Jessie's hands dug into the old man's shoulders so hard she practically shook him. "But they can't leave now! Chase said he'd take Gallagher with him. He said—"
"Listen, lass. They'll still send a lighter to the cove to pick up Gallagher, like Chase said. But it's got to be this morning."
"This morning?" Jessie let go of the old man's shoulders to swing around in a wide, frantic circle of gray sky and blurring treetops. "Oh, God. Can we do it?"
"Aye. Aye, we can—if we can get a message to Gallagher, and to the lad in the gaol's kitchen. It's better today than Monday, to be sure, for you'll be getting married at just about the time the prisoners take their morning exercise. Which means that Captain Boyd and his lieutenants will all be at the
church when Gallagher and the rest go over the wall." * * *
Lucas tilted back his head, his eyes narrowing as he studied the jumbling clouds hanging low over the prison's exercise yard. The day was cool, cool and dark and damp, and the wind that battered his face had a bite to it that warned of a coming storm. In prison, the days often blurred, one into the other. But he knew what today was. Today was the day of his escape.
And Jesmond Corbett's wedding day.
He circled the yard with the other prisoners, his body tense and alert as he waited for the sound of the diversion that had been planned to draw away the guard. But his gaze kept drifting back to the cross on top of the distant church spire, just visible above the high stone walls surrounding him.
He couldn't understand why she was doing this, why she was marrying Harrison Tate. Sometimes ... sometimes, in the lonely, desperate hours of the night, when Gallagher lay on his thin pallet and stared into the foul darkness, treacherous doubts would seize him. Sometimes, he would think that perhaps she had come to regret her feelings for him, the things they had done together. He'd tell himself he was a fool, to think that a woman like Jesmond Corbett could still love this man he'd become, this stinking, degraded convict lying on a prison floor. Sometimes, he could almost believe she had turned in relief from him to the companion of her childhood, the man she had always expected to marry.
Except that Lucas knew her, knew that he was the one she loved, the one she would always love, knew that her love for him was as strong and deep and eternal as his love for her. And then his soul would ache for her, because he'd think that maybe she was marrying Harrison Tate in despair, in the hope that she might find some sort of peace and happiness with a man who loved her, even if she didn't love him.
Only, she was wrong. Harrison Tate might love her, but it was a killing kind of love, a love that was more about possessiveness than about joy and tenderness, an inwardly focused love that was about taking, not giving, a love that would try to change her into Tate's image of what Jesmond Corbett should be, a love that would destroy the wonderful woman she was meant to be.
An authentic-sounding howl cut through Lucas's thoughts to yank his attention toward the central courtyard, where thick black smoke could be seen billowing up above the inner wall. There were shouts of alarm, and the sounds of running feet. From his position near the door in the wall that separated the exercise yard from the inner court, the constable straightened with a jerk, his fleshy, unshaven face going slack as he turned to see the smoke.
"Bloody hell." Lunging forward, he threw open the stout wooden door, then reeled back at the sight of flames leaping from the kitchen. "You," he said, grabbing the arm of the nearest prisoner and thrusting him through the doorway, toward the central well. "Get in there and grab a bucket. All of you. Quick."
The constable might be old and fat and slovenly, but he was conscientious enough to make certain he herded all of his prisoners out of the exercise yard and into the court. But he didn't bother to shut the door behind him, let alone lock it, and he was so busy helping to organize a line from the well to the fire that he didn't notice Lucas hanging back, or grabbing the Fox's arm to whisper, "Quick. Through the door again."
The Fox's yellow eyes widened in surprise, but he followed Lucas without question, stepping back into the exercise yard just as first one rope, then another, came hissing over the wall.
The wall was only ten feet high, and rough enough that it was easy to climb with a rope, even for men debilitated by weeks in prison. "Where are the horses?" Lucas asked as he dropped lightly to his feet beside Charlie on the far side of the wall.
The boy threw a nervous glance across some hundred yards of open ground. "There, in that stand of gums," he said as the Fox came down in an awkward rush, one hand clutching his side, his breath hitching in an attempt to hold back a groan.
