Calhoun Chronicles Bundle (44 page)

The runaway’s touch was impersonal, even reluctant, that of necessity. Hunter’s had never been impersonal, not even the first time he had touched her.

Twilight had fallen by the time they reached the cove, but Eliza knew the area well. “We can wait here.” She indicated an ancient twist of driftwood. One side of it had been charred by fire. When? she wondered. When had her father last helped a fugitive?

“You got to go back,” the man said.

“Shouldn’t I stay with you?”

“Best you don’t see this. Less you knows, the better,” he said.

Conceding his point, she handed him a tin of lucifers for making the fire.

“Godspeed,” she said, walking backward, watching him.

The fugitive said nothing. His eyes were the eyes of a dead man. He lifted one hand and then sat down on the sand to wait.

Eliza lay abed that night and tried to sleep, but she could not. Her thoughts were filled with Hunter Calhoun. He had been exuberant at supper because of the progress the horse had made. He’d grown merry with the rum and had not noticed her silence or the glances she kept aiming at the door. Pleading fatigue, she had gone to bed early, and he had taken his flask to the hammock on the porch.

Now, hours later, her body wept for him. He had lost all interest in her after that one kiss. She was embarrassed each time she recalled her fumbling conversation that evening. How stupid he must have thought her. How naive.

Restless, she lit a candle and opened her favorite book. Jane Eyre’s troubles seemed so much more comprehensible to her now. She wondered if that was what she was feeling—the torment of confusion Charlotte Brontë described. It certainly sounded as if poor Jane was in a fix. Mr. Rochester kept a terrible secret locked away—his mad wife, hidden in the attic. What awful secret did Hunter Calhoun conceal, back at the place called Albion?

She felt so jumpy that even Jane and Mr. Rochester couldn’t keep her attention. It was the runaway. Like Hunter Calhoun, he was an unexpected visitor. And like Calhoun, he posed a danger to her solitary way of life.

She began to enumerate the things that could go wrong. The runaway might fall asleep. A noise might frighten him. The wrong ship might spot the signal and send a shore party to investigate. What had her father done on nights like this? She needed him now, needed his wisdom, his certainty.

After a few minutes she convinced herself. She had no choice but to go to the cove and wait with the fugitive.

She slipped from her bed and dressed in a hurry. Gingerly she opened the door and crept barefoot across the porch. Praying the planks would not creak, she inched over the floor, keeping an eye on the long, sagging form sleeping in the hammock.

He lay half in moonlight, half in shadow. The neutral tones created by moon and darkness gave his features the silvery smoothness of chiseled marble. His weary masculine beauty caught at her heart. In sleep, the worldly, cynical expression was gone. He merely looked vulnerable, perhaps a little sad. She thought of the engraving in her lithograph collection of the wounded Celt. That was how he looked to her. Like a fallen warrior, one who had surrendered his soul to the darkness.

She reached the edge of the porch and turned away with a self-deprecating smile. She had never had such romantic thoughts, never considered herself capable of them. That was the trouble with learning all she knew from books. The abstract was not anything like the actual experience. Her father had tried to explain this to her, but she had never understood it until now.

She never understood the pain of yearning for intimacy. Now it was a part of her.

She stepped down into the yard and heard a distant hissing sound. High over the tops of the cedars at the north end of the island, a signal flare blossomed and then descended. She picked up the hem of her skirt and ran, stubbing her toe on a root but not stopping. Caliban loped at her side.

She prayed Hunter had not awakened. Probably not. She had found him to be a sound sleeper, particularly after he drank.

He drank every night. The jug of rum that had been sitting for years in the root cellar was nearly empty. She wondered if he would go too, when the rum ran dry.

She should not be thinking of Calhoun at all, but of the fugitive.

By the time she reached the cove, the signal fire flamed high into the night. Motioning for Caliban to stay back and keep quiet, she called softly to the runaway.

“It’s me,” she said. “I wanted to be sure you’re all right.”

“I’m all right, missy. Don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

They watched in anxious silence. The ship’s stern light formed a tiny, bright pinprick in the distance. They didn’t speak any more as they waited. She wished she had learned the rules from her father. But she understood why he had kept this from her. The less she knew of those who crossed the island, the better off everyone would be. Escaping slaves knew this instinctively. They mistrusted everyone, and Eliza could feel the sting of that distrust. She didn’t blame the fugitive, didn’t resent his silence.

A bumboat appeared gradually, blackness out of blackness. Eliza could feel anxiety seething from the runaway. “Keep to the shadows,” she whispered. “I’ll make certain this is no trick.” She motioned with her hand, and he fell back to wait and watch. Caliban whined once, but a sharp shush from Eliza quieted the big dog.

