Whispers of Heaven (9 page)

Deliberately, he turned his back on her. Catching up his trousers, he crouched down beside the river and thrust them beneath the cool running water. Yet even though he couldn't see her, he remained painfully aware of her behind him, of her watching him. She wasn't leaving. He realized he was still holding his breath, and let it go in a long, shaky sigh into the awkward silence.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He snorted, but didn't look up. "I should think that would be fairly obvious."

"Isn't there a woman who washes the convicts' clothing? There always used to be."

"Aye, there is. She just doesn't do it often enough for my taste."

"So you come here in the evenings and wash them yourself?"

The surprise in her voice flicked him on the raw. He paused in the act of wringing out his trousers, his elbows resting on his spread thighs as he threw her a glance over his bare shoulder. "Faith, it's hard to credit it, isn't it? We're such a filthy lot, we Irish. As dirty as we are lawless and rebellious and savage."

They had a bad reputation, the Irish convicts in Australia. A reputation for defiance and intractability and bitter, resentful hostility. Most of the English colonists out here were afraid of them. She was afraid of him. He could see it in the way she stared at him, her eyes wide and turbulent, her nostrils flaring as she drew in a quick breath. She had the most beautiful eyes, a dark, velvety blue with flecks of some unearthly light, like a moon-tossed sea on a stormy night.

He thought she would go away now, and he waited, tense with expectation and an odd twinge of regret. But she didn't go. Instead, she came sliding down the bank in a rush that kicked up her skirts and petticoats in a froth of lacy ruffles, revealing a pair of slim ankles and dainty, booted feet. He knew he should look away, but he didn't.

Tilting her head, she gazed at him from beneath the brim of her hat, the fancy, patterned straw allowing pinpoints of light through to dance across her delicate features. "And you're excessively proud of it, too, aren't you?" she said, smiling a little. "Not only of your Irishness, but of your lawlessness, and your wildness, and your notoriety."

He stood up in one easy motion and swung to face her. He was wearing nothing but his old trousers, and she skittered backward a few steps, her gaze fixed on his naked chest, her throat working as she swallowed quickly. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his trousers and cocked one hip in a deliberately blatant, masculine pose. "That's what being Irish is all about, isn't it?" he said. "Just like being English is about moderation and repression and solemnity."

He meant to drive her away. He wanted her to go away and stay away, far, far away from him. She did tremble a little, as if she were fighting an urge to put more distance between them, but she held her ground, her voice remaining cool and composed. "Don't you think you're being rather simplistic?"

He gave her a slow smile that showed his teeth, although his eyes narrowed. "So you don't like that, do you? It's all right to say an Irishman's nothing but a lazy larrikin who cares more about fun and mischief than for things like work and wealth. But it's a different matter entirely when someone dares to suggest that most of your precious Englishmen are dull, pompous sourpusses who worship authority and are afraid of true independence."

She sucked in a quick, indignant breath that lifted her chest and drew his attention, dangerously, to her breasts. "There is a difference between worshiping authority and having respect for the law." Her head tilted upward in that haughty way he hated. "British law is the envy of the world."

He gave a harsh, ringing laugh. "Oh it is, is it? That's why you're so bloody generous about spreading your
British law
around, I suppose. Greed and selfishness have nothing to do with it, do they?"

She tied the loose ribbons of her hat with swift, angry motions.
"Greed and selfishness?"

He leaned toward her. "That's right. Greed and selfishness, all dressed up as moral superiority and sanctimonious hocus- pocus. What do you think? That God created the whole world, just for you? So you could bring
British
law and

British
liberty and the bloody
British
empire to everyone, like the great, God-appointed civilizers of the world?"

She stood very still, still enough that he could see her heartbeat fluttering the pulse point at the base of her pale neck, just above her white lace collar. "We have created the greatest empire the world has ever seen," she said, her voice so calm, so in control, so bloody
English.
"An empire that is shining and glorious and—"

He swiped one hand through the air in an angry gesture. "Glorious, is it? Glorious? Well, let me tell you, there will never be any glory—not true glory—attached to your mighty empire, not as long as you can maintain it only by oppressing those under your rule—be they African, or Indian, or Irish. And that's why you'll lose it someday. All of it."

