Whispers of Heaven

by Candice Proctor

  The bark was picking up speed now, its deck pitching and rolling as it ran northeast. They could smell the coming rain as the gale swung to come at them out of the south, fiercer now, bellying out the canvas and shrieking through the rigging, the timbers of the ship squealing with the thud and crash of the mounting waves against the black hull. Staggering with the roll of the ship, Jessie went to wrap her hands around the rail and watch the cascade of angry water rushing past. The frigate was almost upon them now. She saw the blue ensign of the water police, snapping in the wind, and knew real fear.

  Lucas was standing near the helm, talking to the captain, but something he saw in her face brought him to her. He came up behind her, his arms warm as he drew her back into the lee of his strong man's body. Together, they watched the frigate crowding sail to come abreast of them.

  "They're going to catch up," she said, leaning her head back against his shoulder, one hand resting on his at her waist.

  "Aye." He nuzzled her neck, his breath warm against her ear. "You don't need to worry. I don't think any real harm will come to you."

  "It's not myself I'm worried about." She turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. His eyes were the color of the sea, a dark and stormy green. Love for him flooded her chest, filled her heart until it ached. "I don't regret it, you know. No matter what happens, I'll never regret running away with you."

  For a moment, he squeezed his eyes shut, his mouth held tightly as if he were in pain. Then he buried his face in her hair, his voice rough as he said, "God, how I love you."

  She tilted her head up to rest her cheek against his, and smiled. "I know."

  The frigate was some twenty yards away now, running parallel to and slightly ahead of the bark. As Jessie watched, a puff of smoke bloomed from the other vessel's flank, followed by a flash of fire and a boom that drifted to them over the water as the frigate fired a shot over the American bark's bow.

  "Son of a bitch," swore Chase, lunging forward, shouting sharp orders to his crew.

  The frigate was near enough that the men working its decks were clearly visible. Jessie half expected to see her brother, or perhaps Harrison, but it was Captain Boyd, still in his dress uniform from the wedding, his sword buckled to his side, who came to the rail with a speaking trumpet.

  "Ahoy there, bark," he shouted, his nasal voice high- pitched, his accent clipped. "Heave to."

  The American captain came to stand at the side, his own voice deep and powerful enough to carry the required distance without a horn, despite the noise of the wind and the high-running sea. "That's the Stars and Stripes you just fired on, you limey bastards."

  The Englishman drew back his shoulders and puffed out his chest. "You are in a British colony, and therefore amenable to British law."

  "Like hell," yelled Chase. "We're outside the three-mile limit. Or didn't you notice?"

  Boyd half lowered the horn, his head turning as if he were listening to someone behind him. He nodded, and the horn came up again. "Members of your crew were observed picking up three of Her Majesty's prisoners from shore. That makes you liable to be pursued and stopped on the high seas."

  "Not in my book."

  There was another pause; then Boyd gripped his megaphone with both hands. "I must insist that you heave to."

  The Yankee braced his outstretched arms against the rail and leaned into it. "This is an American ship. In case you don't remember, we fought a revolution against you imperious bastards, and won. And we whipped your asses again not that many years ago, over just this sort of nonsense."

  The captain of the Repulse went rigid. "Will you heave to?" he snapped through his trumpet.

  Jesse watched in amazement as a wide grin spread across the Yankee captain's face. "I will not."

  "Very well. You have five minutes to reconsider. Then if you don't heave to, we shall have no choice but to open fire."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  "Where are you going?" Jessie demanded, catching Lucas's arm when he would have swung away.

  He turned slowly toward her, his face expressionless, his eyes flat and hard. "To find the Fox and Charlie, and tell them we're giving ourselves up."

  "Like hell you will," growled the Yankee captain, taking a step forward and biting down hard on his pipe.

  The wind ruffled Lucas's dark hair as he stood, tense, the bones of his face standing out sharply beneath the taut, tanned skin as he stared at his friend. "I'll not have you putting your ship—and your lives—on the line for me."

