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

  Chapters

  Azim’s Ale House

  Stone Town, Zanzibar

  Episode 2, Lay Down Your Heart

  By Lynnette Bonner

  The

  SONNETS OF THE SPICE ISLE SERIES

  is a serialized historical Christian romance novel

  by Lynnette Bonner

  Episode order:

  — Find All the Episodes Here —

  On the Wings of a Whisper, Episode 1

  Lay Down Your Heart, Episode 2

  Made Perfect in Weakness, Episode 3

  A Walk Through the Waters, Episode 4

  …and More Coming Soon!

  — To be notified as each episode releases, sign up here —

  Other books by Lynnette Bonner

  PACIFIC SHORES SERIES

  — Contemporary Christian Romance —

  Beyond the Waves, Book 1 — Also available in audio

  Caught in the Current, Book 2 — Also available in audio

  Song of the Surf, Book 3 — Also available in audio

  Written in the Sand, Book 4 — Also available in audio

  ISLANDS OF INTRIGUE: SAN JUANS

  — Christian Romantic Suspense —

  The Unrelenting Tide — Lynnette Bonner — Also available in audio

  Tide Will Tell — Lesley Ann McDaniel

  Deceptive Tide — Janalyn Voigt

  THE SHEPHERD’S HEART SERIES

  — Christian Historical Romance —

  Rocky Mountain Oasis — Also available in audio

  High Desert Haven — Also available in audio

  Fair Valley Refuge — Also available in audio

  Spring Meadow Sanctuary — Also available in audio

  HEART’S OF HOLLYWOOD SERIES

  — Contemporary Christian Romance Novellas —

  My Blue Havyn

  Mistletoe & Mochas

  Find out more at LynnetteBonner.com

  On the Wings of a Whisper

  SONNETS OF THE SPICE ISLE, Episode 1

  Published by, Serene Lake Publishing

  Copyright © 2016 by Lynnette Bonner. All rights reserved.

  Editing by Dori Harrell of - Breakout Editing

  Cover design by Lynnette Bonner of Indie Cover Design - www.indiecoverdesign.com

  Images ©

  www.istock.com, File: #000009303865Medium

  www.istock.com, File: #000010626067XLarge

  www.bigstock.com, File: #41454838, Zebras at Sunset

  www.bigstock.com, File: #26740817, Old Map of Equatorial Africa

  Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  On the Wings of a Whisper is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Published in the U.S.A.

  Isaiah 6:8

  Also I heard the voice of the Lord, saying:

  “Whom shall I send,

  And who will go for Us?”

  Then I said, “Here am I! Send me.”

  Azim’s Ale House

  Stone Town, Zanzibar

  Early 1866

  Captain Trent Dawson tucked his leather slouch hat beneath his arm and ducked his head as he entered the stifling heat and noise of Azim’s Ale House.

  He’d sailed into port only this morning. What could the good English commodore Llewellyn Cornwall want with him?

  He allowed a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior and then began to search the faces of those gathered. Removing his riding gloves one finger at a time, he methodically scanned each table. He had begun to think Llewellyn had not yet arrived, when he spotted him at a cramped little table in the far corner.

  The scent of stale beer, frying chapatis, and spicy samosas mingled with the sickly sweet spirals of smoke wafting from the incense that was burning before the potbellied god he passed as he crossed the room. “Is there a darker or danker pub on all the island?” He lifted one corner of his mouth in greeting.

  Llewellyn grimaced. “Hardly.” He raised a glass half filled with amber liquid. “But drink enough of whatever this is, and the place starts to look downright cheery.”

  Trent eased himself onto the chair across from his friend and waved away the drink an Arab girl, with invitation in her kohl-darkened eyes, tried to place in front of him. “What can I do for you, Lew?”

  A thin smile tugged at Lew’s lips. “Straight to the point, is it? You colonials are always dashing about in such haste.”

  Folding his arms, Trent waited, knowing that pushing for the information wouldn’t extract it from the commodore a moment before he was ready to reveal it.