Her breath was coming so hard and fast, she was practically shaking with it, although her voice was still admirably even. "You're a madman."

He gave her his best, devil-damn-the-world smile. "Not a bit of it. I'm just Irish, remember?"

For a moment, she looked startled. Then she surprised him by laughing out loud. Not a polite society titter with no heart or soul in it, but a husky, earthy laugh that lit up her face in a natural, spontaneous way that seemed oddly at variance with her lacy trims and lilac ribbons and precious lady's manners. He stared at her, at the unexpected fullness of her lower lip and the gentle curve of her cheek. A strange silence crackled between them, a silence filled with the moan of the evening wind and the gurgle of the free-flowing river, and a firm, steadily approaching tread that brought her head snapping around and jerked him to instant, quivering attention.

"There you are, Lucas me lad," said Daniel O'Leary, his carrot-topped head and big shoulders appearing over the bank. "You were so long comin' back, it's worryin' about ya, I was startin' to be. The sun's going down fast and—" He broke off, his eyes widening at the sight of Miss Jesmond Corbett.

She had been well trained. If she felt the least discomfited to be found here, on the riverbank in the company of a half- dressed Irish convict, with the sun sinking low in the sky, she didn't show it. "You shouldn't swim alone, Mr. Gallagher," she said in that precise English accent of hers. "You might run into difficulties." And then she walked calmly away from him, on up the river, her head held high, her back straight, her lilac ribbons floating out behind her.

Daniel stood openmouthed, staring after her. "What was she doing here?" he asked, low-voiced, when she had gone.

Lucas shrugged and bent to pick up his clean shirt. "Going for a walk, I suppose."

Daniel shook his head and rubbed one hand over the back of his neck in a distracted gesture. "I hope you know what you're doing, laddie."

Lucas pulled his shirt over his head and laughed. "What are you talking about?"

But Daniel only shook his head and thumped Lucas on the chest with one pointed finger. "You be careful, you hear?"

The next night, Jessie went with her mother and brother in the carriage to Harrison's house at Beaulieu, for dinner.

A fat silver moon rode low in the purpling sky, spilling a breathtaking blue light across the hushed fields and slanting in through the carriage windows to dance over the faces of the silent occupants. Jessie glanced from her brother's classic profile to her mother's bland features, and back again. She didn't like the strange, worrisome glitter she could see in Warrick's eyes tonight. He had spent the afternoon in a gully in the foothills above the house, exploding clay wafers with a set of new silver-mounted pistols and tossing down glass after glass of expensive French brandy. He had asked her to come along and throw for him, and she'd gone willingly enough, for she'd been unable to settle at anything all day herself. She couldn't understand this odd humor that had her in its grip, leaving her feeling inexplicably restless and lethargic at the same time.

She was glad she was going to Beaulieu tonight, she decided, glad she would be seeing Harrison. She felt in urgent need of his phlegmatic British personality. It was a thought that brought with it an unexpected bubble of amusement, so that she smiled into the night.

"Why are you smiling so strangely?" Beatrice asked, her sharp voice breaking the silence.

"I was simply remembering something someone said to me recently," Jessie said calmly, aware of Warrick shifting his position to stare at her with interest. She was careful not to smile again.

The drawing room at Beaulieu Hall was much the same as the one at the Castle, an expensive display of French walnut with white marble and a tasteful array of silks and satins and brocades. The dining room, too, was vaguely reminiscent of the one at home, the Cuban mahogany table in its center grand enough to seat twenty-four or more, and surrounded by a veritable phalanx of balloon-backed chairs upholstered in a burgundy Italian silk that coordinated precisely with the figured brocade hanging on the walls. The heavy silver candelabra on the table was of Sheffield plate, as were the massive silver cruets atop the satinwood Hepplewhite sideboards tucked away beneath twin Italianate arches picked out in gilt and shades of muted burgundy and hunter green and a deep, rich blue. A swarm of servants, surprisingly well trained for convicts, delivered successive courses of duck and swan, kangaroo and Iamb. But then, as magistrate for the district, Harrison always had his pick of the best convicts available for assignment.

