"Didn't you know that was 'roo meat you've been eatin' there?"
"No."
Pale and wide-eyed, she set down her fork and groped wildly for her water glass. In fact, she looked so stricken that he almost— almost —wished he hadn't told her.
The night was clear and crisp, the familiar scents of jasmine and honeysuckle laced with the wild, exotic undertones of eucalyptus and lemon. Amanda stood beside the open French doors of her room, hugged her shawl-covered shoulders, and gazed out across the strange, undulating hills.
For the next twelve months this would be her home. She swallowed hard, fighting to keep back the feelings of aching aloneness, of vulnerability that threatened to swamp her.
She hadn't felt this isolated, this desolate since the months immediately following her father's death. She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out the harsh, unfamiliar landscape as she tried to recapture the images of her childhood. Cobblestoned streets glistening with wet in a spring rain. The golden light of a coalfire, warming herfather's book-crowded study. Her father s rich, ringing baritone, telling his students wonderful stories of brave warriors and proud goddesses and wise, learned men of old—while Amanda sat outside the door, and listened, and wanted. ..
She tried so hard to remember. But all she could hear was the wind whispering through the gum trees. And when she opened her eyes, it was to see an alien, unfriendly pattern of stars sprinkled across the purple heavens.
"Why, Papa?" she whispered aloud. "Why did you do this to me?"
She tried to tell herself he hadn't let her down deliberately. Angus Davenport had been so wrapped up in his lectures and texts and study tours that he'd never had time to think about what would happen to his only daughter if she were never to marry. Death had come to him quickly and unexpectedly, stopping his heart in the night. He probably never realized just how inadequately he'd provided for her. Or at least she told herself he hadn't realized. Better that than to admit that he hadn't cared. That he'd never cared.
A dog howled far off in the distance. Amanda lifted her head and listened, but the homestead around her lay still, quiet. That disturbing Australian and his misbegotten brood were asleep. Yet in a few short hours it would be morning, and she would have to face those monsters in the schoolroom.
A knot of apprehension twisted Amanda's stomach at the thought. It wasn't that she doubted her knowledge. Her father had taught her well, and she had been so eager to please him, so desperate to grasp a few more precious moments of his attention that she'd devoted herself to her studies with the same enthusiasm and energy most children reserved for their play.
It wasn't her knowledge but her pedagogical skills Amanda feared would be found lacking. She knew so little of children. How to interest them. How to handle them. In the course of her life, Amanda knew, she had met only a few born teachers. She was very sure she was not one herself.
The thought brought her back, inevitably, to her father. Angus Davenport had been that rare combination: a brilliant scholar who was also a gifted teacher. A master who could inspire even the most indifferent and jaded of the gentlemen's sons regularly sent up to Oxford.
Even such a wild, irresponsible young man as Viscount Mansfield's son, Grant.
Her treacherous memory resurrected Grant's image, his flashing dark eyes and charming grin warm with the promise of love and laughter and the forbidden delights of the flesh. But it was a lying image, shadowed by the pain of heartbreak and humiliation, and she pushed it away.
Yet her body remembered. She closed her eyes again and felt the wild wind lift her hair like a lover's caress. She touched her finger to her lips—slowly, softly, the way a man kisses a virgin, and the old, familiar ache trembled within her. The ache that was like an emptiness, deep inside. Empty womb. Empty arms. Empty heart.
Her hand slid down over her breasts. Freed from the constraints of her corset, her body trembled beneath the fine, worn linen of her nightdress. Ten years. It had been ten long years since she had felt a man's touch, known a man's kiss. Felt a man's hard heat press against her.
Her eyes flew open and she gasped as she realized what she'd been doing. Whirling back into her room, she banged the doors shut against the dangerous, seductive night, jerked the curtains together, and sought her bed.
But as she drifted off to sleep, her dreams were troubled by a haunting masculine presence. She tossed restlessly in her strange bed, feeling again the pleasure of a man's soft lips and sure hands. Gaining from his hard body an exquisite release from that secret, shameful need that burned so deep within her.
