"No, but—"
He pushed away from the rail and swung to face her, his
hands hanging loosely at his sides. "Are you trying to tell me you love Harrison?"
She laughed lightly. "Of course I do. I always have."
"Nothing has changed?"
"No. Why would it?"
He leaned into her. "Because you've changed, Jessie. You're not a child anymore. None of us are. Doesn't it bother you to realize that you love your future husband with the same affection that you once felt for a ten-year-old boy?"
She stared at him, her breath coming oddly quick and shallow. "Harrison is what I want in a husband."
"Which is what?"
"What do you mean, which is what? You know what Harrison is like. He's everything a true gentleman should be, always calm and controlled and self-possessed. He has always been utterly sure of himself—of who he is, of what he wants out of life."
"Whereas you never have been." Warrick's voice softened. "What do you think, Jessie? That marrying Harrison will make you the same way?"
She looked up into his beautiful, tortured face, and it seemed to her that in the pale, unnatural light of the moon he looked oddly older, wiser than she'd ever thought of him as being. "Harrison loves me," she said.
"You're right. He does love you. Unfortunately, I don't think he still loves you in the same way he did when he was a lad of ten and you were a six-year-old in plats."
Jessie thought of the strange tension she'd seen in Harrison's face as he stood gazing down at her earlier in the evening, and she knew it again, that sense of shyness edging toward alarm. Disconcerted, she turned away, quickly, to look at the darkened garden below. "I came here to speak to you of Philippa."
"Did you? I'm not so sure." Reaching out, he took her hand in both of his and drew her around to face him. "Jessie .. . marriage is forever. Don't commit yourself to it unless it's what you really want. Not what Harrison wants, not what Mother wants, but what you want."
"I'm already committed, remember? Besides, you're wrong. I do want to marry Harrison. I do." She said it forcefully.
As if she could make it so, simply by saying it.
She awoke early the next morning, confused, at first, to find herself lying in a bed that didn't pitch and rock with the endless movement of the sea. Then memory returned and she rolled over, listening to the sound of the chirping calls and trills of lorikeets and magpies as she let her gaze rove contentedly over the sprigged wallpaper and cedar furniture that had been hers since childhood. It was so good, so very good, to be home.
Reaching her hands high over her head, she stretched, then slid out of bed to pad barefoot across the carpeted hardwood floor to the long French windows that gave access to the upper veranda. Throwing open both shutters and doors, she looked out across a park drenched in the warm, buttery glow of the strengthening sun, and smiled.
Like the morning room directly below her, Jessie's room occupied the northeast corner of the house. From here she had a clear view of the quadrangle of farm buildings that stretched beyond the garden wall: the barns and shearing shed, the blacksmith's and smokehouse, the convicts' barracks and stables, where Warrick's men were already at work on the new addition. She wondered if that Irishman she'd seen yesterday was among them. And then she wondered at herself for the thought.
Wrapping her arms across her chest, she hugged herself as the morning chill bit deep. A kookaburra landed on the wooden railing of the veranda. Jessie watched its big beak open, and laughed with quiet joy as the familiar cackling cadence of the bird's song erupted across the gardens.
She ventured out a few steps, the boards of the veranda feeling smooth and cold beneath her curling toes. From here, she could look down on the garden itself, at the parterres of sweet-smelling lavender and thyme, of hyssop and sage, all carefully edged with box. At the tall, slim young man with curling blond hair and angelic features who strode purposefully down the brick walk, his riding crop swinging.
Jessie caught her breath. She hadn't expected to see him up and about yet, for they had been up late last night, talking. Talking of so many things but not, she now realized, about the eccentricities of a horse called Finnegan's Luck. She watched in horror as Warrick let himself out the gate in the back garden wall and began to cut across the quadrangle, heading toward the stables and his new stallion.
"Oh, Lord," she whispered on a quick exhalation of breath, her hands tightening in panic around the railing, then pushing away as she whirled with trembling urgency toward her clothes press.
