A Whisper Of Destiny

by Monica Barrie

  She felt him press against her, excited again by her proximity. He let the necklace drop teasingly across the exposed skin of her breasts before lifting it again to her neck. She felt the coolness of the gold as he slipped the clasp into place. Then, quietly, he pulled her closer, tightening both hands around her delicate neck. His voice was calm, almost tender, as he whispered, “What were you doing in my papers?” He plucked the still folded letter from the pile, and the other hand whipped her around to face him. His fingers bit cruelly into the skin of her face. He stared at her with cold and threatening eyes.

  “What were you doing?” He flung the letter in her face and released her—only to slap her harshly with his free hand. Francine fell backward, hitting her head against the floor, and lay there dazed. Benjamin stood over her, breathing heavily.

  “What were you doing here? Who are you?” His words hissed out as he bent and entwined his fingers in her hair. He wrenched her to her feet and dragged her across the room.

  The pain of a thousand burning needles poked into her head. He spun her around, fist speeding toward her face; then she saw nothing after his knuckles slammed into her eye. Blinded, she landed on the bed; the mosquito netting ripped from the canopy’s frame engulfed her.

  “Bitch! Whore!” he spat. “You tricked me! Who are you working for? Who are you spying for?” His face was a grotesque parody of the Benjamin she knew.

  “No!” she pleaded, as his fists began to pummel her. Pain lanced through her chest and she slid from the bed, but was caught short in her attempt to escape when his booted toe crashed into her side. She tried with all her strength to get away, hurling the last of the netting off her body. Her hand went to the back of her disheveled hair, her fingers searching frantically until she found what she sought. A pearl-tipped hairpin.

  He charged her again, but she stabbed at his swinging hand with the needle. The tip of the four-inch-long pin went through his palm and poked out the back.

  He stopped to stare at his hand. Then his face darkened into a mask of rage. He kept his eyes on her as he pulled the long needle out and threw it to the floor. She lunged past him, hoping the shock of his injury would slow him down.

  Halfway to the large staircase, he caught her by her hair.

  A scream of terror and helplessness tore from her throat when he pulled her backwards off her feet.

  “Who do you work for?” demanded Benjamin, his face only an inch above hers. Then she saw that he knew the answer by the look in his eyes. “Your cousin—Sean Rouger!!”

  Francine whipped her head back and forth in denial, but the man pulled her up again and slammed his hand into her face, sending her flying toward the main staircase.

  <><><>

  Sean Rouger followed Kira into the house, but when he was within arm’s reach, a scream of terror cut through the air. He whirled toward the staircase and saw Francine, her back to them, her arms searching in vain for a support that would stop her body from falling.

  “Betraying whore!” screamed Benjamin Cornwall as his hand whipped across her face. The blow sent her tumbling downward, her body bouncing jerkily as it hit the stairs, her black hair fanning outward as she fell. Kira’s hand flew to her mouth, containing the scream that grew inside her.

  She heard Sean’s sharp intake of breath as he ran towards the falling woman; Kira followed, stopping halfway between the staircase and the piazza, frozen with horror at the insane rage that distorted Benjamin’s features. Francine landed heavily at the foot of the stairs, her body a broken, huddled mass.

  Now Benjamin turned on Sean, who was bent over Francine.

  “You bastard!” he shouted wildly. “She…you…you both betrayed me!” With that, Benjamin Cornwall raced down the stairs, his face twisted in fury.

  Kira saw the blood drain from Sean’s face, and heard the rasping of his saber as he freed it from its scabbard.

  He ran at Benjamin, whose sword was at the ready, body poised to accept the attack.

  “You almost got away with it!” said Benjamin loudly. “But not quite! I found you out!” His last words were echoed in a clash of steel as their blades met.

  Even with the advantage of higher ground, Benjamin was no match for the smoothly muscled, agile man he faced. Kira’s eyes could hardly discern the blades as they parried and thrust. Over the clash of metal, she heard the concerned voices of others entering the salon. She ignored them; all her attention centered on the duel. After only a few more seconds, she saw Benjamin’s sword fly from his hand, and then watched, horrified, as Sean buried his blade deep in her cousin’s chest.

