The Bushranger's Wife

by Cheryl Adnams

  He opened his mouth just a little to envelope both of her lips with his and felt the sigh escape her as she finally relaxed. As her lips parted on her gasp, her little exhale of breath went all the way to his toes. Then he felt her, ever so lightly, begin to kiss him back and his mind went blank of anything but her. He swept his tongue over the fullness of her upper lip, and the spark that ignited was all consuming. One more minute and he would step back, he promised. He fisted his hands at his side to fight the urge to touch her, to drag her bodily against him. She was an innocent and a lady. He had to remember that.

  He pulled back quickly and stared at her, astonished that such an inexperienced kiss from her had strained his control to breaking point.

  Slowly she opened her eyes, her expression as startled as his. Her fingers went to her lips making him want to kiss her all over again.

  ‘There. Was that so hard?’ he asked, his voice a little huskier than he’d expected.

  He waited for her to answer him, to censure him in some way over his unacceptable behaviour, but she kept staring at him unblinking, her eyes filled not with disapproval, but wonder.

  Determined to save his sanity, he held up the locket.

  ‘All yours. You earned it.’

  When she didn’t reach for it, he leaned forward and placed it around her neck, his eyes fixed to hers as he fastened the clasp. And when his fingers brushed against the delicate skin, high on the back of her neck, he felt her shiver.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said in a voice that trembled.

  ‘And you promise to keep my secret?’

  She nodded. ‘I promise.’

  ‘Then you can go.’

  He stepped back, giving her room to pass him but she didn’t move.

  Why wasn’t she leaving? If she didn’t go soon, he’d not be responsible for his actions.

  Struggling to resist her large eyes, glassed over with unabashed emotion staring up at him, he summoned willpower he didn’t even know he possessed, turned and walked away from her.

  Chapter 4

  She staggered back against the wall of the stable and watched him disappear around the corner. Her fingers were still on her lips and the hand that had risen to her pounding heart shook. Exhaling long and slow, she told herself it was relief she felt. Relief that he was gone. Relief that he had left her safe and sound … and trembling with a delicious warmth coursing through her body. She had never been kissed before. Putting her mouth to a man’s had always seemed so strange to her, so … unsanitary even. How silly she’d been.

  Her belly somersaulted as she recalled the sensation of his lips brushing lightly against hers. She closed her eyes and tried to bring back every thought and feeling she’d had while he’d kissed her, and then licked her. Yes, his tongue had touched her lips once, ever so softly, and her knees had turned to water, her pulse had raced in her ears, blocking all other sounds other than his quickening breath. And when he’d stepped back, she had very nearly reached for him in a reaction beyond her control.

  When she’d opened her eyes, the expression on his face had been so strange. So different from the teasing, arrogant bushranger he’d been until that point. His eyes were softer, darker, touched with what looked like confusion, as though a great battle were taking place within him. She’d been unable to move, even when he’d given her the opportunity to leave. She’d just stood there staring at him, enveloped still in the heat that had radiated from him. And then he was gone. Reaching up, she grasped the locket. Even when he’d offered it to her, she’d been unable to take it, unable to lift her hand to accept it, no matter how much she’d wanted to. He’d had to clasp it around her neck himself, and as he’d leaned in, she’d taken a deep inhale of his manly scent. His scent hung in her nostrils even now.

  In a trance, Prudence walked back to where her family were situated trackside.

  ‘What have you been doing all this time, Prudence?’

  She looked up at her grandmother and just shook her head.

  ‘Nothing, Grandmother. Nothing at all.’

  ***

  Pru raised her face to the rising sun and revelled in its warmth. The days were getting longer, the sun warmer as summer approached, and there was nowhere she would rather be on such a pretty morning than riding across the vast expanse of the estate. While she enjoyed a good gallop, today she was happy to give Misha her head and let the horse choose where she wanted to go and at what speed. Inevitably, Misha headed for the eastern side of the property. While the fields had begun to dry out with the warmer weather, there were still green mounds of sweet grasses to be found by the little creek that ran through one corner of the estate.

