Whispers of Heaven

by Candice Proctor

  He dropped his hands and stepped back, his breath coming hard and fast, his body humming with a swift onslaught of desire. It was madness, what she was doing, what she was allowing to happen between them. What he was doing. A madness that could lead only to destruction and despair. Yet he could no more stop it than he could stop the wind from blowing, or the sea from surging deep and wide and endless.

  They followed a heart-stoppingly narrow, steep path that ended in the jumble of dark rocks crowding the small, pebbly beach. The roar of the waterfall was louder here, by the sea. He stood on the shingle, his feet braced apart, his hands resting on his hips as he studied the soaring cliffs they'd just descended. This was a strange place, this rocky inlet she'd brought him to. The very air seemed to vibrate with an unearthly energy that left him feeling both intensely alive and oddly humbled.

  "Is the path natural, do you think?" He glanced over to where she leaned against a sun-warmed boulder, and found her watching him. The wind had loosed bits of her hair, so that it blew around her face in soft silken wisps as she shook her head.

  "Partially, perhaps. But not all of it. It's said this was once a special place to the local Aborigines, although most people don't know why."

  "You do?"

  She pushed away from the rock, her movements strong and assured in that way she had, the smile on her lips promising something that both lured him and scared the hell out of him. "Follow me," she said.

  He followed her. There was a narrow ledge of sorts that curved toward the waterfall, along the base of the cliff just above the tumbled rocks at the water's edge. But it wasn't very wide, and the wind was blowing stronger now, kicking up white crests on the waves and swirling the water into foam around the dark, jagged rocks beside them. "How in the name of all that's holy did you come to know about this?" he asked, watching her leap a small gap in the crude path, the trailing skirt of her riding habit thrown over one arm, the other braced against the cliff for balance. He wouldn't want to be trying to keep his feet on this path rigged out in the kind of getup she was wearing.

  "My brother Reid and I found it one day, when we were climbing about the rocks, looking for starfish. I don't think anyone else knows about it."

  One of his boots shot off the wet rock, and he swore. "About this bloody ledge?"

  "About this."

  They were close enough to the waterfall now that he could feel the mist cool against his face. Her cheeks were pink with exertion and fresh air, her chest rising and falling with her quickened breathing, the smile on her face so open and natural he had to look away. "You're trying to convince me there's something I'm missing, are you?" he said tilting back his head to scan the rocks above.

  She laughed again, a husky, breathy rush of air that was like a warm evening breeze, skimming across exotic oceans. "Watch."

  He watched, bemused, as she pivoted away from the cliff, her outstretched arms hugging the rocky wall. Slowly, she inched her way forward, the roar of the falling water loud in their ears, the waves crashing into the rocks below to throw up a fine silver spray that caught the sunlight and dissolved it into a kaleidoscope of colors. He thought for a moment she meant to walk right through the tumbling white fall of water. Then he realized she must have gone behind it, because she disappeared.

  "Faith and glory," he said, opening his eyes wide, and went after her.

  Flattening his back against the sheer stone wall, he squeezed between the cliff face and the tumbling sheet of water, the rock beneath his grasping hands and hobnailed boots growing dangerously slippery and wet. In high summer, he thought, swearing beneath his breath, the stream that fed the falls was probably thin and weak, but not now. Now it was torrid and swollen with the spring runoff, narrowing the gap he had to pass through. He ducked his head as water splashed in his face, sluiced down his shirtfront, drenched the legs of his trousers.

  And then he was through.

  He lifted his head and blinked. It was neither deep nor grand, this cave, but hushed and intimate and filled with soft darkness lightened by the glow of the sun glimmering through the cascading water, the refracted light dancing aquamarine and golden and pearlescent over black stone and cool white sand. The sounds of water filled the air, the roaring rush of the falls and the pounding of the waves against the rocks below. The sounds, and the scent of water: the salt of the sea and the clean fresh tang of the falling stream that whispered of alpine meadows and shadowy rainforests and fern-filled gullies. Taking off his hat, he swiped a crooked elbow across his dripping face and heard her laughter ring out, warm and delicious.