  Not waiting to see his foe collapse, Sean Rouger went to the foot of the stairs where Francine lay, unmoving. Quickly, he lifted her in his arms, turning to survey the now crowded salon. His eyes searched until they settled on Kira and only then did they soften for an instant. Before anyone could think to restrain him, he forcefully pushed his way through the stunned crowd, through the door, and into the night.

  “Benjamin!” screamed Aunt Emily, rushing to her fallen son. Kira’s attention was drawn to the pitiful figure that lay upside down on the last few steps. Benjamin’s eyes were open, unseeing in death. His face held a look of shocked surprise. Blood still flowed from his chest.

  “What happened?” demanded the deep, rasping voice of James Cornwall as he barged into the room. Kira felt her uncle’s hand on her arm, spinning her around to face him. She was too stunned to answer him.

  “Dammit, girl! What happened here?” Kira shook her head to clear the vision of the scene that had just taken place.

  “I…I’m not sure,” she began, gaining control of herself as she talked. “Benjamin had a quarrel with Francine, then he knocked her down the stairs and accused them of something. Then…” Kira’s voice wavered, and the tears rose. As she sobbed, Cornwall turned to the milling onlookers and ordered three of his employees to go after Sean and Francine. Only then did he cross the salon to where the body of his slain son lay. He knelt, touching neither Emily nor Benjamin. In the flickering candlelight, their figures formed a strange tableau.

  “Uncle James,” said Kira as she finally gained a modicum of control over her emotions.

  “What is it, girl?” he asked gruffly. Anger was all she heard in his voice. Was it possible that he felt no grief or sadness?

  “Benjamin said Francine and Sean had betrayed him.” As she said the words, their implications became apparent and she turned pale.

  “Huguenot scum!” roared James Cornwall, his rage growing stronger. “I should have known! They were too close to be just cousins. I should have known she was nothing but an incestuous whore!”

  Kira gasped at his words, not wanting to believe them. Despite herself, a nagging doubt lingered. Somehow the accusations did seem in character with the smooth-talking man who had just tried to seduce her.

  “Daniel,” called Cornwall to a servant.

  “Yes, suh?” replied the overdressed slave, his eyes downcast as he stood before Cornwall.

  “Take Mistress Kira to her room.”

  “Yass, suh,” he repeated as he stepped back.

  “Uncle James,” Kira said softly, tears filling her eyes as she spoke, “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “My son’s death will be avenged, Kira,” said James Cornwall as his dark eyes bored deeply into her. “No one takes something from James Cornwall. No one!”

  Kira felt a chill pass through her as she turned to follow the servant out of the room.

  CHAPTER 3

  Sean Rouger raced from the house, with but a single glance back to see that Kira was safe. Francine’s weight in his arms was no more than a feather—he could have run this way with her all night if he’d had to.

  His worst fears were now confirmed. Benjamin Cornwall had found them out—Sean had had to kill him to silence him. And now, his cherished Francine might die as well.

  He took the first carriage he found in the drive. Depositing Francine gently on the seat beside him, and holding her close
, he drove rapidly through the streets of Charleston. As he raced toward the steps of a large double house, a servant swung the front door open. Sean hurried past, carrying his unconscious bundle.

  “Get Doctor Robert, quickly!” he ordered. The servant spun on his heel and ran up the stairs, only to return seconds later with the doctor.

  “My God, man! What happened?” asked Robert Chatham as he took the final two steps in a single leap.

  “Cornwall found out! I don’t know how, but he did,” muttered Sean as he followed the doctor to his examining room.

  “On the table.” Chatham he turned to the servant who was still standing there, staring at Francine’s body. “Jeremy, get the carriage out of sight immediately!”

  “Yass, suh.”

  Chatham went to his cabinet and selected several instruments and some bandaging. Then, as he deftly examined the injured woman, he listened carefully to Sean’s account of the evening.

