She spun away from the mirror, the dress crushed in her arms, her heart pounding hard and fast. She should never have agreed to this expedition. For one wild moment she considered telling O'Reilly she'd changed her mind. Except that Hannah and Liam had announced they were going, too, and Friday had already been set as the day. She couldn't back out now without losing face before the children. And she couldn't afford to do that.
She took off the hat and set it carefully aside. She was being ridiculous, she told herself. It was a simple family outing. She was excited to be given a chance to ride again, and she was curious to see this water hole.
She had nothing to fear.
The next day, Amanda decided she had postponed the inevitable long enough, and gave the girls their first piano lesson.
"I still don't understand why I have to learn to play the silly thing, when Liam doesn't," grumbled Hannah as she followed Amanda and Missy to the dining room, where a beautiful inlaid mahogany piano stood gathering dust in a corner.
Amanda stifled a sigh. "Hannah, we have been through all of this already, at least a dozen times. First of all, it is not a 'silly thing,' it's a piano, and a very lovely one at that. Secondly, you are a female, and whether you like it or not, wearing trousers and cutting your hair won't change the fact that, someday, you will be a lady. And ladies play the piano."
When Hannah answered her only with silence, Amanda turned to the instrument and carefully folded back the cover to reveal the gleaming row of ivory keys. "There. Let's hope it's in tune."
"Papa has Mr. Hornbottom from the Brinkman Inn come out once a year and tune it," said Missy.
Amanda glanced at the little girl in surprise. "Does your father play?"
Missy shook her head, her blond curls sweeping back and forth across her shoulders. "No."
A succession of clear notes floated through the room as
Amanda ran her fingers lightly up and down the keys. The instrument certainly sounded in tune. But then, Amanda had never been a particularly musical person. She had always hated her own piano lessons, and practiced as seldom as she could get away with it.
"Why don't you play first, Missy?" She adjusted the stool and lifted a yellowing pile of sheet music from a nearby shelf. "What were you practicing when your last governess left?"
"That one," said Missy, reaching for it. "Aunt Hetty told me once that this was her favorite piece, when she was learning." Missy hopped up on the stool and set the music on the stand. "She learned on this piano, too, you know."
Amanda glanced up from the music she'd been sorting. "Oh?" she said, trying to sound casual. "This was your aunt's piano?" Somehow, this precious instrument—so much a symbol of any gentlewoman's claim to good breeding—did not fit with the image Amanda had formed of O'Reilly's childhood. But then, neither did the books in the library, she reminded herself.
Missy swung her short legs back and forth. "Well, sort of. It was my grandmother's. Papa brought it here from Victoria, after Grandfather died. It's because of Grandmother that Papa keeps it tuned and wants us to learn to play it."
The brittle pages in Amanda's hands crackled as her fingers tightened around them. She knew she shouldn't ask, but she couldn't seem to help herself. "Your mother didn't play?"
It was Hannah who answered, her voice oddly low and harsh. "Oh, she played all right."
Amanda looked at the girl's tight, strained face. "Then I should think you'd be anxious to learn to play. Like your mother."
Hannah's head reared back, her nostrils flaring, and Amanda knew she had just made a serious mistake. "Why?" Hannah practically spat out the word. "So I can be like her? Don't you see? I don't want to be like her."
"Because she was a lady?" Amanda asked quietly, wishing she understood what tormented this strange, unhappy girl.
"Yes. And do you know what she is now? She's some Frenchman's mistress. His whore."
Amanda gasped. "Hannah."
Hannah slammed her palms down on the keys, the discordant crash shattering the taut atmosphere of the dining room as she flung herself away from the piano.
"Hannah, wait," Amanda called, starting after her. Then she noticed Patrick O'Reilly, quietly watching them from just inside the parlor doors.
He stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt, his hat brim pulled low over his eyes. Amanda faltered to a halt. She wasn't sure how long he had been there, but something about his coiled, controlled stance left her in no doubt that he had heard everything Hannah had just said.
