Whispers of Heaven (27 page)

She was making breathy, erotic noises deep in her throat, like a wild thing. He was a wild thing, an animal, taking his mate with brutal lust on the ground, the sun hot on his naked, thrusting flanks, the sea breeze skimming his sweat-slicked back. He felt her inner heat begin to throb around him, saw her head fall back, her neck arching on a gasp of ecstasy, heard her joyous scream of pleasure and fulfillment, and was lost himself.

His teeth clenching, his eyes squeezing shut, his fingers digging into the earth, he exploded into her, long and hard and wondrously.

The shattered pieces of himself, of his world, came back together slowly, glowing with joy and a sweet firmament of fulfillment. The brightness of the sun, the vivid blue of the sky, hurt his eyes. He became aware of the harsh rasp of his breathing, the sweat that trickled down his cheeks, pooled in the small of his spine. He heard again the rhythmic swell of the sea, beating against the base of the cliffs, the harsh cry of the gulls, the whisper of the wind in the grass.

Slowly, he raised up onto his forearms to ease some of his weight from her slim frame, but he couldn't bring himself to separate from her yet. He wanted to stay in her, to stay a part of her, forever. "I love you," he said, resting his forehead against hers, their breath-ravaged chests shuddering together. "I love you, and I don't even know your name."

She reached up, her slim arms twining about his neck, her mouth taking his in a long, hot, sucking kiss that, ended too soon. "How can you love me?" she said, easing back down, a smile curling her impossibly wide mouth. "You know nothing about me."

Her words disturbed him. It worried him to think that she might not be feeling what he was feeling, for she knew little more of him than he did of her. He kissed the tip of her nose. "I know you live in a stone hut overlooking the sea with a brother named Dicken and a donkey that would have been happier being born as a very sedentary rock." She laughed, her golden brown eyes sparkling, and he thought she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. A fierce rush of emotion gripped at his heart, stole his breath, and left his voice shaky. "I know that you like the feel of the sun on your skin, and that you're the most beautiful, free-spirited person I've ever met."

Her smile faded her brows drawing together in thought. "You think that's all there is to me?"

He eased himself sideways so he could settle her in the crook of his arm and look down at her. "No. I want you to tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"More about you." He smoothed the damp tendrils of fiery hair back from her forehead. "Tell me where you come from. How you came to be here, in Tasmania. In that hut in the middle of nowhere."

She put her hand on the bare flesh of his chest, her gaze fixed on the caressing motion of her fingers rather than his face. "Well, let's see. I was born in a wee, mean croft in the

Highlands, near a place called Strathspey. One afternoon when I was thirteen, the laird's son and two of his friends caught me in the glen and took turns at me, with the other two holding me down."

He closed his arm protectively about her thin shoulders. "Jesus... I'm sorry."

She shrugged, although it didn't deceive him, for he saw the quickly suppressed sigh that quivered her breast. "Virginity's no' as important to a girl raised in a croft as it might be to some grand lady living in one of your big, fancy houses. Me father, though, he took it hard, what they did to me. He went after the laird's son with his fists, and there was ... a spot of trouble. We had to leave."

He traced the curve of her shoulder, ran his fingertips along the line of her clavicle and down between her breasts. She was so beautiful, so beautiful and joyous and free, and these terrible things had been done to her.

"I used to have two wee sisters," she said softly, "but they died on the ship coming out here. Me sisters, and me mother, too. The da, he lived long enough to get this bit of land and help us build the house. But he was never well after the laird finished with him, and he died close onto two years ago. So now it's just Dicken and me."

For the first time in his life, he felt the comfort of his own existence as something vaguely shameful—the grand fourteen- room house with its gleaming mahogany and polished silver, its feather beds and silken curtains pooling ostentatiously on the floor, its four-course dinners washed down with vintage brandy. "It can't be easy for you," he said quietly.

She put her hand over his, holding his palm pressed against her skin. "We get by just fine. We've a few chickens and sheep, and I grow enough potatoes and carrots and things to feed us and still have some left to sell to the shopkeeper in Blackhaven Bay. And Dicken, he fishes, and hunts for wallabies and birds with his sling. It's a good life. I like it here. I'm happy."