  As the horse leaned down to drink at the babbling waters, Pru’s mind wandered, not for the first time, to the day at the races. Had it really only been a week ago that she’d been kissed by a bushranger? She’d never been kissed by a man before, but had certainly read plenty about it, about kisses and sexual intercourse between a man and a woman. The things she had read had been both romantic and scientific, but she would take the romantic descriptions any day over the mechanical explanations in the biology books she’d studied.

  Adventure and romance—romance and adventure. The two so often went together in literature, and while in her mind she had known it was wrong to let him kiss her like that, her curiosity had taken over. Her body had rejoiced in the explosion of new sensations that had overwhelmed her at the soft, wet warmth of his mouth against hers. She didn’t swoon, as so many women seemed to in literature, but Jack the Devil could certainly make a girl light-headed.

  But with the distance of a week, she was coming to realise that what Jack ‘the Devil’ Fairweather had done to get her to kiss him was tantamount to blackmail and abuse. He was beyond reproach, incorrigible. Infuriation quickly replaced her starry-eyed fantasies and she swore that if she ever saw Jack the Devil again, that she would indeed tell the world who he was.

  Done with being a starry-eyed fool, Pru pulled at Misha’s reins and set them off at a cracking pace. Her annoyance spurred her on, and seeing a section of the fence that was lower than the rest, she headed for it.

  Jumping Misha over the border fence with ease, Pru grinned broadly at the sense of freedom leaving the estate always gave her, and rode straight across the plains towards the small hill and the rocky outcropping she could see from her bedroom window. There’d be hell to pay if her grandmother found out, but Uncle Robert was in Melbourne and Grandmother had come down with spring allergies and had been bedridden for the last few days. Knowing she had all the time in the world to explore, she wasn’t about to give up this opportunity.

  Reaching the dirt road, she slowed a little, unsure how far she should go. It would be imprudent of her to get lost and to have Brock sent to look for her.

  Suddenly, Misha startled and reared a little as another horse bolted out of the bush and into their path. She stayed seated thanks only to the saddle she continued to request Brock give her. Had she been on a side-saddle, she doubted she would have stopped herself from falling.

  Angry with the man who had so carelessly flown out of the bushes, she was about to let fly with a mouthful of abuse, but stopped when she saw the familiar mischievous grin.

  ‘Jack! Mr Devil, Mr Fairweather …’ She stopped before she could make an even bigger fool of herself.

  ‘I am so glad you remembered me, Miss Prudence.’

  ‘How could I forget?’

  She regretted the words the minute they were out of her mouth. But the moment she’d recognised him her mind flew back to the races and that kiss. The thrill that coursed through her was unexpected and heady.

  ‘It seems I made quite an impression,’ he said, his arrogance reminding her that this was no gentleman suitor but a thief.

  ‘Yes, you left the impression of a rude and uncouth criminal who takes what he wants, when he wants it.’

  She lifted her chin and did her best to appear haughty, despite her racing heart and traitorous belly, fluttering l
ike the wings of a thousand butterflies. He didn’t need to know that she’d thought about that kiss more than once since the day she’d discovered Jack Fairweather was really Jack the Devil. Her lips tingled even now at the memory and subconsciously she licked them.

  ‘Are we talking about my bushranging ways or the kiss you gave me at the races?’ he asked, his gaze firmly resting on her lips.

  ‘I didn’t give you a kiss, you took it from me.’

  ‘You got exactly what you wanted.’

  Her mouth dropped open but she was so stunned at his accusation no words came out.

  ‘Your locket,’ he said, pointing at the necklace now hanging around her neck.

  She looked down. She had been keeping the locket hidden beneath her clothing, but it seemed to have been jolted out during her ride. If her grandmother saw it, she would demand to know how she came to have it again after it had been stolen.

  As though reading her mind, Jack leaned forward and took the locket between his thumb and forefinger before tucking it back beneath her shirt, his fingers brushing against the skin of her throat. Swallowing hard, she felt the heat rush up her body to her face. Eager to hide her reaction, she tried to ride around him, but he manoeuvred his horse to block her path.