Lucas slipped one arm under the other man's shoulder. "Can you run?"
"I'll run," said the Fox.
But he was leaning heavily on Lucas by the time they reached the trees. Old Tom had sent three horses, including the familiar gray, but one look at the Fox's face told Lucas they might as well leave the third horse behind.
"If we get separated," he said throwing the Fox up onto a strong, fleet-footed bay, "just head for Shipwreck Cove."
The Fox fumbled for the reins, his eyes wide and staring. "I can't steer this thing."
"You just hang on," Lucas said as the boy scrambled up behind the older man with a barely concealed sneer. "Let Charlie worry about the steering. Now get out of here."
Slapping the bay horse's rump, he reached for the gray's reins, then paused, his gaze caught by the small sandstone church built high on the hill overlooking the bay. The ceremony must be starting soon, he thought with a swift ache in his heart. The church steps were crowded with gentlemen in top hats and tails, their dark, thin silhouettes moving in somber contrast to the flamboyant colors and flaring skirts of their women's gowns.
For one, unguarded moment, he stared at that distant hill, his gaze searching the elegant, well-dressed throng in the hope of catching one last glimpse of the woman he loved. He wondered what he would do if he did see her. He imagined sending the gray soaring over the stone wall into the churchyard turf flying up from the gelding's big hooves, the colorful crowd scattering like rose petals before a whirlwind as he swooped down to snatch up the bride and carry her off across his saddlebow like some dark marauder of old. Except...
Except that he couldn't expose her to the dangers of this wild escape, any more than he could ask her to share the inevitable hardship that he would face, alone and impoverished in a strange land, if he did manage to reach America. And he reminded himself that she was at that church right now, marrying Harrison Tate, by choice. She had not chosen to be here, waiting with the horses, when he escaped from prison. It was only now that he realized some part of him had been secretly hoping to find her here, ready to join her fate to his, forever and ever.
He swung into the saddle, his gaze straying, one last time, to the distant church, just as an alarm bell began to ring out over the prison. "Bloody hell," he swore, and drove his heels into the gray's sides.
The wife of the vicar of St. Anthony's kept a bedroom at the front of her house for the use of the brides who came in from the surrounding estates to be married by her husband in the small, steeple-topped church that lay just across the graveyard from her side door. The vicarage itself was a large, well- built house of sandstone that overlooked the sullen gray bay with its white-flecked waves and rocking ships well-battened down against the coming storm.
Clad in layers of petticoats, fine lawn chemise, and satin corset, her hair carefully dressed with rosebuds and white satin ribbons, and satin slippers on her feet, Jesmond Corbett stood at the bedroom's front window and stared out at the town below. From here, she could see the square, somber outline of Blackhaven gaol lying dark and quiet under a dull, heavy sky.
"It's time to put on your dress, child," said Genevieve.
Jessie turned from the window to study her aunt's serene face. "Genevieve," she asked as the white satin dress slipped over her head and shoulders, "whatever happened to Count Strzlecki? You never told me."
Genevieve tugged
at the full skirt, her head bowed as she smoothed the embroidered satin over Jessie's voluminous petticoats. "He died. Two years after we fled Tasmania."
Jessie stared down at her aunt's white hair and thin shoulders. "Did you regret it then? Running away with him, I mean?"
Genevieve straightened, her soft blue eyes meeting Jessie's. "No, never. Even if we'd had but two days together, I would never have regretted it." She gave Jessie a sad smile. "Now turn around so I can do up the back."
Jessie swung about obediently. "So what did you do—all those years between when he died and when you came back here?"
Genevieve's strong fingers went to work at the row of hooks up Jessie's back. "That's when I traveled. Russia. Italy. Bavaria." Her gaze met Jessie's in the dressing table mirror, a ghost of a smile lightening her eyes. "And I took lovers. Society had already decided I was a very naughty woman, so I had nothing to lose. And I do think men can be deliciously entertaining creatures—apart from their other uses."