Halfway across the room, Hannah herself drew up, her chest lifting on a quickly indrawn breath when she caught sight of her father.
A muscle leapt along O'Reilly's tightened jaw as he stared at his daughter. "You'll apologize to Miss Davenport," he said, his voice surprisingly calm and level.
Hannah faced him, her shoulders square, her head up. "Why should I? It's true. We all know it. Why shouldn't she?"
Amanda felt her heart pound uncomfortably in her chest. If she had ever spoken like that to her own father, he'd have struck her. But O'Reilly never raised his hand, just said quietly, "You'll apologize for your language."
They stared at each other, father and daughter, the air thick with the energy of their strong emotions. Once Amanda had thought this girl looked nothing like O'Reilly. Now she could see the resemblance all too clearly. It was there in the glittering intensity of their eyes, in the stubborn strength of their tightened jaws, in the fierce determination of their powerful wills.
"I won't apologize."
"Then I think your mouth has an appointment with a bar of soap."
"Yes, sir," said Hannah, and followed him to his room, her head still held high.
Left alone in the middle of the dining room, Amanda swung around to meet Missy's troubled gaze. "Do you still want to play?" Amanda asked, feeling oddly shaken and disturbed. "Or shall we leave it for another day?"
"I'll play."
"All right." Amanda went to stand beside the piano again, and turned Missy's music for her. She tried to keep her attention on the progression of the notes, on the positioning of the little girl's fingers as she hesitantly worked her way through the simple piece.
But Amanda's attention kept wandering. Partially, she knew, it was because she was so terribly aware of the drama that was doubtless still continuing between O'Reilly and his daughter in the other room.
But more than anything, she couldn't seem to forget Hannah's strange, awful words. Or the look on O'Reilly's face when his daughter called her mother a Frenchman's whore.
Two days later, the projected outing to Cadnowie took place.
By the time Amanda changed her clothes after lessons, they were waiting for her, the three O'Reilly children and their father, by the front gate.
The sun beat down warm and gay and oddly healing on the shoulders of Amanda's riding jacket as she walked toward them. She was so conscious of her unaccustomed finery that she felt nervous and shy and maybe just a little bit proud.
The three children were already on their horses: Liam on his roan, Hannah astride a nervous, white-socked black, and Missy on a white pony. O'Reilly himself stood with one foot idly propped on the mounting stone, his elbow on his bent knee, the reins of two horses dangling through his fingers.
At the tap of her boots on the flagged path he turned, his head coming up. She enjoyed the look on his face. The quick widening of his eyes in surprise, followed by a sparkle of admiration and a slow heat she recognized as desire.
Secretly, she had hoped for this reaction. Only now that she had it, she found herself oddly unsettled, and her step faltered as she reached the gate.
"Gosh, Miss Davenport," said Missy on an awed expulsion of breath. "You're beautiful."
Jerking her gaze away from O'Reilly, Amanda smiled up at the little girl. "Why, thank you, Missy." As long as the children were with them, she reminded herself, she had nothing to worry about. She ran her hand down the pony's nose. "Your pony's lovely. What's her name?"
"It's a
he," said Missy. "His name is Ivory." She nodded to the two riderless horses. One was the big chestnut Amanda had often seen O'Reilly riding; the other, a sleek black, had been fitted with a sidesaddle. "Papa brought Calypso for you. He says she's a real sweet goer and she's so well mannered that you can't go wrong with her, even if you're as bad a rider as Mr. Whittaker."
O'Reilly swore under his breath and ducked his head, but Amanda knew he was hiding a laugh. "Heck, Missy. You weren't even supposed to hear that, let alone repeat it."
Missy giggled while Amanda laughed out loud. She suddenly felt carefree, happy. She gathered the black mare's reins and went quite still as O'Reilly stepped behind her.
"Let me help you up."
