A Whisper Of Destiny

by Monica Barrie

  Something vaguely familiar tugged at Kira’s memory. Slowly, she walked her horse toward the rider, crop held tightly; it was a poor weapon, but the only one she had. When she drew closer, she recognized Sean Rouger.

  “You!” she hissed.

  “Did you think I would let you out of my life so soon?” asked the deep voice. “We must speak. It’s urgent.”

  “Murderer!”

  “How can you accuse me after what you witnessed?”

  “He was my cousin!”

  “As Francine is mine!” he countered defiantly. “Kira, I told you how I feel about you. I’m telling you again.” Kira glared at him. Sean felt he was only making matters between them worse. “Trust me. I cannot explain it to you now, but I would never do anything to hurt you or those close to you.”

  She was almost next to him now. Her anger increased as he spoke, and she rejected his words out of hand. At the same time, though, she wondered why she so desperately wanted to trust him.

  “No more!” she demanded, her back held ramrod-straight.

  “Hear me, woman. I have feelings for you. Our destinies are tied. I do not mean those words to be taken lightly.”

  Kira was abreast of him as he said these last words and, even in the darkness, she could see the deep glimmer of his eyes. Kira’s hand swung hard. The sound of the leather whip meeting the flesh of his face was like the crack when a tree is struck by lightning. Quickly, she drew her arm back to begin another blind swing, but before the crop reached his face, his hand caught her wrist in a grip of steel. Even without the aid of light she could see the red welt from her first quick blow forming on his cheek.

  Still gripping her hand, he spoke again, “When we meet again—and you can be assured we will—then…” Sean let the rest of the words go unsaid as Kira tried to pull her wrist free. “We must speak. It is urgent,” he told her as his fingers loosened on her wrist.

  “Murderer!” she spat the word at him again, trying to knee her horse away from his. She felt his fingers tighten, effectively preventing her escape.

  “Listen well, my fiery lady. Things are not always what they seem, nor do the words always mean what the listener hears. Our minds deceive us. We must look deeper for the truth and find it in the heart.” With that, Sean pulled Kira to him. Their horses touched briefly and were still. Sean’s free arm went around Kira’s back, crushing her against his chest as his lips covered hers.

  She tried to fight him, but his strength was too great. With the first touch of his lips, the heat she’d felt at their first meeting returned. Kira struggled vainly against his hard, muscled body and against the consuming fire rising in her breast—the beginning of her own growing, frightening desire.

  But the soft lips that pressed against hers were like the satin of her ribbons. The woman in her woke, breaking free and responding to his passion, until, finally, he released her.

  “Go, now, to your father,” he said gently. “But know this: you are the only person who has ever struck me and walked away. Never do it again!” he growled. He pulled his horse around hers and started off.

  Tears of rage ran down her cheeks as she galloped on toward Haven. She fought with herself, struggling to forget the sensation of his lips on hers, the feel of his chest against her breasts, and the intensity of his words. But one thought obliterated all the rest and filled her with foreboding: how had he known of her father’s condition?

  Sean rode only a few hundred paces before he reined in the roan stallion. He pivoted the horse smoothly, catching a last fleeting glance of Kira before she was engulfed by the darkness. His actions tonight infuriated him.

  “Damn!” he shouted at the unhearing palmetto trees, as he roughly pulled the reins, forcing the roan to turn back toward Charleston. He’d been a fool tonight. He’d done nothing right since he’d left Chatham’s house. His desires had overtaken him and he’d acted like a lust-filled boy. He had intended to explain himself and to try to enlist her aid. Instead, he’d made a stupid mess of it. Sean had never, in all his twenty-nine years, reacted this way to a woman. Even with Clarissa, his former fiancée, he had never felt the tremendous desire that Kira Cornwall aroused in him. But the hatred in her eyes and the fury that flamed at him had hurt him far greater than the blow of her crop.

  He had even spoken of her father. There was no way he could have known so soon of the attempt against her father’s life—but his parting words had been, “Go, now, to your father.”

