September Moon

by Candice Proctor

  "Yes, it does. There is a towel. By the washstand. If you would kindly..."

  "Drape it around my strategic parts? All right." She heard a faint rustle. "Done."

  She continued to stare at the wall.

  "I'd lay my money Liam's behind this," he said.

  She was so surprised, she forgot she had meant not to look at him. She swung around in time to see him bend over and pick up the dead snake. The towel lifted enticingly. "Liam?" she repeated in a squeaky voice.

  "And Hannah, too, more than likely." He jerked his head toward the door as he bent again to retrieve his knife. "You don't see them, do you? Do you really think that under normal circumstances none of them would show up to see what all the shouting's about?"

  Amanda glanced at the empty, darkened parlor. "Yes, you're right, of course. What a horrid thing to do. I suppose it was my reaction to the goanna the other day which gave them the idea."

  "They'll decide it was a bloody stupid idea before I'm through with them," he said grimly.

  "No." Heedless of both his virtual nakedness and her own nightdress, she swung her legs out of bed and stood up. "I do not want you to punish them."

  One straight, dark brow quirked upward in silent amusement. "Why? Because you don't believe in physical chastisement? I'd have thought a week's exposure to my hell-bent brood would have modified your opinions on that."

  "Of course not," she said haughtily, in blithe disregard of the vindictive delight she had taken in the physical punishment he had visited upon her tormentors after the ant incident.

  He raised the limp, scaly body of the dead snake. "They deserve to have the seat of their trousers dusted good after a stunt like this, and you know it."

  "Perhaps," she admitted. "But don't you see? They've done this to me. It's not right that you should be the one to punish them. I'm the one who should deal with it."

  He took a step that brought him shockingly close to her. She stared up at him, her heart pounding in her chest, her lips parted. He was big and he was naked and he was in her bedroom in the middle of the night. If she reached out her hands, she could rest them flat against his bare chest. His face had taken on a peculiarly taut, heated look that she found oddly disturbing and yet fatally attractive at the same time. Her gaze settled on his lips. She'd never before realized how full they were, how sensual.

  And it came to her in a hot, quivering rush of realization that she wanted to touch his sleek, muscled body. She wanted to hold his face between her hands and kiss his lips. She wanted to feel his arms around her, hear him whisper words of seduction in her ear. She wanted him. And it was only with an enormous effort of will that she kept herself from swaying toward him.

  "So you want to handle it yourself?" he asked quietly. It was a moment before she realized he was talking about the children and their punishment.

  She could not look him in the eye. Her hand crept up to her cheek and she turned away. "Yes," she somehow managed to say. "I must."

  "All right."

  She trembled, afraid he meant to close the distance between them once more, and not knowing how she would react if he did. Instead, he moved to the door. "Oh, by the way," he said, pausing half out the doorway.

  She pivoted to face him. "Yes?"

  He threw her a broad, wicked grin. "Your nightdress is unbuttoned."

  "What?" She glanced down and saw to her consternation that he was right. The high collar of her nightdress often seemed to choke her at night, and unable to sleep, she had unfastened at least half the front placket. The nightdress might be modestly cut, with a high neck and long sleeves, but the material was worn and thin, and with the buttons undone it gaped open to reveal a shocking slice of her breasts.

  Horrified, she gripped the edges of her nightdress together tightly in her fist. "Why didn't you tell me before?" she demanded. But when she looked up he was gone, leaving her towel, swaying slightly, on the door handle.

  She heard his door shut across the parlor, but the house was not silent. There was a furtive whisper, the scuffling of small feet, then the sound of two more doors being carefully eased closed in the distance.

  "Dear God," she whispered, lifting the towel from the handle and shutting her door against the night. "What is wrong with me? What is this place doing to me?"

  She decided to punish the children for the snake incident by not punishing them at all. She wanted them to regret what they had done because they realized it was wrong, not because she had made them suffer for it.

