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

  “Or maybe”—Captain Dawson wrapped firm hands around her upper arms, the only thing that kept her from falling backward in surprise—”he’s developed the astute ability to outthink you.”

  Despite the calmness in his tone, his breaths came in rapid puffs. The dratted man had gone through the front door and beat her to the alley!

  RyAnne stamped one foot, feeling the hard rod of her parasol bruising the inside of her arm. “Unhand me at once!”

  The captain cocked his head and only looked amused. “I wouldn’t need to manhandle you at all if you would just obey your mother like a devout daughter should. But then…” He leaned in, all amusement hardening into a mask of seriousness as his gaze drilled into her severely. “You’ve never had a problem with being devout, now have you?”

  She would have slapped him if she could have moved her arms!

  What did he know of the nightmare that was her life? Of a sister and brother who could do no wrong in anyone’s sight? Of a mother who despised her because she wasn’t her own flesh, yet dared not allow anyone, let alone her society friends, know?

  Not even Captain Trent Dawson knew that little Hunter secret.

  But she knew him well enough to know that anger and demands would get her nowhere. So after a fortifying breath, she changed her tactic and softened her stance.

  “C-couldn’t you pretend you didn’t find me? Just this once?” Sidling a step closer and tipping her head to one side, she angled him a look that surely would beguile him to her plight.

  She was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath wafting across her forehead, see the flecks of green granite in his gray eyes. A small white scar puckered his jawline, preventing the day’s worth of stubble shadowing his face from growing there. His lips were pressed into thin aggravation, and her fingers itched to smooth the grooves of irritation from them.

  She swallowed and fisted her hand, reminding herself this was just a ruse as she forced words through her tight throat. “Halamme has invited me to her quarters tonight to celebrate her brother’s return from Oman. And Mother’s going to force me to play in front of the entire crowd at the ball.” An involuntary shudder quaked through her even as she laid her fan gently against one muscular shoulder and pushed her lips into a soft pout, blinking up at him. “You know how much I hate doing that.”

  The captain’s throat worked, and his eyebrows rose slightly. His mouth dropped open. His focus shifted from her eyes, to her hair, to her lips. One hand loosed her arm and slid behind her waist as he tilted a little closer. His hungry scrutiny sent a tremor through her, eliciting the errant thought that she might have wandered a little farther into the leopard’s lair than safety prescribed.

  Yet satisfaction squeezed her heart. Her wile was working! She angled her face up and clasped her hands behind his neck, waiting for the kiss he’d be giving her any moment.

  He eased closer, his face only a hand-breadth away, and then he stilled and his eyes hardened.

  Confusion plucked at her brow.

  A bark of laughter escaped him, and once more he had her in a firm grip. He spoke softly, his lips hovering just above hers. “Don’t believe for a moment that all men are so easy, Miss Hunter. Save your pretty pout and big green eyes for the likes of Brayden Harcourt. Now”—he took a step back and assessed her with the arch of one eyebrow—”are you coming willingly? Or should I throw you over my shoulder like a sack of cloves?”

  Anger clenched her teeth so tight she was barely able to squeeze out, “You wouldn’t dare!”

  He snorted and leaned his shoulder toward her, set to plant it into her midriff.

  “Oh!” She leapt back and smacked his head with her fan. “You beastly scoundrel! I’ll come!”

  Straightening, he folded his arms with a self-satisfied smile. “Good. I have a feeling you’d be some heavier than a sack of cloves. I wasn’t looking forward to packing you all the way across town. The day is warm enough without adding such strain to it.”

  The audacity of the man knew no bounds!

  Trent Dawson resisted a chuckle as Miss Hunter lifted her nose into the air and thrust her parasol open. He held out his arm, and she slipped her gloved fingers into the crook with narrowed green eyes and a short huff of impatience. Pity the man Ryan Hunter entrapped with this little lioness. She was bound to cause a husband nothing but trouble.

  Trent had only been back on island two weeks, and this was already the fourth time Anne Hunter had summoned him to request he track down her daughter “just once more.”

