She took it all in, with her heart and her soul and every sensitive inch of her being, and she felt oddly complete—filled with an inner glow of love and happiness and peace, a sense of lightness, of belonging, that was so different from the loneliness she had always carried deep within her. And she thought, I've never felt like this before. And then she thought, I want this. I want this forever and ever and ever.
The laughter and music from the woolshed followed the three tired children and two adults as they walked together up the moonlit track to the homestead. The night was warm, the wind a gentle caress that whispered through the gum trees along the creek.
"Sing something, Papa," murmured Missy, snuggling sleepily against O'Reilly's shoulder.
He looked down at the little girl in his arms. "What would you like, darlin'?"
"How about 'The Morning Dew'?" suggested Liam, walking ahead with Hannah.
"All right." O'Reilly shifted Missy's weight and began to sing, letting the night breeze carry his voice away over the pale hills. " 'Come listen you lads and ladies so true, I'll tell you a tale of the sweet morning dew, that freshens the green dells each soft Irish morn, in the land of bright moonlight in which I was born.' " He took a deep breath to start the chorus, glanced down at Amanda walking companionably beside him, and abruptly closed his mouth.
"Sing the rest of it, Papa," Missy said, lifting her head when he paused.
He grinned at Amanda. "I don't think I should."
"Come on, finish it, Papa," called Hannah.
"Yes, do," said Amanda, smiling up at him.
She wasn't going to like it, but he shrugged his shoulders and said, "You asked for it." Tipping back his head, he raised his voice again. " 'Sing hey and ring the bell, for it's to Botany Bay I sail. God rot the bloody English and send them all to—' "
Amanda's fingers clapped down over his mouth. "You were right. You shouldn't."
He laughed softly against her hand.
And felt her tremble.
"Why'd we have t'come back t'the house?" Missy demanded as Amanda tugged the little girl's dress over her head. "All the other children are still down at the woolshed."
"And falling asleep on the wool bales," said Amanda, slipping off the child's shoes and stockings and petticoat.
"I'm not sleepy," Missy insisted, even as her mouth stretched into a big yawn.
Amanda eased the little girl's nightgown down over her outstretched arms. "Well, I am."
"That's because you danced with Papa all night."
Amanda felt hot color flood her cheeks as she smoothed the covers up beneath Missy's chin. "I'm tired because it's late," she said, or started to say, when she noticed that the little girl's eyelids had fluttered closed, and her lips parted with her slowed, even breathing. "Good night, darling," Amanda whispered, and gently kissed her cheek.
"Miss Davenport?" Hannah's voice came to her from the other side of the room.
Shadows danced over the walls as Amanda picked up the chamberstick and went to perch on the side of Hannah's bed. "I thought you were asleep."
Hannah's hair spread over her pillow like a dark wave. In the candlelight, she looked pale and very pretty. "I wanted to thank you." Her hands moved restlessly over the edge of her
sheet; she did not meet Amanda's gaze. "For what you did this afternoon."
"You're welcome." Impulsively, Amanda reached out to smooth the girl's hair back from her forehead. "You were magnificent. I was very proud of you."
Amanda was afraid the girl would flinch from her touch, but all Hannah said was, "Papa was proud of me, too, wasn't he?"
"Yes, he was." Amanda squeezed the girl's hand and let it go. "Good night, Hannah."
Hannah tilted her head to stare up at Amanda with dark, wise eyes. "He's been ... different since you came here. I think he likes you. I mean, really likes you. The way a man likes a woman."
"Hannah." Amanda stood up so fast, she almost put out the candle, and had to shield the flame with her cupped hand to coax it back to life.
"Know something else?" Hannah continued, her mouth curling up into a grin.
Amanda paused at the door. "What?"
"I think you like him, too."
"Good night, Hannah," Amanda said repressively.
Hannah's soft laughter follow her out the door. "Good night, Miss Davenport."
