Whispers of Heaven

by Candice Proctor

  One of the Agnes Anne's officers, a small, wiry Portuguese with dark hair and eyes and mahogany skin, was standing on the foam-swirled sand. He turned as they came up, the wind snatching at his words. "We were about to give up on you, mate."

  "I'm glad you didn't," said Lucas, his boots sinking into the wet sand when he swung down from his horse.

  "Personally," said the Fox, his breath coming hard and fast, his face white as he stared down at Lucas, "I think I'd rather you left me to hang."

  Laughing softly, Lucas reached to take the other man's weight when he slid out of the saddle. "Did the ride open your wound again?"

  "No." His legs wobbling, the Fox splashed through the surf to the wave-kicked boat. "But I think I wet myself when that demonic child you put up behind me decided to try to make our horrid beast fly down the hill."

  "Horses don't fly," said Charlie, his voice rich with scorn, and scrambled over the gunwale into the whaleboat.

  "I don't like the way those rocks are disappearing under the waves," said the Portuguese, shouting to be heard over the roar of the sea and the buffeting of the wind.

  Lucas put his shoulder to the bow to help ran the boat out into the oncoming line of thundering breakers. "I know this cove. You need to keep well to the left on your way out."

  A wave broke against the wooden side of the hull, soaking Lucas up to his chest with a freezing cold spray. Clenching his teeth, he hauled himself over the rail into the pitching boat. The tide was against them, the tide and the wind, blowing out of the southeast. The prow of the boat lunged up with the swell of an incoming wave, then crashed down again with a bone-rattling smack as the six men on the benches set their oars.

  Turning his back to the shrieking gale, Lucas scanned the scrub-covered bluff above the cove, his breathing slowing as the heady rush of exultation brought on by their escape began to fade beneath the onslaught of a fierce, choking grief at the thought of what he was leaving behind. He had lost her, lost her forever, and for one aching moment, he almost—almost— regretted the leaving of this place, her home.

  A movement at the top of the path drew his attention. Someone was coming. He watched, his heart beginning to thump wildly, as a familiar, bloodred Irish hunter hurtled down the hillside toward them, trailed by a chestnut he also recognized. He could see the slim, straight figure of the woman who moved in easy synergy with the stallion, a woman wearing rosebuds in her flowing gilt hair, and white satin skirts that billowed behind her as her horse hit the sand and stretched out into a headlong run.

  "Wait," Lucas cried, the boat rocking crazily as he lunged to his feet. He whipped around to the officer. "Put back in. Quick."

  "What the hell are you doing?" shouted the Portuguese. "And what the hell is she doing?"

  "She's coming with us," said Lucas, and laughed out loud.

  She didn't wait for the whaleboat to reach the beach, but sent the hunter charging straight into the surf, the powerful, dark red legs sending fans of spray high into the air, the stal- lion's head flinging up as it felt the sand begin to give way beneath its hooves. Watching her, his heart suddenly jumping up into his throat, Lucas thought she meant to drive Finnegan's Luck into even deeper water, but she was already kicking her foot from the stirrup, the white satin of her wedding gown eddying around her as the horse shied back from the looming boat and she threw herself into the swirling foam.

  "Jesmond," he shouted, his voice a hoarse rasp of stark terror. The swell of a great wave lifted the boat toward the roiling sky, and she was lost from his sight. "Jessie," he cried again, hanging over the side. Timbers creaking, the boat crested the wave and rode it down into the trough, and she was there in a froth of white, her head up, her feet kicking out behind her. "Dia," he swore, reaching to snag her arms and drag her wet and gasping over the gunwales of the boat. "And is it drowning yourself you're after, Miss Corbett?" he demanded, his fingers digging into her arms as he hauled her up onto her knees to face him.

  Her head fell back, streaming clumps of wet golden hair framing her dripping white face, her eyes wide and dark with a deep and powerful emotion. Her lips curled up into a smile that stole his heart all over again. "I can swim," she said, or started to say, when he hauled her hard up against his chest, his mouth crushing hers in a fierce kiss of joy.

  Beside them, something hit the water, kicking up a spout of spray. A boom reverberated around the cove.

