"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 yo
u 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."
He spun to face her, his sweat-slicked, naked chest heaving with his suddenly agitated breathing. "But I am a convict. Nothing is going to change that. Not even death." He swung his arm in an angry arc over the isolated rows of plain crosses. "Just look around you."
She stood before him slim and straight, the wind plastering her fine skirts against her long legs and fluttering the loose strands of hair around her pale face. "And I am an Englishwoman. What do you see when you look at me?"
His anger collapsed, suddenly, within him. Reaching out a hand that was not quite steady, he brushed the hair away from her face and tucked it behind one ear. "I see you," he said softly. "Only you."
His knuckles brushed down her throat, and he saw a shiver ripple through her, saw her breath catch. And he wanted. ..
He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her firm young body close to his. He wanted to bury his face in her hair and breathe in the sweet fragrance of her. He wanted to taste her lips and feel the softness of her skin beneath his hands. He wanted her in every way a man can want a woman, and he was never, ever going to have any more of her than what he had now.
"For the love of God..." Somehow, he forced himself to take a step back, and then another. "Ask your brother to assign you a different groom."
She shook her head. "I can't. You know why."
He let out a harsh laugh and swung half away from her, his hands on his hips. "If you think your family and acquaintances would disapprove of your friendship with Genevieve Strzlecki, how do you think they'd be reacting if they knew you'd stooped so low as to kiss your Irish convict groom?"
Her eyes went wide in a pale face. "That won't happen again."
He looked directly at her. "And if it does?"
"It won't," she said quickly. Too quickly.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The girl sat curled up on the window seat in Genevieve's kitchen, a cup of hot cider cradled in both hands, her gaze fixed on the heaving dark waters of Blackhaven Bay, far below. It was only early afternoon, but the coming storm had darkened the day to the gloom of near twilight. A wild wind whipped the sea to a dangerous churning froth and battered the gnarled trees of the Point with a fury that whined through the eaves of the cottage.
Genevieve brought her own cup to her lips and took a thoughtful sip, her attention caught not by the storm but by the girl who watched it. There was something different about Jessie today, some uncharacteristic emotion that brought a faint flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes and a kind of quick restlessness to her movements. "What is it, Jessie?" Genevieve asked, letting her rocking chair creak gently back and forth. "What's happened?"
Jessie swung her head to look at Genevieve, and smiled. "Am I so obvious?"
She shook her head. "It's not exactly the type of weather one normally chooses for an afternoon ride."
The girl turned to stare again at the ships riding at anchor in the bay, their bare masts thrashing back and forth against the gray sky. The rain had held off so far, but the threat of it was there, heavy, in the lightning-charged air. "I like watching a storm over the sea. It makes me feel so... alive."
"But that's not why you came, is it?"
Jessie let her breath out in a short sigh. "No." She pressed
one splayed hand against her thigh and smoothed the fine cloth of her riding habit. "Harrison kissed me, the other night."
"Ah," said Genevieve, smiling softly to herself. "So that's it. I should have thought he'd have kissed you long before now."
"He has." Jessie bowed her head, her gaze fixed on the agitated movement of her hand. "But not... like that. I..." Her throat worked visibly as she swallowed. "I didn't enjoy it."
"Oh, Jessie."
"Mother says that men's passions are stronger than women's, that with women it's a matter of simply enduring the physical side of love. But it's not that. I know it's not that."
The wind threw a scattering of rain against the window, hard drops that hit as sharply as pellets. And Genevieve understood, suddenly, that air of suppressed excitement she'd sensed. That glow of inner awakening. "There's someone else, isn't there?"
Jessie nodded her head slowly.
"Is he unsuitable?"
A sad, soft smile touched her lips. "Very."
"Do you love him?"
The girl's head came up, her eyes widening. "No. How could I? I hardly know him." She sucked in a quick breath that lifted her breasts. "I mean..."
Outside, the wind shrieked, the bay and its storm-threatened ships disappearing in a swirl of lowering clouds and wind- tossed rain. "But you kissed him?"
She didn't say anything, but a smile broke across the girl's face, a smile so dazzling in its brilliance and just a bit naughty, that Genevieve thought, Oh, Jessie. Then the smile faded, and Jessie swung her head away to stare out at the storm, and Genevieve knew a swift stab of uneasiness. "He has a wife already?"
"No. It's worse than that. By far." A quiver of emotion crossed the girl's face, quickly smoothed out by years of training. "There can be no question of anything between us, not even friendship."
The gloom in the kitchen deepened as the rain poured down, streaming across the windowpanes in wind-driven sheets of water. "Then what..." Genevieve's hand tightened around the mug and set it aside. "Ah, Harrison. That's your problem, is it?"
The girl nodded, her eyes wide and confused, her lips pressed into a tense line. "I feel so terrible. He doesn't deserve this. But it isn't anything I've willed. It simply ... happened."
"The heart has a will of its own, Jessie. No woman can decide whom she will love, and whom she won't." The wind screamed around the house, almost drowning out the distant boom of the surf against the rocks and the faint but unmistakable peal of church bells. Genevieve half rose from her seat. "What can that be?" she began, just as the kitchen door flew open to slam against the wall with a crash.
Michael, the old emancipist who did odd jobs for Genevieve, stood on the threshold, his oilskin streaming water, his face white with horror. "There's a ship in the cove!" he said with a gasp, trying to catch his breath. "It must have snapped its cables, and now the wind's carried it around the Point and onto the rocks."
Down at the cove, half the bcach had disappeared beneath the heavy black waves that swept into shore to break against the sand with a booming, wind-whipped roar.
/> With the sea running so high, they'd had to take the long way around, doubling back toward the track to Blackhaven Bay before striking down to the cove itself. Gallagher drove a small cart of Genevieve's, loaded with flasks of hot cider and warm soup and blankets wrapped in oilcloth.
There were others already on the beach ahead of them, dark, cloak-wrapped shapes huddled against a violent sea and a low, pewter-gray sky. "Oh, God," whispered Jessie, one hand tightening on the side of the cart as the terrified, wide- eyed horse lurched to a stop in the deep, rain-drenched sand. "Look at that."
The ship was a small, sleek-hulled ketch, its sails struck, its deck tilted at a crazy angle, for it had plowed into the rocks bow-first, some two or three hundred yards offshore, on the far side of the cove. The momentum of the impact had carried the front of the ship up until the prow thrust into the air and the stern disappeared into the surging sea, the rear decks awash with the swirling, white-tipped waves that crashed against its sides.
"Perhaps she won't sink after all," said Genevieve.
"Her hull's been stoved in," said Gallagher, hopping out to help Genevieve alight from the cart, his shout barely audible above the howl of the wind and the pounding of the rain and the booming crash of waves breaking against sand and rock. "Right now, the rocks themselves are keeping her afloat. But she won't hang there much longer. Eventually the tides are going to suck her off, and when that happens, she'll go down."
Jessie watched him turn toward her, the rain streaming over the sharp-boned features of his face as he reached up to catch her by the waist and swing her to the ground. Her gaze locked with his, her hands clutching at his shoulders, and for one impossible instant, it seemed as if something leapt between them, an invisible skein of charged energy that might have come from the storm itself. Then Jessie took a step back, her arms falling away, her face turning toward the stricken ship. "How long?" she asked. "How long before it slides off?"
The Irishman shrugged. "Fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty."
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