On the Wings of a Whisper: A serialized historical Christian romance. (Sonnets of the Spice Isle Book 1)

by Lynnette Bonner

  Papa was leaving for the Continent tomorrow, and she had to stay well long enough to stop him.

  If I let him go, I’ll never…

  The thought of never seeing Papa’s loving face again was simply unbearable. Not to mention, she wouldn’t be able to stand Mother—not even for the claimed six months—without Papa’s softening influence. Papa simply had to stay here, but she’d tried to talk him out of the trip many times already, and he’d always been adamant.

  She pushed aside what she knew of his condition and focused instead on her plan. She would give one last valiant effort at convincing him. But if that failed, what then? She considered, and tossed aside, several options. There was nothing for it but to make him see reason. She took her resolve firmly in hand. She was going to find Papa and convince him how dangerous and downright selfish it was of him to run off to the Continent at a time like this.

  Around a corner in the garden path, she saw a wooden bench surrounded by several large bushes. Her renewed resolve sapped some of her strength, and the fragrant blossoms of an orange tree dripped from overhead, whispering a breezy invitation to sit awhile. She sank down with a sigh and, leaning her head back, closed her fevered eyes. Folding her arms in front of her, she sat still, listening to the evening sounds around her.

  She had been there only a few moments when she heard voices, and her eyes opened with a start. They were coming from somewhere toward the back of the garden, near the wall that separated the house from the beach beyond.

  She sat up, hunched her shoulders against her shivering, and strained to hear. Something in the conversation arrested her attention. It was not any word she had heard, because from this distance she could not make out exactly what was being said, but it was the tone in which the words were spoken. There was a sense of urgency to them, even perhaps anger.

  Then suddenly the wind stilled. The hushed conversation came to RyAnne as clearly as if she had been one of the participants.

  “…could ruin everything.” A man’s agitated growl.

  “I tell you, nothing will go wrong as long as you keep your head about you,” said a second voice, more commanding than the first.

  “He is heading right to the same region! I heard them talking in there!” The rasped words sounded like a yell in the silence of the garden.

  “Stop worrying. The Continent is a vast place. You will not run into him, and even if you do, you will say that you are there to trade. A perfectly legitimate business.”

  “So you say. It will not be your neck on the line if I am the one to get caught.”

  “It had better not be.” The second person’s tone had turned decidedly menacing. “You have to return here anyway. If someone questions or follows you, we will just sell them all here. There is nothing illegal in that. We won’t get the best price, but we may have to…”

  The wind came up again, and RyAnne could hear no more of the conversation, but she suddenly didn’t feel so at ease in the garden. Goose bumps pebbled her arms and not because of the fever. She rose quickly, tossed a glance toward the far wall, and then made her way back in the direction she had come, forgetting for the moment anything but getting back inside. As she hurried along the garden path, the shadows were no longer friendly. The night sounds were no longer soothing but instead caused tremors to race up her spine.

  However, it wasn’t until she realized she was running from two people she’d probably known all her life that she gave a little gasp. The import of the thought slowed her steps as it made its way into her fever-numbed brain. She halted at the base of the steps leading up to the long portico that stretched the length of the Harcourts’ ballroom. She glanced over her shoulder into the darkness.

  Indeed, almost all attending the ball tonight were people RyAnne had known since she was just a child. The island of Zanzibar was like a small town. Everyone knew everyone else’s business. So who could possibly have been talking in the garden? And what was it that they didn’t want someone to know about? And who was that someone the first man in the conversation so dreaded meeting on the Continent?

  Her curiosity got the better of her. She turned and took a step back down the path, intending to discover who was out there. Behind her one of the French doors banged open. “There you are! RyAnne, Mother is looking franti—”

  RyAnne squeaked and spun around, the blood draining from her head in a knee-weakening rush. “Jasmine!”

  “Whatever is the matter?” Jasmine eyed her questioningly.

  RyAnne pressed one hand to her chest as if by so doing she could calm the pounding of her heart.