  "You're all wet."

  He lowered his arm to find her watching him with sparkling eyes, her cheeks wet and shining. Water darkened the bodice of her riding habit and weighed down the sodden hem of her skirt. The fancy lace jabot hung limp and ill-used against her wet throat. She looked bedraggled and adorable. He grinned. "So are you."

  She shook her head, damp golden tendrils of loose hair plastered beguilingly against her gleaming white neck. "Not as wet as you."

  "Huh." He sluiced his hand down one leg, then the other. "That's because I'm bigger than you."

  Straightening, he grinned as she tugged off her gauntlets to wipe her face with her bare hand. "I'm afraid it's the waterfall that is a bit bigger than I expected it to be," she said, her words muffled by her hand.

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. "A bit?"

  She laughed at him with her eyes, her hand drifting back to her side. "A bit." Still smiling, she turned, her head tipping back as she scanned the light-sparkled walls. "It's magic, though, isn't it?"

  He watched, mesmerized, as she unconsciously seduced him with the enthusiastic purity of her delight. He'd forgotten— no, he'd never known what it was like, to take such pleasure in the world around him. Slowly, she swung about, the unearthly beauty of the light dancing over her wet cheeks, her eyes shining with interest and pleasure, her lips parted in wonder.

  He looked at her, and his determination to harden himself against her ebbed away. What he felt for this woman was all wrong, wrong and dangerous and doomed to heartache. Yet he couldn't seem to control it, and he wasn't even sure he wanted to anymore. "Magic it is," he said softly.

  He watched, a strange tightness gripping his chest, as her head came about, her gaze fastening on his face. He saw the flush that rode high on her cheekbones, the downward sweep of her lashes, the rapid breathing that lifted her breasts against the wet revealing cloth of her bodice, and knew what it meant. Knew what she wanted.

  She took a step toward him, and he reached for her. His hand cupped the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in the loose hair that tumbled from beneath the curly brim of her hat. With an impatient gesture, she swept the hat off, the creamy veil fluttering about them as it drifted to the soft sand lining the cave floor. Then her hands were clutching at his shoulders and her gaze was locked with his, her lips trembling into a smile that he caught with his kiss.

  The kiss was sweet and good, a soft giving of unquestioning acceptance and joy that comforted and warmed his aching soul. He thought, for one deluded moment, that he could control it, control himself. But while there was much that was pure and spiritual in his feelings for this woman, he was still a man, with a man's needs, and his body yearned for her—burned for her. He was breathless, trembling with the need to touch the softness of her cheeks with his fingertips, to bury his face in the curve of her neck and breathe in the scent of her, the essence of her. He wanted to know the swell of her bare breast beneath his hand, the shivering tautness of her naked belly as he slid his palm down to the warm juncture between her thighs. He wanted to watch her face flood with pleasure as he touched her there. He wanted to feel her body soft and open beneath his as he stretched himself along the length of her and eased himself inside her.

  He wanted her.

  He groaned, deep in his throat, his head tilting as he slanted his lips across hers. Her lips parted beneath the urgent pressure, and the kiss deepened, became somethin
g erotic, all- consuming. Became a thing of fire and want, of open mouths and seeking tongues and hoarse breathing. He heard her whimper, felt her hands tugging at his shirt, freeing it from the waistband of his trousers so that she could run her soft lady's hands across the scarred flesh of his bare back.

  At her touch, his head came up, his breath hissing out between his teeth in startled delight. Their gazes met, caught, held fast by desire and the hush of anticipation. Reaching up, he began, slowly, to flick open the brass buttons of her habit's bodice, his gaze never leaving hers. "Tell me," he said, his voice a ragged whisper. He pushed the heavy cloth apart, his fingers hovering at the heaving swell of her breasts above the edge of her corset. "Tell me if this is what you want."

  She swallowed, the cords of her slim white throat standing out against the delicate eggshell of her flesh as she looked at him through eyes as dark and stormy as the deepest sea. "I want you to touch me."