A lone figure rowed the boat with strong, even strokes. She waded out to meet it as it slid up onto the sand. The rower turned; in the dark she couldn’t see his expression. Under a knitted cap, he had light-colored hair that curled over his shoulders. He was strong but slender, not so broad as Hunter Calhoun—

Immediately she grew exasperated with herself. Was everything about Hunter Calhoun, then?

The boat beached itself in the shallow water. Caliban greeted it with a rumble of warning. The rower turned, showing a remarkably youthful face. In the firelight, his clothing looked extraordinary—a silk waistcoat of lime green, no shirt beneath. Around his waist he wore, pirate fashion, a tangerine-colored sash. Stuck in the sash were at least four weapons, including a seaman’s dirk and a pistol.

“Are you the delivery I was told to collect?” the man asked softly.

She shook her head, slightly bemused by his question. In the dark, with her wild black hair and her ragged clothes, she might well resemble a runaway slave. “I’m a friend,” she said simply.

The man’s hand closed around the handle of the dirk. “Where is Henry Flyte?”

“He’s dead. I’m his daughter.”

The sharp gaze raked over her as if probing her for falsehoods. Then he said, “Everything’s ready. By daybreak, we’ll be in northern waters.”

Even his voice, with its smooth Virginia accent, held a curiously familiar note, she thought, beginning to panic. She had to stop seeing Hunter in every man, hearing his voice in everything spoken by a man.

“Is it just one passenger?” he asked.

She nodded.

With a metallic snick, he drew the knife from his garish belt and stood up. “Then why are two men coming toward us?”

Eliza whirled around. The fugitive stood as if frozen by fear. A bigger, broader form hurried across the beach.

Dear God, Hunter Calhoun. He had followed her.

She stood immobile, thinking of words that wouldn’t form on her lips. She had no idea what impulse to obey. Should she call out to Hunter and warn him of the dagger, or should she beg him to forget what he saw here?

“By the Almighty,” the man in the boat murmured. He stepped out, slogged through the water and strode ashore.

Eliza braced herself, inhaling for a scream. The two men were nearly equal in size, Hunter slightly larger. They hurried toward each other like a pair of stags about to tangle antlers.

But the boatman didn’t wield his knife. Instead, he put it away and spread his arms wide. While Eliza and the runaway watched in astonishment, the two big men drew each other into a bear hug.

Hunter stepped back, grinning. “It’s been too long, brother,” he said.

T
he
Spolia Opima
was one of the most elusive secrets of the Underground Railroad. Expertly skippered by a man known only as “Mr. Swan,” the sleek, swift oceangoing schooner had transported dozens of escaped slaves over the years. In certain circles the ship was spoken of in the hushed, reverent whispers reserved for legends and tall tales. It moved through the glassy night waters like a ghost ship, breaking away from the horizon to head to the next secret anchorage. Its favored haunts were the low, shifting islands of the Chesapeake and the Outer Banks, places separated and isolated by the tides. And Flyte Island, with its proximity to the mainland and its protected deepwater anchorage, was the preferred rendezvous, and had been for years. By moonlight, the waiting slaves sneaked aboard, snatched from forced servitude and taken to places in the north where they would be, if not safe, at least free.

“What a marvel,” Eliza said softly as she and Hunter walked back to the house. “But I feel so foolish, with this going on between my father and your brother, and all the while I had no idea.”

Hunter cast a look over his shoulder. Ryan and the runaway slave had already been swallowed by darkness. Soon they would be aboard the
Spolia Opima,
sailing north with a good headwind.

“You weren’t supposed to know,” he said.

“What about you?” She grabbed his arm. “You knew, didn’t you? You knew when you saw that ship flying a red topsail.”

“True. I didn’t realize his rendezvous was this particular island, but I know what my brother has been doing.” Hunter gently disengaged his arm. His heart swelled with pride for his younger half brother. Ryan Calhoun had always been reckless, vain, amusing, and ultimately driven by his convictions, no matter how dangerous or unpopular.

Eliza’s reaction amused Hunter. She had been so flabbergasted to see him embrace the boatman on the beach.

“I’m telling you more than is prudent for you to know,” he said. “But aiding the cause of abolition is not as unthinkable as you’re making it out to be.”

“You’re from a Virginia family. Your father was a planter. Why would your brother be working to end slavery?”

“It’s a long story. Ryan and I each rebelled against our father in different ways.”

“And you approve of Ryan’s work?”

“For all my faults, I do possess a small bit of human decency. If a man desires to escape bondage, it’s not for me to stand in his way. Ryan always knew I’d help him if he needed it.” Hunter grinned, savoring the look of shock on Ryan’s face when they had met on the beach. He’d quickly explained about the Irish Thoroughbred. Ryan had subjected Eliza to a long, measuring stare, and said a curious thing, “Brother, you seem more content out here than I ever saw you at Albion.”