  “You’re sure he’s dead?” asked Chatham, turning to look directly at Sean. But he did not even wait for a response. “Does anyone else know?”

  “I doubt it. No! But Francine—”

  “It was close. She’ll live.”

  Sean walked to another cabinet and withdrew a crystal decanter filled with amber liquor. He poured a generous amount into a glass and drank deeply. As the warmth of the drink filled his stomach, he watched intently while the doctor ministered to Francine.

  “I’m glad we decided to work separately during this job. Cornwall must have everyone who works for him after me.” Sean’s tone was level, unafraid.

  “I agree,” said Chatham as he began to wrap bandaging tightly around Francine’s torso. “This is really the first time we haven’t operated jointly. Good thing!” Then he focused his attention on Francine.

  Ten minutes later, he said, “It looks worse than it is. Her ankle is swollen, a sprain most likely, and some ribs are cracked. She took a hell of a beating, Sean.” Then the doctor stood upright and faced the handsome, dark-haired man. “I’m sure she’ll dance again.” He smiled fleetingly, paused and took a deep breath. “I only hope there are no internal injuries.”

  “Damn!” Sean cried. The glass in his hand shattered. He stared vacantly at his palm as small droplets of blood began to well.

  “Sean! You warned her. You warned everybody.”

  “And I’m still responsible! You’ll send a message to the Commodore?” Sean asked his subordinate. Chatham nodded. “I’ll have to make myself scarce for a while.”

  “Longer than awhile. James Cornwall won’t soon forget the man who killed his son.”

  “Will she waken soon?”

  “Possibly, but she’ll be in a lot of pain,” warned the doctor. “Bring the bottle, will you? I’ll get Bella to watch over her.”

  The men went into Chatham’s library to wait for the injured woman to regain consciousness.

  Sean sank into a high-backed chair as Chatham began to wrap some bandages around his injured hand. But there was no time to talk further. The silence of the room was broken by the loud hammering of the brass door knocker. Sean bolted from the comfort of the chair, grasping the hilt of his saber with his bandaged hand.

  “Easy!” cautioned Robert Chatham. “I’ll go. They won’t be looking for you here.”

  After several uncomfortably long seconds, excited voices neared the library. The door opened and Chatham walked in with a man who was covered in dust from the road. It was Barton, one of the men assigned to Sean. Barton’s function was to act as an extra pair of eyes.

  “Jonathan Cornwall’s dying,” the man said with a shake of his head.

  “The hell you say!” came Sean’s startled reply.

  “It’s true, sir. It happened just after dusk, not half an hour after the meeting he had with the Commodore.”

  “What happened?” demanded Sean, as he started to pace the room.

  “I’m still not rightly sure, but I was standing outside his office on Port Street, as you told me to, when I heard a commotion.” Barton paused, as he took a breath, and looked at Sean. “There was a shot, and then another. One of the clerks came rushing out. He was whiter ’n a ghost. Screaming his head off, too. Someone shot Cornwall—killed a darky, too.”

  “And what of his brother? Does James Cornwall know yet?”

  “He must. I followed the messenger who was sent for Jonathan’s daughter from Haven. He made them take him home before he would let anyone know. They thought I was one of his workers, so I went along with them.”

  “Good!” He turned to Chatham. “Robert, I need some paper. I must send a detailed report to the Commodore.”

  “Why write it? I can go.”

  “No. I want you here with Francine when she wakes.”

  “You’ll be here.”

  “No. There’s something that I must do. I’ll return before morning,” Sean said, with both urgency and finality in his voice.

  After Sean penned his report, he returned to the doctor’s examining room. Bending slightly, he studied Francine’s still face, then gently ran his index finger along one pale cheek. Minutes later, he was on his roan, galloping to a spot that would intercept Kira Cornwall as she rode toward Haven and her dying father.

  The urgent banging at her door woke Kira from the nightmarish dreams of swords, death and the man with the burning blue eyes. She sat upright in bed, breathing heavily. Ruth rose from her cot and ran to the door, pulling the plain house robe around her as she reached the door.

  “Yass?”