She found herself watching him more and more as the meal progressed. At the moment he sat slightly off center, one wrist casually resting along the arm of his chair, his pose relaxed now that dinner was almost at an end. He wore a long- tailed evening coat with a low collar and long lapels, and a fancifully embroidered silk waistcoat that made him look handsome and elegant and faintly witty, in a very English sort of way. She watched him reach out one white, well-manicured hand to choose a sweetmeat from the silver tray at his elbow, and decided she felt comforted by his familiarity and predictability, his calm urbanity. This was her world.

He was talking to Beatrice about a new dining service he was ordering from Worcester, to be done in burgundy and blue, with the family crest highlighted in gold. Unlike Anselm Corbett, whose father had come out of obscurity to make his own fortune in the mills of North Lancashire, the Tates were old gentry, descended from the squires of a small but ancient manor in Hampshire. Yet as good as Harrison's lineage was, it wasn't quite as impressive as Beatrice's. Beatrice's own father had been a simple half-pay officer who had lost an arm on some obscure French battlefield, but the family was old—old and well-known and better connected, even, than the Tates. Birth still mattered, here in the Colonies. But money mattered, too, even more than it did in England. And in fortune at least, the Tates and the Corbetts were of a par. It would be a good match.

Jessie reached for her wine glass, her hand not quite steady as she gripped the faceted crystal stem. Money and birth. They were the foundations of her world, the criteria by which all were judged. Money and birth and freedom from the shameful, indelible stain of convictry.

It was after dinner, when Philippa and Beatrice were playing duets on the piano and Warrick sprawled in a shadowy corner chair to nurse his inevitable glass of brandy, that Harrison invited Jessie to walk outside with him and admire the full moon.

It rode higher in the sky now, smaller yet brighter than before against the darkness of the late-night heavens, its reflected light shining incredibly clear and crisp and vivid. "You're right," Jessie said, smiling a little. "It is very beautiful."

"Is it?" His breath stirred her hair as he took her hand and pulled her around to face him.

She laughed up at him. "Aren't you looking at it?" Then she saw his face, and the laughter died on her lips.

"No." A strange smile curved his thin mouth. "I fear I lured you out of doors under false pretexts. What I really came out here to look at was you." His smile faded, replaced by a taut, intense expression that sent through her a tremor of an emotion that was not quite fear.

He s going to kiss me,
she thought.
He's going to kiss me the way a man kisses the woman he will marry. The woman he will someday take to his bed.
She felt suddenly, painfully shy at the thought. And then she told herself she was being foolish, that she had known this man all her life, that she would soon be his
wife
, for heaven's sake. She must accustom herself to this new level of intimacy, of
physical
intimacy, with him.

"Jesmond," he whispered, his breath warm against her cheek as she held herself quite still. His hands were at her shoulders now, pulling her to him, sliding possessively down her back to ride low on her hips. Then he bent his head and kissed her.

His lips were soft and cool and moist, and she thought perhaps it was a pleasant thing, after all, being kissed. Then his grip on her tightened, his mouth pressing down harder, forcing her lips open in a rough urgency that sent a jolt of panic and faint revulsion through her. She endured it for a moment, unable to breathe, her eyes wide and staring, her hands gripping his shoulders. Then she made a faint mew of protest in her throat, her palms flattening against his chest.

He let her go at once, swinging away from her to stand at the edge of the veranda, his head thrown back, one of his hands coming up to shade his eyes, his shoulders held stiff and straight. She stayed where she was, feeling foolish and embarrassed and terribly inadequate.

"I'm sorry," she said in a small voice, glad he had turned his back on her so that he would not see her when she quickly wiped away the wetness his mouth had left on hers. "I don't know what came over me."

"No. No, don't say that. The fault was mine." He came to stand in front of her again and took both her hands in his to hold them tightly against his chest. "Forgive me, darling. I was wrong to..." His breathing was harsh, ragged, so that he had to swallow hard before he could continue. "You see, a man's passions run stronger than a woman's. It's natural. It's... to be expected. When a man is dealing with a gently bred woman, it's his responsibility to handle her carefully, to go slowly. Instead, I frightened you. Please forgive me."