  “Damn!” he repeated, as he pushed the stallion harder.

  CHAPTER 4

  Kira galloped between the massive oak trees that marked the entrance to Haven, oblivious to the gentle beauty of the dew sparkling on the tall trees lining the drive to the main house. Nor did she see the subtle rainbows rising as the sun reached the moist tiled roof. Her only thought was to reach her father’s side.

  She reined in the gelding and dismounted with a swift jump, throwing the reins to the stable boy who ran alongside. Kira flew across the hard-packed drive and leaped up the marble steps.

  The white double doors were already open. Mordichia, Haven’s houseman, was extinguishing the lanterns. Kira froze in mid-step when she saw the look on Mordichia’s face. The majordomo’s usually dignified features were dull, and his lips were drawn in a tight line.

  “He be in his room, Miss Kira,” were his only words of welcome.

  The tears standing in Mordichia’s eyes sent a chill through Kira. Her legs turned to lead as she started for the stairway that led upstairs to her father’s room. What awaited her above?

  As she walked up the long stairway, she was aware of the penetrating silence of the big house. She had never, in her twenty years of life here, found the house as still as it was tonight.

  Standing at the threshold of her father’s bedchamber, she peered in, summoning the courage to enter. Dr. Wycuff stood at the window, hands clasped behind him; Martha, Haven’s housekeeper, sat by the bedside wiping Jonathan Cornwall’s brow with a cloth, which she frequently dipped into a basin on the bed stand.

  Her father lay still on the large bed, his eyes were closed, his skin as pale as the linen sheets. She watched for several more seconds before she took her first, hesitant step inside. When she did, Dr. Wycuff turned and went to her side.

  “Kira!” The doctor held his voice to a whisper. “I’m glad you made it in time!”

  “In time?” Her voice quavered in spite of herself.

  “I’ve done everything I could. I didn’t want to move him but he refused to stay in Charleston. He insisted on being brought back to Haven. To die in his own bed and to see you once again.”

  Kira pushed past the doctor, waiting to hear no more. She felt her tears begin to trace wet paths down her cheeks. She reached the bed, wiped them away, and bent to kiss her father’s forehead.

  “Papa…” she whispered in a choked voice. “Oh, Papa. Can you hear me?”

  Jonathan Cornwall’s eyes flickered open and the barest hint of a smile played around the corners of his mouth.

  “I’m here, Papa.”

  Jonathan Cornwall raised his hand and Kira placed her own on it, feeling the pitiful weakness of her father’s grip.

  “Kira,” Cornwall whispered with effort. “My beautiful Kira... Be careful!” he gasped.

  “Papa! Rest. Rest now. You’ll be all right,” she said, looking at the doctor for confirmation. Wycuff turned his face from Kira, denying her even the small comfort of the lie.

  “Trea—treachery...” Kira’s father died, looking deep into his daughter’s eyes.

  “Papa…” whispered Kira, throwing herself onto her father’s still form. “Don’t leave me, Papa…don’t leave me…” she begged, as her arms went around him and she lifted him to her. Her tears rolled freely as she pressed her cheek against his still warm face. Grief overwhelmed her, and she cried bitterly for her loss.

  Dr. Wycuff motioned Martha to the bed as he tried to pull Kira away. She stiffened when his fingers fell on her shoulder.r />
  “Come,” he said softly, “Martha will take you to your room.”

  She shook her head vehemently “No! I’ll stay for a while. I need to be alone with my father.”

  The doctor nodded, then closed Jonathan Cornwall’s eyes for the last time. Turning, he motioned the housekeeper after him. Martha stopped at the doorway to look back at Kira, who remained at the bed. She wanted to speak some words of comfort, but she could say nothing; only the tears flowing as freely as her mistress’ showed her emotions.

