To Taste The Wine

by Fern Michaels

  Fearful for her mistress’s safety, Tingari stood beneath the open dining room window, listening to every word, ready to take action if needed. Franklin’s insightful declaration concerning little Gaby had come as a sudden shock. Instinctively, Tingari hugged Gaby tighter to her breast. Boss Kane was a dangerous man. All that belonged to Bellefleur was Bellefleur; Gabrielle did not belong. Boss Kane tolerated no intruders—not even a rabbit or a galah bird touched foot on Bellefleur and lived, because they took from the land and did not belong. Tingari moved her long black fingers over the baby’s head in a protective blessing. Like the rains that awaited the pattern of their time, Boss Kane would swallow what Franklin had told him … and then the storm would come.

  Chapter 17

  Quaid Tanner leaned against the porch railing of his house on Clonmerra. He was exhausted, sickened and exhausted. He’d been back from his trip to England to settle his past for nearly two weeks and the work was endless, despite the drought or because of it. The water from the lake was almost completely gone. The deep well out in back of the house was already muddy and nearly depleted. He’d had to resort to handing out bottles of wine for the men’s daily rations, and there was no joy in drinking the fine burgundy or clarets that were the fruit of Clonmerra vines. Wine could not substitute for the most basic necessity of life—water.

  Harlow Kane and his men had taken him at his word. They spent the days hand-carrying the precious water from the lake to the already dead vines. Some of it was preserved for the cuttings that were carefully stored away in the winehouse; just enough moisture to keep the roots from drying out, not enough light to encourage growth. If properly tended, Kane’s cuttings as well as his own held the future harvests at Bellefleur and Clonmerra.

  The lake water Harlow was taking could have been put to better use watering the sheep, but even that was a lost cause, Quaid knew. What possible difference could another week or two make to the dumb animals? Instead, Tooley Joe was overseeing the slaughter of the animals, and in this intolerably dry heat, the stench from the slaughterhouse was overpowering. Another irrevocable duty spurred by the drought.

  The marketplace in Sydney was overrun with sheep, and the price of lamb on the hoof had dipped to a ridiculous new low. He’d heard that many outback ranchers were undertaking long drives to cart their poor beasts farther west, hoping to weather the drought. Quaid held little hope for them. As for himself, his herd had dwindled and trying to save it was hardly worth the effort. Instead, he’d ordered the animals slaughtered. At least the cooked meat would help to replenish the body’s daily need for water. Under Quaid’s orders, Jack Mundey had organized a small drive to herd the doomed animals farther north, where several Aboriginal tribes were finding it hard going. The Aboriginals could live on next to nothing, but this drought had put them to the test. And if ever there were a people who fully utilized every offering of nature, it was these dignified and mysterious blacks. At least this way the animals wouldn’t go to waste by being allowed to die in their tracks.

  Quaid leaned his head back and closed his eyes against the burning sun. In the dismal wasteland of Coober Pedy, he’d learned to spend endless days alone. Why was it then that here on Clonmerra he was overwhelmed with loneliness? And after Coober Pedy, when he’d gone back to England and had been surrounded by a sea of humanity, he’d dealt with a feeling of separation—but never the devastating aloneness that he carried with him now, on Clonmerra. He squinted in the direction of Bellefleur. Chelsea. His eyes were hungry for the sight of her. His arms ached to hold her. But she was as far from him as life could take her. She had borne a child, Harlow’s child, and he knew instinctively that nothing he could offer would ever separate Chelsea from that child. It had all been for nothing. The opals, the money, Clonmerra, the time spent away from here in England. It all amounted to nothing without Chelsea.

  He felt the brutal sun burning his face and turned his head away. There was a restlessness within him, a feeling that predicted change. “Something in the wind,” Tingari would have said, a world of understanding and meaning behind those simple words.

  “Something,” Quaid said quietly to himself. And then, in futile anguish, “Anything!” Anything to ease this yearning, this hopelessness that was consuming him.