Amanda could hear the low murmur of masculine voices from Liam's room as she carried the chamberstick to her own bedroom. She set the candle on her dressing table, meaning to tidy her hair. But the snap of the front door closing brought her head up with a jerk.
She flew across the room, yanked open the French doors, and burst outside to be brought up short by the sight of O'Reilly standing at the near end of the veranda, one outflung arm braced against a post, his back to her as he stared at the darkened garden. He had taken off his jacket and vest; she could see his white shirt glowing faintly in the moonlight.
He spun to face her, and she saw the flare of something in his eyes before he hooded them. Behind him, the strange southern sky arced so gloriously clear and crowded with stars it sparkled.
"I was afraid you'd left already." She sounded winded— she felt winded, as if she had been running.
He stared at her. There was a look about his face—sharp, almost predatory—that she had never seen before. It frightened her and excited her at the same time. But when he spoke, his voice was soft. "Your hair is coming down."
Wordlessly, she raised her arms, her elbows spread wide, and began removing the pins from the thick coil she wore loosely twisted at the nape of her neck. Her hair tumbled heavily to her shoulders, curled around her breasts. He watched, his eyes darkening with heat and desire, as she shook her head, loosening the coil. Then she dropped her arms to her sides, and waited.
"Come here," he said.
The warm night wind blew around him, fluttering his fine dress shirt, molding it against his lean, working man's muscles. She went to him, and the same wind caught at her hair and billowed it out around her. She could feel her heart thumping painfully in her breast, feel her skin shivery with a sensitivity so exquisite it ached. She kept walking until she could stare right up into his wild, hot eyes. She could feel his intense sexual energy swirling around her, calling to her at a level she only dimly understood.
He furrowed the fingers of both hands through the hair at her temples, held her face between his palms, ran a thumb along the crest of her cheekbone. Her breath came in little pants, her lips parted, her breasts rose and fell rapidly. She was trembling with her need for him, trembling with awe at the boldness of what she was doing.
She reached for him, but his hands slipped down to grip her shoulders and hold her away from him. "No. Wait," he said, his arms fixed and hard, his voice harsh, ragged. "I want you, Amanda. I want to carry you into your room and lay you down and bury myself inside you. So if you let something start here tonight, you gotta understand where it's gonna end."
She laid her spread hands against the solid muscles of his upper chest. She could feel the heat of his body, feel the rapid pounding of his heart. "I want you, too," she said. "And I can't fight it anymore."
"Amanda ..." He still held himself stiff, but beneath her hands, she could feel his chest rise as he drew in a shuddering breath. "I'm not right for you. I—"
"I know what you are." Shaking with her desire for him, desperate with her need to touch him, she stroked her hands over his chest, his shoulders, his neck. "I've fought the way I feel about you for so long. But not anymore." She looked deep into his tortured blue eyes. "I love you."
"Oh, God ..." His fingers dug into her shoulders almost painfully as he hauled her up against the hard length of his body. Silver moonlight played over the taut, aroused planes of his face. He caught his fists in her loose hair; his breathing became rapid, urgent. She saw his eyelids flutter closed, heard him groan deep in his throat. Then he brought his mouth slamming down on hers.
It was a wild, hungry kiss, full of all t
he raw passion and violent need he had kept restrained in the past. She curled her fingers around the back of his neck, drawing his head down to her as she opened her mouth beneath his, welcomed him, tasted his hot sweetness.
He groaned again and thrust his tongue deep inside, stroking her, claiming her as his. She felt his hands slide down to pull her hips up against his pelvis. She arched against him, achingly aware of the hard length of his erection pressing intimately against her stomach. Her entire body quivered with a gnawing, empty need that was an agony. The need to be touched. To be filled.
