“Indeed.”
She conversed with her friend through cotillions and waltzes, brushing aside all requests to dance. Father’s discussion with the judge had grown to a small circle of attorneys. To her relief, Mr. Finch did not reappear. Based on the way he’d run from the carriage, she must have guessed correctly that the missing bill of sale was in his room. If he went there and found it, he might return to the dance. She had originally planned to slip away during the break between dancing and supper when the large number of guests milling about would disguise her absence, but that might be too late. She turned to Caroline to excuse herself and was interrupted by an obnoxious woman who had paid a condolence call when Elizabeth had first arrived. The woman’s name eluded her.
“Miss Elizabeth Benjamin. I see you are out of mourning already,” the woman sniffed.
Elizabeth offered a smile, though she was anxious to leave. “Only for tonight. My aunt insisted this gray would be appropriate.”
The woman lifted her glass and peered at Elizabeth’s dress. “Gray? Looks more like blue in this light.”
“Perhaps so.” Elizabeth curtseyed. “Please excuse me.”
She slipped away as the dancers left the floor. Groups congregated in front of her no matter which direction she attempted. Frustrated, she backtracked and found her path blocked by Captain Poppinclerk, dressed in a green frock coat, striped waistcoat, and silk cravat.
“Please excuse me.” She stepped to the side.
He followed. “I believe you owe me a dance, Miss Benjamin. The orchestra is striking up a waltz. Shall we?”
“I fear I must decline.”
“Now, now, Miss Benjamin, the floor is clearing just for us.” He swiped a hand toward the center of the room and a familiar figure.
Elizabeth gasped.
Mr. Finch had returned.
No one waited at the cemetery. Rourke had walked the perimeter three times, leaving no shadow unchecked. Only the rustling of the leaves and rush of the wind disturbed the silence. He stood in the shadow of a gumbo-limbo tree and drummed his fingers on its peeling bark. The constellation Pegasus pranced high in the sky. Soon the full moon would rise high enough to illuminate the entire graveyard.
Tom and Anabelle should have been here by now. Their absence meant something had gone wrong. Rourke itched to act. This infernal waiting was driving him mad, but if he left and they were simply delayed, he might miss them entirely. On the other hand, they might be caught and need assistance. If so, where would they be? He had no idea if Anabelle had convinced Elizabeth to take her to the ball or if she was trapped at the house. To find her, he would have to comb the town, where hundreds of people could recognize him.
Rourke slapped a hand against the tree trunk in frustration. The cemetery was a safe meeting place. No one came here at night. If Tom could get to Anabelle, he would bring her here. Rourke had to be patient. He had to trust that others would do their jobs. That was the tough part. It had always been difficult. Even today, leaving the Windsprite in John’s hands had gutted him. His mate had earned his trust over the years, but Rourke still struggled to let go.
Lord, help me to trust.
In the eerie quiet of the graveyard, he thought he heard a whisper. I am.
Rourke shook his head. It must have been the wind. God might have spoken to Moses, but not to a Bahamian wrecker. Yet as he pondered the whisper, his restlessness eased. God was, is, and always would be. He knew all of time and every thought in a man’s heart. Somehow, no matter what happened tonight, God would be with him.
The wind still rustled through the trees. No one else walked the graveyard. Nothing appeared to have changed, yet everything had. Clarity and strength came from God, not from a man’s struggle.
He closed his eyes and imagined Elizabeth sweeping across the dance floor, her honeyed hair afire in the lamplight. She turned to him, her eyes begging for the life he longed to share. But he stood outside, dressed in sailors’ garb, unfit to step into the ballroom. Her father swept her away, cradling her like a tender bloom too easily torn by the winds of life. For all her talk, Elizabeth Benjamin had not been raised for the harsh realities faced by a sailor’s wife. Cooking, cleaning, and hunger were strangers to her. She might know death but not fortitude. It was wrong of him to encourage her hopes, especially when it could cost two precious lives their freedom.
A croak sounded.
He should have discouraged her from the start by revealing the stark truth. Life as his wife would be little better than that of her father’s servants. They would know freedom but not security. She deserved better.
Again the croak. Closer this time. An egret.