  Lew rolled the base of his glass around on the table, his scrutiny calculated. Finally he spoke. “I’ve an employment opportunity to discuss.”

  Trent’s eyes dropped closed. “I just got into port after six months at sea. I’d something more along the lines of rest and relaxation in mind.”

  Lew only looked at him blandly. “This, dear fellow, is an opportunity to do something about an issue that lies close to your heart.”

  Trent sat a little straighter. “Smuggling? Slaves.” The last word was not a question but a statement of confident realization. Commodore Llewellyn Cornwall had been tasked with putting an end to the illegal smuggling of slaves across the Indian Ocean.

  Llewellyn leaned across the table to speak in an urgent whisper. “I have authority from Her Majesty herself to hire you for six months of your time. And a bonus if we complete the job to her satisfaction.” He tugged a paper from his pocket, consulted it, and then slid it across the table with one blunt finger.

  Trent blinked at the figure written there. The amount was more than he made in three years of hard sailing. It would allow him to purchase the first of his father’s fleet. Still, why would Lew be coming to him for help with this? He voiced the question. “So why do you need my help? You have the whole British navy at your disposal.”

  Lew blew like a horse. “We are only allowed to stop ships which are not flying the Sultan’s flag. I’ve been following an Arab named Ali Khalifa.”

  “Commodore of Harcourt Shipping?”

  Lew nodded but then brushed the man’s name aside with a swipe of his hand. “He’s just a trained dog. I want the man at the top.”

  “Who?”

  “I wish I knew.” Lew slurped rather unsteadily from his glass. “I know you’ve received an invitation to the Harcourts’ Annual Ball, Friday next. Ali Khalifa will also be there. I’ve noticed him in several rather”—he rolled a hand through the air, searching for the right term—”clandestine meetings with the Harcourt heir, Brayden.”

  Trent’s eyebrow winged upward at that. Brayden Harcourt was young. A score, at best. But his father owned one of the most successful indigo plantations on the island. And to say they lacked for naught would be an understatement.

  Would young Harcourt risk it all to smuggle slaves? Perhaps he was simply naïve and unaware of Khalifa’s actions? Trent rubbed his upper lip slowly. No. Brayden was a lot of things, but naïve and unaware were not among them.

  Could Lew be mistaken about Khalifa? He studied the man, who lifted an unsteady finger and gestured for a refill of his drink. He hadn’t been the same since he’d lost his wife last year. But he’d always b
een solid. And he never bandied names about unless he could back up his accusations.

  Trent had no doubt that if Lew was certain enough to offer Khalifa’s name, he had some fairly compelling evidence against the man. “Why do you suspect Khalifa of smuggling?”

  Lew gave the serving girl a coin, picked up his refilled glass, and then met Trent’s gaze with a rheumy one of his own. “Khalifa supposedly sails to England twice a year with Harcourt indigo. However, not long ago I was sailing south from the coast of India when on the horizon, I saw a ship I swear was Khalifa’s Indigo Waves—and at a time he is sworn to have been in England! They unfurled every sheet and lost us in the chase, so I never came close enough for confirmation. But…” He shrugged and took a noisy slurp. “Proof is what I seek.” Lew pinned him with a look. “Khalifa is set to make a trading run to the Interior. To the shores of Lake Nyasa, he says.”

  Trent rubbed his neck. “I can’t just follow him. You know how quickly word spreads of white traders in that region. He’d know I was on his trail, and we’d never get anything on him.”

  Lew held up a palm. “That’s the beauty of it! I believe you know a Dr. Ryan Hunter?”

  “Yes. The man has been after me for months to guide him into the Interior…” Understanding dawned, and he let the words trail away.

  A touch of humor leapt into Lew’s expression, and he nodded. “Just so. I assured Her Majesty of your qualifications for this very reason! Agree to help the good doctor. And”—a full-out smile lifted his lips—”maybe you’ll even get to spend some time with one of his pretty daughters before you leave, eh? I hear tell Hunter’s youngest, Miss RyAnne, has been seen about with Brayden Harcourt. Perhaps she will be able to offer some information on the man.”

