Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series)

by Heisinger, Sonja

  Everyone braced themselves against the sides of the rafts.

  “What is going on?” Adele asked, the present danger enough to break her long silence.

  “We’ve hit a bit of an obstacle course, it would seem,” Lucius told her. “Steady on. I’m sure our boatswains know what they are doing.”

  Evelyn tried to shush the boy, but the bungo jolted once more. She reached forward and grabbed Brock’s arm to steady herself.

  “I wonder if our boatswains have considered that we might avoid these dastardly collisions if we only row a bit slower,” Lucius shouted.

  “They can’t see every tree, ya bloody galah,” Brock retorted. “We go fast or slow, it’s a fair go this boat’s gonna take some damage.”

  They could hear the underwater foliage scraping below their feet. Evelyn wondered if their boatswains had prepared for this unsettling dilemma. Surely the natives had made this journey before, and recently? The Steam Rose was not the first to deliver California-bound travelers. Many had traveled this road as of late.

  But had all of them made it to Panama City, and in one piece?

  Had the curse of Chagres given chase? Was this some sort of evil enchantment, sent to cast all brave adventurers into the clutches of the river? These present souls had escaped the fever, but would they survive the jungle?

  As if to confirm her fears, Evelyn looked to the riverbank and saw the devastated carcass of an abandoned, overturned canoe.

  These trees could impale and sink them. They could be forced to swim ashore and conclude the rest of their journey by foot. Their belongings could be destroyed. They could be destroyed… for who among them even knew how to swim? Evelyn certainly did not, nor did the child in her care. Bartholomew was utterly helpless. If Evelyn could not save herself, how could she save him?

  She turned to catch a glimpse of his mother. Adele was gripping Josephine’s hand tightly, her eyes betraying her terror.

  Amidst her doubts, Evelyn fought to uphold her strength of mind, and seeing that Adele was in need of a little strength herself, she offered her the slightest hint of a smile. It was all she could conjure.

  Lucius sat at the tail end of the company, where he found himself studying his wife in the muted light. She looked frightened and uneasy, yet somehow courageous. When she smiled for Adele, Lucius received it for himself. If Evelyn could put on a brave face, so could he. After all, this was not the first time he had borrowed courage from Evelyn. Whether or not she knew it, which he supposed she did, he had been doing it their entire lives. Somewhere deep down, Lucius Flynn was a bit of a coward, while Evelyn Brennan would not diminish herself by becoming one. She had proven this when they were children, when Lucius was learning to ride his first horse. Evelyn had insisted upon joining him, though she had never ridden in her life.

  He had responded with a lofty, “you’re far too little. Wait till you are older, lass.”

  At this, she was indignant. Although he was nine years old and she was only seven, they were the same height.

  “I can do anything you can do, you silly boy,” she told him. “You’re just afraid I might best you because I am brave, and you only do what you are told to do.”

  “I do whatever I want,” he retorted, indignant.

  “I don’t believe it. You won’t take a step unless your father lays out a carpet for you. You’re too frightened to disobey him, and that’s why you won’t let me up on that horse. You are afraid of what your da would say.”

  “You’re bloody wrong! Get the devil up here.”

  He had swung an arm down and pulled her up behind him, and when he kicked the horse to launch into a gallop, she screamed and fell off the rear. Confident of his immediate consequences, he leapt from the horse and ran to her, praying to God she was not injured, lest he encounter the wrath of both their fathers.

  He heard her then, and knew with intense apprehension that she was crying. He knelt beside her, his death sentence looming over him, when she burst into laughter and flung mud in his face.

  “I told you I would best you,” she giggled. “Take a fall like that and we’ll be even!”

  As the memory faded, Lucius realized he had caught Evelyn’s eye, and they held one another’s gaze for the briefest of seconds. He felt something like a shock in his chest, and wondered what Evelyn could possibly be thinking and feeling in that moment, and if those thoughts and feelings were possibly bent upon him.