Hunter and Eliza returned to the house. She was clearly too agitated to go back to bed right away. She built up the fire under the kettle for tea and paced back and forth, throwing inquisitive glances at Hunter.

“I’ve not grown antlers or a tail,” he said, chuckling.

“How does the escape work, then?”

He found himself noticing her body as she paced, and thinking of how it felt to hold her in his arms. That thought led to even less appropriate thoughts. He had to force his mind back to the issue at hand.

“Ryan and his wife, Isadora, keep a town house in Norfolk. He’s a legitimate shipper, has a good clean record for runs between New England and Rio de Janeiro.” Noticing the puzzled expression on her face, he added, “That’s in Brazil—South America. On his return runs from Rio, he makes port in Virginia and takes on his…passengers,” he said cautiously. “Anyway, that is how it works, more or less.”

She added a pinch of loose tea leaves to the kettle. She made her own, of rose hips and wild chamomile, and the brewing fragrance filled the small cabin. Adding a dollop of honey to a tin cup, she poured tea over it and handed it to him.

“No, thanks,” he said. “I thought I’d have rum.”

“You always have rum. Why is that?”

“Because there’s no whiskey,” he said.

She had a way of looking at him that made him feel guilty for drinking. Not accusatory. Just melancholy, perhaps. Disappointed in him.

Scowling, he said, “Fine, I’ll try the tea.”

She beamed at him, her cheeks coloring up with a blush. Were he a man given to flattery, he would have told her she had a beautiful smile. He would have told her that her unusual eyes, mist colored with a dark fringe of lashes, were entrancing. He would have told her that the sight of her small, lithe body did wild things to him and that he yearned to kiss her full, sweet lips again.

Instead, he took the cup from her and sipped the tea. The flower-sweet taste wasn’t terrible.

But it wasn’t rum, either.

“So now we share a secret,” he said, going out to the porch.

“Do you only have the one?” She leaned against the rail.

“One what?”

“One secret. I consider you to be the sort of man to have more than one.”

He laughed. “You’re so strange,” he said, “and I like you so damn much.”

She stared at Hunter as if he had spat frogs.

He spread his arms with elaborate innocence. “Shall I apologize?” He laughed again, amazed that he could be in such a good mood without the aid of strong drink. “Let’s go up to the roof and see if we can spot Ryan’s ship.”

Once they had climbed aloft, Eliza was consumed by the thought that it was here that her father had passed so many nights looking out to sea.

“Here I thought he was just being whimsical,” she murmured. “I had no idea the platform was meant for a secret purpose.”

Hunter sat on the roof beside her, drawing one knee up to his chest and surveying the long, moonlit marshes and the dunes beyond. “It’s a hell of a view. You can see for miles when the moon is up and the stars light the sky. Look, there goes the schooner.”

She felt a curious jolt of emotion when she saw the ship silhouetted against the night sky. “There it goes,” she whispered. “Godspeed.”

He touched her hair, brushing a wisp of it away from her cheek. “What’s the matter?”

“I thought I knew my father. Now, long after his death, I find out there was a whole part of his life he kept hidden from me.”

“For your own good, Eliza. Abolition’s a dangerous business. He probably figured the less you know, the less you’d be held accountable for if anyone came sniffing around.”

“If one of Albion’s slaves ran away, would you go after him?” she asked.

He surrendered the lock of her hair and leaned back on his elbows. “There are no slaves at Albion. Haven’t been since my father died. Folks said I should sell them off to pay the debts, but instead I freed them all and sent them off to find their fortunes where they may.”

She felt an unexpected warm wash of pleasure. “You’re not just saying that.”

“No. I actually did it. Only Nancy, who is old and blind, and Willa, who is old and ornery, have stayed on. The rest all went north or west.”

The warmth stayed with her, mingling with other things she was starting to feel for Hunter Calhoun—pride, trust.
Wanting.
She had not forgotten that the last time they’d been on the roof, Hunter had kissed her. She wondered if he would do it again, and the sharpness of her yearning embarrassed her.

“What are you smiling about?” he asked.

“I’ve got a right to smile.” She tried to look away, hide her face from him, for she was afraid he’d look at her and know exactly what she was thinking.

He caught her cheek in the palm of his hand and said, “I know exactly what you’re thinking.”

She nearly choked with surprise. “How?” she blurted.

“Because I’m thinking the same thing.” Then, wasting no more time, he settled his mouth over hers and kissed her. She was lost instantly. The speed of her surrender was shameful; the eagerness of her response, shameless. She arched forward, wanting a closeness and intimacy she understood only vaguely, wanting
him
in a way that touched her every nerve ending with flame.