  RyAnne Hunter seen with Harcourt?

  Trent didn’t dare respond to that. Truth be told, the last thing he wanted was to give the doctor the impression that he was interested in one of his daughters. RyAnne in particular was nothing but trouble—or at least she had been the last time he was in port—but the thought of her and Harcourt…well, that simply didn’t sit right.

  He held out a hand to his friend. “I’ll see what I can find out for you.”

  Stone Town, Zanzibar

  The Day of the Ball

  RyAnne Hunter pushed her worries about the evening ahead from her mind and tried not to grimace, even as the crowd around her cheered with a wild frenzy for their favorite of the two roosters pecking, flapping, and gouging each other with long talons. Dust and feathers flew as the red cock momentarily pinned the black.

  She winced. She’d never seen the joy in watching two of God’s creatures, miserable mean fowl though they might be, fight to the death. In fact, she felt rather a great amount of sympathy for the poor little beasts.

  But this was where Halamme had insisted they come.

  Beside her, Princess Halamme, twelfth daughter of Sultan Majid’s brother Bargash, chatted animatedly with Valah, her half sister. Valah was the host of this evening’s entertainment. The dusty courtyard, boxed in by the two-story stone walls of Valah’s quarters, was too small for the throng of people currently clustered around the cockfight, and the late-afternoon sun beat down mercilessly, radiating off every surface in the oven full of wriggling humanity. RyAnne flipped open her fan and flapped it aggressively, more to ward off the stench of the close-packed bodies than for the tepid air flow.

  The man in front of her leapt back, tromping on her foot, and RyAnne squeaked in pain.

  “You there! Watch yourself!” Halamme’s eunuch, Ahmed, a hulking giant with a scimitar slung at his side, stepped forward and shoved the man back into the fray, then turned and scanned RyAnne with concern, his dark skin glistening with sweat. “Umzima?”

  RyAnne smiled her thanks. “I’m fine, Ahmed. Thank you.”

  Ahmed had just cleared a path between her and the cocks, and she saw her chance. On the pretense of moving her parasol from one shoulder to the other, she swung it wide and knocked over one section of the portable fence penning the poor creatures in.

  A loud outcry arose, and several men rushed to right the wood and wire section.

  So much for freeing the poor little things. The roosters were once more caged in with only each other and their disproportionate desire to destroy.

  Several of Valah’s guests turned to glare at her.

  Murmuring an apology for her clumsiness, she returned to her pretended interest in the fight. That’s when her gaze settled on the man across the way. Her fan stilled of its own accord as her heart stuttered in her chest.

  Arms folded, feet planted wide, and his gray-green gaze fixed directly on her, he stood like a pillar, seemingly unaffected by the milling mass surging and bumping around him. A glint of humor in his eyes, and the uptick of one corner of his mouth, said he hadn’t been fooled by her little charade. He looked quite out of place dressed in ballroom finery amidst the crowd full of people wearing hijabs, kufis, and kangas. Yet despite his burgundy brocade waistcoat, lace cravat, and black long-tailed coat, not a drop of sweat glistened on his forehead. His eyes narrowed, and he dipped his chin, tipping his head to indicate he would meet her by the tall palm near the fountain to her left. He began to shoulder his way through the throng.

  The son of an American merchantman who had sailed frequently to Zanzibar since RyAnne was a girl, Captain Trent Dawson was most recently of his ship, The Wasp. And he was part of the reason so much weighed on her right now. If he hadn’t agreed to guide Papa into the interior of the African continent, her world wouldn’t be falling apart on the morrow!

  Yet his sudden desire to rendezvous by the tall palm in all certainty had nothing to do with the fact that his ship was leaving port on the morning’s tide. Her eyes narrowed.

  Longtime family friend and constant thorn in her side, he’d no doubt been sent here by Mother to fetch her home. Like a servant sent after a straying dog.

  Earlier this week, Mother had promised Lady Harcourt that RyAnne would play her violin at the Harcourts’ Annual Ball this evening. Mother was surely beside herself that RyAnne had snuck away just after luncheon.