  "Bloody hell," yelped the Fox, looking up from helping Old Tom scramble into the boat. "They're shooting at us."

  "Get down," Lucas shouted. Shoving Jessie behind him, he whirled to face the shore. The wind blew strong against his back, the waves breaking against the side of the boat to throw up a cold white spray, the crashing roar of the surf drowning out the sound of horses' hooves as new riders sent their mounts plunging down the slope to the beach. There were two of them. Constables from the prison, Lucas thought, from the looks of them. As he watched, one of the men checked, then wheeled his horse to send it scrambling back up the hill.

  "What's he doing?" asked Charlie, his freckles standing out stark on a white, pinched face.

  The whaleboat shuddered, the bow rising up on the crest of a great wave as the seamen struggled to pull away from the shore again. The Fox wrapped his hands around the rail and held on tight, his strange yellow eyes glowing with a fierce light as he stared at the shore. "Going to warn the Repulse, I'd say."

  The other constable, the one with the gun, had reached the beach by now. Reining in hard, the horse fidgeting beneath him, he began slowly but methodically to reload.

  Lucas felt the touch of a soft hand on his shoulder. "Do you think he could hit us at this range?" Jessie asked, staring at the men on the beach.

  "If he's good, yes. We're not making a lot of headway against this wind." He wrapped his arm around her. She was shaking and cold, and he drew her close, putting his body between her and the man on the beach. "Try to keep behind me."

  "Look," she said, her fingers tightening around his arm, but he had already seen them: two more men, the tails of their dark dress coats streaming in the wind as they sent their horses flying down the slope in a murderous charge. One of them, a tall, slim young man, his hat gone, his angel-fair curls raked by the wind, reached the beach just as the constable was bringing his gun up to his shoulder to fire. With a furious shout audible even to those in the boat, the younger man whipped his horse into a frantic, headlong rash across the sand. The constable's head came up; he half turned, but he didn't lower his gun. Without reining in his horse, the younger man threw himself through the air, his lean young body slamming into the constable to knock him from the saddle and topple them both into the sand, the musket discharging harmlessly into the storm-darkened clouds roiling overhead.

  "Who the hell is that?" demanded one of the oarsman, never missing a stroke.

  "My brother," said Jessie. Her gaze shifted to the other rider. "And Harrison Tate."

  * * *

  Jessie watched as Harrison rode forward, not checking until the waves swirled into foam around his horse's nervously prancing legs. Back straight, head high, he stared at her across the choppy expanse of swelling, gray-green waves that separated them. He was too far away for her to see his features well, but she knew him, could read the pain and hurt in every line of his body. I'm sorry, she thought, a terrible ache in her heart. Oh Harrison, my old friend, I am so sorry.

  But hurt was one of those emotions Harrison never allowed himself to express, or even feel. As she watched, his body grew rigid, his hurt twisting, turning itself into the one emotion Harrison did allow himself: anger.

  A deep, and troubling anger.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  "Are you mad!" the constable screamed, his rough boots flailing in the spent wash of the waves as he struggled up onto his elbows.

  "No, but you must be," said Warrick, reaching for the musket and shaking it in the other man's full, fleshy face. "You stupid bastard, my sister is in that boat. You could have hit her."
He stood up, his head bent as he used his free hand to brush the wet, clinging grains of golden sand from his clothes. "Bloody hell, Jess; this was a new coat."

  "Your coat!" screamed the constable. "Your coat? I think you busted my leg."

  But Warrick wasn't paying him any attention. Slowly, he walked to the man who still sat, reins slack in his hands, his gaze fixed on the small whaleboat lurching up, beam to the wind, as it cut through the swelling waves.

  "Who is he?" Harrison asked, not turning his head. "Who is that man, that convict?'

  Warrick looked up at his friend, the familiar profile taut and fiercely cold against a wind-tossed, storm-darkened sky. "He's an Irishman. You've seen him. He was my groom."

  His body still held rigid, Harrison swung his head to look down at Warrick through granite-hard eyes. "A groom. Are you telling me my wife has run away with a convict groom?"

  "I'm sorry, Harrison," Warrick began, although it struck him as a damnably insufficient thing to say to a man who'd just been left at the altar.