  ‘Please, get out of my way.’

  His expression changed, the arrogance giving way to a concerned frown. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I saw you riding by and just wanted to say hello.’

  ‘You didn’t frighten me,’ she said. It was true. She hadn’t had time to be frightened.

  His brow furrowed a little at that.

  ‘It’s an interesting coincidence that we happen to be riding on the same road, don’t you think?’

  ‘An unhappy one,’ she added with a curtness she didn’t feel.

  She was so muddled. Torn between how she should be behaving and her curiosity. She had so many questions about his life as a bushranger, but she knew she ought to leave; ought to get away from him as fast as her horse could carry her.

  She needed to get home before her grandmother rose and admonished her for going riding out of the estate unchaperoned … again. Decision made, she tightened her grip on the reins and sat up straight.

  ‘I must be getting back to the manor,’ she said, finally able to turn Misha on the narrow dirt road.

  ‘Then please allow me to escort you back,’ Jack said, moving his horse alongside hers. ‘The highway is a dangerous place.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m not sure being escorted home by a bushranger is the wisest course of action.’

  ‘You forget,’ he said with a conspiratorial wink. ‘You’re grandmother thinks I am a businessman. Jack Fairweather of Fairweather Transport.’

  ‘And how is business?’ Pru asked as they set off at a walk.

  ‘Business does quite well,’ Jack said with a nod. ‘So well in fact, I rarely spend any time at the office in Ballarat. My staff are so efficient the transport business runs like a well-oiled machine without me.’

  ‘And what about the other business?

  ‘The other business?’

  ‘Yes. How is the thieving business?’ she questioned, allowing a small teasing grin to touch her lips.

  He tilted his head as he looked at her. The intensity in his dark stare made her uncomfortable.

  ‘It’s alright. As a matter of fact I’m taking a break from bushranging just now.’

  ‘Oh? Conscience pricking, is it?’

  He shot her a narrow-eyed sidelong glance to which she returned a smug grin.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s a new police sergeant in town. Sergeant Carmichael is a little overzealous in his duties. It’s wise to lay low for a while when the constabulary changes hands. They always seem to want to prove themselves by rounding up all the bushrangers in the district.’

  ‘Mm, fancy that. A policeman chasing criminals,’ Prudence said, the sarcasm dripping from every word.

  ‘Yes, well, it pays to keep one’s head down at such times. Besides, the troopers have become quite vigilant since the last gold wagon was held up and soldiers were killed.’

  ‘Do you rob gold wagons?’ she asked, suddenly aware again of the dangerous, and fascinating, nature of his work.

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘No, I know better than to try and steal from the government wagons these days. It’s not like it was in the early days. The wagons were easy to rob back then, hardly any protection save a few drunk soldiers. Now they not only use soldiers and troopers to protect the wagons, they have these big bastard …’ he paused and gave her a repentant look. ‘Pardon me. They have these big guns mounted on the wagon. It’s unlikely a thief would get away with his life, less likely he would get away with any gold.’

  They rode in silence for a few moments. Only the magpies and the wind whispering in the trees accompanied the synchronised beat of their horses’ hooves on the hard dirt road.

  ‘How do you know which coaches to rob?’ she asked. ‘I mean, there are many people who travel these roads who have nothing worth stealing. Would they not be a waste of your time?’

  She studied him as he stayed unusually quiet. And then the answer came to her in a flash. ‘The transport business.’

  He gave her a quizzical look.

  She grinned with admiration. It was surprisingly clever. ‘That’s how you do it. Through your transport business.’

  He didn’t confirm or deny but again stayed oddly silent on the matter.

  ‘Oh, don’t be shy now, Mr Fairweather.’

  ‘You are too perceptive, Miss Prudence.’

