Whispers of Heaven (13 page)

Genevieve paused, the crock balanced in one hand, to give Jessie a slow smile. "Then I am happy for you." Reaching out, she plucked a small, perfectly smooth crystal ball of polished pink quartz from the windowsill over the sink. "Do you remember this?"

"Of course I do," Jessie said as Genevieve placed the smooth, cool sphere into her palm. "I was so intrigued by this quartz as a child." She smiled and held it up to the light, her lips parting in pleasure as the stone seemed to glow from within. According to Genevieve, the crystal had come to her years ago, from a gypsy. "I can remember peering into it for what seemed like hours. I was convinced that if I tried hard enough, I'd be able to see my future in it. But all I ever saw was my own reflection."

"I remember." Genevieve began to pile biscuits on the plate. "I also remember that I used to wonder why you were so fascinated by it, when you grew up expecting to marry Harrison."

The ball suddenly felt warm and heavy in her hands. Jessie set it aside, her palms coming up to clasp her elbows against her side.

"I always wished I could give it to you," Genevieve was saying, "but your mother would have wondered where it came from." The cat's mews became insistent, and she stooped to pour some of the cream into a saucer near the stove. "How is she? Your mother, I mean. And your brother? "

It was a question Genevieve had never failed to ask through all the years Jessie had been coming here to visit, although as far as she knew, Genevieve had never met either of them. "They're the same." Jessie grinned ruefully. "Only more so."

"I was sorry to hear about the death of your father."

Jessie nodded, her throat swelling with a quick spasm of grief. "My mother seems to have taken it very well."

For a moment, she thought Genevieve was about to say something, but she busied herself instead with the teapot. "Come," she said, picking up the gaily painted tin tray. "Let's have our tea in the garden. No, leave them," she added, when Jessie reached for her boots. "How long has it been since you walked barefoot in the grass?"

Jessie laughed. "Two years."

Genevieve shook her head. "Far too long."

From where Lucas sat on the low stone wall beside Genevieve Strzlecki's barn, he could see the wide, placid stream that emptied into the gentler midsection of the cove, forming a wide estuary that cut the sandy beach in two. Beside it, if he narrowed his eyes against the sparkle of sunlight off the swelling waves, he could just make out the blackened, overgrown walls of what must once have been a house. But if there was a dock there, he couldn't see it from here. Somehow, he thought, he was going to have to get down to the cove itself.

The hills behind the crescent-shaped beach were rolling and thick with trees and scrub, but on the other side of the cove from where he sat, the land thrust up both higher and rockier than Last Chance Point, the sea at the base of the cliffs beat to a frothing white by the action of the waves breaking against the rocks. Leaning sideways, Lucas plucked a long blade of grass and began to twist it through his fingers, his gaze still fixed on the cliff on the far side of the cove and the rocks hidden beneath the waves at its base. In bad weather, he thought, or on a moonless night, these waters would be dangerous.

"It is beautiful, isn't it?" said Miss Jesmond Corbett from behind him. "Beautiful and deadly."

She had paused some distance away from him, beneath the big old oak that grew at the side of the barn. He hadn't heard her come up, and he had no idea how long she'd been standing there. He slid off the wall and swung to face her, and she jerked and looked away quickly, as if she had been watching him and didn't want to be caught doing it. And then he laughed at himself, because it was some kind of a joke, for sure, to be thinking a lady like her would be looking at an Irish convict groom such as himself.

"If you'd sent someone to warn me of your coming," he said gruffly, reaching for his hat, "I could have had your mare ready for you."

She shrugged and walked toward the open barn doors. "I can saddle my own horse."

"Can you now?" Drawing out his brogue, he followed her into the dim, musky-sweet interior of the old barn and brought her mare out of its stall. "What's the world comin' to then, a fine, gently reared young lady like yourself saddling her own horse?"

She smoothed the blanket over the mare's black hide. "Don't you think me capable?"

He handed her the sidesaddle, and watched as she threw it up onto her horse's back. She did it effortlessly, with practiced ease. But then, that didn't surprise him. He'd known this about her, although he couldn't have said how. "Oh, I think you're capable, all right," he said, and went to saddle the roan.

"There's a trail that leads directly from here to the beach," she said with what sounded like studied casualness. "We'll take that."