  Mother bustled up behind Jasmine. “RyAnne! I’ve been looking everywhere for you! You’re supposed to be playing in less than five minutes, and you don’t even have your violin in hand. Where is it?”

  “I-I’m sorry, Mother. I went for a walk in the garden and lost track of the time. I’ll only be a min—”

  “See to it then.” Mother cut her off with an impatient dismissal of her hand as she disappeared back inside.

  Jasmine tossed her a sympathetic glance before following Mother into the flurry of the ballroom.

  RyAnne wrapped her arms around herself and dropped her head back. A falling star blazed across the inky blackness and faded to nothing at the edge of the horizon. Would that she could disappear as easily.

  “You’ll do fine.”

  She spun toward the voice.

  Captain Dawson stood in the shadows between the two farthest windows, one shoulder resting against the plaster of the house, arms folded over his chest. “I’ve heard none better than you on a fiddle, and I’ve traveled a fair bit these past years.”

  She swallowed away her pleasure at the compliment and lifted her chin. “It’s a violin.” She cringed inwardly. The statement had emerged with much more condescension than she’d intended.

  The corner of his mouth ticked up, but he nodded acquiescence to her correction and sauntered toward her. “Where is your favorite place to play?” He stopped at her side and turned his attention to the night sky.

  “I don’t play often when we are at our Stone Town residence. But back home at our plantation I go out into the indigo fields.” Why was she even engaging in conversation with this boor after the way he’d treated her earlier?

  He moved so they stood face to face and looked down at her. “When you are playing tonight then, close your eyes and imagine yourself there.”

  She eyed him quizzically.

  “Imagine fields awash in blue blooms. The scent of the indigo swirling all around you. The brush of the wind against your face.” He stroked her cheek with the back of one finger, as softly as the caress of a butterfly wing.

  Her eyes widened, and she held her breath. Like a zebra colt in sunshine, her heart seemed to kick up its heels. Where had this tender side of the man been hiding all the years she’d known him?

  As though the gesture had surprised him, he stepped back and thrust his fists into the pits of his arms, returning his attention once more to the spangle of stars overhead.

  Imagine she was elsewhere? Why had she never thought of that? Still… She huffed. “The saying of such is a great deal easier than the undertaking.”

  He dropped his chin, indicating his disagreement, but he only said, “Maybe so.” He shrugged then, tilting her a cocksure smirk, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “The only solution in that case, I suppose, is for you to put as much effort into wooing the crowd as you did into seducing me this afternoon.”

  “Seduce—” Her jaw dropped. “Of all the—” With an unladylike growl, she hoisted her skirts and stormed away from the man, his laughter nipping at her heels.

  Suppressing a grin, Trent followed at a safe distance, imagining a trail of smoke and sparks wafting in her wake.

  Her anger carried her straight to her case, and she clenched her jaw as she swiped dark curls away from her face, tucked the violin beneath her chin, and tested the tuning. Two slight adjustments and she was apparently ready.

&nbs
p; The bandmaster, Bishop Tozer, gestured her over even as he continued to direct the current song. Tozer motioned her into a seat at the front of the musicians.

  Her green eyes were as wide as the bush baby that had howled in the tree outside Trent’s room the night before when he’d surprised it with the lantern light. And she looked just as ready to flee.

  Her mother and sister had settled in amidst the local ladies, Mrs. Hunter pretending she had no idea RyAnne was about to perform. Pretty soon she would titter and fan herself and then revel in the compliments her friends would give her over RyAnne’s performance. Like the proud owner of a performing monkey.

  He drew a slow, steady breath. Was it any wonder the girl was constantly running off in rebellion?

  He skimmed the rest of the room, reminding himself he was not here because of Miss Hunter. With interest, he took in Ali Khalifa speaking solemnly to Ryan Hunter across the room. Frustration coursed through him. He’d been following Khalifa in the garden earlier, but when he’d noticed Miss Hunter once again alone with no idea that danger lurked nearby, he’d been forced to stay close to assure her safety. Who had the man been meeting? And why had they needed to meet in the dark seclusion of the garden?