  Chase planted his hands on his hips, his widespread legs easily absorbing the roll of the ship's deck. "Since I'm the captain here, I don't see how you have much to say about it. This is an American ship, and I'll be damned if I'll heave to for some damned strutting cock of an Englishman. The British might think the seas of the world are theirs to rule as they please, but I for one don't intend to encourage them in their delusions of grandeur—even if it means getting my ass shot out of the water." He paused to throw an apologetic glance at Jessie. "If you'll pardon my saying so, ma'am."

  Gallagher's eyes glittered with a hard, cold light. "And Miss Corbett?"

  "I don't think they'll fire at us with a lady on board, if that's what you mean."

  "And if you're wrong?"

  Jessie thrust herself between the two men, her hands 387

  coming up to grasp the lapels of Lucas's rough coat. "I will not have you turn yourself in because of me."

  He caught her hands in his. "Jessie—"

  "No." She looked up into his fierce, proud, beautiful face. "Do you think I could live with myself, knowing I'd been responsible for your recapture?"

  She saw his jaw tighten, his chest lifting on a slow, even breath. His grip on her hands tightened, then let go. "When the five minutes are over, I'm giving myself up."

  Chase turned to shout to his first mate. "Mr. Vieira? Take Mr. Gallagher here belowdecks. Clap him in arms if you must, but I want him kept there until further notice."

  The mate came up to them, an impassive look on his swarthy face, his hand on the pistol shoved in his belt. "Aye, cap't."

  Chase's thick, pale brows drew together as he threw Lucas a hard look. "Gallagher?"

  The two men stared at each other for a long, tense moment. Then Lucas brought up one hand in the gesture of a fencer acknowledging a hit. "If I'm going to die, I'd rather do it with the wind in my face."

  Warrick stood well back from the frigate's port side, in the shadow of the rigging. He held himself quite still, despite the heaving of the deck beneath his feet, for he had always felt as at home on water as he did on land, and even the ending of his boyhood dreams hadn't changed that. The canvas overhead buckled and snapped in the wind, but he kept his gaze on the bark that dipped and rose with the violent swelling of the sea.

  He could see his sister at the rail of the Yankee whaleship, although he didn't think she could see him. She still wore her white satin gown, the skirts hanging limp and sodden, one sleeve torn. The rosebuds she'd woven in her hair for her wedding to Harrison Tate were gone.

  He'd always thought they were close, he and Jess, and he felt slightly aggrieved that something so profoundly important had been going on in her life, and she hadn't confided in him about it. But then, perhaps she'd known what she was doing, keeping her secret, because when he'd learned the truth, all he'd thought about was the effect her indiscretion might have on his future ability to secure assigned convicts to work his estate. He hadn't considered how important this convict might be to her, hadn't considered the effect of his own reaction on her, on her life. It occurred to him now that he might have more of his mother in him than he'd ever realized, and it was a thought he didn't like.

  Beside him, Harrison gripped his pocket watch in one hand, the gold case gleaming in the dull light. Only, he wasn't looking at the time. He, too, was staring at the Yankee ship, at the woman who was to have been his wife, and the man who now held her.

  "What the devil were you about," said Harrison, his
jaw so tight he was practically spitting the words out. "What could you have been thinking, to assign a man such as that to act as your sister's groom?"

  Warrick crossed his arms at his chest and studied his lifelong friend dispassionately. "Such as what, precisely? Such as an excellent horseman? Or such as a well-educated man, whose only real crime was that he loved his country and fought against oppression?"

  Harrison looked at Warrick as if he'd suddenly shouted Hurrah for the green. "Have you run mad?"

  "Why? Because I have a faint glimmering of understanding as to why the Irish hate us? Or because it didn't occur to me that Jess might perceive the man behind the rough convict clothes and fall in love with him?" He rocked back on his heels. "Well, it didn't occur to me. But then, do you honestly believe you know everything there is to know about your own sister?"

  "Of course I do," said Harrison, his fist tightening around his watch.

  But Warrick saw the shadow of doubt in the other man's eyes, and smiled. "Oh, no you don't, my friend. And neither do I. I've known Philippa my entire life, yet I never really knew her, never understood the complexity and beauty of the woman she is."

  Harrison gave a harsh laugh. "What are you trying to tell me? That you've suddenly decided you're in love with her?"