  Harrison wasn't listening anyway. His hands tightening on

  the reins, he wrenched his horse's head toward the path that led to the top of the bluff and urged the storm-spooked gelding forward.

  "Where are you going?" Warrick shouted after him.

  For a moment, he didn't think the other man would answer. Then Harrison checked, his horse sidling with its rider's impatience as he swung about. "To get Captain Boyd and the Repulse. That whaleboat's not going to get far in this sea. Even if they have a ship waiting offshore for them, there's a good chance we'll be able to catch them. And then I'm going to hang that bloody Irish bastard," he added curtly before he wheeled again and kneed his mount into a furious gallop, which sent sand flying up to be caught and blown away by the wind.

  The seamen from the Agnes Anne were strong, practiced oarsmen and settled easily into a rhythm that sent the whale- boat striking through the heaving waves. Once clear of the dangerous riptides and submerged rocks at the mouth of the cove, the boat's small triangular sails were run up and they swung toward the northeast, heading out to the open sea where the Yankee whaler lay at anchor, waiting for them.

  Jessie sat with her back against Lucas's chest, his arms holding her tight against the warmth of his body. Together, they watched the jagged outline of the coast recede behind a gray-green expanse of choppy water. It hurt, looking at those familiar green hills, knowing she'd never see them again, knowing that her chances of ever seeing any of her loved ones again were slim. It hurt. But she could never regret what she'd just done.

  She felt him stir behind her, his breath fluttering the wet strands of hair at her neck. "Why did you come?" he asked quietly

  She picked up one of his hands—his beloved, work- hardened, scarred hand—and laced her fingers with his. "Don't you want me?"

  His arms tightened around her. "Always," he whispered, his chest moving against her back as he let his breath out in a long sigh. "But as I remember it, you were getting married today. To someone else."

  "After my mother found out about us," she said, her head falling back against his shoulder as she stared up at the looming, storm-darkened sky, "she told me that if I didn't go through with the wedding to Harrison, she'd have you hanged for the murder of John Pike."

  She felt him go utterly still behind her. "And you agreed to it? You were marrying him for me?"

  She turned in the circle of his arms to stare up into his dark, narrowed eyes. "You think I should have let you hang?"

  He brought up a shaky hand to brush the wind-whipped hair from her face. "I think marriage to Harrison Tate would have been a slow death for you."

  "I would die for you," she said simply.

  His hand tightened in her hair. "You might very well die with me."

  "We're not going to die." She nodded toward the Yankee whaler riding at anchor before them, her sails struck, her decks tilting in the rough sea. "There's the Agnes Anne."

  "Aye," he said in a strangely flat voice, and she realized that his gaze had fastened on something else, something behind them. "Only, unless I miss my guess, that's the Repulse. And she's coming fast."

  Jessie swung about, and her heart stopped.

  Its great sails white against a boiling gray sky, the Repulse slid out from behind Last Chance Point, its prow rising up to shoulder the waves aside in twin cascades of spray.

  "Bloody hell," swore a lanky, thin-faced man who looked amazingly like Beatrice's favorite gardener. One hand clutched to his side, he lurched to the stern, his strange yellow eyes squinting against the wind. "It's the bloody British navy."

  "They wouldn't run us down, would they?" asked Charlie, his eyes wide, his teeth clenched tightly as if to stop them from chattering.

  Old Tom let out a harsh snort. "Of course they would."

  Jessie tore her gaze away from the oncoming frigate to look up at Lucas. "Would they?"

  "They might." He gave her a wry smile. "Although probably not with you onboard."

  She threw a quick glance at the black-hulled bark, its deck swarming with shouting seamen, its tackle squealing as they prepared to haul up the whaleboat when it came alongside. Except that the small boat was still some distance away from the Yankee whaleship, while the frigate was gaining on them fast, tacking hard to starboard. Watching the ship's prow cut through the water, Jessie knew, suddenly, what Captain Boyd was doing.

  "The Repulse doesn't need to run us down, does it?" she said, her voice barely audible above the noise of the wind and the spray and the booming canvas. "It only needs to come between us and the Agnes Anne!'