  The moment came to an abrupt close as her raft was thrust against another tree, causing her to lurch forward. A sharp crack cut through the thickness of night.

  Lucius blinked, and when he opened his eyes, Evelyn was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter Twenty

  Stillness settled around them as the bungo was corrected, but it lasted no longer than a few seconds. Bartholomew had been flung from Evelyn’s arms, colliding with the broad back of Brock Donnigan and landing in a heap on the hard, hollow bottom of the raft. The quiet shock stretched only as long as it took for the child to catch his breath.

  He began to scream, while Lucius called out Evelyn’s name.

  The noise seemed to waken the others from a stupor. All at once, everyone in the company craned their necks to look into the water.

  It was black as obsidian, and Evelyn was lost beneath it.

  “Where has she gone?” Adele asked, her voice peaked with fear.

  “Overboard!” Brock shouted. He turned sharply to the natives. “Stop rowing, you bloody fools!”

  The current was against them, and Evelyn’s body would be drifting downriver.

  “She cannot swim!” Lucius cried.

  Adele watched with a quiet, horrified expression. Beside her, Josephine clung to her arm, her eyes fastened upon Brock.

  “Josephine, Mrs. Whitfield,” Lucius began, “you must counter my weight. Lean to the right while I search for Miss Brennan.”

  The women obeyed as Lucius plunged his arms into the water.

  “Please, God,” he muttered. “Please, God.”

  He felt nothing, and at once he knew that simply breaking the surface was not enough.

  He must dive in after her.

  * * *

  Evelyn found herself waving frantic arms in search of some security, but instead discovered a surreal sensation of floating nothingness. There was no wood beneath her feet, no rail to steady herself, no sturdy human form to cling to. Where was the boy? He was no longer in her embrace.

  In a blur of confusion she realized she could not breathe, but was instead lost in a thick swirl of moving water. She had fallen into the river, with nothing below, nothing beside, and nothing above to give her leverage. She struggled, but in what direction she advanced, she did not know. Was she sinking? Was she ascending? She clawed at the water but found no form of resistance. She tried to swim, but did not know how, and the current seemed to scoff at her attempts. She was tossed against the stump of an old tree and the impact forced the remaining oxygen from her lungs.

  A foreign pressure sank against her chest as her heart threatened to stop. She thought she heard a muffled cry, and wondered if it had come from inside her, when something touched her arm. It wrapped itself around and lifted her up, up to the surface of the river and out of the water’s clutch.

  Brock pulled Evelyn into the raft, her long dress heavy from the weight of the water. She coughed, the pressure in her chest lessening with every sputter, her ribs aching from her collision with the stump.

  Her senses were a bit muffled. She could faintly hear Adele worrying over her, the natives speaking in their exotic tongue, and Brock insisting there was no harm done, that she would be all right.

  Her wet clothes inspired a deep and racking chill. Brock quickly pulled the shirt from his back to drape about her shoulders, and she noticed that Bartholomew was sitting quietly in front of him, his eyes watchful and wide with curiosity.

  Downriver, Lucius emerged from the surface of the water to catch his breath and gather his bearings.

  “Luc
ius!” Brock hollered.

  Lucius shot a look in his direction.

  “I got her, mate. She’s safe.”

  Lucius stared a moment, struggling to understand. He wiped the water from his eyes and saw her: a frail, wet bundle in the raft beside Brock. He nodded, relieved, and searched for his own boat. Getting back into that thing without capsizing it was going to be a bloody challenge. He hadn’t thought about that when he leapt into the water after Evelyn. Her life had been the sole item on his mind.

  Josephine and Adele managed to assist him, and once he was safe and settled, he ran his fingers through his dripping hair, his heart racing.

  “My God, Evelyn,” he shouted across the river. “We nearly lost you.”

  She turned to look at him, taking in his sodden appearance. Had Lucius fallen into the river as well? Shivering, she pulled Brock’s shirt a bit closer.

  “What happened?” she managed to ask, teeth chattering.