  "Yes," said Warrick, more serious than he'd ever been in his life. "Yes, I am."

  Harrison leaned forward, his chin jutting out belligerently. "Well that's too bloody bad, my friend, because there'll be no marriage between your house and mine. Not after this."

  Allowances must be made, Warrick reminded himself, for a man who has just been jilted at the altar. "If you think Philippa will let you prevent our marriage," Warrick said evenly, "then you know her even less than I thought you did."

  Harrison closed his watch with a snap and thrust it into his pocket. "It's time," he said, starting forward, staggering with the roll of the ship so that he had to make an undignified grab for the rail. "Captain?"

  From where he stood, Warrick could see the expression on Jess's face as she stared at Harrison, and knew he'd been right, that she hadn't realized they'd come aboard the Repulse. He watched her say something to the man beside her, watched him tighten his arm about her, as if in comfort. And for one, unexpected moment, Warrick found himself wishing that the frigate had never caught up with them, that this doomed pair of lovers had somehow managed to escape— even if it meant he'd probably never have seen his sister again.

  "Ahoy, bark," shouted Captain Boyd through that absurd speaking tube of his. "Your five minutes are up. Will you heave to?"

  The cannon on the Repulse's port rail were manned and ready, the seamen's slow matches glowing in the gloom of the day. It was just a bluff, of course, but the whalers had no way of knowing that. The Yankee captain might have been willing to help Gallagher escape the island, but he wouldn't risk losing his ship. It looked as if Harrison was going to get his chance to hang Lucas Gallagher, after all.

  "I say," shouted Boyd into the wind-filled silence that had greeted his words. "Will you heave to?"

  A wide, malevolent grin split the American captain's sun- darkened face. "Go bugger yourself, you British popinjay. Fire on us if you will, but you try to board us, and I promise you, you'll lose more men than I will."

  Hot color suffused the English captain's face. "You are refusing to heave to?"

  "You got it, your lordship."

  Boyd threw an uncertain glance at Harrison, who nodded and said, "You have no choice but to open fire, Captain."

  Warrick started forward with a jerk. "Bloody hell."

  Captain Boyd turned from the rail, the speaking trumpet still gripped in one hand at his side, his voice raised. "Aim at her sails and rigging, men. Ready—"

  Warrick hit the captain between the shoulder blades with the flat of both hands hard enough to make him stagger. "What the devil do you think you're about here? This was supposed to be a bluff."

  "I say—" began Boyd, swinging about.

  "No, I say." Warrick thumped the little man's chest with one pointed finger. "My sister is on that ship."

  Harrison caught Warrick by the arm and tried to pull him back. "She's there by choice, Corbett. If she—"

  Warrick whipped around, his balled-up fist smashing into Harrison's jaw to send him staggering back, his tailbone hitting the deck with a jarring thump that had the breath huffing out of him. "You shut up," spat Warrick, standing over the fallen man with both fists raised.

  "I say, I say, I say," bleated the captain. "I shall have you clapped in irons, sir. Charges will be pressed."

  Warrick straightened and turned slowly, his fists still clenched, his breath coming hard and fast. "You fire on that whaler, and I promise you, by the time I'm-through with your career, you won't be able to find a position as cabin boy in this navy."

  Hot color suffused the Englishman's cheeks. "You can't threaten me on my own ship."

  Warrick gave the captain a wide, cold smile. "It's not a threat."

  "That man is an escaped prisoner of Her Majesty the Queen," said Harrison, backhanding a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth as he got awkwardly to his feet. "And the Americans harboring him are guilty of conspiracy."

  "And Jess?" Warrick turned to stare at his old friend, an ache of sadness and loss building in his chest. After this, nothing in their lives would ever be the same again, he thought. But then, not much of their lives had been real, before. He let out his pent-up breath in a long, wistful sigh. "And to think I always believed that you loved her."

  Harrison gave a harsh, incredulous laugh. "Why do you think I'm here? Of course I love her."

  "No." Warrick shook his head. "Not really. If you did, you wouldn't be doing this." In one sudden, explosive movement, he seized the speaking trumpet from the English captain's slack grip and hurled it with a violence that split the shoulder seam of his coat and sent the instrument tumbling end over end through the air. "This isn't about love," said Warrick, watching the trumpet hit the water below with a splash. "It's about possession. Control. Jess knew what she was about, when she ran from you."