The two women laughed. Then Genevieve's smile faded, her eyes growing distant, pensive. "I even came to love one or two of them, you know ... although never in the way I loved Stanislaw. I think it was when I came to realize that I would never again love any man the way I loved him, that I decided to come home. It seemed the right thing to do. And it was."
Her hands tightened on Jessie's shoulders, drawing her around until they stood face to face. "Jessie ..." She hesitated, the pale flat light from the window washing over her pinched troubled face. "Just because I never found that kind of love again, doesn't mean that you won't. It seems that way, now, but you never know."
"I know," Jessie said, smoothing her hands down over her embroidered skirt. "But I do think 1 will find some measure of happiness in this marriage, Genevieve. Harrison has always been my friend. If I can't have love, at least I'll have friendship."
"Jessie," Genevieve began, then broke off as an alarm bell began to ring out over the town below.
Jessie whirled to the window, her fingers curling around the edge of the wooden sill as she stared at the thick black smoke billowing up from the gaol block.
"It's your Irishman, isn't it?" said Genevieve, coming to stand beside her. "He's escaped."
"Yes." Jessie pressed her forehead against the cold glass. She could see the constables pouring out of the entrance gate of the gaol. And two horses, their tails streaming behind them as they lunged up the hill.
"He's why you're doing this," said Genevieve slowly. "He's the reason you're marrying Harrison. Beatrice is responsible."
Jessie swung her head, the side of her face still resting against the pane, her heart beginning to thump wildly. "She said she'd have him hanged for murder, Genevieve. You know she could. It's been done before."
Genevieve nodded, her lips pressing into a thin, hard line. "Does he have a way off the island?"
"A whaleship, waiting up the coast, to take him to America." Jessie's voice came out cracked, broken. A heavy sadness pressed her chest, stealing her breath, killing her slowly, inside, where it mattered. She felt her throat thickening, her eyes stinging with the threat of tears she didn't dare let escape, for once they began she was afraid they'd never end, and how could she walk down the aisle drowning in tears?
"My dear." She felt Genevieve's hand touch her cheek. "You want to go with him, don't you?"
"More than I want to take my next breath," Jessie said with a gasp, the pain in her chest becoming unbearable now.
"It would be dangerous, I know," said Genevieve. "Running from the authorities, only to find yourself in a strange country, with no money, and with a man about whom you know so little."
Jessie scrubbed the heel of one hand across her eyes and felt the hot wetness of tears slick on her palm. "It's not that. You know it's not that."
"Then what is it?"
She turned to stare wildly out the window, at the churchyard. Only a few stragglers could still be seen; everyone else was in the church, waiting for her. "It wasn't even possible, at first," she said softly. "The ship wasn't supposed to be ready to leave until next week, after the wedding. Only now that they've sailed early—" She paused as a great yearning welled up inside her, stealing her breath, turning her voice into a painful whisper. "How can I leave now, with Harrison waiting for me at the altar? He's done nothing to deserve that kind of humiliation and pain—nothing except love me, and want me. How could I even think of doing something like that to him?"
Yet she was thinking of it, scanning the lane beyond the lych- gate for a horse, or an unattended carriage. If she left now—
"Jessie, guilt and a sense of obligation are no reason for marrying a man."
"Aren't they?" She turned wide, pleading eyes on her friend. "I was willing to marry him to save the life of the man I loved. Shouldn't I be willing to do this, for Harrison?"
"You would marry him simply to keep from hurting him? Out of pity? Jessie—" Genevieve seized her hands and gripped them tightly. "You think Harrison would want that, if he knew? What about your Irishman—what of the hurt you're doing him? And more importantly, what about yourself? I know you think you can marry Harrison and still hold onto the person you are, but it won't work. This marriage will make you both miserable."
Jessie jerked away, shuddering, her gaze going to the wind- whipped waters of the bay. She wondered, her heart thudding wildly, if he'd reached the cove yet. If she left now, would she reach there in time? Could she leave?
"It's a terrible choice to have to make," Genevieve said into the heavy silence that lay between them.
