Heaven Scent

by SpursFanatic

  Heaven Scent

  by

  Sophie Greyson

  Copyright 2012 by Sophie Greyson

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover by Tamra Westberry

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

  This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to others.

  If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an

  additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this book

  and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only,

  please return to your online retailer and purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are

  either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons (living or deceased),

  events or locations is entirely coincidental. .

  Prologue

  London, 1837

  It was time.

  Jane Worthington knew it the moment He appeared at the foot of her four-poster bed, bathed in rays of dazzling white. She recoiled, not out of fear of Him – for he radiated pure joy -- but fear of leaving all she held dear.

  His beating, blood-red heart hovered above His chest rather than within it, expanding a little with each heavy thud. It emanated a love so strong, so powerful, it filled her sunken chest to near bursting. Her frail body struggled to breathe, her gasps echoing in the quiet, dark master suite of Tarinworth Manor.

  ‘Why now?’ she asked Him in her mind.

  His answering smile was warm as He stretched His hand towards her, offering a blissful, painless freedom her tormented body craved. She could feel the blessed relief, the peaceful ecstasy pull her towards Him. It would be so easy to give in, to take His hand and go. The constant pain and suffering would be no more. She would finally be able to rest…

  “Mother, are you thirsty? Would you like some water?”

  Jane mustered all of her strength to open her eyes. No words would come. She gazed upon her beautiful, eight-year-old daughter and felt an overwhelming sadness that eclipsed her physical pain.

  She would be stunning, her Tarin, with the emerald green eyes she’d inherited from her father and Jane’s own shiny, coppery waves.

  Her delicate features disguised a fiery spirit Jane herself had once held. Tarin was bright beyond compare, but her curiosity would surely bring trouble in the years to come.

  Years Jane would not behold.

  She had always been told there was no pain like that of a child’s death. Yet, leaving her daughter upon her own death was more agony than Jane could bear. She would not be here to protect Tarin, to ensure she lived the life she deserved. Her daughter would play victim just as she had.

  'How can I leave her?' she asked Him, her dry, cracked lips unmoving. 'I am her mother. She will need me as she grows.'

  He stared at Jane solemnly, the truth written in His soft eyes. Tarin had stayed by Jane’s side every hour of every depressing day for as long as her father would allow. She had taken on the role of caregiver despite the number of nurses the Duke‘s family had hired. Tarin fed Jane when she remained too weak to do it herself, cooled her forehead when the fever grew high, and read to her to pass the time.

  A rush of shame and self-loathing engulfed Jane. Tarin was just a child, too young to bother with the task of caring for an ailing adult. A mother’s purpose was to care for her children, not the other way around.

  She had failed her daughter.

  Yet, Tarin never left her side. Even when the nurses tried to rush her from the room while they dressed Jane’s sores, Tarin stubbornly remained, holding Jane’s hand in her tiny fist.

  Pride for her daughter burned in Jane’s chest.

  Hopping up to sit on the edge of the bed, Tarin brushed the hair back from Jane’s forehead, her touch soft, gentle.

  “Mother, you smiled,” Tarin declared softly, her green eyes shining in the candle‘s glow. “You must be feeling better.” She cupped a small palm against Jane’s cheek.

  The white rays brightened, nearly blinding in intensity now as they glittered around Him in a rotating arc.

  Jane’s time grew short.

  “She has worked so hard to heal me. Please. Have mercy on us.”

  Suddenly, a single ray of red and one of blue shot from the pulsating heart and bathed Jane in a violet hue. She felt a strength within, as though someone had taken possession of her body and moved it as a puppet. A joy so profound it shook her, overcame Jane.

  “Mother, first you smile, now you weep. Please tell me what troubles you and I will make it better.” Tarin rubbed the back of Jane’s hand with her thumb.

  Swallowing hard, Jane’s voice sounded raspy, hoarse. “Tarin.”

  The little girl shot up off the bed and stared at Jane with eyes like china saucers. Jane would’ve laughed aloud if she were able.

  “Mother! You spoke! I must go tell Father.” She turned to go, her red waves flying behind her.

  “Tarin,” Jane forced the words from her dry throat. “Do not go.”

  Tarin stopped and stared back at Jane, her legs and feet twitching. The urge to spread good news ate the poor child alive. She returned to the side of the bed, her face alight with hope.

  “Sit down, sweetheart.”

  Jane studied every one of her daughter’s features, absorbing them all, storing the memories to carry with her into the unknown.

  How easy it was to take the gift of time for granted. She had wasted so many years trying to be a loving, obedient wife, living under the thumb of her noble family and a husband that was never home.

  She had allowed her talent and love of painting to die years ago when Tarin’s father denied her study in Paris.

  She had denied herself the love of her life, a carpenter’s son, by giving into her father’s wishes and marrying someone of her own station. Henry Worthington, the third son of the Duke of Tarinworth, was above her station. Jane’s father had been pleased with the match.

  Jane had been miserable.

  Long days and nights spent alone in this enormous, centuries-old mansion ate away her laughter and happiness, despite the number of ball gowns and jewels Henry showered upon her.

  Until Tarin.