  A glint of light at the front of the room drew his attention. Brayden Harcourt stepped through the front door and shook hands with several near him, but his gaze caught on Miss Hunter and stuck fast, like a ship on a sandbar. Trent’s eyes narrowed. He’d seen the man the evening before at Azim’s Ale House, and the woman by his side had not merely been serving him drinks, and yet now he wasn’t even trying to disguise his interest in RyAnne.

  She sat quietly waiting for the current song to end, but the moment she noticed Harcourt, the smallest hint of a smile graced her lips. Harcourt nodded at her with a bold wink. Her face flushed and she fidgeted, studying the folds of her skirts.

  Trent clasped his hands behind him and shifted slightly. The girl once again toyed with fire. Harcourt was not—

  Confound it! He rubbed the back of his neck. What concern was it of his who she fancied? He’d be gone on the morrow anyhow, most likely never to see the troublesome lass again, thanks be to God.

  The ballroom began to quiet now, as those assembled realized Miss Hunter sat in preparation to entertain them.

  She raised her bow ready to draw the first note. Her gaze flicked to his, and in it he read all her insecurities. Despite her gallivanting rebellion, the girl truly wanted to please her mother. Yet for some reason, the matron would never be pleased.

  He’d meant what he told RyAnne earlier. She had a talent on the instrument like none he’d ever heard. She just needed to scuttle her fears, and she would do fine. He arched his brows and offered what he hoped was a reassuring dip of his chin.

  She stiffened, but then tucked the violin close and drew her bow across the strings. As the first note rang out strong and clear, she dropped her eyes closed, and he knew she was taking his advice. He couldn’t resist the tug of a smile. She would do fine.

  Across the room Harcourt shifted and folded his arms. Trent offered him a gentlemanly bow of greeting that Brayden returned, but the glint of assessment in his eyes did not bode anything but challenge.

  RyAnne couldn’t swallow down her terror despite Brayden’s sudden appearance. With a glance at Captain Dawson, she decided taking his advice couldn’t hurt and closed her eyes, imagining the indigo fields of home as she launched into the first notes of Franz Schubert’s “Serenade.” And when the sweet strains of the last note trilled from her strings and she opened her eyes to the applause filling the ballroom, she was surprised how quickly the time had passed.

  Mother adjusted her gloves, looking inordinately pleased but trying not to show it. Brayden gave a great whoop and raised a clap high above his head in a salute of appreciation. With a nod, he offered a big grin that she returned. Relief eased through her. She’d made it through one. One more to go.

  As she dropped a deep curtsy to the crowd, her gaze traveled to the back of the room of its own volition. Captain Dawson, one shoulder leaning against a support pillar and chin cupped in one hand, had a light shining in his eyes that she didn’t recall seeing before. He didn’t clap or whoop, but tipped his head as though to say he’d known she’d do well.

  And heaven’s mercy if her face didn’t heat up right here in front of the good Lord and everyone. She jerked upright and turned her gaze to the concert master, indicating she was ready.

  Mother’s brows lifted in disapproval, and she looked from RyAnne toward the back of the room in an obvious attempt to see who she’d been looking at.

  RyAnne gritted her teeth. Why was it a slight nod from the captain elicited more emotion than Brayden’s obvious and exuberant approval?

  She clenched her teeth and shook off the thought as she tucked the chin rest against her jaw and held her bow at the ready. The next piece they would play, a portion from Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D Major, was longer and would require all of her attention.

  This time she refused to cower in pretense of being in the fields back home. Instead, she studied the room as she played.

  Large crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, the flickering light of the candles, multiplied by their many facets. A huge gilt-framed portrait of Queen Victoria herself graced the wall opposite, while tapestries, paintings, and mirrors gave the large room the feeling of comfort and elegance. In several locations, in corners and along the walls, small groups of red, velvet-covered, high-backed chairs were arranged to allow quiet conversation among friends and family. Across the room she could see the large square opening, draped on either side by long red velvet curtains tied back by golden cords, that led to the billiards room. And through the opening, she could see the balding figure of her father, Ryan Hunter, in conversation with another man who stood just out of view.