  In the schoolroom the next morning, they watched her warily. They had obviously overheard enough the night before to know that she had convinced their father to allow her to be the one to mete out their punishment. But beyond taking the edition of Frame's Reptiles of the Southern Continent down from the shelves and saying, "I thought we might study snakes this morning, since it seems to be a topic which interests you," she made no reference to the incident at all.

  In the end, the Frame was probably a mistake, at least as far as Amanda was concerned. She had never realized there were so many poisonous snakes in the world, let alone that most of them were gathered together in the one continent upon which she had the misfortune to be temporarily residing.

  "You're lucky it wasn't a carpet python," Christian Whittaker told her the following afternoon, when he joined her for tea on the veranda after Liam's lessons. "They can grow up to seven feet long."

  "Yes, I know. That's the Morelia bredli, isn't it?" said Amanda, a quiver of amusement in her voice.

  He slewed around in his seat to stare at her. "Why, yes. It is." His young face shone with enthusiasm. "Are you a student of reptiles, too, Miss Davenport?"

  "Only reluctantly," she admitted, ashamed of herself for teasing him about a subject she was beginning to realize was his passion. "The children and I were looking at an edition of Frame today during lessons."

  "Oh, Frame." He dismissed the expert with a wave of his hand. "He was well enough in his time. But I have been collecting and preserving specimens ever since I arrived and I have discovered a number of errors. What a pity Mr. O'Reilly decapitated your midnight visitor; with the head intact it would have made a nice addition to my collection."

  "What a pity," agreed Amanda.

  "In fact," he added, coloring endearingly, "I am considering contacting Frame's London publishers and offering to put together an updated edition for them when I return Home."

  "That would be wonderful for you." Amanda smiled at him warmly. "H. B. Gibson and Sons, is it not? My father published his translations of Euripides with them."

  There was a clattering of fine china as Mr. Whittaker set down his teacup and stared at her in astonishment. "Don't tell me your father was Angus Davenport?"

  "Yes," said Amanda, flushing with pride. "You've heard of him?"

  "But of course! I went to Cambridge myself, but who hasn't heard of Angus Davenport? A brilliant scholar. Absolutely brilliant."

  Her smile broadened.

  "I heard that in his will he endowed a series of lectures to be delivered annually in Oxford on the Athenian tragedians."

  Amanda's smile disappeared. "Yes, he did." She turned to reach for the plate of scones. "Here, Mr. Whittaker; do have some more."

  A skinny, slightly grubby brown hand closed over two of the scones before she could lift the plate. She glanced up and found herself staring into the swirled green-and-gold eyes of Liam O'Reilly.

  Instead of snatching the plate away, she held it out to him. "Would you like some, Liam?"

  He threw her a ferocious scowl but surprised her by murmuring, "Thank you," before he dashed down the long veranda and cut across the garden.

  Amanda watched him go, and sighed. "I fear Liam bitterly resents the fact that I did not allow his father to punish him for putting that snake in my room."

  "Resents it?" Christian Whittaker paused in the act of spreading strawberry preserves on his own scone to throw her a puzzled look. "I should think he would be grateful."

  "Bu
t that's exactly why he does resent it." Amanda's gaze followed the boy as he tore up the sun-dried hillside, his dog at his heels. He looked so wild and free that, for a moment, she envied him. She smiled sadly to herself and turned to the man beside her. "It has given me an unfair advantage, you see."

  Mr. Whittaker shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

  She laughed softly. "That's because you're nothing like Liam O'Reilly."

  Mr. Whittaker still looked confused. And it occurred to Amanda as she watched Liam disappear over the crest of the hill that she herself had more in common with the boy than she would care to admit.

  Her eyes narrowed as she noticed a cloud of dust hanging heavily over the track to the northeast. "Someone is coming," she said, stepping to the edge of the veranda.

  Christian Whittaker came to stand beside her and squint into the distance. "It's the bullockies," he said after a moment. "On their way back down to Port Augusta."

  O'Reilly was in the office when he heard the crack of bull- whips and the clatter of iron-bound wooden wheels rattling over the stones in the dusty track. He sauntered out onto the stoop and watched Sweeny and Jessup pull up their teams, his gaze sharpening as he noticed the showy Englishman riding alongside them. Only it wasn't the man that interested O'Reilly so much as the bloodred Thoroughbred the man had on a leading rein.