  He drew in a shaky breath, his forehead pressing against hers, his hands trembling with the need to be gentle as he pushed down the top of her corset and opened the tucked and embroidered neck of her chemise, the filmy white batiste so fine he snagged it with the roughness of his fingertips. Slowly, he peeled back the cloth to bare her breasts, bare her to his gaze, to his touch, to his kiss.

  Her breasts were full and ripe and beautiful, the flesh translucent and delicate. He brushed the back of one hand against the dark tip of her nipple and watched it quiver, become erect, heard her make an incoherent sound of wonder, her breath a warm rush against his face as she held herself still, waiting. Together, they watched his hands, his fingers dark and hard as he curved them around the pale softness of her breasts. And at his touch, she gasped.

  Her head fell back, her eyelids closing. He bent to rub his open mouth against the exposed white arch of her throat, one arm catching her around the waist, holding her hard against him. Time lost meaning, became suspended in the roar of water and the magic of dancing light and raw whispers. His hands learned the shape of her breasts, his lips the softness of her skin, the wonder that was her. He kissed her neck, the beguiling hollows between her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. And all the while he touched her, she touched him, her hands roaming his body in bold, hungry strokes that set him on fire.

  He groaned again, his breath washing hot against her skin. With swift urgency, he pressed her back against the smooth stone of the cave wall, his mouth reclaiming hers in a hot, demanding kiss of conquest and seduction, his hands sweeping down her thighs to catch at the fullness of her skirt, bunch it up. It was a movement almost without thought, driven by instinct and the hot insistent flare of desire.

  "Lucas ..." she said, her head falling back, her voice a husky expulsion of air that echoed softly about the cavern.

  He went suddenly still, his cheek pressed to hers, his eyes squeezing shut, his hands fisting against her thighs. Slowly, he lifted his head, his chest heaving, the cloth of her skirt slipping from his grasp as he brought up his arms to brace his hands against the rock on either side of her and look down at her.

  She gazed up at him, her fingers caught in his shirtfront, holding him to her, her eyes wide, her head jerking. "No. Don't stop. I didn't mean for you to stop."

  He shook his head, his breath coming so hard and fast in his throat he was shuddering with it. "You know where it will end if we don't stop. You do know, don't you?" he asked, and saw by the quick flaring of her eyes that she did. Oh, she knew.

  He stared at her forever, his body trembling with want and the effort to control it. He wanted ... Dear God, what he wanted.

  He wanted to ease her down into the soft sand of the cave floor and lay bare all the hidden secrets of her soft woman's body. He wanted to cover her with his hard man's body, to feel her legs wrapping around his hips and her hands clutching at his bare shoulders. He wanted to hear her cry out in pleasure and fulfillment as he drove into her and made her his. His.

  Except that he could never make her his, not in the way she deserved. He could only destroy her.

  He brought up his hand to touch her cheek, a sad smile tugging at his heart as he rubbed his thumb across her swollen lips. Then he tipped his head to brush her mouth with his, once, gently, and pushed off from the wall to swing away from her.

  He went to stand at the entrance of the cave, his body hard and shaking with want. The mist from the falls felt cool against his hot face, the roaring rush loud in his ears. A taut silence stretched out between them, a silence filled with the sounds of water and their own strained breathing.

  Then she said, "And if that is what I want?"

  He looked at her over his shoulder. She stood slim and straight, one hand clutching together the cloth at her breast, her eyes huge in a pale, strained face. He trembled with the need to go to her, to gather her up in his arms and comfort her. Only, how could he, when he was the problem?

  "You know what I am," he said, the words tearing his throat. "You know what I am, and you know what it means."

  "I know." She stared at him, her brow furrowed. "I've known from the moment I first saw you. It should have mattered, but it didn't." A queer smile trembled her lips. "You can't expect it to matter now."

  He drew a breath deep into his lungs, then let it out again in a ragged sigh. "There can be no future for us. Ever."