  Relief flooded her. Finally she would get her chance to plead with Papa. She would go to him as soon as she was finished playing.

  Rory had suddenly appeared by Captain Dawson’s side at the back of the room, and the two leaned close together as they spoke, as though they didn’t want their conversation to be heard by anyone close by. What business could her brother have with the captain?

  Couples began to fill the dance floor now, and the knowledge that they would be paying more attention to each other than to the music allowed the notes to flow more freely—until Brayden pulled Mercy Carrigan, Jasmine’s best friend, onto the dance floor and tucked her so close no light could be seen between them.

  RyAnne’s bow squawked like a baboon, and Bishop Tozer frowned at her over his baton.

  She cringed an apology.

  By the time she’d recovered the timbre of her music and could find the couple in the milling crowd again, there was a proper amount of space between them, but Mercy was not smiling. As they twirled near Rory and Captain Dawson, Rory stepped forward and tapped Brayden on the shoulder to cut in. Mercy looked relieved but didn’t meet Rory’s gaze as he studied her. RyAnne’s curiosity piqued. Rory, darling brother, what have you been up to?

  Her focus returned to Brayden, who stalked along the far end of the ballroom and pushed through a set of double doors onto the veranda.

  Interestingly enough Captain Dawson casually sauntered in the same direction. He paused sporadically to respond to conversations directed his way, but his obvious intent remained on the doors where Brayden had disappeared. And as he finally moved out into the darkness outside, she swallowed. Would that be the last time she saw him for six months? It would be if all went according to plan this evening, and a trace of heaviness weighted her down at the thought.

  She gave herself a mental shake. And what if it was the last time she ever saw the annoying rogue? It made no difference to her. She had more important things to worry about tonight. A quick glance revealed Papa still in conversation just inside the billiards room.

  The song wound down, and after giving the proper curtsies in acknowledgement of the applause directed her
way, RyAnne hurried through the entry into the adjacent room, where she stopped quietly by her father.

  Please, God of mercy, don’t let Papa notice my fever, and grant me favor to change his mind.

  Papa turned to her with a smile. “RyAnne! Lovely playing, as usual. How are you dear?” But he didn’t give her a chance to respond, because he gestured to the man with whom he was speaking. “Ali Khalifa, may I present to you my youngest daughter, RyAnne. RyAnne, Ali Khalifa. Mr. Khalifa is commodore of the Harcourt fleet.”

  She curtsied deep, bowing her head slightly. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Khalifa.”

  “I assure you, madam, the pleasure is all mine.” Khalifa pressed the fist of one too-large hand into the palm of the other and bent forward at the waist, his head slightly inclined toward her. He was not a handsome man by any stretch of the imagination. He had overly large ears that stuck out from the sides of his head, and although his jet-black hair was combed neatly where it showed beneath his kofia, it did nothing to detract from his sharp, pointed nose. His lips, too pale for his dark face, were thin, and his black, beady eyes were too free in roaming from her head to her toes and back again.

  The room was suddenly overly warm, and RyAnne rubbed her palms together as Papa cleared his throat in obvious irritation.

  Now was her time to get her father alone on the dance floor. “Papa, will you dance with me?”

  Papa smiled affectionately. “RyAnne—”

  “Dr. Hunter!” A movement to their left drew his attention. “How good to see you!” Brayden’s father approached. “So sorry that I wasn’t here to welcome you when you arrived this afternoon. There was a problem out at one of the vats that had to be looked into right away.” William Harcourt extended his hand to Papa, then continued, “Miss Hunter. Nice to see you again. You will forgive me if I take your father away for a few minutes? David Livingstone has just arrived, and I know Ryan will want to meet him straight away. Khalifa.” He nodded at Ali, and then taking Papa by the arm, left RyAnne and Ali standing next to each other in awkward silence.