He swung her around, thrusting her back against a veranda post to trap her between the rough wood and his male body. His hands found her breasts and she cried out, squirming with the piercing pleasure of his touch as he lifted their fullness, kneaded them with rough desperation. His mouth lost hers and she whimpered impatiently, rising on tiptoe to seek his lips, recapture his mouth. She was aflame, drowning in fire, lost in a world of sensation, of the exquisite interplay of tongues and lips, of roaming hands and sensitive flesh, of need and heat and want. She was aware of nothing but the man in her arms and the black, star-studded silence of the night. The bush-scented wind swirled around them, wild and free and hot.
Wanting to put her hands on his naked flesh, she tugged at the tail of his shirt, pulled it loose from his trousers so that she could feel the smooth, hot skin of his back. As if driven by the same need, he sought the buttons at the front of her dress. But they were small and numerous, and his fingers clumsy with need. Swearing impatiently, he hooked his fingers in the high neck and ripped.
"Hell," he said in an awed voice, as if surprised by what he'd done. "I'm sorry."
She laughed softly. "It doesn't matter. I've decided I hate this dress."
"I'll replace it with a new one," he said, and she heard the smile in his voice. "Only, I'll make sure it's cut low enough to show me at least a hint of these."
She sucked in her breath as his impatient fingers shoved aside the cloth of her dress and pushed down her corset and chemise so that he could cradle her naked breasts in his hands. The night air felt cool and wicked, skimming over her bare skin. But his hands were hot. Hot and sure.
Amanda's head fell back, an incoherent sound of pleasure torn from her lips. She felt his mouth trail down her neck, felt the softness of his lips, the wetness of his tongue as he kissed and licked his way downward, sinking to one knee at her feet. She cried out with expectation and need, bucking against him as he closed his mouth over the aroused peak of first one breast, then the other. He wrapped one arm around her waist, his hand splayed against her bottom, trying to hold her steady, but she squirmed helplessly, whimpering with want, swirled away in a mindless fever of desire. Her fingers spasmed in his hair, holding his head to her breast. But it wasn't enough. She wanted, wanted, wanted—
He tore his mouth from her taut, quivering nipple, his breath washing hot over her wet, exposed breasts, his body racked with his own shuddering need as he rose to his feet, his hardness rubbing suggestively against her. He stared down at her, his eyes glittering in the moonlight, his face almost cruel with the intensity of his arousal. His hands fisted in her skirts, ready to shove them up and take her, right there, against the veranda post beneath the open sky.
Then his mouth slanted up in a devilish smile that brought a dimple to one cheek, and he leaned his forehead against hers. "Christ," he said, his breath coming in ragged pants as the starched cloth of her skirts slipped from his fingers. "Do you have any idea how many people there are roaming around this station tonight? I think we need to find somewhere more private."
Her laugh turned into a gasp of surprise as one strong arm caught her behind the knees, the other cradling her back as he swept her up against his chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck, held him close. His long, swift strides covered the length of the veranda to where she had left her French doors swinging open to the night. He turned sideways, easing them both through the opening before kicking the panels shut with his booted foot.
The candle dipped and flared in the draft, sending golden light shimmering up whitewashed walls and throwing dark shadows across his face. He released her slowly, letting her body slide down his, his gaze fixed on hers.
She felt suddenly, unexpectedly shy as the wild exuberance of that abandoned, wind-washed, moonlit kiss on the veranda gave way to the pregnant, sheltered intimacy of her room. He stood before her, so large and male, his shirt untucked and half pulled open. The sight of his tanned, muscled chest reminded her vividly of what they had already done. And what was coming next.
She brought up a shaking hand to draw together the torn edges of her dress, but he nudged her fingers aside. "No. Let me look at you," he said hoarsely, and pulled apart her ripped bodice to expose her naked breasts. She felt herself tremble, even as her nipples tightened into two erect nubs.
He stared openly at her, his eyes glowing. She felt the heat of his gaze on her, sending a tingling warmth rippling through her to add to the heaviness pooling between her legs. His hands moved to cover her breasts, and they both watched as he lifted her fullness, her skin so white and fine beneath his dark, callused fingers.