  "I know." She turned away from him, one hand splayed against the side of her face, her head bowing, the fine bones at the base of her neck standing out against her skin in a way that made her look fragile and delicate. "You think I haven't told myself that, over and over? But it doesn't change the way I feel about you. Doesn't stop me from wanting you."

  "Miss Corbett—"

  "Don't call me that." She spun to face him, her head coming up, her nostrils flaring with a swift intake of air. "What do you think? That I'm only using you as some sort of diversion? A thrilling pastime I'll eventually tire of and then toss aside—or worse, make you pay in some hideous fashion for what we've done together?"

  "No. I know you better than that." He reached out to brush his hand across the wetness that gleamed silver on her cheek. "But we will be made to pay, lass. Make no mistake about it."

  She stared up at him, her beautiful eyes filled with such pain and yearning and confusion that it was terrible to see. "And if I don't care?"

  His hand dropped back to hang limply at his side. "I care."

  She looked away, her throat working as she swallowed, the silence between them filled with the roar of the waterfall and the surge of the restless sea. "I'm sorry. I didn't think—"

  "No." He crossed the short distance between them with one hasty stride, his hands falling on her shoulders to jerk her around to face him. "That's not what I meant. You have your whole life ahead of you. What kind of man would I be if I let you ruin it by doing something, now, that you'll only live to regret?"

  "And if it's not a life I want?"

  He looked into her eyes, to find them dark and filled with an emotion so deep and rare and pure, it stole his breath. For one, shining moment, he lost himself in her eyes, in the warmth and goodness and gentle acceptance he saw there. But she didn't know ... She didn't know what he was really like, didn't know the things that had been done to him, the things that he had done.

  The things he planned to do.

  "I'm a dead man," he told her, deliberately making his voice cold, his hands on her shoulders hard enough to hurt. "My life ended four years ago. You get too close to me, lass, you're only going to destroy yourself."

  "It's too late," she said, her head tilting as she gazed up into his face. "Don't you understand? It's too late."

  "No. No, it's not." Yet even as he said it, he knew he was wrong. It was too late. For both of them.

  They left Cascade Cove soon after that, talking little as they climbed back up to the horses and turned to follow the track south along the coast. He didn't realize exactly where they were headed until they splashed across the estuary and he looked up to see the blackened walls
of the Grimes House rising stark and broken before him.

  "Why are we here?" he asked, reining in sharply.

  She urged her mare across the overgrown garden. "I lost that round gold locket I was wearing the day of the funeral. It wasn't particularly valuable, but I've had it since I was a child, and I want to look for it."

  He wheeled, the gelding cavorting beneath him, his gaze flashing, once, to where he had hidden the ketch's boat amongst the reeds and brush. Swearing, he kneed his horse forward in a rush. "You'll never find it."

  "I can look," she said, and slid out of the saddle without waiting for his arm.

  He hesitated a moment longer, then went to help her.

  "It's not here," he said after some fifteen nerve-racking minutes of combing through high grass and tangled shrubbery. Even with the sun shining warm out of a clear blue sky, the atmosphere around the tragedy-haunted homestead remained heavy, oppressive.

  She raised her head, her gaze turning, as he knew it inevitably would, toward the estuary. "We went for a walk by those reeds. Perhaps I dropped it there."

  He straightened with a jerk. "You could have lost it anywhere."

  But she was already striding down the path, her laughter floating back to him with the breeze. "What's the matter? Are the ghosts bothering you today?"

  He went after her. "The devil take the ghosts. You'll catch your death of cold, lass, wet as you are from that waterfall."

  "Huh. You obviously underestimate the layers of wool, cotton, and whalebone protecting a gentlewoman from the dangers of the outside world. Although given—"

  She broke off, her step faltering, one hand coming up to grasp the low branch of the stunted stringybark beside her. If she hadn't been looking so sharply, she probably wouldn't have seen it, for he'd hidden it as best he could. He hadn't had time to finish repairing all the damage to the stern left by the rocks, but the work he'd done for Beatrice's garden party had given him access to both the tools and materials he needed, and he'd made a good start, the new wood showing smooth and unpainted and damnably incriminating.