  Madeline Tanner smiled winningly at the captain of the Tudor Rose, appreciating his courtly bow. She knew she made a pretty picture as she stood at the rail to watch their entrance into the magnificent Sydney harbor. One tiny gloved hand poised on the rail, the other held the sweetest ruffled parasol to protect her flawless complexion from the sun. She’d chosen to wear a gay afternoon dress of cobalt-blue silk, the color offsetting her upswept flaxen curls. Complementing her costume and dramatically highlighting her coiffure was the most minuscule of hats, which allowed a froth of blue veiling to kiss the tip of her delicately upturned nose.

  “If you could guarantee such wonderful weather for every crossing, Captain, I might be tempted to make the voyage again.”

  The captain tipped his hat. “It would be my pleasure,” he assured her. “The Tudor Rose and myself are your servants, madam.” The captain knew he was grinning like a silly schoolboy. He was years older than she and not ordinarily smitten with women, but Miss Tanner was the most charming young woman it had been his pleasure to meet in a very long time. Fifteen years younger and fifty pounds lighter, and he would have given any man aboard a run for his money with respect to the delightful Madeline Tanner.

  She lifted a delicate hand to hold her hat against the offshore breezes. It was a gesture that delineated the slimness of her torso, the alluring swell of her breasts, the graceful turn of her arm. And she knew it. Madeline tried to hide her smile. There wasn’t a man aboard who wouldn’t fall a willing victim to her charms. Not a man she couldn’t have just by crooking her little finger.

  The captain, no inexperienced bumpkin, was well aware of Madeline’s seductive powers, and in spite of himself, he wished his numerous duties hadn’t prevented him from pursuing her. Every free moment of the voyage had been spent seeking her company or watching her charm the buttons off the shirt of every eligible man. She was a popular companion—too popular, if one paid any attention to the catty remarks of the female passengers. To their relief, Madeline’s attention had focused upon Mitchell Severson ever since he’d boarded ship in Cape Town. Even now, the captain knew she was waiting at the rail for Severson to join her. But he also knew Madeline Tanner was going to be quite disappointed if she ever decided to look into Severson’s actual assets. He’d seen men like Severson before—well-dressed, perfect manners, suavely handsome … and not a penny in the bank. His fortune was his smile; his ambition was to make a profitable marriage.

  “Ah, Mitchell, there you are,” Madeline cried happily. “You did say you’d help me once we disembarked. I’m going to hold you to that promise.”

  Severson smiled, and Madeline thought it the loveliest smile she’d ever seen on a man. “I’m true to my word. Just put yourself in my hands, and I’ll have a dray for you in no time at all. But first I think you should book a room at an inn in case things go awry when you get to … where was that place you’re going?”

  “Clonmerra,” Madeline said. “And you’re absolutely right. I’ll take a room at the same hotel where you’re staying. You’re very kind, Mr. Severson.”

  “Why this sudden formality, Madeline?” he asked.

  “Because I wouldn’t want anyone to arrive at the wrong conclusion concerning our relationship,” she murmured. “A woman traveling alone must take great pains with her reputation; surely you understand.” She lifted her striking blue eyes to his and squeezed his arm conspiratorially.

  Captain Zachary was amused by this exchange between his passengers. Obviously they were unaware that the wind carried their words directly to his ear.

  “You’re as safe with me as you’d be with a husband.” Mitchell laughed quietly. Madeline squeezed his arm again, this time possessively.

  Captain Zachary ro
lled his eyes and turned to take his position on the bridge. He admired the couple’s penchant for propriety, but anyone who’d been aboard ship with them these past weeks would have had to be deaf and blind not to acknowledge the relationship between them. Madeline fluttered like a butterfly whenever she was in Severson’s company. Such an outrageous flirt. Severson was getting more than he bargained for, and sooner or later he would discover that his sweet little butterfly had the talons of a hawk. The captain laughed aloud, a booming sound that made his first mate turn to stare. Ah, yes, the captain found himself thinking, there was a God in His heaven. Never was a pair more suited to each other than Miss Tanner and Mr. Severson. And whatever Miss Tanner was up to, he wished her well.