"I've been wanting to do this since that first day, when I met you up in Brinkman," he said with a low, breathy laugh that ended in something like a sigh. "You have such beautiful breasts. So full and firm."
She laid her palms over his, increasing the pressure of his hands as they moved in erotically slow, undulating circles. "You did touch me that day, remember?" she said.
He brought his gaze to her face and smiled. "I remember. Only it wasn't your breasts I touched." He reached down to grip her bottom bawdily. "It was this."
She chuckled and leaned into him, pushing aside his open shirt so that she could splay her hands against his bare chest. "I wanted you that first day, too," she admitted, watching her palms glide across the taut, golden skin of his chest. "I saw you standing there with your open shirt, and I thought you looked so strong and beautiful, so much a man, it frightened me. Then later, when you put your hands on me to hoist me into the wagon, I felt touched by fire. Scorched."
She let her fingers drift down to unfasten the few remaining shirt buttons, and sighed. "I've been wanting to do that for months now." She would never get tired of touching him, she thought. She loved the rippling flat tautness of his stomach, the bulging muscles of his chest. She eased his shirt off his powerful shoulders, heard the whisper of fine linen falling to the floor as she caressed his smooth back. "I used to watch you working around the station with your shirt half- unbuttoned. Sometimes I'd have sworn you did it deliberately, to tempt me. Torment me."
"I did," he admitted, nuzzling her hair with his chin.
Her head fell back, her gaze seeking his. "You knew? "
His dimples flashed beguilingly. "I knew."
"But—"
He caught her words with his kiss. A light, teasing kiss that quickly grew hotter, hungrier, more needy and demanding. He slanted his lips urgently across hers. She twined her fingers in his sun-streaked hair, pulling him closer as she opened her mouth beneath his. His tongue thrust inside her, deep, hot, demanding. Their breath came in ragged gasps, their bodies straining against each other, their hands coursing up and down, touching, learning, arousing, possessing. But it wasn't enough.
He tore his mouth from hers. In the flaring light of the candle she could see the passion in his face, the hot yearning. "Take your clothes off," he said harshly, his chest heaving with the strain of drawing air. "I want to see you naked." His hands tightened around her waist to set her away from him as he sank down on the edge of her bed and tugged off first one boot, then the other.
But his gaze never left her.
She stood before him, conscious of his eyes upon her, of the hot color surging into her cheeks. With trembling fingers she undid the remaining buttons of her dress and lifted it over her head, letting the ruined, ugly striped satin fall where it would. She unfastened her red pettic
oat and took it off, then her crinoline. And all the while he sat on her bed and watched her, his face half in shadow, the warm candlelight playing over his naked shoulders and chest.
She paused.
"Keep going," he said, his voice low and smoky, his eyes bright, his face taut with leashed hunger.
She unbuttoned her corset cover and eased it off her shoulders, the fire within her burning brighter and brighter, hotter and hotter. She could feel his desire for her, see it in his face, in the tense expectancy of his body. And she thrilled to the knowledge that she had this power over him, this ability to make him want her so badly.
With deliberate, provocative slowness, she untied her garters one at a time, rolling her stockings down her leg, easing off first one shoe, then the other. And heard the hiss of his quickly indrawn breath.
"Take off your pantalets next," he said huskily.
Her fingers hesitated at her waistband, but only for an instant. Delicious shivers coursed up and down her spine. She felt wonderfully wicked and naughty as she unbuttoned her drawers and shoved the smooth cotton over her bare hips and down her thighs, and let it go.
The room was so quiet, she could hear the candle gutting in its melted wax, and the sound of their strident, aroused breathing.
"Come here," he said.
Wearing only her corset and chemise, she went to him, and his powerful arms closed around her. He splayed his hands over the cheeks of her naked bottom and drew her forward until she stood within the V of his spread thighs, her hands on his shoulders.
She felt the warm night air, caressing her bare skin. Felt the heaviness of moist heat collecting between her legs. Felt his hard fingers, digging intimately into the curves of her buttocks.
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