  Silently, Brock produced a flask and unscrewed the cap. He offered it to Evelyn.

  “Have a swig, Duchess. It’ll do you good.”

  It smelled of rum, and Evelyn did not have the discipline to abstain. She took a large, confident swig. Upon first taste, the beverage was potent and smooth, but quickly turned hot and sharp as it passed through her throat, painfully catching on its way down. She began to cough, but chased it down with another drink.

  Brock raised his eyebrows and chuckled.

  “My, my. First cigars, now liquor. What kind of duchess are you?”

  Evelyn returned the flask and Brock took a swig himself.

  “A thirsty one,” she replied. “Now, do not finish that, Mr. Donnigan, as I shall like some more when you are through.”

  Brock smirked.

  “We hit a protrusion in the water, and you took quite a plunge,” he explained.

  “Lucius as well?”

  “He jumped in after you, love. The boy’s not bloody worthless, after all. It was a wasted effort, however, for you were within my reach. The poor blighter should have known I had you.”

  Evelyn gazed at Lucius, whose distant expression was veiled in the surrounding darkness. Josephine was fussing over him, using her smock to help him dry.

  Evelyn felt alarmed over his recklessness. The river had given her quite a beating. What would compel Lucius to risk it? It was a wonder they had not encountered any snakes or any other such vile creatures. The jagged river trees were frightful enough without the black water shrouding any other frightful perils that were likely to exist. She shuddered at the thought. Lucius could have been killed! Was he so eager to relive his recent near-death experience? His body was still recovering from the cholera. If the current had been stronger, he would have been powerless against it. He could have been swept away, or impaled on some bloody branch.

  Brock felt Evelyn’s apprehension over Lucius, and the effect made him sore with jealousy.

  “Drink up, Duchess,” he said quickly. “He’s fine. No need to worry.”

  Their wits were exhausted by the time they emerged in clear waters. Their bodies were racked, their spirits worn. Evelyn was still cold and damp, and Lucius remained stiff with the idea that she had nearly drowned. He found himself stealing a look at her from time to time, just to make sure she was there, that she was alive. The night wore on, however, and the evening’s events were enough to make him drowsy. Eventually, his head tottered to the side and he fell asleep.

  Evelyn and Brock continued to pass the flask while Evelyn listened to Brock’s stories of his homeland. Brock was a great storyteller when he had a bit of rum in him, and Evelyn felt as though she had gone into a trance. Though her body was sore from her mishap in the river, it began to feel like a distant dream. The night was beautiful, the jungle was alive and exotic. She felt heavy but light, her head swam, and she was felicitously happy. Somehow everything Brock said was either fascinating or uproarious; she found herself nodding vigorously and laughing incessantly, her heart swollen with the way his eyes devoured her in the dim moonlight.

  The giddiness eventually wore into sleepiness, the lightness gave way to weightiness, and soon Evelyn found her head beginning to droop. Bartholomew had already fallen asleep in a small bundle at her feet, and Brock had ceased telling his tales. All on the river surrendered to silence.

  The jungle noises were like a lullaby that Evelyn could no longer ignore. She was lured into tranquility and she allowed herself to fall forward, resting her head against the Australian’s strong and welcoming shoulder. He turned his head a little, leaned back, and rested his chin against the crown of her head, the course hair of his unshaven jaw tickling her skin. The sensation roused her and as her lids fluttered, her eyelashes brushed against Brock’s neck, causing his breath to catch somewhere in his throat.

  Evelyn watched the dark shoreline as they glided past, imagining strange forms dancing in the blackness. Brock reached back and claimed her hand, and with his thumb he traced the lines of her palm, inspiring a blush to burn hot beneath her skin. She lifted her eyes to meet his and found them gazing back at her, hard and alluring.

  She was driving him mad. It was a wonder he had kept his sanity this long. Evelyn Brennan needed only to look upon a man to make him burn with desire. This was a queen who knew her power, and she had used it to rule over him since the moment he stepped aboard the Steam Rose. She led him about on a string, and as much as the chase thrilled him, he was desperate now to close in on the kill.