Watching the guileless smile that touched her lips, he wondered if he had ever heard anyone in his world say that. /
am happy.
If he had, he couldn't remember it.

He dipped his head and nuzzled her neck. "Now I know you," he said, his breath blowing warm and moist against her flesh. "So now you can believe I love you."

She rolled onto her side to face him, her eyes unexpectedly solemn as she gazed up at him. "You canna know a person by the things they tell you."

"No," he agreed, his hand riding low on her naked hip, his thumb moving in small, restless circles. "Then again, you can live around a person your entire life and never really know them."

"Know this," she said, and took his hand to put it on her breast, her head tilting as she leaned forward to touch her lips to his.

The love they made this time was slow and sweet and wondrous, a gentle exploration of flesh and sinew and muscle, a giving of pleasures that led inevitably, to a hot rush of overwhelming desire and the coming together of their bodies in an urgent culmination of wet, blinding heat.

"Your name," he said with a gasp, his body thrusting into hers. "You never told me your name."

She dug her fingers into the clenched muscles of his naked hips, pulling him to her, harder, faster. "Faine. My name is Faine."

"I love you, Faine,"
he cried, his body convulsing in the ecstasy of release, his shout of triumph ringing out over the rush of the waves and the restless moaning of the wind.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"Mr. Warrick, sir," called Charlie, hurrying out of the stables. "I didn't hear you ride in."

Warrick swung out of the saddle, his gaze drifting about the nearly deserted yard, where the shadows of the outbuildings stretched long and cool. It would be dark soon. "Where's Gallagher?" he asked, holding the gelding's reins out to the boy as he skidded to a halt, his boots sliding in the mud.

Charlie straightened slowly, pale-lashed gray eyes going wide in a blank face. "Out working Finnegan's Luck."

"This late?"

"Yes, sir."

"Huh," said Warrick, and started off toward where he could see Jess perched on the top rail of the paddock fence, one arm thrown around her mare's neck, the other hand stroking the horse's white nose. As he drew nearer, he heard the gentle murmur of her voice, saw the mare's ears twitch back and forth, as if the dainty little black were listening.

"When you were a little girl," he said, propping one elbow on the railing beside her, his gaze on the sky that was turning aquamarine and pink as the sun sank toward the hills, "whenever you had a problem you needed to sort out in your head, you used to come down here and sit on this fence and talk to your horse."

He looked up to see her smile sadly, her hand rubbing softly over the mare's satiny cheek. "The way I remember, it used to help more."

Grunting, he swung about to lean his shoulders against the

rail, his arms crossing at his chest. "I was here when Captain Boyd paid our dear mother a morning visit."

Her hand stilled, her fingers splaying against the mare's glossy hide. "Ah. So you've heard about my latest attempt to bring shame upon the family and hasten our mother's sad decline."

He raised one eyebrow. "Surely you know that any number of deaths by shipwreck are infinitely preferable to announcing to the world that one has come into contact with the local Fallen Woman?"

A cool breeze rustled the leaves of the trees in the park and brought them the scent of lilacs and lemon gums and the warm, earthy smell of horses. She met his gaze, her eyes dark and serious. "I like her, Warrick."

"Well, I should think so, when one considers you've been visiting her for so long—
hey, careful there"
he added, grabbing her arm when she tottered dangerously on the high rail.

She closed her hand on his shoulder, her gaze bright and earnest on his face. "You knew?"

"For years."

She turned away to look out over the paddock, where some half a dozen horses grazed, muted shades of charcoal and amber shifting in the fading light. "Have you told Harrison?"

He gave her a long, steady look. "Right. That's exactly the sort of thing I'd do."

A hint of color touched her cheeks. She shook her head. "Sorry."

He watched her, a faint, barely acknowledged uneasiness shifting within him. "I can tell you one thing, though: Harrison wouldn't approve. He can be devilishly straitlaced about that sort of thing."

She stared into the darkening distance. "If I were the kind of person I like to think I am, I'd tell him. I'd tell them both."