He looked up, his gaze meeting hers over the roan's back. "Why?"

She led the mare out of the barn, and Lucas followed. "I told my family I was going to the cove." She gathered the reins as he stepped forward to give her a leg up. "I don't like to lie."

He gave her a boost. Only, instead of looking discreetly away as she settled into the saddle, the way he was supposed to do, he kept his eyes on her face. "And if someone were to ask you, flat out, if you'd been to Last Chance Point? Then what would you say?"

"No one would ever ask me," she said, and kneed her horse forward.

CHAPTER TEN

A growing wind slammed into them, tore at the long skirt of Jessie's riding habit, filled the air with the scent of brine and the booming crash of the surf as she urged her mare down the steep, narrow path to the cove, the Irishman behind her. They came down from the headland in a shower of loose dirt and small stones, the track they followed emptying onto the southern end of the beach, where the sand was only a narrow band against which the waves hit and broke with wind-driven violence. Jessie reined in, waiting for the Irishman to splash his big roan up beside her.

"It's a thing of wonder, surely," he said, as casually as if he were remarking on the weather, "the power of this wee snippet of sand. A minute ago your soul was tarnished with the sin of deceit; now your guilt is as if it never was."

The surf crashed against their horses' legs to send up a fine spray that felt damp against her face as she stared at him, her heart pounding uncomfortably in her chest. She couldn't have said why his opinion of her mattered, yet it did. "You despise me for keeping my visits to the cottage secret, do you?"

He shook his head. " 'Tis not my habit to judge other people. I'm sure you've your reasons."

She kneed the mare into a walk, her gaze on the foam- flecked, turquoise-blue water beside them. Gulls wheeled, screeching, overhead. The wind blustered up, stronger than ever, loosening a wisp of her hair from beneath her hat. She lifted her head, one hand coming up to hold the stray lock out of her face, her gaze still on the beautiful, deadly surge of the sea.

He brought the roan into step beside her. After a moment, he said, "Who do you know who died here?"

She stared at him, her eyes wide. "How did you know?"

"It's there, in your face, every time you look out over this cove."

She swallowed and turned away. "My brother. My brother Cecil died here."

The beach had widened by now as the land beyond the sand became more gentle, but the Irishman still kept his horse at the edge of the surf, where the free rush and retreat of the ocean beat upon them. She could have moved away herself, but she did not.

"When did it happen?" he asked quietly.

"Ten years ago now. We all spent a lot of time at the cove in those days, although none of us as much as Warrick. He seemed to think of nothing except going to sea." The memory brought a smile to her lips that trembled, then was gone. "He had a small sloop that he kept tied up at a wharf just there, where the path comes down from the Point." She paused, her voice going flat with an old pain. "It's gone now. A storm tore it away some four or five years ago, and no one ever bothered to rebuild it."

Her gaze drifted back to Last Chance Point, where Genevieve's half-timbered cottage was just visible through the trees on the tip of the headland. "At the time, Rose Cottage belonged to my grandmother. At first, they only used it as a summer home, but after my grandfather died, my grandmother gave up their house in Hobart and came to live here."

He slanted a glance at her from beneath the broad brim of his hat. "Cecil was your oldest brother, wasn't he?" She looked at him in surprise, and he added, by way of explanation, "I saw the grave."

"Oh." She nodded. "He was to be my father's heir, and Papa was so proud of him. We all thought Cecil didn't care about anything except the estates, but he must have secretly envied Warrick, because one day, he insisted on taking Warrick's boat out." She stared out over the cove, not knowing why she was telling him all this, yet needing to go on. "It was a beautifully clear summer day, but the wind was blowing hard, and the riptides were running. Warrick didn't want Cecil to go."

"Yet he did?"

"My mother ... she accused Warrick of being selfish, of using the wind as an excuse. It was such a pretty day." She paused, her throat working as she swallowed. "Warrick was only twelve at the time, while Cecil was almost eighteen. But he couldn't handle the sloop, not under those conditions. He ran onto the rocks there, at the base of the far cliff."

She watched as he studied the far side of the cove, his eyes narrowing against the sun. From here, the submerged rocks looked like black, deadly shadows, just visible beneath the blue-green swell of the waves. "He couldn't swim?"