  On the quay in Sydney, people stopped to stare at the elegant couple who had just disembarked from the Tudor Rose. The bright midday sun seemed to pale in comparison with their handsome golden-blond looks. Their clothes were finely tailored in the latest fashion. She was a painting by Manet, a tiny, petite, angel-faced vision in blue silk and lace, her parasol tilted at a perky angle. He was tall, a striking figure of a man in gray serge, his tanned skin and golden hair perfectly complementing hers. And they were so attentive to one another, laughing and smiling and speaking in hushed whispers. Anyone could see that he was completely beguiled by her; anyone could see that she was a sweet-tempered, virtuous young lady.

  At Mitchell’s insistence, Madeline decided to spend her first night in Sydney at the inn. There they would inquire for a dray and a driver to take her to Clonmerra.

  After settling themselves at the Gateway Inn, which had been recommended by several other passengers, Madeline and Mitchell discreetly joined a party of diners from the ship for their first meal in Australia. Soon afterward, Madeline retired for the night, pretending not to notice Mitchell’s disappointment. She even made a point of remarking that her room was next door to Mrs. Watson’s, a dour-faced matron whose character and sense of decorum were above reproach. Giving him an enchanting move, Madeline declared that she was totally exhausted from the day and only hoped she didn’t toss and turn the night through because the walls were “paper thin” and Mrs. Watson’s sleep would be disturbed. Mitchell received the message.

  The next morning, after an early breakfast, Mitchell helped Madeline into the rented dray, warning the driver that he was to take exceptional care of his passenger.

  “Are you certain you want to make this trip alone, Madeline? The innkeep warned that you’ll find conditions quite primitive tonight at the wayside accommodations. Promise you won’t try to make Clonmerra in one day.”

  “I promise, Mitchell. And yes, I must go alone, otherwise I’d be happy for your company.”

  “I don’t understand what business you have at this place. And to arrive so unexpectedly; don’t you think you should messenger ah—”

  Madeline squelched Mitchell with one scathing look. Then she smiled—so quickly and so sweetly that he thought he’d only imagined the first. “I’ll be fine. I have business, and I am expected. I should be back before the week is out. Really, Mitchell,” she said, pouting, “if you don’t let me get on my way, it will be long past dark before we make the wayside inn.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you.” Mitchell pressed her hand.

  Madeline could feel his gaze boring into her back as the dray pulled away. She didn’t turn around but settled herself as comfortably as she could. It was nice to know that whatever happened, someone like Mitchell was waiting for her. But of course everything would go as she wanted. She was holding the high card, and there was nothing else for her “dear husband” to do except pay up.

  Quaid had worked that morning alongside Tooley Joe in the blacksmith’s shed. Shoeing the horses, hard work that it was, had been therapeutic. There had been no time to think about Chelsea as he worked at the anvil, no time to miss her or anguish over her. His muscles were tight, and his hands burned from pounding the hammer. The heat from the forge had been intolerable, and Tooley Joe had pleaded with him to continue the work in the morning, when the weather would be cooler.

  He didn’t recognize the dray stationed outside the front gate to his house. It came as a complete surprise, since visitors during a drought were rare; everyone tried to conserve their animals. This dray was rented, he could tell by the shabby animal, and he didn’t recognize the driver, who had fallen asleep beneath the wagon in the shade after watering the horse from the supply in the trough.

  His gut churned as he washed his hands in the basin outside, smoothed down his hair, and tucked his shirt into his trousers. He stomped his boots outside the kitchen door to rid them of the red dust. The screen door creaked, a sound he normally found welcoming; today, it had an ominous sound. He could feel his teeth grinding together as he prepared to meet whoever had come to Clonmerra unannounced. The business he had gone to England to settle loomed before him. His past reared up like an angry, rushing river, and he felt as though he were stretching his neck to keep above water. When he’d returned to Australia, things had not been settled adequately. There were still questions to be answered, judgments to be made. He’d stuck his neck out, and his head might easily be sliced off as a result, and Clonmerra torn out from under him. But he’d done it for Chelsea, because of Chelsea—only to come home and find her eternally bound to Harlow through her child.

  Shrugging off his thoughts, he prepared to meet his unknown visitor. But nothing could have prepared him to meet the woman who sat in his parlor delicately sipping wine from a crystal glass.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. The words were a hiss escaping from between clenched teeth. He was almost afraid to hear her answer; he wanted to turn and run. Instead, he poured himself a snifter of cognac and took a long, deep swallow.