  Lucky for him, they’d loaded the last of Hunter’s supplies onto The Wasp earlier this afternoon. He and her father would be leaving for the African continent in the morning, and then Mrs. Hunter would have to find another lackey to keep track of her troublesome daughter. With any luck, the next time he met Miss RyAnne Hunter, some man would have her firmly in hand.

  He gritted his teeth and refused to analyze the tightening in his chest that thought brought about. He had too much riding on this trip to the Interior to take time for a dalliance right now. Still… He stifled a grin at the thought of her little charade moments earlier. Only the intractable Miss Hunter. He should have kissed her and then made her go back home. At the thought, the grin broke free to tug at the corner of his mouth.

  He settled one hand over hers where it rested against his arm, for all appearances enjoying a simple afternoon stroll with Dr. Ryan Hunter’s pretty youngest daughter. In reality, he wanted to be able to grasp her quickly if she tried to dart down some narrow alley in the middle of Stone Town.

  Stepping around a slave polishing the brass-work on an elaborately spiked door, he tried to shake off the claustrophobia being in Stone Town always brought on. Streets so narrow he could easily stretch out his arms and touch the buildings on either side, felt even more constricting due to the towering arches of bronze-studded doors and the stone balconies looming overhead. Give him open seas with the snapping of sails and the wind in his face any day over these cheek-by-jowl conditions. Only a few more streets and he’d be able to breathe again when they stepped into the more open courtyard of the doctor’s town residence.

  That didn’t lessen the feel of his collar cutting off all breath. He needed a distraction. “You’ll be happy to learn that your father’s supplies have all been loaded.”

  She huffed. “Off to the Continent to find your fortune in ivory, are you?”

  Trent gritted his teeth. It had seemed like as good a cover as any for the reason he’d so suddenly agreed to guide Dr. Hunter to the location in the Interior where the man planned to build a mission station. But he didn’t like the way the question rolled off Miss Hunter’s tongue like an accusation.

  Some of the wind seemed to leave her sails. “When will you be heading off then?”

  “First thing in the morning.”

  Her hand tensed beneath his. “So it is final? Then tonight really is the last—”

  She broke off with a small sound in her throat, but when he glanced down, she seemed to have shuttered her emotions. Whatever she’d been feeling was hidden beneath a stoic facade.

  “How long does Papa plan to be gone this time?” She nibbled the inside of her lower lip, and her gaze flickered to his. Was that a twinge of sadness he noted? Could the ever-troublesome, flighty, living-only-for-herself Miss Hunter actually know what her father’s real plan was?

  He swallowed and focused on the cobblestones of the narrow street ahead. “He packed provisions for six months.”

  “I see.”

  Her tone was so plaintive he could almost feel sorry for her if he hadn’t spent the majority of the last couple weeks fetching her from one sector of the city or another—the price he paid for being easily accessible at the guesthouse next door to her home while he was in port. Today the cockfight. Yesterday he’d found her without a chaperone in the slave market, of all places, her father’s medical bag clutched firmly in one hand. Truth be told, he’d leave her to her own devices if he didn’t fear for h
er safety. The girl had no sense or notion of the danger she put herself in when she wandered the island alone.

  As they stepped from the mouth of the narrow street and the doctor’s residence stood ahead across a small lawn, he pulled in a long breath of relief.

  The spongy grass beneath his boots was a welcome contrast to the hard stones of the cobbled streets. He opened her front door and ushered her inside.

  Mrs. Anne Hunter glided into the front hall. Her lips pinched into a disapproving glower as she raked her daughter from head to toe. “Gather your things. The doctor has engaged Captain Dawson to escort us to the Harcourts’ estate since he and Rory have already hastened there with hopes to speak with Dr. Livingstone. Jasmine and I are ready to go. Your gallivanting has made us dreadfully late.”

  RyAnne’s hand slid off his arm, and her shoulders drooped as she slowly took the stairs to her room without a word of reply. The only time the fight drained out of her was in the face of her mother’s scorn. Why the woman couldn’t see the damage she was inflicting, he didn’t know, but it wasn’t his place to comment. He only said, “I’ll make sure your driver has readied the carriage and have it waiting out front.”