He was so close, his big male body seemed to surround her. His breath brushed her cheek, moister than the wind, warmer than the spring sun. For one wild moment she let herself imagine what it would be like to feel his arms close around her. To turn and spread her hands against his hard, broad chest. To open her mouth beneath his kiss.
Shuddering, she inhaled the scent of the bush and the horses, and barely managed to answer. "Thank you."
She twisted sideways, expecting him to give her a leg up. Before she could raise her foot, his hands closed around her waist and he lifted her into the saddle as effortlessly as he had swung her down from the wagon that first day. She automatically held on to the reins and hooked her knee around the saddlebow, but her hands clutched at the tensed strength of his upper arms. And forgot to let go.
Her breath caught as she stared down at his lean, taut face. His eyes were so blue, she thought; as blue as the brutal Australian sky. She could see the creases in his cheeks where his dimples would appear when he laughed or talked. She watched him swallow, felt the tremor that ran through him. And for one intense moment their gazes locked and an almost palpable tension leapt between them, filling the air with a hungering need that was nonetheless real for being unspoken.
And she thought, even with the children here, she still was not safe. Not from the effect he had on her. Not from this thing that was between them.
Then he dropped his hands from her sides and turned toward his horse, and she jerked her gaze away from him, adjusted her skirt, fiddled with the reins—anything to keep from looking at him again.
"Ready?"
She lifted her head to find him astride his big chestnut, his gaze obviously assessing her seat. "I'm ready. And you needn't watch me as if you expect to see me tumble off Calypso here at any moment. I told you I know how to ride."
His mouth relaxed into a grin. "I hope so. I'm afraid there's not a whole lot of grass left out there to cushion you if you do fall."
"Huh," said Amanda, and touched her heel to the black's side.
For some reason she had expected that they would ride along the creek bed. Instead, O'Reilly struck out almost due south, following a trail that climbed the ridge behind the house, then snaked across wild, undulating country of cracked red rock and bare earth and scattered, twisted trees. The sky above burned a blue more vivid than anything she'd ever seen in England, but the breeze blowing down off the mountain- tops was cool and fresh.
"It's lovely riding out here," she said when the children trotted on ahead and she found herself alone with O'Reilly.
She watched a faint flicker of surprise pass over his features. "I've always enjoyed it. Unfortunately, it's damned easy to lose your way if you don't know the bush. You don't ever want to be out here by yourself." He cast an appraising sideways glance at her. "Where'd a woman with your background learn to ride so well, anyway?"
She was absurdly pleased to discover that he hadn't found her lacking as a horsewoman. "My uncle was the squire of a village not far from Oxford," she told him. "He kept a horse for me when I was young."
Thinking of the lush green dells of England, she felt a swift pang of homesickness seize her, almost taking her breath away. She shifted her gaze from the man beside her to the wild, desolate land stretching out around her.
"Are your parents dead, then?" he asked.
"Yes." She stared at the dusty ground visible between the mare's twitching black ears. "My father died five years ago. I never knew my mother; she died when I was born."
She expected him to say, "I'm sorry," which was the traditional, polite response. Instead, he said, "So why didn't you go to your uncle? When your father died, I mean."
"Even if charity is freely given," said Amanda quietly, "it's still charity."
"I can't imagine you as anyone's drudge. You might dress the part, lady, but you sure as hell don't act it."
She should have been offended. Instead, she was surprised into a laugh. "Actually, I was most fortunate in my previous employers. The Blakes always treated me with unfailing respect."
"And how long were you with them?"
"Four years. Before that, I had a position with Lord and Lady Preston."
Something in her voice made him look at her sharply. "You weren't as fortunate with the Prestons, I take it?"
A gurgle of laughter escaped her lips. "I was fired. I'm afraid I threw a pot of ink at Lady Preston." She sobered quickly, feeling her cheeks grow hot at the memory and wondering what had possessed her to tell him that. But when she risked a sideways peek at him, she found his lips curling up into a lazy smile that brought a quick heat to her belly. She jerked her gaze away and watched the three children trotting ahead of them.