"Yes, but not well enough to fight that sea. He was thrown out of the boat and beaten to death against the rocks. My mother..." Jessie drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "Cecil was always her favorite. She'd come down from the cottage especially to watch him sail that afternoon. But all she could do was stand on the beach and watch him die."

"Is that why she refuses to come near the sea? Because she blames it for her son's death?"

She studied the man beside her, oddly aware of the way the wind fluttered the rough linen of his shirt around his torso. The sun had moved behind the thickening bank of clouds, casting long shadows over the golden sand of the beach and taking the warmth out of the blustery day. "My mother has always had a problem blaming herself for anything," Jessie said dryly.

"You blame her."

"Not for Cecil's death."

"For what, then?"

A sea eagle flew above them, casting a knife-like shadow over the shifting waves. Her head fell back, watching it, her breath leaving her chest in a long sigh. "For the guilt Warrick has had to carry all these years, I suppose."

"It wasn't his fault."

She shrugged. "He's always felt it to be. He knew Cecil couldn't handle the sloop, but he didn't stand up to her." She smiled sadly. "That's one mistake he has never repeated since."

"I'm surprised you come here," he said, reining in beside her as they reached the broad estuary of the stream that fed into the end of the cove, "feeling the way you do about this place, and having to keep your visits such a secret."

"I come to see Genevieve." She looked away from him, to where the ruins of the old Grimes homestead thrust up black and broken against the thickening clouds. Her friendship with Genevieve had always been a source of troubled confusion for her. All her life, Jessie had struggled against her own nature in an effort to please her mother, to be the conformable young lady her mother wanted her to be. Yet for years, Jessie had stubbornly persisted in this one, secret rebellion. She sucked in a deep breath of air scented with salt and wet sand, then let it out in a sigh. "I don't know why exactly," she said at last, although it wasn't quite the truth. Her friendship with Genevieve grew out of some deep, powerful need within her. Only, she had always been too afraid to ask herself exactly what that need was. "I come because I must."

He touched her cheek, his work-scarred fingers rough against her skin as he gently turned her to face him. "I won't tell," he said softly, his hand falling back to his side.

She should have resented his touch, yet she could not. It had seemed so natural, a spontaneous gesture of comfort that left her feeling warm and oddly shaken.

She let her gaze rove over his sun-darkened face, with its fiercely beautiful bone structure and deep-set eyes, and felt something shift, deep within her. She had thought of him as brutal and dangerous, a lawless rebel who defied authority and threatened everything she believed in. And he was all of that. He was. And yet...

"Why not?" she said, her voice a broken whisper. "Why wouldn't you tell?"

He had a boyishly rakish smile that brought a devilish twinkle to the depths of his Irish green eyes and caused a long, beguiling crease to appear in one lean, tanned cheek. "Because everyone is entitled to have some secrets." He turned his head then, his gaze shifting beyond her, to the ruined house that sat back a short distance from the estuary, in the rolling hills beyond the beach. "Does no one ever come here?" He nodded toward the shattered walls. "It looks deserted."

"Most people avoid it. It's a sad place." Jessie turned the mare's head back down the beach.

"I've heard it said it's haunted."

"Yes. I've heard that."

He glanced at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling again as if in silent amusement. "Don't you believe in ghosts, Miss Corbett?"

The mare tossed its head and mouthed the bit in impatience as Jessie gathered the reins. "I neither believe nor disbelieve in them. But I do think that when something terrible happens in a place, that place can absorb the emotions of the people who suffered there."

"And something terrible happened here?"

"Oh, yes," she said, and urged her horse forward into a gentle canter that carried her away from the house and its violent past in a soft spray of flying sand.

But he surprised her by lingering a moment longer, his narrowed gaze fixed on the abandoned house and the deserted dock beside it.

The storm broke just after supper.

Lucas stood at the edge of the barracks' veranda, the corner post rough against his back. Rain slashed down into the yard from out of a dark and threatening sky, partially obscuring the big house that rose up like a solid fortress of respectability and affluence, distant and forbidding, through the gloom. He stared at the warm glow from the upper-floor windows, and wondered which room was hers. And then he wondered at himself for such a ridiculous thought. What did it matter to him, where she was, what she was doing at this moment? It was absurd, the feelings he was beginning to experience for this woman. It was ridiculous enough that he found her so damnably attractive, without starting to actually
care
about her. The sooner he got away from here, the better, he thought, letting the wind tear at his hair, throw a sea- scented mist in his face. He breathed in deeply, smelling salt and far away, alien places.