  Kira sat on the edge of the bed and let her mind wander into the past, trying to relive all the good memories of her life with her father. She remembered how he had raised her, without the help of his wife, never once showing the slightest regret that he had been given a daughter instead of a son. He’d taught her to be a person, not another silly girl. She remembered the way he built Haven up from a swampy wasteland to one of the largest plantations on the northern shore of the Ashley River. She thought about his company and how he had divided his time between Charleston and Haven.

  She could almost feel his gentle hands when he taught her to ride and his unending patience when he’d taught her how to keep Haven’s books, so that someday she would be capable enough to inherit what Jonathan Cornwall had created and carry on his work.

  She remembered that long ago day, when her father had left the family business to start his own, after her father and Uncle James had argued so bitterly that they had irrevocably broken their business relationship. He told Kira afterward that he had started the business for her and that one day it would be hers. She did not know the exact reason for the feud between the brothers, but behind it lay their different political ideologies.

  On the surface, it was only business matters that separated them. They still maintained a family relationship, but Uncle James, the elder by five years, was the recognized family patriarch. Jonathan Cornwall never cared about that, as he had always been content with his own immediate family.

  Kira’s eyes flickered to the still form of her father and her tears came again. Outside, the voices of the slaves, singing hymns mourning the death of their master floated to her. The haunting sounds finally forced Kira up from the bed.

  She had responsibilities now, she realized—responsibilities to her father, to Haven and its occupants, and to herself. She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly as her hand reached for the door’s handle. But she could not say goodbye just yet. Again, Kira paused and looked back at her father.

  “You’ll be proud, Papa, I promise...” she said, as her trembling hand pulled the door open.

  <><><>

  Sean woke to the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder. When he opened his eyes, he saw the dark-shadowed eyes of Robert Chatham looking down at him.

  “Francine?” was his first question.

  “She’s come around.” Relief lightened the doctor’s voice.

  “When can I see her?”

  “Later, Sean. She’s awake, but she still needs rest. I gave her something to make her sleep for a while longer.”

  Sean rose, went to the basin that held warm water and washed his face. He dried it with the soft towel and turned back to Chatham. “Cornwall?” he asked.

  “Dead. Shortly after his daughter arrived home.”

  Sean nodded his head; a sadness for Kira and the grief she must be feeling flowed through him. “I’m sorry for the girl. But she’s strong, she’ll manage.”

  “I hope so,” sighed Chatham. “Her uncle’s a mean bastard!” Chatham shook his head disgustedly.

  “Jonathan knew his brother well. He’d have taken steps to protect Kira,” said Sean.

  “The man was only forty-five, Sean. He was as healthy as an ox!”

  “You think there’s no will?” asked Sean, his voice tinged with disbelief.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time!”

  Sean stared thoughtfully into space for several seconds, his handsome face troubled. “I want to know when the funeral is to be held. And I want someone to be near Kira Cornwall at all times.”

  “I’ll see to it,” said Chatham. “But let’s go downstairs now—there’s food waiting.”

  After both men ate, they returned to Chatham’s library, where they could speak freely without having the servants nearby. They talked urgently of the new plans they must now make. The biggest problem was the death of Jonathan Cornwall.

  “I just don’t understand it,” Chatham said as he selected a cigar. “Why would they kill him now? Jonathan Cornwall knew his brother would never agree with his political views; they hadn’t seen eye to eye in twenty years. But why wait until now to have him killed?” Chatham shook his head.

  “Perhaps James suspected he was helping us.” Sean rolled his own cigar between his fingers. “Perhaps he just couldn’t take the chance of having his brother turn him in.”

  “Perhaps, but there’s got to be something more.” Robert lit his cigar, then offered the flame to his friend.

  “I agree. I’ll have to get to Jonathan Cornwall’s offices and have a look around,” Sean decided, as he drew deeply on the cheroot.

  “No, you have to lay low for a few days and stay out of sight, unless you want James to find you.” Chatham paused, a shadowed smile forming at the corners of his mouth. “1 don’t even think your father could help you then.”

  Sean bit back an angry reply, quickly recognizing the jest and truth in his friend’s words. Before he could say more, Bella, Chatham’s housekeeper, interrupted them.