  Anne Hunter gave him a genuine smile. “We’re most indebted to you, Captain Dawson, for fetching her back and for escorting us over.”

  Sketching a bow, he managed, “Think nothing of it,” then made his escape.

  Dressing quickly with the help of her maid’s deft fingers, RyAnne stopped in front of the mirror to clasp an amethyst necklace around her throat. Tiny lavender earrings of the same precious stone graced her ears. As she eyed her complexion, a small smile traced her mouth. Brayden was sure to like what he saw this evening, even if the charms she’d aimed at Captain Dawson had all the effect of a dried pea against a Zulu shield.

  Turning her head to the side, she patted the upsweep of dark hair at the back of her neck, making sure every curl was in place. Ringlets hung down by her ears and bobbed up and down with every shake of her head. Her sister, Jasmine, had often coveted RyAnne’s mass of curls. But as RyAnne tucked several more curls into place, she couldn’t help but wish she had her sister’s lovely straight locks that always seemed to fall into place so easily.

  Her fitted bodice, a V of creamy lace, ran from her neckline down to a point just below her waist. Lace of the same color graced the hem of her sleeves, draping softly over the back of her hands. The full pale-pink silk skirt and puffed sleeves accentuated her small waist. The hem of the skirt was pulled up in several scallops, revealing lace of the same creamy color as the bodice. Her maid bent and straightened the cream bows that graced the points between each scallop.

  RyAnne loved this dress. It was one of her favorites, but not even the joy of such beauty could erase her dread of the night ahead. The performance on her violin. The talk where she would once again beg Papa to stay home and he would pat her on the shoulder like she was a child of six who had no idea why he was hieing off to the Continent. Her teeth pressed together so hard her jaw ached. She must not fail to convince him this time. She would not fail.

  With a sigh of resignation, RyAnne shrugged her shoulders, squinting at the image in the mirror. There was no need to pinch color into her cheeks, as they were flushed. Her eyes looked rather glassy, but she hoped in the bustle of the ballroom no one would notice. She snagged a wrap from the bureau to ward of the chill that suddenly soaked through her, praying the chill and flush weren’t what she feared they were.

  She turned and smiled fondly at her maid, Sarah, who arched one brow and nodded in the direction of the violin case sitting in the corner.

  RyAnne’s stomach knotted. Maybe Mother wouldn’t notice if… She shook her head. “I’ll just leave it here this time.”

  The maid gave a despairing sigh but nodded her head slightly, reaching out a hand to adjust the lace at the neckline of RyAnne’s dress and flick imaginary lint from the puffed sleeves. RyAnne gave her a smile of thanks, and then picking up her full skirt, made her way downstairs to the waiting carriage, her petticoats rustling with each step.

  But the moment she stepped onto the curved drive with only her parasol and reticule, Mother let out an exasperated sigh.

  “I declare, child, you haven’t the brains the good Lord gave a centipede. Where is your violin? I promised the Harcourts you’d play at least two numbers this evening.”

  From his position on the seat across from Mother and Jasmine, Captain Dawson shifted uneasily, but his gaze remained fixed on the floorboards at his feet.

  RyAnne hated the fact that even after all these years Mother still had the power to hurt her, even if it was only to humiliate her in front of others. She chewed the inside of her lip, debating the merits of telling Mother she had no intention of playing before everyone at the Harcourts’ ball. But one more glance at Captain Dawson, who was now watching her with a touch of something indefinable in his expression, and the fight suddenly drained out of her.

  Resigned, she turned back to fetch her instrument. Sarah met her just inside the door and held out the case with an arch of her brows. RyAnne took it without a word, then returned to the carriage and allowed Captain Dawson to help her up to the seat next to him.

  The coachman clucked to the horses, and with a gentle lurch they were off.