It wasn't until the next morning that she realized the man in her dreams had laughed with eyes that were blue, not black.
That the hands that touched her flesh with fire had been cal- lused and strong.
And that when she arched with desire and clutched his head to her bare breast, his hair had glinted gold and amber in the hot Australian sun.
CHAPTER FIVE
Early the following morning, Amanda paused in the doorway to the deserted schoolroom and forced herself to take a deep, steadying breath. "You can do this," she told herself aloud. Then she added wryly, "You must do this."
The morning air was cold; she clutched the edges of her shawl together with one hand as she wandered around the room, studying it. High, dusty bookshelves took up all of one wall and part of another, while in the center of the room stood a large cedar table, its nicked and gauged surface giving mute testimony to the O'Reilly children's lack of enthusiasm for study. Sighing, she went to rummage through the drawers of the desk positioned between the French doors to the veranda and the fireplace, and realized that the room was so cold because no one had kindled the fire.
In England, every household had a servant whose duties included the routine sweeping of hearths and setting of fires. But when Amanda had awakened that morning to a cold hearth in her own bedroom, she'd realized Penyaka had no little maid who crept around at dawn, adding coal to the household's fires.
Still, she didn't want the children to have to face their first day's lessons in a freezing schoolroom. She would have to find someone to lay a fire.
Unlike Amanda's room, which opened off the parlor and faced the front of the house, the schoolroom, children's rooms, and the guest room all opened directly off the dining room. She went to the doorway, hoping to see Ching or Chow. And found Patrick O'Reilly instead.
He stood with one hip cocked against the table while he sipped a cup of steaming coffee and stared thoughtfully out the glass doors at the dry valley below. He wore the supple moleskins and leather waistcoat shed first seen him in, with a cream-colored heavy shirt open at the neck. His broad- brimmed hat rested on the table beside his thigh, and she noticed his hair was damp, as if hed wet it while washing. Water-darkened golden curls lay plastered against his suntanned forehead and hung over his collar in the back.
Memories of her dreams from the night before slammed into her, bringing an embarrassed heat to her cheeks and making her want to squirm. She had no control over her dreams; she knew that. But how could she—how could she have thought about this man in that way?
She must have made some sound, because his head swung around. "Miss Davenport." He took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes on her face. "What you frowning about so early this mornin'?"
"Frowning? I wasn't— That is to say—" What is wrong with you? she told herself sternly. You sound like a blithering idiot. "It's the schoolroom fire. I'd like it kindled."
He paused in the act of raising the coffee cup to his lips again and looked at her. Slowly, deliberately, he swallowed and gave her a lopsided smile that brought one of those beguiling dimples to his cheek. "Go ahead."
Amanda's jaw went slack. "Me? You want me to light the fire?"
He took another slow swallow from his cup. "This is the bush, Miss Davenport, not England. I'm afraid you'll find we do things differently here. We're not ashamed of getting our hands dirty or workin' up a sweat. I work out there with my men every da
y, mustering cattle, dippin' sheep, whatever needs doing. I'm teaching all of my children, including Hannah and Missy, to be able to do everything there is to be done on a station. And we all light our own fires."
He threw down the rest of his coffee and reached for his hat, then paused to look at her consideringly. "But if you don't know how to do it, I could ask Chow to show you—"
"No thank yon," she said crisply. "I can handle it." Spinning about, she marched up to the schoolroom fireplace ... and stared down at it, fighting back a ridiculous swelling of panic. Shed thought her life for the past five years had been difficult, but at least no one had expected her to do anything like light fires. Until now.
She glanced uncertainly at the basket of twisted, oddly shaped wood on the hearth. In her experience, fires were made with coal. She bent down, gingerly selected the largest piece, and thrust it into the middle of the ashes.