  Until He had blessed her with this child – blessed her with a reason to live.

  Now, after eight short years, that life was over. Just when she had found her worth, Jane must leave it behind.

  She would leave Tarin – forever.

  “I love you, Tarin,” she said softly. “I am so proud of you. You have taken such good care of me.”

  Her daughter’s smile rivaled the radiance emanating from Him a few feet away.

  “I love you too, Mother,” she said, throwing herself at Jane and smothering her in a tight hug.

  Jane clung to her daughter with all her strength, inhaling the sweet, lavender scent of her hair, taking in the feel of Tarin’s small fingers splayed on her shoulders. Her breath was soft at Jane’s ear, her body small yet strong where it rocked against hers.

  “She is so young…,” Jane pleaded, His face a blur to her now.

  He extended His hand again through the violet haze, His smile warm. Her body weakened. She must hurry.

  “Tarin, listen,” she said, reluctantly setting her daughter away.

  Nodding solemnly, Tarin clutched her hand as she sat back on the bed and played with the large emerald on Jane’s left hand. “Yes, Mother.”

  “I want you to promise me something.”

  Though Tarin’s eyes grew serious, the hope never faded in their depths.

  “Be happ
y, Tarin. Live each and every day with a bright outlook. Do not let others weigh you down.”

  Her daughter frowned. “You mean like when Father comes home angry – I should still smile and give him a hug?”

  “Yes,” Jane replied with a proud smile. “Exactly like that.”

  Tarin nodded once. “As you wish, Mother.”

  Suddenly, a chill swept through Jane. The violet hue faded as the strength slowly drained from her body. She shivered violently.

  “Mother, you are trembling. Let me cover you.” Tarin pulled the soft blankets up to Jane’s chin and tucked them around her.

  Struggling with every word now, Jane’s covers were useless against the iciness that settled inside her.

  “Tarin, let me hold you.”

  With a giggle, Tarin climbed under the covers and snuggled up against Jane’s side. She wrapped her arms around Jane’s waist.

  “I like the way you smell, Mother. Like roses.”

  Jane squeezed her eyes tight against the burn of unshed tears.

  “Live your life for you, Tarin,” Jane continued. “You can do whatever you set your mind to. If you want to study law, sing, write books…”

  “Or be a physician?”

  Jane nodded. “Or be a physician. Do it. Do not let a man steal your will. Do you understand? Your life is yours alone to live and you only get one chance at it.”

  “Yes, Mother,” she replied. “I shall be a physician. I will learn all there is to know so I can make you well.”

  Wincing, Jane squeezed her daughter. “Above all, Tarin, marry for love. Do not settle. Do not allow your father to arrange a marriage for you. Find a good, strong man - one that will support you in your quest to become a physician or whatever you choose to be.” She paused, fighting to muster her remaining strength. “Promise… me…”

  “I promise,” Tarin replied. “You will help me to remember all of these things, right, Mother?”

  The violet hue vanished like a flame doused with water. No strength remained in Jane’s body. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

  “I must go, Tarin,” she whispered, her eyes transfixed on Him.

  “Go?” she asked sitting up to stare at Jane, brows furrowed. “Go where? I will go with you.”

  “No, Tarin.” Jane shook her head against the pillow.

  “Why?” Tarin asked, as she gripped the covers in a tight fist. “I want to go!”

  “I must leave you,” Jane said, His hand just inches from her now.

  “Noooo!”

  The bed jerked. “I will always be with you, Tarin, even if you cannot see me.”

  “No!” Tarin cried, shaking her shoulders. “Mother, no! Please don’t leave me! I promise I will make you better.”

  “I love you, Tarin. Be happy,” she whispered, as she grasped His hand and was immediately engulfed in rapture.

  Chapter 1

  Outskirts of San Antonio, February 1848

  “Hold it, right there.”

  Rafe Sutherland stilled, his hand poised in mid air.

  Dammit, no. He didn’t just hear what he thought he’d just heard. This opportunity had been a long time coming and tonight was his last chance to succeed. He’d sold his bounty of land yesterday and tomorrow he’d be well on his way to Boston. It was now or never.

  Slowly, he raised his eyes, cringing inside at what he hoped like hell he wouldn’t see.

  Rosa’s eyes glared at him from where she sat against the trunk of the old oak, her shoulders bare and her voluptuous breasts nearly so – until she’d stopped him.

  “You are muy hermoso, Rafe, and many call you hero. But I am a lady. I do not do such things outside of marriage.”

  Leaning in to place kisses along the side of her throat, Rafe eased his hand over the edge of her blouse and lowered it further. Rosa moaned softly, turning her head to allow him better access to the soft, smooth flesh of her neck.

  “But, I’ve wanted you for so long, mi dulce,” Rafe said against the pulse at her throat, the breeze lifting a strand of her hair to brush against his cheek.

  Pulling himself closer, Rafe breathed in the sweet scent of gardenia at her ear as his palm closed over the ripe mound of her breast.

  Rosa’s hand clamped down on his arm like a bear trap.