CHAPTER FOUR
The dew-dampened bricks of the walkway felt cold and slippery beneath Jessie's bare feet as she ran toward the stables, her hair streaming unbound behind her in the chill morning air. She hadn't even tried to struggle into her corset, and she'd only tarried long enough to tie on one of the half- dozen or so petticoats she normally wore, so that she had to hold the long, limp skirt of her dress twisted up in her fists to keep from tripping.
The garden gate banged behind her as she let herself out into the broad quadrangle, almost deserted at this time of the morning except for the three or four men at work on the new stable walls. Just beyond them, she could see Warrick standing with one foot braced against the mounting block, a restless hand tapping his riding crop against the gleaming leather of his top boot as he watched a skinny, brown-haired boy with a pug nose and a gap-toothed smile lead Finnegan's Luck toward him.
"Warrick," Jessie called. "Wait."
At the sound of her voice, the stallion tossed its head in exaggerated, nostril-flaring nervousness. Warrick dropped his foot and turned, his features going blank with mild astonishment at the sight of her bare feet and loose hair. "Jessie. What the devil's the matter with you?"
"Finnegan's Luck," she panted, skidding to a halt beside him, her bare heels digging into the loose surface dirt. "I told you not to try to ride him before I had a chance to tell you about him."
Warrick's brows drew together in wary puzzlement. "What about him?"
She sucked in air, one hand pressed to her side. "He always bucks and throws his rider the first time anyone tries to mount him after he's been saddled."
Her brother swung his head to stare at Finnegan's Luck. The beautiful bay stretched out its nose and shook its mane, its tail flicking too quickly from side to side. Warrick brought his incredulous gaze, slowly, back to Jessie. "Do you mean to tell me you bought a horse that can't be ridden?"
"No. I told you, he's a champion jumper and a wonderful hunter. He doesn't buck every time he is mounted. Only the first time. He never tries to get rid of you the second time you mount. Never."
Warrick let out a snort. "That's ridiculous. Either a horse bucks, or it doesn't. It doesn't only buck the first time it's mounted."
"This one does."
He tucked his riding crop beneath his left arm and leaned into her. "And you still bought him?"
Jessie shook her head. "I didn't know. I hunted him twice before I bought him. Only, both times Mr. Finnegan rode Lucky to the meets himself, so I was never the first to mount."
Warrick spun about to study the big bay stallion, now standing with deceptive docility, its soft lips investigating the lapels of the stableboy's pockets as if looking for a treat.
"It's probably why he's called Finnegan's Luck," Jessie said wryly. "It seems Mr. Finnegan was in the habit of selling him at least once or twice each year—then buying him back again for a fraction of the original price and hunting him himself the rest of the season. Evidently Mr. Finnegan doesn't mind hitting the dirt first thing in the morning."
Hot, angry color flushed Warrick's normally pale cheeks. "So why the hell did you keep him?"
"Because he truly is a marvelous animal." Jessie walked over to rub her fist between the horse's wide, intelligent eyes.
"He sires fine colts. And I hoped perhaps we could find someone to break him of his habit."
Warrick came to stand beside her, his eyes on his sister rather than the h
orse. Suddenly, he grinned. " And because you wanted to pay this Mr. Finnegan back for tricking you. Fess up."
Jessie laughed. "All right. It's true. In fact, by the time I was ready to leave England, poor Mr. Finnegan was in tears, offering to buy Lucky back for half again what I'd paid for him."
Warrick grunted. "Wouldn't that have been lesson enough?"
Jessie shook her head and ran her hand down the stallion's high, arched neck. "I've never ridden a horse like him, Warrick. You'll see."
Warrick grunted again and twitched the reins from the stableboy's slack grasp. "All right. Let's see."
Jessie felt all trace of her earlier amusement drain out of her. "What are you doing?"
"Riding him."
She grabbed her brother's arm. "But he'll throw you."
A wild, reckless joy shone in Warrick's handsome face. He shook her off and reached for the stirrup. "So?"
"So let one of the men mount him the first time. If you get hurt, Mother will—"
She broke off as Warrick spun to face her, his eyes blazing. "Jessie? Shut up and stand back"
Jessie closed her mouth and took two steps back.