A preemptory knock startled them both. They whirled to face the opening door, where the iron-gray hair and broad, pleasant face of the vicar's wife appeared around the panel. "It's time," she said with a smile, just as the church bells began to ring.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Jessie walked down the flagged pathway toward the open church door, her white satin skirts clenched in her lace- gloved hands, a hollow, aching pain in her chest. She couldn't see the altar, or the groom and vicar who awaited her in the candlelit depths of the church, but she could smell the musty air scented with beeswax and cold damp stone, hear the murmur of voices mingling with the sweet strains of the familiar music. The deafening peal of the church bells went on and on, ringing out over the somber gray bay and the stone, convict-built town now beginning to stir into a frenzy of activity and determined pursuit.
All her life, Jessie thought, she had been moving toward this moment, this marriage to Harrison and the future that had been planned for her since birth. Yet as she neared the door, her steps faltered, her chest heaving with her agitated breathing. The cool, storm-driven wind buffeted her with the scents of the sea and faraway places and the wondrous, secret promise of all unknown tomorrows. She stared at the shadowy interior of the church looming before her, and knew, suddenly, irrevocably, that she was about to make a dreadful mistake, that this wasn't the future she was meant to have. The future she was meant to have lay elsewhere, with another man. And she knew that, even if she and Lucas both died, today, reaching for that future, it was still meant to be. She felt a weight of pain and guilt, deep within her, for it would hurt Harrison terribly, she knew, if she left him like this. But not to leave him would be worse. For both of them.
An incoherent cry escaped her lips as she whirled to Genevieve, walking beside her. "I can't do this, Genevieve. I thought I could, but I can't, and I shouldn't."
Genevieve caught Jessie by the shoulders, the older woman's eyes glowing with the warmth of affection and a glint of pain. "Then go, child. Sometimes... sometimes, running away is the right thing to do."
Jessie clutched Genevieve to her in a fierce hug. "Will you tell him—tell them all—that I'm sorry? Try to explain to Harrison—and to Warrick and Philippa—why I had to do this?"
"I think Warrick and Philippa will understand," said Genevieve, drawing back to hold Jessie at arm's length. "Hopefully, in time, Harrison will too." Another name, unspoken, hung in the air betw
een them, but they both knew that Beatrice would never understand, and never forgive. Smiling through her tears, Genevieve kissed Jessie's cheek, then pushed her away. "Now run."
Hands fisting in her skirts, Jessie ran. She heard the vicar's wife stuttering, "But, but, but... What is she doing? She can't run away now!" and a man's sharp-voiced shout, but she didn't turn, didn't hesitate. Her slippered feet flew down the path to the lane, past the solemn rows of moss-covered headstones and out through the lych-gate, then veered to the left, where the familiar figure of an old man stood holding the reins of two horses, one a big, fast chestnut, the other a bloodred Irish hunter.
"Tom," she said with a gasp, taking the leather reins of Finnegan's Luck in her lace-gloved hand. "What are you doing here?"
"I thought you might be needing a fast horse," he said, tossing her up into the saddle in a flurry of flounced petticoats and satin skirts. "Although if you don't mind my saying so, lass," he added, scrambling up onto his own mount, "you left it a wee bit late."
"But Tom—" She wrenched Finnegan's Luck around toward the top of the bluff and brought the rein ends down
across the stallion's rump with a crack that sent it leaping forward. "They'll know you helped me—that you helped Lucas escape."
"Aye." He sent the chestnut plunging up the hill beside her. "Which is why I'm thinking maybe I'll do my dying in America."
Lucas checked his horse at the top of the bluff, his gaze raking the angry waters of the cove below. The wind was blowing harder now, snatching at his coat and knocking spume off the tops of the white-capped waves. He half expected to find the cove empty of anything except the wave- smashed, spray-darkened rocks, but the whaleboat was there, its bow pulled up on the sand, its stern rocking back and forth in the noisy rush of the surf. "Faith and glory," he said. "They're here." Throwing a fierce smile at Charlie and the Fox, he sent the gelding sliding down the hill to the beach.
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