"There's nothing wrong with the person you are."

"Isn't there?" She swung her head to look at him again. "Why would this Captain Boyd come running out here, carrying tales of me to Mother?"

"He's Mother's suitor. Didn't you know?"

"What?"
she said, wobbling precariously.

He flung his arm around her waist, steadying her. "Jesus, Jess! Get down off that fence before you fall off."

She set her hands on his shoulders and let him swing her to the ground. "But surely Mother is not encouraging him?" she said, her head bowed as she adjusted her skirts. She looked up sharply, her eyebrows drawing together in a frown. "That I cannot believe."

He linked his arm with hers and began to stroll with her toward the house. "Oh, Mother will never marry again, no need to fear that. Her first experience was too miserable for her to be inspired to repeat it. But I think she does enjoy Boyd's company. He has the most depressing views imaginable on the wretched state of society and the decline of modern morality. They can sit and tut-tut together happily for hours."

She choked on a quickly swallowed spurt of laughter. "You shouldn't say such things, Warrick."

"Why ever not? It's true. Watch them together at Mother's garden party next week." He glanced down at his sister's drawn features, and noticed for the first time the shadows that lay beneath her eyes, the tightness around her mouth. Whatever was troubling her, it was more than the small furor over the incident in Shipwreck Cove. Poor Jess, he thought, always trying so hard to be what their mother and their society decreed a gentlewoman should be. Always trying but never succeeding, because it wasn't precisely what she was meant to be. Yet she kept trying, and one of these days she was probably going to succeed—at least to a point. Then there would be nothing left of her but a pale reflection of other people's expectations, and a haunting echo of all she could have been.

He thought of Faine, twirling through the grass, her head thrown back in laughter, her arms reaching for the sun. She might be poor and ignorant, she might go barefoot and live in a crude stone hut, but Faine knew something—
had
something—that he and Jess had looked for their entire lives, and never found.

"Next week?" Jess was saying, looking up at him in surprise. "I thought Mother wasn't having the party for a while yet, until the weather improves."

"She wasn't." He flashed her a grin and reached to unlatch the garden gate. "But since your unwise behavior on the night of the storm, she's decided she ought to move the date up. Display you at your most sedate and conformable to all our curious, speculative friends and neighbors, and all that." He held open the gate for her, then paused to throw a last glance across the yard, and frown. "I was expecting to speak to Gallagher tonight about putting up a marquee."

"Gallagher? But... he's a groom."

Something in her voice brought his gaze around to her again. "He's also a very handy man with a hammer. I think he used to be a shipbuilder or some such thing."

She turned her face away from him to stare up at the house. "Some such thing."

He studied her pale, half-averted face, and felt it again: that indefinable sense of uneasiness. He wanted to ask her what was wrong. He wanted to ask if there was anything he could do to help. But how could he help her, he thought wryly, when he didn't even know how to help himself.

The thick black muck of the marsh held the smashed bow of the boat in a tight grip, the water of the estuary lapping at Lucas's bare thighs as he heaved and swore, then heaved again.

He could hear the steady rush and retreat of the tide coming in, rolling up over the nearby beach with a foaming swish. In another half hour he'd probably be able to float the damn thing free. But he didn't have half an hour; he was going to be lucky to make it back to the barracks before sunset, as it was.

Gritting his teeth, he heaved again, hard, and heard the mud release its captive with a loud sucking pop that filled the air with the fetid stench of dampness and decay. Lucas flipped the boat over onto its hull, then paused to swipe his bare arm across his sweaty forehead, his chest heaving as he drew in air.

The boat was big, bigger than he'd have preferred. True, its size would make it safer in the open sea. But it also meant they'd need to take more men with them when they made their escape. And more men meant more mouths, more chances of secrets leaking out, more chances of getting caught.

Stooping, he leaned his shoulder against the stern and pushed, grunting with the strain. He'd been so long getting back here, to the cove, that he'd been afraid he was going to find the boat gone already, carried off by the scavengers who picked over the debris on the beach. But it had been washed surprisingly far up the estuary. And people tended to avoid the Grimes House, if they could.