  Well, Captain Dawson would just have to go back to Mother empty handed tonight. She must attend the ball, because tonight would be her last opportunity to cajole Papa into staying on island. However, she didn’t plan to arrive until well after the time she was expected to entertain the masses. Playing her music in front of a crowd had always terrified her. It was like offering her heart on a platter to virtual strangers—much too vulnerable.

  Brayden Harcourt was the only one she’d ever played for without terror. Brayden would undoubtedly be at the ball hosted by his parents. She’d been looking forward to seeing her childhood friend again. Maybe if she concentrated solely on him, it wouldn’t be so horrendous to play. How long had it been since they’d last spoken? Six months, at the least. So maybe… No. She gave herself a little shake. She could catch Brayden late into the ball and coax him into the garden for a moonlit stroll.

  But for the time being, she needed to keep herself hidden. She glanced around. How to make her escape from Captain Dawson—that was the question. Panic nipped at her pulse.

  At that moment the black-and-white rooster collapsed to the ground, and a great shout of exultation rose from those who had just won bets. Captain Dawson’s pinched-lip expression disappeared behind the bobbing white turban of a wizened Arab with a monkey on his shoulder.

  Seizing the moment without delay, RyAnne snapped her parasol shut and tucked it under one arm. Nothing like a parasol sailing above everyone’s heads to give away her position.

  “Halamme, dear.” RyAnne laid one gloved hand on her friend’s arm. “I’ve had quite enough of blood and feathers for one evening. But we really ought to do this again sometime.” She air-kissed the space next to each of Halamme’s cheeks.

  Halamme chuckled and adjusted her veil as her gaze settled on something over RyAnne’s shoulder. “Best hurry. Your mother’s leopard prowls this way.�
�

  RyAnne smirked. Wouldn’t Captain Dawson be thrilled to know the girls thought of him as Mother’s pet!

  Valah followed Halamme’s gaze. “That one? Oh, but he’s so handsome! That is a cat I wouldn’t mind cuddling with!” She tittered behind the gauzy blue silk that hid all but her dark kohl-lined eyes from view.

  RyAnne grimaced, brushing past them with a glance over her shoulder. “That leopard is all beautiful pelt and snapping jaws, dear ones. Inside, he’s nothing but sour sentiments and harsh reprimands. Trust me, that cat has no purr.”

  Captain Dawson, apparently having noticed she wasn’t heading for the palm, worked his way purposefully toward her, elbowing celebrants aside.

  “Stall him for me if you can,” she pleaded. Ducking down, she pushed and shoved her way through the crowd, only caring that it was in the opposite direction from him and that she knew Valah had a side exit to an alleyway that led to Malindi Street. Mother’s friends would just have to conquer their disappointment at not getting to hear her play.

  “Next time bring your brother!” Valah called after her, and RyAnne rolled her eyes as she dodged between two turbaned men haggling over a handful of coins. A week ago RyAnne, along with her mother and father, and siblings, Jasmine and Rory, had made the trip into town from their indigo plantation on the other side of the island. RyAnne had been doing her level best to keep Rory away from Valah ever since.

  A breezeway opened to her right, and she hurried into it. The arched door to the alley lay just ahead. She lifted her skirts and ran. The captain would not be far behind, for she knew he would simply brush by the princesses no matter their delay tactics, and there was nowhere to hide here. All she had to do was make it to the road outside the walls, and hopefully she’d be able to escape him in the jostle of rickshaws, wagons, and market vendors.

  She laid one hand on the doorknob and tossed another glance behind her.

  Captain Dawson wasn’t rushing after her down the cobbled breezeway. Relief eased the tension in her shoulders, and she waited a moment, watching. After several seconds, he still hadn’t darted around the corner in hot pursuit. Her brows rose in surprise. Maybe the princesses had been able to distract him after all.

  RyAnne smiled and twisted the handle. “Maybe,” she murmured as she faced forward and yanked open the door, “the man is going SOFT!” The last word became a shriek as she crashed into an immovable wall of solid flesh.