  Shaking the hair from his face, he stared across the narrow expanse of choppy water to where his sister still stood at the rail, her eyes wide with a tumult of emotions, a sad smile of love and farewell on her lips as the bark began to pull away.

  "Hey, Jess," he called, somehow managing to smile back at her. "You owe me a new coat."

  Jessie stood at the ship's side and watched her brother until he was no more than a dark speck on the deck of the frigate receding into the distance. Then she turned in Lucas's arms, and wept.

  Lucas watched his wife as she stood at the prow of the ship, the wind feathering her beautiful golden hair away from her face, her gaze on the fiery path of light spilled across the swelling sea by the rising sun. She'd been his wife for almost two days now, and it was still a wonder to him.

  They'd been married by Captain Chase in a hurried ceremony held even before the green shores of Tasmania had faded from their sight. But then the storm had hit, and for two nights and a day, the ship had reeled beneath the onslaught of a furious gale as rain slashed the decks and the sea transformed itself into great mountains and valleys of water that lifted the small ship up, up, only to send it swooping down again to a shuddering crash. It wasn't until the dawn of the second day that the skies cleared and the wind dropped, and the sea calmed to a lazy swell.

  After so many hours of violence, the comparative quiet and gentle movement of the ship had awakened them. Hand in hand, they had climbed the companionway to the storm- wrecked deck to stand here, at the bow, and watch the dawning of the new day.

  "We survived," she said, her gaze still fixed on the sun breaking over the eastern horizon in a glory of gold and orange shading to red and pink. A gentle smile curved her lips. "There was a point there when I was beginning to think we might simply sink into a cross sea, never to be seen again."

  "And are you regretting it, then, this rash step you'v
e taken, Mrs. Lucas Gallagher?" he asked, slipping his arms around her waist and drawing her back against his chest.

  She swung her head to look at him over her shoulder, her eyes wide and still. He traced the features of her face with his gaze, the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips, the strong line of her jaw. Awe filled him at the thought that he was finally free and she was here, beside him. Awe, and fear.

  A fear that he'd been unpardonably selfish to let her come away with him, to let her give up so much for him, because he might never be able to provide her with the kind of life she'd been born to, because he might not be the man she could truly love, forever, with all her heart. He thought he had been that man, once, but somewhere in all the horror and pain and endurance of the last years, he'd lost a part of himself, a part of who he used to be, and he wasn't sure he was ever going to find all of himself again.

  Her hand came up to touch his cheek, and he saw that she was no longer smiling. "You were my destiny, Lucas. Whatever happens, I'll never regret running to what was meant to be. I told you that."

  And he understood then that they'd both lost parts of themselves over the years, to life, to the struggle to survive. But they had control of the rest of their lives now, and they had each other, and a brave, vital new country waiting for them across the sea. "I love you," he said, rubbing his open mouth against her hair. "I'll always love you."

  A cat's paw of wind ruffled the sunlit surface of the sea, dancing the studding sail above their heads. His arms still clasped tightly around the woman he loved, Lucas lifted his face to the breeze, and drew the taste of joy and freedom deep into his being.

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  Lying in the South Pacific Ocean off the southern coast of the Australian continent, the island of Tasmania is, today, a peaceful land of picturesque stone villages nestled amidst gently rolling green countryside, of pristine waterfalls and enchanted temperate rainforests, of rugged, nearly impenetrable wilderness areas of awe-inspiring grandeur.

  Yet behind this quiet beauty lies a dark and violent past. Tasmania witnessed both the most shudderingly brutal excesses of the British convict system and the complete genocide of the island's warlike Aboriginal inhabitants, who were hunted to extinction as thoroughly as the now-vanished Tasmanian tiger. The silent stone ruins of such infamous penal institutions as Port Arthur or Macquerie Harbor still seem to echo with the tormented screams of the thousands of men who suffered and died there, and it is perhaps not surprising that Tasmania is said to be one of the most "ghost haunted" areas in the world.