  The moment the coach pulled to a stop under the portico at the Harcourts’ mansion, Mother’s attention turned to socializing, and RyAnne went looking for Papa. But between the scurry of attendees and servants, the people who kept impinging on her search with their enthusiastic greetings, and the sheer size of the Harcourt mansion, she couldn’t seem to find him. Finally the stifling heat made her give up and escape into the back garden.

  The night was young, yet she fretted. What would she do if she couldn’t convince Papa to stay? Papa’s health and her happiness demanded that she not fail her self-appointed task. For a moment she gave up worrying to enjoy the beauty of the mansion’s thickly walled gardens.

  The sun had made its daily descent into the ocean, but a warm breeze still blew gently. She let the silk shawl slide off her shoulders but kept it wrapped around her. Gathering the corners in front of her, she let the fringe run through her fingers as she sauntered through the fragrant foliage, studying the diamond-bright stars against the inky velvet sky. The rhythmic song of the cicadas filled the night air, and the gentle lapping of the ocean waves just outside the plantation walls soothed her frayed nerves.

  Off to her left the golden glow of soft light poured from the windows of the big plantation house and reflected on the swaying leaves of gardenia bushes, causing them to stand out in stark contrast to the black earth below. The fragrance from the flowers was strong and heady in the cool evening air, and RyAnne drew in a deep breath of the scent. Reaching one hand to rub the muscles of her shoulders, she tried to relax as she walked, rolling her head from side to side.

  Captain Dawson had said Papa planned to be gone for six months… She swallowed. In his condition he would be lucky to last a month, much less six! He thought she didn’t know…but she hadn’t trained with him for so many years and not learned a thing or two.

  She glanced toward the house. Behind the rounded columns of the back portico, the gilded light accentuated the large ballroom windows. Papa was in there somewhere, right now. Conversing with everyone as though he hadn’t a care in the world. And tomorrow, unless she could yet change his mind, he would sail away to the heart of the African continent, where he would die.

  She would never see him again, and they were spending their last hours separated by social frivolity. But the Hunters were nothing if not carefully attuned to how they were viewed by society.

  On the small island of Zanzibar, there were not many social occasions. So when the opportunity arose for a social gathering, anyone from near or far earnestly made the effort to be present. Tonight’s ball would overflow with the upper crust of the island and anyone wishing to make a name for himself. Mother and Papa wouldn’t have missed the occasion
for the world.

  The scent of honeysuckle drew her attention and brought with it a memory, and the reluctant admission that, despite her frustration with the festivities, she was looking forward to seeing one certain young plantation heir herself.

  A slight smile flitted across her face. The last time she had walked in this garden, Brayden had dropped to one knee for his annual proposal, and RyAnne had, again, said no, when suddenly the sky had let go buckets of torrential rain. Laughing, they had raced for the shelter of the patio, hand in hand.

  RyAnne would be the first to admit that she and Brayden didn’t have what most would call a conventional relationship. Friends since before both could remember, they shared an easy camaraderie. He had been fifteen, she fourteen, the first time he had told her he was going to marry her. She had arched a slender brow and haughtily told him that perhaps she wouldn’t have him. He had responded confidently that she would be begging him to become her husband before they were wed. He had not missed an opportunity to propose since.

  Anticipation at seeing him again lifted the corners of her mouth. It had been months. Would their relationship still be the same? Would it be as easy to talk to him as always?

  As she walked past a flaming torch set in a green metal sconce next to the garden path, she rubbed at the slight chill along her arms. A wooden framed trellis, buried underneath the abundant fuchsia blossoms of a bougainvillea vine, arched over the path. Shadows thrown by the flames danced over the blooms, causing their color to darken and brighten at the whim of the breeze wafting over the wall. The zephyr brought with it the unpleasant smell of the town of Zanzibar and increased her chill.

  She pulled the shawl back up over her shoulders and clenched her eyes in dread. She was running a fever—again. They always came on so suddenly. She’d felt fine earlier this afternoon at the cockfight. Perhaps her encounter with Captain Dawson had brought it on. She smirked…then sighed, her wandering thoughts coming full circle.