Ten minutes later, she lay sprawled out flat on her stomach, blowing on the silly thing for all she was worth, and the only reward shed received was a face full of ashes and smoke. Her hair was coming down, her cheeks felt hot, she'd burned her little finger, and shed decided she most definitely, most viciously, hated Patrick O'Reilly.
A low chuckle behind her brought her head around. Thank goodness it was Sally, and not one of the children. Wiping her stinging eyes, Amanda scrambled up into a more dignified position. "I seem to be having some difficulty getting the fire started."
For a long moment the black woman simply stared at her, as if debating with herself whether to help or to leave Amanda to her humiliation. Evidently she decided Amanda had suffered enough, because she padded forward on her bare feet, her movements oddly loose-limbed and agile—like a deer, Amanda thought, or a well-bred greyhound.
"Big wood nod make you fire, 'less maybe you lightning. You lightning?" She chuckled at her own joke and pushed Amanda's log to one side. Selecting a handful of wood scraps from the basket, she squatted down before the fireplace and in a ridiculously small amount of time managed to coax forth a promising blaze. Then she leaned back on her haunches and regarded Amanda through narrowed eyes. "Liddlest pickaninny in camp know how do start fire."
It was on the tip of Amanda's tongue to point out that she was not a pickaninny. But she gritted her teeth and said, "Thank you," instead.
"Come on, Hannah!" called a child's voice. "She's here already."
Amanda glanced up to see Missy swinging back and forth on the door frame. And in that brief instant, Sally disappeared out the doors to the veranda. It was oddly disconcerting, the way the woman could come and go so quietly. One moment she was there; the next, she was gone.
Hannah came slouching into the room, a sullen look on her face, a boy's trousers and shirt on her thin frame. Wordlessly, she slid into one of the chairs around the scarred cedar table.
"Good morning, Hannah."
Hannah chewed a ragged fingernail.
"You should say, 'Good morning, Miss Davenport.' "
Hannah threw her a dark look and resumed her study of her nail.
Amanda suppressed the urge to sigh. She seemed to be sighing constantly these days. "It's called courtesy, Hannah. Even gentlemen find it useful."
Missy hopped into the seat opposite her sister. "Mornin', Miss Davenport."
Amanda smiled at the little girl. "Good morning, Missy. And good morning to you, Liam," she added as the boy dragged into the room.
He murmured something indecipherable, but at least he answered her.
With any new job, first days were always the most difficult, Amanda reminded herself. "Well, now we can begin," she said, giving her three charges a smile.
Three unsmiling faces stared back at her, their expressions ranging from blank (Missy) to openly hostile (Hannah) to derisory (Liam).
Amanda decided to try not smiling, and changed her tone to brisk instead. "First I'd like to find out what you already know. That way, I '11 have a better idea of what we need to concentrate on in the future. Shall we start with the globes?"
The responses ranged from a sigh (Missy) to dead silence (Hannah) to a groan (Liam). Amanda felt like groaning herself, but she reached for the globes.
Twenty minutes later, she was convinced the O'Reilly children were the most appallingly uneducated, slow-witted pupils it had ever been any governess's misfortune to attempt to teach. They seemed to know nothing, not even the most rudimentary principles.
After another half hour, she knew they were having her on.
"All right," she said, setting aside her grammar book. "You can keep pretending you don't know anything, and waste your time and mine for the next twelve months by forcing me to go over things you already know, or you can cooperate with me."
Three blank faces stared back at her. No wonder her nine predecessors had fled—probably screaming—back to the city, Amanda thought. She remembered how naively triumphant she had felt at securing a position paying sixty pounds a year. Sixty pounds. Ha. She deserved twice that amount.
She passed a hand over her forehead. She felt hot. The rising sun added to the roaring fire on the hearth had heated the room uncomfortably. She walked over to the French doors and opened them.
She stood for a moment, her hands resting on the door handles, and let the cool, jasmine-scented air from the garden bathe her hot cheeks. She could see Ching (or was it Chow?), leaning on a hoe over by the wall and talking to Patrick O 'Reilly. The Australian sat perched on the top of the garden wall, his arms braced at his sides, his head thrown back as he laughed. Sunlight glazed the tanned features of his face with a golden glow. She could hear the deep, rich sound of his laughter floating to her across the garden.