He stopped kissing her for a moment, long enough to pull back and stare down at her. His face lay in shadow, but she knew he could see hers in the starlight. She wondered what it was he saw there, what made him whisper her name on that quavering note and then dip down again to kiss her, long and roughly, as if some will besides his own were forcing him to do this to her.

After he said her name, just once, in a whisper, neither of them spoke again. Words had no place in whatever strange communion they shared. She wanted him; she strained toward him. This was what had kept her awake for so many nights, feeling so alone. This was what she had hungered for. She was consumed by the same primal instinct of a mare in season, the instinct that made a horse tear her flesh on sharp brambles and swim great distances to find a stallion. Now Eliza knew the feeling of needing something so badly that it didn’t even matter if she wounded herself in the process.

He took hold of the hem of her smock and peeled it upward, and then did the same with her shift. She didn’t cover herself, even though she knew the milky light spilled freely over her bare breasts, concealing nothing. She didn’t even cover herself when he removed her drawers and lifted her onto the outspread dress, using the garment as a blanket. She didn’t recoil with shyness as he studied her frankly, his eyes dark and glittering as they swept over her. And she didn’t look away when he took off his shirt and trousers and lay on his side next to her.

He looked beautiful in the way the stallion was beautiful. His skin had a fine-grained, polished look to it, and his musculature had the firmness of a marble sculpture. She stared at him, all of him, too dazed to be abashed. And then, still in the grip of the wildness inside her, she touched.

He made a sound like the hiss of a bead of water on a hot stove. Thinking she had hurt him, she started to pull away, but he covered her hand with his to keep it there.

And then he touched—everywhere, invading her most sensitive and vulnerable places, without a single word of explanation. And the whole time he was touching her, he watched with a frank, intent stare. He watched his fingers circle her breasts, pulling at the tingling tips. He watched his hand skim slowly and inexorably down her torso, trailing over the soft skin of her belly toward the nest of curls. He watched her fall limp upon the slope of the roof and arch the small of her back upward. Her neck grew taut as her legs grew slack while he touched lightly, then harder. Quickly, then slower. And he watched her look up at the stars.

Did he know they changed color before her very eyes? Did he know that each and every star in the sky exploded into a rainbow-hued blossom, that the sound that leaped from her throat was a sound of joy, even though it sounded like pain?

She reached for him urgently. She had to taste him again, to speak without words, because she had no idea what words to say. She caught at his shoulders and drew him downward, all the while reaching up with her whole body and her whole burning will. She kissed him as he had kissed her, hard and searchingly, with a hunger that knew no satisfaction. The taste of him overwhelmed her: sweetness and sweat and something as distant and indefinable as the spaces between the stars.

Responding to her hunger, he moved closer still, so that their bodies were aligned, touching in a hundred places, the friction striking sparks in the night. Her body knew what she wanted before her mind did, and she made it happen, bringing him lower, pressing up toward him, urging and guiding him. He settled over her with a controlled gentleness, like a blanket flicked out to the wind and then drifting downward in a dreamlike motion, covering her, yet barely touching her, his flesh just skimming hers. She tipped herself up higher to receive him. With a single breath he signaled resistance and then surrender, holding back, and finally sinking down, filling her. The heat and the pain shocked her, and she felt her every muscle stiffen as she cried out. Yet when he braced his arms on either side of her and prepared to draw away, she caught at him again and held him close, closer than she could imagine. Aye, she felt the pain of their joining. Yet with an inner wisdom that came from a source she could not name, she knew what lay on the other side of that pain.

The moment he had sunk into her she had glimpsed a lightning bolt, and she knew that if she surrendered to him completely, that flash of beauty would be hers. It would belong to her like the pleasure he had shown her moments ago.

He began to move, and it was a rhythm she understood. She had seen the silent mating flutters of the shorebirds and the more violent couplings of the wild horses. She had seen the beauty and the desperation of an act as natural and as inevitable as the waves beating upon the shore. She knew this; she wanted it.

She experienced an overwhelming excess of sensation. Too much came at her at once—the taste and feel of him, the rasp of his breathing and the night sounds of the island, the misty white starlight and the pulsations deep inside her, pounding to get out. Certain she was about to explode, she squeezed her eyes shut and held tight to his shoulders, believing with all that she was that if she let go, she would drift away into nothingness.

Unrelenting passion tore through her, a wildfire burning a path through the sere landscape of her body and her heart. His caresses brought heat to cold places, light to dark corners, drew music from silence, and, most of all, reminded her that she had, until this moment, only been half alive.