Finnegan's Luck stood faultlessly still with quiet, good- natured patience as Warrick slowly, cautiously, thrust his foot into the stirrup. With a triumphant smile to his sister, Warrick swung up into the saddle, his seat descending toward the leather...
Just as Finnegan's Luck leapt forward, his four splayed feet hitting the earth together with a jolt that brought Warrick down, cockeyed, on the wide expanse of red rump. Warrick's hat went flying as his feet scrambled frantically to regain their hold on the stirrups. The stallion's beautifully formed head went down, his hind quarters rose impressively skyward. Warrick's eyes widened in alarm as he soared up into the air, then came down again, this time near the tail. Once more, Finnegan's Luck bucked, both rear legs flashing up in a dazzling kick that sent Warrick sailing through the air to land on his stomach with a whacking hoooph as the air rushed from his lungs.
Whinnying in triumph, the red stallion shook its head and kicked its heels in the air one last time before loping in a wide circle around the quadrangle, reins dangling, its magnificent tail streaming behind. Warrick lay where he had fallen, motionless, facedown in the dirt.
"Warrick!" Her heart jamming up somewhere in the vicinity of her throat, Jessie rushed to fall to her knees beside him. "Are you all right?"
She touched her hand to his shoulder, her breath coming out in a soft moan of relief when he swatted her hand away and rolled, swearing, into a sitting position. Wiping the dust from his face with one crooked elbow, he lifted his head and stared after the retreating hunter. "Don't just stand there, Charlie," he shouted to the wide-eyed boy who had retrieved Warrick's hat and was now holding it out to him. "Get that bloody stallion before he bloody well decides to make a bolt for the bloody parklands."
"Yes, sir," stammered the boy, his awestruck gaze lifting to follow the action of the stallion's powerful hindquarters. "Only, how am I supposed to catch him?"
Warrick tweaked his hat from the boy's grasp. "You run after him."
A shout brought Jessie's head up. One of the convicts working on the new stable had leapt the wall and was already racing across the yard at an angle to cut the stallion off. A leanly built man with devil-dark hair and features she recognized; he ran like a panther, gracefully, powerfully, easily. She heard him purring soothingly to the wide-eyed horse. But then he was shouting something, something about the reins, just as one of the stallion's flashing hooves landed hard on the dangling leather. The bay's head jerked down, catapulting it forward. Squealing, the hunter somersaulted and came down heavily onto its side. And lay there.
"Oh, my God," whispered Jessie. Pushing to her feet, she picked up her dragging skirts and began to run.
Gallagher stood well back from the downed stallion's flailing hooves as the bay's head lunged up, and Finnegan's Luck, no longer stunned, scrambled to its feet, its glossy sides heaving in nervous excitement.
"Easy, boy," he crooned, moving in closer. Catching the reins, Lucas touched the horse's nose, its ears, its shining neck before moving slowly, easily, to run a practiced hand down first the near front leg, then the rear. The horse quivered and snorted, but Lucas kept up that low, soothing purr.
"Is he hurt?"
A pair of dainty but decidedly dusty bare feet appeared in the dirt beside him. His head falling back, one hand still on the stallion's rear hock, Lucas looked up into the white, anxious face of Miss Jesmond Corbett. She crouched beside him, her fists clenching in the heavy folds of her limp skirts, her brows drawing together in concern. The wind billowed her loose golden hair around her head, and when she sucked in a quick breath, her firm young breasts, unshielded by the stiff propriety of a corset, rose and strained against the fine cloth of her bodice. For one deceptive moment, she looked as free and uninhibited as if she'd just come from a lover's bed, and nothing at all like the prim and painfully proper young lady he knew she must be.
He straightened quickly. "Just winded, I think." Turning his back on her, he went around to check the horse's off legs. Then his gaze met hers over the hunter's broad, high withers, and before he could stop himself, he said, "Why did you stand there and let your brother mount this horse in the open yard? You knew Finnegan's Luck was going to buck."