  Lucas met her gaze squarely, and nodded.

  The Portuguese officer must have realized what the Repulse was doing, too. Hand on the tiller, he began barking orders to his men. They close-hauled on the starboard tack, the boom swinging, the near rail slicing through the waves as the boat canted sharply, the snapping sails billowing white against an angry gray sky. They were still nearer to the Agnes Anne than the Repulse was to them, but the frigate was closing quickly.

  Out here, in the open, away from the shore, they were beginning to feel the fury of the coming storm. The small whaleboat lifted and plunged through heavy seas white with foam, the wind blowing in savage gusts that thundered the canvas overhead. The Portuguese officer was shouting again, the men leaping to trim the sails. Struck by a high wave, the whaleboat lurched and shuddered, losing momentum.

  Jessie tightened her grip on the rail, the flying spray wet against her face as she stared at the frigate, crowding all sail as it bore down upon them.

  "If they don't turn now, they won't be able to," said Lucas, his arm coming around her shoulders to pull her in tight against him, his gaze hard on the incoming ship.

  Jessie swung her head to look at the waiting bark, and understood, suddenly, what he meant. The expanse of heaving, foam-flecked waves between the boat and the whaleship had become too narrow to allow the frigate to slice safely between them. And still the frigate plunged down on them, jibs booming, its bowsprit and elaborate martingale thrusting forward like a mighty braced lance. She thought for one, wild, terrifying moment that the frigate meant to ram them, after all. She turned in Lucas's arms, and he held her so hard against him she didn't know if it was his heart she could feel beating, or her own. The wind shrieked around them, deluging them with cold spray as a wave broke against the whaleboat's side. There was no sky, only the darkness of the frigate's great prow looming over them. Then the ship shuddered, as if answering sluggishly to its helm, and veered away to port.

  "Dia," said Lucas, his arms warm and strong around her as she clung to him, the boat rocking crazily in the frigate's wake. "That was close."

  "I thought for a minute there I was going to be fishing pieces of y' out o' the sea," said Captain Chase, his legs braced wide, his long yellow teeth biting down hard on his pipe.

  They stood beside him on the rolling deck of the American bark. Someone had thrown a blanket over Jessie's shoulders and s
he clutched it to her, shivering, her legs feeling so weak and shaky she was grateful for Lucas's strong arm around her waist. She could smell the paint and freshly sawn wood of the newly repaired ship, mingling with the familiar sharp tang of the sea and something else: the underlying, pyre-like stench that clung to all whalers.

  All around her, the ship reverberated with sound—the shouts of men, the slap of bare feet on the deck, the squeal of tackles as the whaleboat was fixed high and dripping and the anchor chain pulled in with a wet, weedy rattle. A whistle bleated; hemp uncoiled, and the mainsail rose up, the wind catching the canvas and bellying it out with a booming snap. The ship gave a great heave, and Jessie staggered, her gaze flying to Gallagher. He smiled back at her with his eyes.

  Then his arm tightened hard about her. "Christ," he said. Turning to stare at the frigate, she saw what he had seen.

  The momentum of the chase had carried the British vessel well beyond the Yankee bark, for a ship under full sail at sea takes time to turn, and even longer to stop. But the frigate could now be seen to roll almost lazily in the whirling eddy of its own wake, its pace slackening as the sails were reset. Then the wind spread the frigate's canvas and the mainsail adapted. Slowly at first, then more rapidly, the frigate swung to starboard, spray flying up from the curl of its bow wave as it cut through the water toward them.

  "Oh my God," Jessie whispered. "They're coming after us."

  The whistle blew again, and the bark's mizzen sail rattled as it ran up overhead. The bark heeled beneath their feet, the port flank lifting as the prow turned toward the wide oceans beyond. But the whaler was sluggish, its sails few, its hull weighted down with the booty of four years spent hunting the oceans of the world.

  "Will they be able to catch us?" she asked.

  "Aye," said the captain, his pale eyes narrowed against the salt and spray thrown up by the wind. "If she's a mind to. Look at the sail on her. She's designed t' be able t' run down merchantmen—and a merchant ship carries a lot more sail than a whaler."