  "Whoa back, Blackie. Come here, Cranky." Sweeny looked up and gave O'Reilly a tobacco-stained grin. "G'day, mate."

  "G'day." O'Reilly stepped out into the track, his attention focused on the dapper Englishman with oily dark hair and long Dundreary whiskers who was reining in his sleek black horse beside the lead cart. O'Reilly took in the man's dusty peg-top trousers and tight-waisted, full-skirted coat and let his breath out in a low whistle. "Who's the new chum?" he asked, nodding toward the stranger.

  "Name's Lumley." Sweeny shifted his chew. "Some lord's son from Durham. Been staying with Cox."

  O'Reilly's eyes narrowed as he focused on the big blood bay. That horse looked a hell of a lot like Hannibal Cox's bay stallion, Fire Dancer. Although O'Reilly couldn't imagine Cox letting go of a horse that could run like the New Zealand Thoroughbred.

  "G'day," O'Reilly called, strolling forward to introduce himself. "You're welcome to a room in the house, if you want."

  "That would be most sincerely appreciated," said Lumley as he swung out of the saddle and tried to shake the dust off his coat.

  O'Reilly ran an appraising hand over the bay's withers. "Nice horse."

  "Indeed he is." The Englishman slapped his tweed trousers, filling the air with more red dust.

  "Reminds me of the colt Cox brought in from New Zealand last year."

  "It's him, all right. Fire Dancer, out of Night Dancer."

  "That a fact?" O'Reilly rubbed the big bay's nose. "The horse turn out to be touched in the wind or something? Last time I saw Cox, he swore he wouldn't trade this horse for an English earldom."

  "He didn't trade him. I won him." The Englishman untied his bag from the saddle. "At cards."

  O'Reilly's hand stopped its rhythmic motion. "Like cards, do you?" He grinned. "We'll have to have a game or two. After supper."

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Englishman was installed in the guest bedroom, while the bullockies pitched camp down by the creek again. As Amanda sat preparing the next day's lessons at her desk in the schoolroom, she could hear their laughter and good-natured swearing floating up through the gum trees.

  Gradually she became aware of two other male voices, one low and controlled, the other high-pitched and raised in anger, coming from nearer at hand.

  "Why not?" she heard Liam say. "You never complained about me spending time with them before. It's because of her, isn't it? I can't believe you'd do this."

  Lifting her head, she glanced toward the bottom of the garden to see father and son standing just inside the lower gate. O'Reilly had his thumbs hooked in his back pockets. His stance was relaxed and easy, his response too quiet for her to hear. But she saw Liam hit out angrily, his frustrated swipe knocking the top off a nearby pink hollyhock. He spun about, still batting savagely at every offending piece of vegetation in his path, and stalked off toward the barns. Amanda smiled and went back to her lessons.

  She hadn't met Mr. Lumley herself yet. Before the bullockies had reached the homestead that afternoon, she had deliberately said good evening to Mr. Whittaker and disappeared into the house. But she had heard about him, and she was very much looking forward to the presence of an English gentleman at supper this evening.

  Conversation at the O'Reilly table usually ranged from such unsuitable subjects as the upcoming shearing season to

  the disgusting activities of the local swan hoppers, with the children encouraged to contribute or even interrupt without compunction. But tonight would be different. With someone like Mr. Lumley as a guest, she would be able to converse on a variety of genteel topics, such as regattas on the Thames, or the latest statements by the Opposition, or recent literary publications, such as Mr. Dickens's Our Mutual Friend.

  Mr. O'Reilly, she thought with a smile of malicious satisfaction as she went to change into her best gown, would probably not enjoy the evening at all. She swiftly pinned up her hair and then added a delicate white fichu to soften the severe lines of her dress. The fichu was of real Horiton lace, and she rarely used it, since she would never be able to afford to replace it once it finally wore out. But tonight she was determined to look her best.