"I'm glad you warned me." His voice was warm and teasing. "I hadn't pegged you as the violent type. And seeing as how you're my governess rather than my secretary, in my case it'd probably be a globe you'd choose to lob at me."
She felt the flush in her cheeks deepen. "I do not often lose my temper."
"Huh," he said, as if he didn't believe her. "So why'd you decide to work as a secretary rather than a governess? That's what most women who found themselves in your position would have done, isn't it?"
She swung her head to look at him. "It's ... difficult to explain."
"Try."
She sucked in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. The answer she usually gave was that she'd known what governesses' lives were like, and she hadn't wanted that. But she could hardly say such a thing while she worked as a governess in this man's house. So she told him the other reason. "My education is better than that given to most men. I didn't see why my employment opportunities should be limited simply by the fact that I happened to have been born a female."
She expected him to laugh. Most men would have laughed. But he just looked at her in that still, silent way he had. And suddenly she was afraid that he saw too much, that she'd said too much.
After that they rode in silence except for the creak of saddle leather and the clomp-clomp of hooves and the swish of the horses' tails slapping at flies. They cut across rolling, sunburned tableland dotted with widely scattered red and white gums, belts of stringy barks, and a few sheoaks. Then they rounded a hill and suddenly Amanda found herself facing a jagged escarpment that thrust up from the arid plain, the red sandstone face buckled and broken and eroded by time. At its base nestled a still pool of glistening, water shaded by the spreading branches of a big coolabah tree and a few ghost gums mixed with acacias.
By English standards, the vegetation was not lush. The trees and few scattered bushes were gray-green and scraggly, the grass golden and dying, the gums drooping. It only seemed verdant in contrast to the surrounding hills and the jagged red rock face rising above it. The effect was breathtaking.
Reining in beside the suddenly silent and subdued children, Amanda felt the strange power of this place creep over her. Its power, and its peace. It reminded her of the awe that always overcame her whenever she stepped inside an ancient Norman or Gothic church in England. Here was that same sense of holiness, of ancient mystery. Only more pure, more immediate, more natural. The very air seemed to vibrate with an inexplicable, transcendent spirituality.
"The Aborigines call it Cadnowie," said O'Reilly quietly, swinging out of his sa
ddle and coming around to help her dismount.
She slid down into his arms. "Is this your land?" she asked in an oddly hushed voice.
"Yes. But I tell my shepherds to avoid it. It's a sacred place."
"To the Aborigines, you mean? Should we even be here?" She glanced around, suddenly nervous. Liam and Hannah were unsaddling the horses, while Missy was talking to Ivory and pulling up handfuls of grass to hold beneath his white nose.
"They don't mind us visiting. It's a happy, welcoming place. Don't you feel it?"
"Yes." She went to stand at the pool's edge. The water was so clear, she could see the rocky bottom far below. "Why did you want to come here today?" she asked.
She saw his reflection shimmering next to hers on the glasslike surface of the water as he came to stand beside her. She watched his image as he pushed back his hat and squinted up at the spreading limbs of a giant ghost gum. "If this drought keeps up, I'm going to have to use this water. I won't have a choice."
She heard the regret in his voice and she swung her head to look directly at him, surprised to realize that he, too, felt the pull of this place. And unsettled to realize that he appreciated its magic enough to wish he could preserve it.
The shadows in his vivid blue eyes caught at her. She swallowed hard, feeling something shift inside her. Here was one more side of him she didn't want to see. She wanted to go on thinking of him as insensitive and crass. She didn't want to have to face the truth: that her image of him was flawed, that she had manufactured it herself to keep from having to admit just how dangerously attractive she found him. Not only physically—although that pull was powerful enough. It was this man, Patrick O'Reilly—the essence of him, the soul of him—that fascinated her. Called to her.
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