For some reason, the sight of him—so carefree and vital— caught at her strangely. She felt a hollowness inside, like a longing, a longing for something she'd lost. Except she was very much afraid that what she'd lost was herself. The woman she used to be. A woman who could laugh and tease.
And attract handsome, virile young men.
What a ridiculous thought, she chided herself. Taking a deep breath, she swung away to face her tormentors once more. "Now. Shall we try it again? With cooperation this time?" She picked up a collection of Wordsworth's poems. "Hannah, would you please read the selection on page eight?"
Hannah wasn't even looking at Amanda. Grinning, the girl poked Liam with her elbow and leaned over to whisper something in his ear. Liam craned around in his seat, staring at the glass doors.
"Hannah," snapped Amanda. "Would you please pay attention?"
"Miss Davenport, look!" said Missy, round-eyed. "There's a goanna crawling in through the doors you left open."
"Missy, I do not appreciate—" She broke off as some noise—a slither, a scratching of reptilian claws—sounded behind her. She whirled around.
Terror, primitive and instinctive, shuddered through her at the sight of something so hideous, so strange, her breath left her body in a whoosh. With an enormous effort of will, she did not scream. But the hand grasping the book tightened until her fingers hurt.
The Thing, whatever it was, took a slow step forward, its muscular legs dragging its heavy body across the worn wooden floor. It had an elongated head patterned like wire netting, and dark-edged yellow spots running down its body to its long tail. She estimated it must be four feet long, maybe five. Its claws looked long and savage, and sent revolting stories of crocodiles swallowing unwary Englishmen flitting through her brain.
"What is it?" she asked in a strangled voice, backing up against the bookcase. She felt the hard edges of the shelves digging into her back and legs.
"It's a goanna," said Liam. "Lord, it's a big one, ain't it?"
He sounded delighted. Amanda pressed her hand to her chest in an effort to quiet her galloping heart. "Don't panic, children," she said, although she herself—and, to a lesser extent, Missy—was the only one who appeared alarmed. "Stay behind me. If we slowly back out the door, perhaps it won't attack."
At that moment, the monster's mo
uth gaped open and its long tongue flicked out. It was too much. A startled shriek es- caped Amanda's lips before she could bite it back. Then the beast took three scrabbling steps toward her, and she dropped the book and screamed.
She snatched Missy out of her chair and backed toward the door to the dining room, the child balanced on her hip. "Hannah, Liam. Come away quickly."
She heard a shout. Booted feet pounded across the veranda and Patrick O'Reilly burst into the room. He looked so big and strong and, well, capable, that Amanda had to resist a weak, feminine urge to run to him and fling herself against his broad chest.
"What the bloody hell have you children—" His gaze fell on the goanna, and he let out a grunt of satisfaction. "Ha. There you are, you fat, chicken-stealin' bastard. We've been lookin' for you." Turning toward the open doors to the garden, he called, "Chow! It's in here." He glanced at Amanda, still clutching Missy and cowering in the doorway to the dining room. "Bet you've never seen a lizard this big, have you, Miss Davenport?"
"A lizard?" she croaked. "That thing is a lizard?"
"A chicken-eating lizard. It musta crawled into the garden last night and not been able to find its way out again. Chow found its tracks this mornin'." He began to edge his way around the side of the room. "Liam," he said. "I want you and Hannah to wait till Chow's ready, then help me chase it back outside. I don't think Miss Davenport would thank us for slaughtering this grandpa on her schoolroom floor." He threw her a quick grin. "Would you, ma'am?"
Amanda cleared her throat. "I suggest we have a short break from lessons, children. We shall reconvene in, say, twenty minutes?" She didn't wait for an answer. Still hugging Missy to her, Amanda spun about and staggered from the room.
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