  “Darling husband, it’s been more than a year since I’ve heard from you,” she said sweetly. “I’ve come to assure myself that you’re alive and well.” She allowed sarcasm to creep into her words. “After all, I do depend upon you for my living. Do you expect your loving wife to fend for herself in this big, bad world?”

  “If you squandered what I sent you, Madeline, that’s not my problem.”

  “Oh, but it is, darling. What a charming place Clonmerra is. Your brother would have been proud of the home you’ve made here.”

  “No, he wouldn’t. We both know he never gave a damn about Clonmerra. What do you want? Whatever it is, you aren’t going to get it.”

  “Don’t be so sure.” Gone was the sweetness, the mild sarcasm. Now her tone was abrasive, threatening. “I’ve had enough of these games, Luke.” She used his true name, her tone issuing a veiled threat. “I want my share now, up front, and I expect you to sell Clonmerra if it’s the only way I can get it.”

  “You have no share. Don’t try to force your will here. Clonmerra is mine.”

  “Darling Luke, you have a very short memory. We made a bargain, remember? I’d stay out of your life provided you were prompt with the bank drafts. That hasn’t been the case, has it?”

  He stared at her, the fury in his eyes pinning her to the back of her chair.

  “Don’t do anything foolish,” she warned. “Too many people know I’ve come to Clonmerra. I’m expected back in Sydney day after tomorrow.” She laughed when she saw his reaction. “Oh, you didn’t think I’d come to stay, did you? No, poor darling, living in this isolation isn’t to my liking, I’m afraid. I much prefer polite society and parties and travel. I love to travel. Did I tell you I’d spent the winter in the south of France? So you see, I’m quite dependent upon your generosity. Travel expenses mount, and my dressmaker’s bill is exorbitant! When you switched identities with Quaid, I automatically became your wife. Unless you want the entire world to know what you’ve done, I suggest we come to terms. After all, you have no real claim to Clonmerra, have you?”

  He flinched. She was hitting too near the truth. Had Madeline’s eyes always been so hard and cold, her mouth so thin and greedy? When her lips pulled back in a s
mile, he knew he was looking into the mouth of a vulture ready to pick his bones. “How much?” he demanded after taking another swallow of cognac.

  “I want it all. It’s really so simple—all, everything. I’ve had enough games, Luke. I was a fool to go along with your charade. It’s mine, all mine, and I want it.”

  “And just how, do you figure? I’m not forgetting you and my brother tried to blame me for a crime I didn’t commit. And I know damn well who put that idea into his head.”

  Madeline shrank back against her chair. “It was Quaid’s idea. He was always a coward. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “But you went to get the police. I’d have been left to prove my innocence while Quaid slipped out of England using the passage I’d booked for him. If I’d ever been able to prove my innocence.”

  “That’s all history,” Madeline said uneasily. “I’m more interested in the present. I really don’t see that you’ve much choice. As Quaid’s widow, I naturally inherit his estate, and that means Clonmerra and everything else that goes with it. And of course, you are still wanted for murder. There is that little nuisance, isn’t there?”

  He found himself laughing, head thrown back, the sound erupting and filling the room. Madeline was startled, then frightened, afraid he’d gone mad. “There’s quite a bit more to the story than you think, Madeline darling. A few facts of which you are obviously unaware. First, let me tell you that I have just returned from England. At great expense and a good deal of trouble, I might add, I’ve managed to prove myself innocent of killing my brother’s mistress. Second, it’s my pleasure to inform you that my brother died a bankrupt. The two of you had squandered everything.”

  “Not everything—there’s still Clonmerra!”

  “That, darling, is where you are totally mistaken. My brother died without issue; do you know what that means? A child, Madeline. I suppose it never really made much difference to him because he never placed any value on Clonmerra and his Australian holdings. When Quaid died, Clonmerra reverted to my uncle. Happily, I was able to purchase Clonmerra and the other holdings, and the deeds now carry my name, my real name, Luke Tanner! In short, Madeline, you are entitled to nothing.”