  She was Lucius’ wife, but she no more belonged to him than she belonged to any other man. Lucius, however, wanted to believe that he held some rights to his wayward bride, though he was steadily becoming conscious of the fact that his mare was unbridled. It was obvious this concerned him, as Brock watched the way Lucius looked at Evelyn. His gaze had altered since the night of the cholera outbreak, and Brock knew he needed to secure her affections before that Irish dunce did.

  He peered past her at Lucius, who had fallen asleep in the opposite bungo. He seemed harmless at this distance: unconscious and frail, like a child. Certainly no match for Brock, who was more advanced in years, experience, strength, and looks, if he may say so himself.

  Evelyn had entered a subdued state of drunkenness. Under the influence of rum and the moon, she was soft and malleable. Brock saw the concession, the surrender in her eyes.

  Her defenses were down. The liquor had softened her, had torn down her wall of propriety. Brock welcomed the change.

  He pulled her face to his, his lips seeking hers and fiercely, hungrily claiming them.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  She responded, her mouth joining a subconscious rhythm with his, moving passionately in response to his pursuit. Her hand reached up and clasped his hair, her fingernails tracing patterns against his skin. As he exhaled she breathed him in; she could taste the rum on his breath, an amber richness both sweet and bold. He pressed a broad hand to the back of her head, smashing her mouth painfully against his. She sensed his hunger and allowed herself to reciprocate. Her insides twisted and ached in a way that was completely foreign.

  And yet, the sensation upon her lips was strangely familiar. As though she had been kissed before.

  All at once, pieces of a vision flashed across her memory.

  A storm.

  A garden.

  Lucius.

  She heard the roll of thunder, the laughter of a child; smelled the wetness of the earth, the sweetness of a rose. And this sharp, painful beating of her heart… she had felt this before. But from when? And where? Was it a dream? Or déjà vu? Or merely the recollection of a childhood fantasy?

  Whatever it was, she grew acutely uncomfortable and pulled away.

  “What’s wrong?” Brock whispered, his voice hoarse and deliberate.

  The rum was wearing off and though her body still felt peculiar, her mind was clearing. She was kissing Brock. Brock Donnigan. And she, Evelyn Brennan, was yet a married woman.

  “I’m so sorry,” she told him, her voice nea
rly lost in shame. “I should not have done that.”

  Brock laughed.

  “Of course you should have. We want each other. It’s only right, Duchess.”

  She shook her head.

  “You are the first man I have ever kissed.”

  She did not add that she might have once kissed a boy.

  “Then kiss me again,” Brock persuaded, “and I shall also be the second.”

  “No, it is not right. Not yet. Not like this.”

  Brock did not find this amusing in the least.

  “Don’t toy with me, love,” he said seriously.

  He attempted to sway her with another kiss, but she refused.

  “I am yet married, Mr. Donnigan,” she protested.

  “I see no ring.”

  “That does not change the law.”

  “In my world,” Brock said, “rules are meant to be broken, and a moment ago, you seemed all too willing to be my accomplice.”

  “I apologize,” Evelyn blushed. “I had too much to drink.”

  “All the more reason to move forward.”

  “Lucius has agreed to divorce me, Brock. I shall soon be free to be claimed.”

  “Then why wait? I wish to claim you now.”

  “Impossible. It is a sin.”

  “Duchess, you and I both know the sin is already committed. I sin every time I think of you. Can you deny that you do the same?”

  She had no words, and Brock smirked.

  “Give in to me, Evelyn.”

  She stood her ground.

  “Wait for me, Brock.”

  He sighed with frustration.

  “You are one hell of a player, Miss Brennan. I have never known a more stubborn woman.”

  “Can a woman be chastised for purity?”

  “I despise your purity. It drives me insane.”

  “Then you are no good for me. I do not know why I waste my time.”