. Yet he had done her no real harm. It didn't seem right that he should have had to die for it. That he should end up like this, tied facedown across a donkey.

"He was dead when I found him," said Warrick, and turned to Gallagher. "Put the body in the chapel Tor the night. I'll get someone to dig a grave in the morning."

"I'll bury him," she heard Gallagher say in a flat voice that matched the look she'd seen in his eyes. This time, she was careful not to glance toward him.

"Good," said Warrick. He turned toward the house, doubtless, she thought, dismissing the dead man from his mind.

And then she did glance at Gallagher again, because she couldn't leave without looking at him one more time. Their gazes met, but she could see nothing in his eyes. Nothing at all.

She hurried after her brother, the long skirts of her riding habit held high. "Warrick, wait," she called, catching up with him as he paused to unlatch the garden gate. "I was wondering if you'd remembered to petition the governor? About Gallagher?"

He glanced back at her, a lock of his fair hair falling carelessly across his forehead. "Didn't I tell you?"

She shook her head. "Tell me what?"

"I asked Harrison to look into it for me. I don't know what the hell that Irishman did, but Harrison says the man could save the life of the Queen herself, and he'd still end his days in chains."

Jessie stood quite still, the breath leaving her body in a painful rush. "But... how could Harrison know?"

Warrick shrugged. "It's in the man's papers. Harrison looked them up the other day."

He would have turned away, but her hand shot out, grasping his sleeve, stopping him. "Why would Harrison do that?"

She was aware of Warrick looking at her queerly, but at that moment, she didn't care. "He was curious, I suppose. He is the local magistrate, remember? The convicts in the district are all, ultimately, his responsibility."

She unclenched her hand and let her brother go.

So Lucas Gallagher had been right after all, she thought; there would be no pardon coming from the governor. She had to hold herself stiff to keep from looking back over her shoulder, toward the stables and the man she knew was still there. The clouds had begun to turn a faint pink as the sun slipped lower in the horizon. It would be dark soon. She thought about that iron barred door, clanging shut on him, locking him into the barracks tonight, and tomorrow night, and the night after that. She thought about all the nights of all the years that stretched ahead of him, and felt such a crush of despair she wondered how he bore it.

And then she thought about tomorrow, and the day after that, about all the days to come, when she would see him in the stables, ride beside him. All the coming days filled with temptation and danger, and she knew a terrible fear that welled up inside her, closing her throat and stealing her breath.

Fear not only for him, but for herself.

Lucas thrust the shovel into the dark earth at his feet, then swung it up, the dirt flying in a fan-shaped spray to land with a soft hiss on the large mound beside him. Thrust and swing, thrust and swing, a familiar, endless pattern. He'd dug a lot of ditches in the past three years. A lot of ditches, and a lot of graves.

He paused to glance up at the thick, heaving storm clouds overhead, then sent the shovel biting deep into the ground again, the muscles of his bare arms and back flexing as he swung the full shovel high. The hole was deep, but not quite deep enough yet, and he wasn't sure how much longer this rain was going to hold off. A gust of wind swept down the hill to cool the sweat on his bare back and thrash the branches of the nearby grove of oaks. He kicked the shovel deeper with his boot... and knew she was there.

He straightened slowly to find her standing some three or four feet from the edge of the grave. She wore a gown made from some shiny burgundy-and-white striped material, with a V-shaped waist and wide lace collar that emphasized the fullness of her breasts. He felt a swift, unwanted rush of desire, followed hard by a helpless welling of frustration and anger. "I thought we'd agreed it would be best if you stayed away from me," he said and turned back to his digging.

"You were right about your pardon."

The easy flow of his rhythm broke, then resumed, that betraying instant of disappointment surprising him, for he'd known, he'd known.... Hadn't he known? "All the more reason for you to stay away from me," he said, his voice coming out rough.

"I need to ride out to Last Chance Point." She walked away to where an old cedar grew amongst the simple wooden crosses of the convict cemetery, then swung back to face him again, her hands clasped together in front of her skirt, the color riding high in her cheeks.

"The Point?" He propped one elbow on the handle of his shovel and tossed the loose hair out of his eyes. "Have you looked at the weather lately?"

She wasn't looking at the weather; she was looking at him. "I'm sorry about your friend."

He went back to his digging. "Parker wasn't that close of a friend. Just someone I knew and respected." He glanced up at her. "Does that surprise you? That someone could respect a runaway ex-slave dressed in kangaroo skins?"

"No." She shook her head, her eyes wide and dark with some emotion he could not name. "I heard what you said to him, up in that glade. About absconding convicts needing to get off the island. You've obviously given the subject considerable thought."

"Huh," he said, casually, the shovel striking deeper, harder. "Show me a convict who hasn't."

"Perhaps. But with you, it's different, isn't it? You're really going to try it."

He straightened slowly, the head of his shovel coming to rest on the grass as he stared up at her.

"I was thinking last night," she said, "about what it would be like to be a convict, to know that I would never be free." She half turned away from him to run her hand along the top of one of the nearby crosses, her head bowed, her attention seemingly focused on the movement of her hand. "In the past, I could never understand why men like Parker Jones would take such risks to try to escape. But now..." She brought her gaze back to his face. "Now, I think I understand."

"Miss Corbett, exactly where is this conversation leading?"

She dropped her arm to her side. "I asked you not to call me that. Not when we're alone."

He flattened his palms on the grass and leaned into them, levering up out of the grave to stand before her, his hands at his sides. "What do you think, that giving me permission to use your first name in private somehow makes my position of servitude less humiliating? Or does it just make it easier for you to pretend it's not a barrier?"

He watched the color drain from her cheeks. "It was not my intention to humiliate you."

"Ah, hell," he swore, and swung away.

"Don't you understand?" she said, coming to stand behind him. "When I look at you, I don't see a convict. I see a man. I quit seeing a convict long ago."