  Smoothing the treasured lace, Amanda leaned forward to study her reflection in the plain wooden mirror that hung over her washstand. She was not particularly satisfied with the image that stared back at her. The problem was her hair, she decided. Frowning at it, she reached up and began to loosen it.

  "The brandy is quite tolerable," said Lumley, smacking his lips and rolling the brandy glass back and forth between his thick fingers. "Especially when one considers where we are. It must be extraordinarily difficult to acquire good brandy here in the colonies."

  O'Reilly tilted back his head against the tattered sofa and regarded the Englishman through narrowed eyes. "Sure as hell is." He reached for his own drink. "I've often suspected Hornbottom waters his liquor down with horse piss. But it adds a nice flavor, don't you think?"

  Caught in the act of swallowing, Lumley choked and fell to coughing. O'Reilly grinned. He was just raising his own glass when he heard Miss Davenport's door open. She was later than usual coming out for supper. Probably getting all gussied up to meet her compatriot, he thought, his grin deepening. He was looking forward to watching her reaction to Lumley.

  Then she moved forward into the circle of light thrown by the fire, and O'Reilly's hand stopped halfway in the act of bringing his drink up to his mouth.

  Shit.

  Her dress wasn't particularly attractive; the dull gray-and- white-striped satin was depressing and it was made too high at the neck. But she'd added a pretty lace thing around her shoulders, and she'd done something to her hair. She still had it pulled back into a chignon, but she'd loosened it somehow, so that it framed her face more gently. She'd even let a few wisps hang down to curl against her cheeks. The fire caught the loose strands and set them aglow.

  He didn't like the effect that hint of softness and femininity had on him. He'd already noticed she was a damn fine- looking woman, but he'd never seen her like this, deliberately making herself attractive. Hell, she didn't even loosen her hair for her chummy little teas on the veranda with Whittaker. For some reason, it annoyed him all to hell that she'd gone out of her way to look attractive for a pasty-faced, pretentious pom like Lumley.

  He set down his drink and stretched to his feet. "There you are, Miss Davenport. May I present Mr. Robert Lumley? From Durham."

  O'Reilly watched her full lips curl into one of her rare smiles. She held out her hand and he thought, Bloody hell, she sure didn't hold out her hand to me when I picked her up that day in Brinkman. Beside him, Lumley also rose to his feet and had h
is own hand almost extended when O'Reilly added, "Miss Davenport is my children's governess."

  "Governess?" repeated Lumley, his bushy eyebrows shooting up. "Well, imagine that. She joins you at mealtime, does she? How quaintly provincial." He touched her hand, but briefly, and gave her the curtest of bows.

  O'Reilly watched the smile fade from Miss Davenport's lovely lips, and he felt a spurt of anger. The anger didn't surprise him. The Englishman was a pompous ass. What puzzled him was the sense of protectiveness that welled up along with the anger.

  But he should have known Amanda Davenport was capable of taking care of herself. She stiffened a moment, then relaxed, her forehead crinkling as if in thought. "Lumley, did you say? We had a butler named Lumley, once. I believe he was from Durham as well. I wonder if you are by any chance related?"

  Mr. Lumley's eyes bulged. His magnificent Dundreary whiskers worked back and forth, but not a sound issued from his open mouth.

  "Supper ready," announced Chow, bowing in the doorway.

  The children scrambled for the table, and O'Reilly took advantage of the chaos to lean close to Miss Davenport and whisper under his breath, "Did you really have a butler named Lumley?"

  Her candid gray eyes met his, and a deliciously mischievous smile he hadn't seen before curled her lips. "We never even had a butler."

  Later that night, Amanda jerked her brush through her thick hair, her strokes quick and angry, her thoughts in turmoil.

  She remembered the eager anticipation with which she had earlier dressed for supper, and felt like a fool. So much for an interlude of polite, sophisticated conversation. Ha. Robert Lumley's position as O'Reilly's guest might have required him to sit at the same table as his host's governess, but it seemed that no power on earth could make him condescend to talk with her, or even look at her.