  Blowing out a breath, Rafe sat up and pulled the top of Rosa’s dress onto her shoulders. He shut his eyes a moment, mentally forcing the bulge in his jeans to die with the setting sun.

  Rosa glanced down at her lap as she straightened her blouse. “The Rangers, they do not need you now that the war is over.”

  Staring up at him through lowered lashes, she placed her hand on top of his where it rested on his thigh. “Perhaps it is time for you to settle down.”

  Rafe stilled. Damn. He should’ve listened to his gut. Deep down, he’d known she was getting too attached.

  After ten years in this hellhole they called Texas, his life was his own again. Rosa knew he had plans to go home now that the war had ended. He’d never promised her more than he could offer in the moment because he’d spent the last ten years not knowing if he’d be around longer than that.

  But Rosa’s accent was so damned arousing. She had a body that made his mouth water. And it had been way too long since he’d last lain with a woman.

  Rafe stilled, the clear, cool twilight unnaturally quiet. The sound of crickets had vanished, the coyotes gone silent. His horse stood ridged, ears perked.

  Hell. Not now.

  Rafe reached for the Colt revolvers in the holster lying beside him. Rosa snatched her hand away, her gaze darting to his face.

  “Rosa,” he said lowly, as he slid one of the revolvers into the pocket of her skirt. “I want you to act like you’re mad at me. We’re going to get on Ruthless and ride to the mission.”

  “Why?” she asked beneath her breath as she got up and brushed off her skirt. She turned her back on him.

  “Comanches,” he said beneath his breath.

  She climbed onto Rafe’s black stallion. It pranced in the dry dirt, sensing danger in the air. She worked to gain control of the beast, her fists grabbing the reins and pulling backward.

  “How do you know?” she asked lowly, as he climbed on behind her.

  “I smell them.”

  Rosa’s outward appearance showed only courage and anger, yet her hands shook where they held the saddle horn.

  Rafe shot Ruthless into a full gallop. The ground felt hard, dry as they kicked up dust over the harsh terrain. The mission was close, a hundred or so yards away, but the Indians were closer.

  He knew they were after him. Word had spread throughout the territory that a band of warriors was hunting down each of the Texas Rangers and killing them one by one. Their attack was revenge for driving the tribes out of the territory and into the plains.

  If they captured Rosa, she would be murdered – or worse. Rafe had to get her to the mission. His friend, Beau, and Rosa’s family were there. If Rafe didn’t make it, she had his revolver to defend herself until help arrived.

  Behind them, Comanches sprang from the brush in a riot of high pitched screams. Rafe counted six headed towards them on foot -- three on horseback.

  He fired off three quick shots as arrows whistled past his ear. He killed the last of the horsemen just as two screaming warriors pulled him from the saddle, yelling and swinging blades. Rosa galloped on, untouched.

  Rolling in the dirt, Rafe sprang to his feet, just missing the swing of a tomahawk. Backhanding one of the warriors with the butt of his revolver, Rafe gave the second a good right hook in the follow through. He heard a third come up behind him a second before a blade ripped through his shoulder. Pain shot through his back and down his arm, traveling through his body like a burning fuse.

  Whipping around, Rafe stuck the barrel of his revolver flush against the warrior’s stomach. He fired a shot, knocking back the brave with the force of his bullet.

  They kept coming. One appeared for every one he killed. Rafe was used
to the odds.

  He’d just thought he was through with all of this.

  He felt the blood trickling down his back but the pain had disappeared. Only numbness remained in his shoulder, making his arm heavy and hard to swing.

  He pushed through -- until a fresh wave of Comanches barreled through the brush on horseback, armed with rifles.

  Hell.

  The first shot hit him above his heart, the force of the shell knocking him back against a tree. Rafe staggered, the blood rushing to his head, the warriors blurring into a gray haze. He felt another blast of searing pain rip through his thigh before the Indian’s screams faded. He dropped to his knees, his legs too weak to hold him.

  Rafe’s head snapped back against his shoulders. A blade appeared above him, poised to take his scalp.

  The last thing he remembered was the upper cut to his chin before he blacked out.

  Pain, sharp and acute, pulled Rafe from his sleep.

  Dammit, he didn’t want to wake up. Seconds ago, he had been in bed with a beautiful woman under each arm and good whiskey on the side table.

  But the pain would not allow him that peace. It pulled and pushed, poked at him like a nagging wife until he had been forced to give into it.

  He groaned aloud. Holy God, he hurt. He had to be in hell because nothing on earth could hurt this much. His body felt as though it were stretched on an Indian bow, his arms pulled above his head, his toes skimming the ground. His side, his face and arm, were caked with something thick and wet. His leg felt like an anchor had been tied to it.

  He smelled fire, could feel the heat of it on his face, his back.

  Damn, he was in hell.

  A warrior appeared before him, his eyes dark, dilated, and burning with evil. Rafe watched in disbelief as the brave raised a blade and slowly sliced it down Rafe’s side, scraping the skin from his body. Rafe howled in pain, his agony eliciting a roar of screams from the Indians surrounding him.

  Holy Mother of God save me. They were skinning him alive. He knew the Comanches were merciless and would save their worst punishment for their greatest enemy.