  “Open the door!” rasped the heavy voice of James Cornwall. By the time Ruth had thrown it open, Kira had lit one of the candles. Her uncle stood in the doorway, framed by the candlelight from the hall, still dressed in his formal evening clothes.

  “Kira, more bad news,” he said bluntly, stepping into the room.

  Kira felt the fine hairs at the nape of her neck begin to tingle, as she stared at her uncle’s weary face.

  “What is it?” she asked in a whisper.

  “A messenger has arrived from Haven. Your father has been mortally wounded.”

  “Oh, Lawd!” cried Ruth, as Kira sat frozen, unable to speak. Kira felt her heart beating wildly, loudly in her chest, and her stomach dropped sickeningly.

  “What happened?” She forced herself up off the bed, oblivious to the fact she had only a light sleeping gown on.

  “We don’t really know. They say it was a robbery in his office. He was shot.”

  “I must leave now!” she said after several seconds. “Ruth, my riding clothes.”

  “Kira! I insist you wait. It’s too dangerous a trip for a woman alone at night. A carriage will speed you there in the morning.”

  “No!” The power of her voice stopped him. “I go now! I will take the gray gelding, he’s the fastest.” The uncertainties of the night’s events were suddenly washed from Kira’s mind; the tragic death of her cousin and his betrothed had been obliterated by the news of her father.

  “Don’t be a fool. It’s fifteen miles in the dark,” argued Uncle James.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she answered imperiously. “Will you have the horse saddled, or shall I?”

  “Stubborn child.” Cornwall turned and thundered out the door.

  Kira pulled off her nightgown hastily and looked at the riding dress Ruth was holding for her. “No. Not for tonight. I need my breeches.”

  Kira waited while Ruth fetched them, thankful she had decided to pack some articles of men’s clothing, even though she only wore them when riding by herself around Haven.

  Perhaps it was intuition that had made her bring them, but Kira had always refused to believe in that feminine nonsense. One day she would be Haven’s overseer, and she intended to run the plantation with the logic and good business sense her father had always employed. And, too, she hoped to take the place of the son her father never had.

  Kira shivered slightly as Ruth returned with her riding clothes. Perhaps, thought Kira, her reign as Haven’s mistress
was already upon her. She pushed this unwanted, intruding thought from her mind as she pulled the stockings and leather breeches over her calves and up her gently curved thighs. Next, her breasts were covered by the soft chamois of her riding shirt. Then Ruth helped her struggle into the high boots. When she had finished dressing, she took her riding crop from the dresser and turned back to Ruth.

  “Find Abraham. Get the carriage ready and return home at first light. I will be waiting.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Ruth in the perfectly pronounced English she had been secretly taught by Kira—and Ruth had, in turn, taught her husband, Abraham. However, they were strictly forbidden to use it in the presence of others. “Kira, please, be careful.”

  Kira looked affectionately at Ruth for several seconds. Tears were running freely down the girl’s soft, brown cheeks, and Kira’s eyes misted. She nodded and left the room, as the sound of hooves rang on the cobblestones below.

  <><><>

  Kira had been riding for an hour and felt the flecks of sweat fly back at her from the gelding’s neck. She rode like a man—as though she were one with the animal—so perfectly did she sit, and so precisely did her body adjust to each movement of the horse. The cool pre-dawn air blew across her face, tugging at her hair. The moon had set, but there was enough starlight to see the road fairly well. Caution was needed only when the palmetto trees lining the narrow parts of the road grew so thickly that they cut out all light. Her mind was a maze of thoughts, running into each other: her uncle’s strange, ungrieving reaction to Benjamin’s death; the fear of what she would find when she reached Haven; and, always, over and over, the look in Sean Rouger’s eyes as he held the shattered body of his cousin.

  The horse stumbled in a small chuck hole. Righting herself quickly in the saddle, Kira turned her thoughts to the road. Just ahead was another dense patch of trees and, wary of the approaching blackness, she slowed the gelding’s pace. When she did, a lone figure, sitting high upon a horse, appeared in the center of the road. Kira reined in sharply about ten feet from the rider.