Whispers of Heaven

by Candice Proctor

  "Now that I believe," said Warrick, unsnapping the lead. "The beast definitely possesses a decided- aversion to movement."

  The boy started to smile, then checked it, as if he knew why Warrick was here, what Warrick wanted with his sister. But then, he probably did know.

  Warrick collected his reins and was about to turn the gelding's head toward the stream where he'd first met her, on the off chance she might be there, when he saw her.

  She was coming down the slope of the daisy-strewn hill behind the stone hut, a tall slip of a girl with impossibly long legs and a regal neck and hair the color of a sunrise-gilded sea. He cantered the gelding up the hill toward her, and drew rein. She reached up to him, and smiled.

  The fragile bones of her wrist stood out stark against her fine, golden skin as he closed his hand around it. With her other hand, she lifted her skirts high, the worn blue cotton falling away from her thin legs as she put her bare foot on the toe of his boot and hauled herself up behind him with a sinewy strength belied by her delicate frame. The movement rucked up her skirts, but she made no attempt to straighten them, simply hugged his hips with her thighs in a way that pressed her bare knees and calves against his taut, hungry body.

  "Where do we go?" he asked.

  "That way," she said, pointing toward the sea, then sliding her hands up under his coat and around his waist in a slow caress that had his breath hitching in his chest.

  * * *

  She guided him to a high, grass-covered cliff that thrust out into the sea, the land falling away steeply on three sides in a sheer rock face high enough to make him dizzy, if he looked down at the wave-washed rocks, far below. "Here?" he said.

  She slipped from behind him and spun around in a circle, her arms held wide, her hair flying, her faded blue skirts twirling about her. "Here."

  "Why here?" he asked, swinging slowly out of the saddle, his gaze never leaving her face as he stooped to tether the gelding to a stunted eucalyptus.

  She twirled toward him, a quicksilver spirit of sun-warmed female flesh and cascading silken hair and eyes that flashed provocatively as she drew up, a tantalizing arm's span away from him. "Because when I'm here, I feel like I'm on top of the world." She raised her arms, a mysterious smile curling her lips, her elbows pointing to the sky as she began to unfasten her dress. "I come here whenever I can. I like to take off me clothes and just lie here in the sun."

  She eased her dress down slowly as she spoke, making of her body an offering: small high breasts kissed with a sprinkle of cinnamon, narrow stomach tapering to boyish hips. Sunlight gleamed on soft feminine curls and the long length of her thighs. The dress sank to the grass with a whisper. She stood naked before him, and smiled.

  He looked at her, and felt his breath leave his body in a hot rush of desire. She stood slim and straight, a golden reed of a girl grounded in green and framed by the blue of the sky and the sun-sparkled infinity of the sea. She was so beautiful, it made his throat ache, just looking at her. To touch her ... to touch her would be an ecstasy, and his hand trembled as he reached for her.

  "You look as if your body has been kissed all over by the sun," he said as he spread his hand over her breast and felt her nipple harden against his palm. "You're golden and glowing. Everywhere."

  "You kiss me," she said, her eyes dark and compelling. She let her head fall back, her fingers entwining at the base of his neck to draw him down to her. "I want you to kiss me everywhere the sun has touched."

  He bent his head and rubbed his open mouth against the delicate curve of her throat, breathed in the scent of her, warm, musky, feminine. So vibrantly alive.

  He'd never known a woman who would even think of climbing a sea cliff to slip out of her dress and revel in the warmth of the sun on her naked flesh. He'd never known anyone, man or woman, who was this uninhibited and natural, this careless of common expectations of proper behavior. She partook of life with a wild kind of joy—drank of life, with her eyes wide open and a laugh on her lips. When he was with her, he felt alive himself. More than alive; he felt revived, reborn, as if he'd been dead for years and hadn't even noticed it.

  Groaning, he tangled his fingers in the silken warmth of her hair, his thumbs brushing back and forth beneath her chin as he kissed her neck. She arched her back, her breasts pressing against his chest, one of her legs lifting to entwine erotically with his. Then she lowered her head and her mouth found his, and he lost himself in the wild magic of her kiss.

  Her mouth was hot and wet and delicious, a seductive swirl of teeth and tongue and carnal promise. He felt reason and self-control begin to slip away as his world narrowed to a whirling vortex of sensation and lust and driving, urgent need. He knew nothing but the soft moist heat of her mouth and the firm ripeness of her naked body beneath his seeking hands and the tingling fire spread by her touch.

  She jerked loose his neck cloth, opened his waistcoat and shirt, tore them with his coat from his body. He felt the sun warm on his flesh, felt the sea breeze lift the hair from his damp forehead. With gentle urgency, he bore her down onto her dress in the grass, her legs spreading wide beneath him, her fingers impatient with the flap of his breeches. Then she took his hardness in her hands, and he hissed with the agonizing pleasure of it.

  He was mindless now, a lust-driven animal stripped of all pretense of civilization or chivalry. He wanted to bury him- self inside her, hard and deep, to pound into her, to fill her with himself, to make himself a part of her, to feel her legs wrap around his hips and her teeth nip at his shoulders. He was gasping, shaking with the need to be inside her.

  Groaning, he fumbled with the French letter he'd brought, and heard her laugh breathlessly when he put it on. "And who is that to protect? Me or you?" But she didn't seem to expect an answer, because she took him in her hands again and put him inside her.

  Moist heat clenched around him, consumed him, and he lost his ability to speak. He buried his face in her hair, breathed in the scent of her, kissed her eyelids, her mouth, as his body quivered, wanted. Slowly, he lifted his buttocks, drawing part way out of her, only to drive in again, harder, deeper, again and again, faster and faster. Her hips moved beneath him, met him stroke for stroke, until he was pounding into her, their bodies coming together in a crescendo of passion. He could feel her fingers digging into his shoulders, her nails raking his back; see her eyes glazed, unfocused, glittering.

  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."