  “Miss Francine’s calling for you,” she said to both men, who jumped up and went immediately to the bedroom where Francine Rouger lay.

  Entering the room, Sean stared at Francine’s pale face, made even paler by the dark hair surrounding it. At the sight of the two, her features took on some animation. He breathed a sigh of relief as he walked to the edge of the bed and leaned over.

  Sean tenderly kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger on the coolness of her skin for a long moment. Then he straightened up, reaching for her hand.

  “Robert told me that you had to kill the boy,” she said in a weak, tremulous voice. Sean nodded, picked up the pitcher and glass on the night table, and poured water into the glass. As she drank from it, he supported her with a strong hand. Suddenly, incredibly, he began to laugh.

  When he had himself under control, he finally spoke. “I’m sorry. It is not at all funny, but I’ve just realized what kind of impression the witnesses must have of what happened.”

  “Impression?” she asked, puzzled.

  “Before Benjamin Cornwall died, he cried out, ‘You’ve both betrayed me!’ I realize now that everyone there must think that we’re lovers!” Again, Sean could not hold back his laughter. This time the laugh was echoed by Robert Chatham, and even Francine’s lips held a faint smile.

  “God,” exclaimed Sean, “if they only knew you were my sister!” Suddenly the constraint of their deception struck hard. They had decided to pose as cousins so that Sean, an unmarried man, would not be obligated, as custom decreed, to live at New Windsor with Francine while she was betrothed to Benjamin. He needed his freedom from curious eyes.

  Sean sobered and asked in a soft voice, “How are you…really?”

  Francine held his gaze for a while before she spoke. “I hurt, Sean.”

  He bent down again and stroked her hair softly. “I’m sorry, little one. I’d have given anything to have been the one who was injured.” He wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and then moved aside as Robert Chatham took his place.

  In a voice gentler than Sean’s, he asked Francine to drink some medication.

  Francine drank the medication and started to sit up. Chatham pushed her gently back. “No, you need rest, a good deal of rest.”

  She sighed and looked at her brother. “What will happen now? Sean, I’m sorry I ruined everything.” Francine’s eyes misted when she spoke. “But he hurt me—he kept hitting me and I couldn’t stop him” When Francine finished tellin
g Sean and Chatham what had happened, her eyes closed as the medication eased her toward sleep.

  “We’ll work it out. Don’t worry. You did not ruin anything.” Sean’s words held more reassurance than he felt, and he said them as much for himself as for her. When the two men left Francine, who was now soundly asleep, Sean’s mind began to work again. What would be his next step? He must start planning.

  “Robert, get a message to the Commodore. I must speak with him immediately.”

  CHAPTER 5

  It was a dark night, moonless. In the faint light from the buildings that surrounded Charleston Harbor, a passerby might, just might be able to make out the two men who were talking near the edge of a dock. One of the men was older, with a full head of gray hair that fell in smooth waves over his ears and neck. His face was deeply lined and bore the unmistakable look of authority. The other man was younger, but his hair, if the night had been light enough, would have been seen to sparkle with streaks of silver. Although he was almost twenty-five years senior, the gray-haired man listened to Sean Rouger with respect.

  “So, we have no choice,” concluded Sean grimly.

  “Not any longer,” agreed Commodore Theodore Finch. “We fished Jonathan’s man from the water last night. He wasn’t a pretty sight. And it certainly wasn’t the work of any creatures inhabiting these waters. Animals don’t torture other animals, only people do that.”

  “That’s why Jonathan Cornwall was killed. The man must have talked.”

  “I liked Jonathan,” lamented the Commodore fiercely. “He was a damned fine patriot! Blast that bastard of a traitor!”

  “James Cornwall will meet his justice, Commodore Finch, you have my word!” The Commodore, looking deep into Sean’s intense eyes, knew he spoke the truth.

  “What will your next step be?” Sean gathered his thoughts as he looked out over the harbor and the ships that rested peacefully there.