"Daniel tells me you've found someplace we can keep a boat," said the Fox, his voice low as he came to stand at Gallagher's side.

Lucas nodded, his gaze captured by the wild, lightning- split night descending rapidly over the valley. "A stream, emptying into Shipwreck Cove. There's an old dock that'll give us good access to the water, while the brush is thick enough to hide the boat until we're ready to use it. People seem to stay away from the ruined house beside it, so the chances of the boat being discovered before we're ready to use it are slim."

"A ruined house? At Shipwreck Cove?"

"Aye." Lucas shifted to look into the Fox's thin, sharp- boned face. "You've heard of it, have you?"

"Oh, that's just lovely," said the Fox, as if talking to the damp, wind-tossed air. "He wants us to dance a cotillion with the ghosts of Grimes House on our way out of the Colony."

Lucas grinned. "You don't believe in ghosts, do you, laddie?"

For a long moment, the Fox simply stared out into the driving rain, his nostrils flaring wide, his face white and set. "Yes, I do."

Lucas took his tobacco pouch out of his pocket and tossed it to his friend. "Here. Have a chew."

The Fox caught the pouch neatly in one hand, and helped himself to a slice. "Now that you've got someplace to keep it, just where are you proposing to find this boat, anyway?"

Lucas pushed away from the post and stepped down into the muddy, rain-splattered yard. "We'll find one." He let his head fall back, the rain washing cool and sweet over his face. "One way or another."

"And if we don't?"

His boots squelching in the mud, Lucas swung to look back at the thick-walled building behind him. The barracks' iron-barred door yawned black and open, waiting to enclose them for the night. He breathed deeply, felt the wind plastering his wet shirt to his back, felt the storm-cleansed night air fill his lungs, then leave. "If we don't?" He curled his lips up into a hard travesty of a smile. "Why, then we'll just have to build us one, won't we?"

Gallagher spent the next morning working the big bay stallion on the longeing rein. He thought she might come down to the stables again, but she didn't. Not that morning, or the next.

He didn't want her to come. He didn't want her watching him, distracting him while he worked the stallion, and he certainly didn't want to have to play the role of respectful, subservient groom again, riding obediently behind her if she should fancy going for another ride. Oh, he needed to visit the cove again, needed a closer look at that ruined homestead and the abandoned dock beside it, needed to sit and watch the waves break on the sand and crash against the cliffs and eddy around the dangerous, half-submerged rocks he'd have to get to know before he tried to pilot a boat past them on his way to the open sea beyond. But he was beginning to realize that, in her own way, Miss Jesmond Corbett could prove to be every bit as hazardous to him as the rocks of Shipwreck Cove.

No, he didn't want her to come. But he couldn't seem to stop himself from watching for her.

It wasn't until Saturday morning, when he was in the stables getting ready to saddle Finnegan's Luck, that he felt again that faint, indefinable hum in the atmosphere, and looked up to find her standing in the wide open doorway to the yard. She wore a simple morning gown of some navy cloth with a white pleated tulle fichu, and had her hair only half swept up into a soft French knot so that the rest fell in sunlit curls around her shoulders. The fresh morning air had brought a blush to her smooth cheeks, and for one, foolish moment, he let the sight of her steal his breath.

"So," he said, swinging away to where he'd set his tack, "you've come to watch, have you?"

CHAPTER ELEVEN

"A saddle, Mr. Gallagher?" Lucas watched as she pushed away from the doorway and came toward him, her hands clasped behind her back, her full skirts swaying with each jaunty step, her lips pressed together in a tight smile belied by the hostile glitter in her eyes. "Don't tell me you've finally decided to try mounting the big, bad Irish stallion yourself?"

"Aye," he said, gently settling the saddle in place.

"And so soon. I am impressed."

Lucas eyed her over the bay's broad back. She was out for his blood today, no doubt about it. It was as if she'd come to regret the emotion she'd betrayed during that strange, unexpectedly intimate conversation on the beach, and now he was going to pay for it. He stooped to reach for the cinch. "You think I should have done it sooner, do you?"