  ‘Your legitimate business provides the opportunity to peruse the luggage to see whether that coach is worth bailing up or not. It’s quite brilliant really. But it’s not always how you do it. Our carriage, for instance, came from Geelong and was not a Fairweather coach. Sometimes your heists are planned, other times they are crimes of opportunity. Does it add to the thrill of it? The unknown element?’

  Jack laughed. ‘You have an inquisitive mind. What brought on this sudden interest in the work of a bushranger?’

  She shrugged a shoulder. ‘I read. A lot.’

  ‘Always a dangerous thing for a woman,’ he murmured. She heard him, chose to ignore it.

  ‘I read about bushrangers well before we came here from England. The periodicals were full of reports about Bold Jack Donohoe, the Wild Colonial Boy. The escapades of Black Douglas and Mad Dog Morgan.’

  ‘Escapades is it?’ Jack said with a sardonic laugh. ‘That’s a pretty word for what I do. Why would a lady such as yourself enjoy reading about dangerous and corrupt men?’

  ‘I read a lot of things,’ she said, proudly. ‘My grandfather adored books and he passed that love on to me. One of my favourite stories as a child was the penny series on Robin Hood and his merry men.’

  ‘Interesting considering your heritage.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he was a nobleman fighting for the rights of the peasants. He was the Earl of Huntingdon and you are related to the Earl of Carrington.’

  ‘A title means nothing,’ Prudence said, miffed at being reminded of the heritage she’d grown to see as a restraint. ‘Especially here.’

  ‘It means something alright,’ Jack said casually. ‘Tell me, Miss Prudence, in all your reading, did you ever read about the Eureka Stockade?’

  ‘Of course. Everyone heard about it. It was in all the papers in London.’

  ‘Well, as little as six years ago, only the gentry, your type, were allowed to own land or vote in this country until the so called “peasants” stood up to the British government,’ Jack went on. ‘The battle for that democracy cost the lives of miners and soldiers, but eventually the laws were changed allowing any man to campaign for a position in the legislature and to own land if he could afford to do so.’

  ‘You certainly know a lot on the matter.’ She studied him closely. His brow was furrowed and he stared out at the horizon as though lost in memories.
It was a rare sight to see his usually jovial mood dulled.

  ‘You were there.’

  He met her eyes and she saw the haunted look in them.

  ‘No,’ he answered definitively. ‘That is to say, I was not at the stockade myself. I was around Ballarat at the time, but … I knew people who were there. I knew people who died there.’

  Prudence desperately wanted to ask him all about it. What had he seen? Had the military really murdered all those poor souls as the periodicals had reported? Or was it the miners who were the villains in the piece?

  But she could see by his expression that this was not a conversation he wanted to have.

  ‘Anyway, the idea of a band of outlaws with big hearts like Robin and his merry men appealed to me,’ she returned reluctantly to the original subject. ‘When I got older I turned to other adventure books like The Three Musketeers. I just adore Alexandre Dumas.’

  ‘And what does your grandmother think of you reading such unladylike literature?’

  She shrugged shoulder. ‘She doesn’t know everything I do.’

  Jack chuckled. ‘Clearly. I’d bet she doesn’t know you are out here now, riding alone.’

  ‘I’m not alone,’ she said, straightening in her saddle. ‘I’m with you.’

  ‘Mm, chaperoned by a dangerous outlaw. I’m sure Grandma would be thrilled.’

  He was right about that, but she chose to ignore him.

  ‘You shouldn’t romanticise things you know nothing about,’ he said. ‘Robin Hood gave what he stole to the poor and the Musketeers were the king’s guard. They were good men. Hardly the same as the drunken, murdering Mad Dog Morgan.’

  She stopped her horse. It hadn’t occurred to her that, as charming as he was, he might also be a dangerous killer, just like those bushrangers who had come before him. When he too stopped and turned back to look at her questioningly, she asked, ‘Do you do murder?’

  ‘No, Miss Prudence,’ Jack said, his expression serious. ‘I have never shot or killed a man in my life. It’s not my way. And that is why I was glad to see the back of Mad Dog Morgan when he fled to New South Wales.’