Even after more than three long, grinding, dehumanizing years in the British penal system, Lucas could still forget himself sometimes. Still forget the humiliating demand for a never-ending outward pretense of servility he hadn't been raised to show. Still forget that an unwary tongue or even a simple, belligerent stare could get him flogged raw for his "insolence."
He watched the hot color flood the woman's smooth cheeks, watched the startled widening of her eyes before they narrowed in furious indignation. Her chin went up in that haughty gesture he had come to know well from women of her type, and he waited, his jaw set, for the inevitable, degrading reprimand—or worse—to come.
"You seem to have temporarily misplaced the brogue you used to such ostentatious effect yesterday, Mr...." She paused, her well-bred, carefully modulated, oh-so-English voice rising in a question.
It wasn't what he'd expected. "Gallagher," he said. "Lucas Gallagher."
"Mr. Gallagher."
She was staring at him. And even though he knew it was insolent, even though he knew he could be flogged for it, he stared back.
She might be only half dressed, with her hair hanging loose and windblown, but no one, seeing her now, would ever mistake her for anything but the expensive, well-bred Englishwoman she was. Although not as tall as her brother, she was still tall for a woman, her body slim but exquisitely molded, her legs long and lean and enticingly obvious beneath the limp folds of her skirt. Her features were not as perfectly molded as her brother's, her nose too inclined to tilt upward at the end, her upper lip too short, her lower lip too full. But her eyes were magnificent, a deep fiery blue. Their sparkle of lively intelligence and flashing pride didn't surprise him. But he hadn't expected the shadow of what looked like anxious vulnerability he thought he glimpsed when she turned her head at her brother's approach.
"Is he all right?" Warrick Corbett limped up to them, one sleeve of his finely cut riding jacket hanging torn and dirty, his neck cloth dangling askew.
"Aye," said Gallagher. "Although the tendon of that near front leg might bear watching."
Corbett nodded briskly. "You, Charlie," he said, turning to the skinny stableboy of about eleven or twelve who stumbled to a halt beside him. "Go find Old Tom and tell him there's a horse I want him to take a look at. And you—" Corbett's gaze flicked, assessingly, over Gallagher. "Take this stallion to the stables, and wait there while I get cleaned up."
His sister laid her hand on his arm. "Warrick—"
He shook her off with a curt, "Don't you say a word," and limped toward the house.
Miss Jesmond Corbett stayed where she was, the early morning sunlight falling clear and
golden on smooth, fine skin as she watched him go, an anxious frown on her face. Then she drew in a deep breath, her nostrils flaring wide as she swung back to Lucas. "I'll admit you were right," she said, her features hardening, her voice coming so icy and crisp he decided he must have imagined that earlier, brief hint of vulnerability. "It was a mistake to mount this horse in the open." She punched one finger into the air between them, as if making a point with a child. "But don't you ever speak to me like that again."
He felt the anger rise within him, hot enough to scald his veins and burn the base of his tight throat. Sometimes, he thought it might choke him, the anger he had to hold inside. But he could only stand there, hating her, hating the nation and system she was a part of, hating himself as he kept his jaw clenched against the kind of scathing retort the man he used to be would have made. The kind of response no sane convict would ever allow himself to make.
She started to follow her brother, then paused. "How did you know?" she asked, her head tilting as she looked back at him.
Somehow, he managed to keep everything he was feeling out of his voice. "How did I know what?"
The wind blew her long, unbound hair across her face, so that she had to put up one hand and hold it back, the loose strands shimmering golden in the morning sunshine as she nodded toward the stallion. "How did you know his name is Finnegan's Luck?"
Deliberately, Gallagher gave her a slow, easy smile. "I recognized him."
Surprise caused that haughty demeanor of hers to slip a bit, so that she suddenly seemed more human, although no more likable. "You recognized him?"
"Aye." He let his smile broaden. "The Gallaghers and the Finnegans are cousins. Of a sort."
She stared at him, her gaze hard and intense and seething with quiet indignation. "So you knew he would buck and run. You knew it, yet you didn't think to suggest he should be mounted in a paddock?"
Whispers of Heaven Page 4
