by Margaret Way
All she did remember was that Bryn had rescued her as if he’d been sent by the Great Spirit of the Bush. She believed in such spirits, as the aboriginal people did. They moved across the earth, always standing by to give aid to the chosen, though they remained for the most part invisible. Even Bryn, the sanest man she knew, acknowledged the spirits of the Timeless Land and what they could do.
She was ready to go downstairs, still fighting off her demons. Reaching for a pair of silver bracelets, she slipped them on like an amulet. She was wearing one of her new semi-casual dresses for evening. Adele Bennett had picked it out for her. Adele certainly knew what she liked and what suited her. This particular dress was ankle-length, the material a gauzy water colour silk-chiffon. Very Ondine-ish, she thought with a smile.
The dress had a beautiful belt to go with it. Another one of Adele’s finds. It curved snugly around the waist, then dipped low in front, elongating her torso. The belt had a gorgeous enamelled clasp, made up like a large open-faced flower, violet in colour, with a yellow centre and petals dotted with deep pink crystals like dewdrops. Lime-green and turquoise butterflies, their wings similarly encrusted, alighted on either side. It was a work of art in itself. A beautiful dress wasn’t just a flattering garment that made a woman feel special. A beautiful dress was more like a magic talisman. Great things could happen! This dress would protect her. It had already given her waning confidence a boost.
So much depended not on Bryn, but on her. She had been a hair’s breadth away from letting him make love to her. She didn’t think he would tolerate a rebuff like that again. Rapture turned on, then abruptly turned off? The last thing she wanted was to have a sense of strain between them. Life wasn’t a game. Love was to be taken very seriously. It was the one thing that really mattered.
Needless to say, Bryn had let her win their race—though it must have been hard—and now it was his job to get dinner. She had told him she was no cook just for something to say. She was, in fact, a good cook and proud of it—she had taken courses as part of her education—so she was ready to help out. That was if she was needed. Bryn had always been great at barbecues. A funny thing, the way men liked to take over at barbecues, if nowhere else…
‘S-o-o-o!’ he murmured on a long drawn-out breath as he turned to face her. ‘That’s an extraordinarily beautiful dress. Very romantic.’
He dazzled her with the blaze in his eyes. She responded with a low curtsy. ‘Glad you like it.’
‘Your eyes are more violet than grey tonight. They’ve picked up one of the colours in the dress. It amazes me when that happens.’
‘What happens?’ She leaned towards him, giving a funny little theatrical blink.
‘The way your eyes change colour.’ He let his gaze rove over her, from her lustrous hair to her silver-sandal-shod feet. ‘Large eyes. Your eyes and your arching brows dominate your face in the way of certain women icons. Callas, Loren, and of course Audrey Hepburn.’
‘The Big League?’ She smiled, conscious of the excited pulses that had started up in her body.
She moved further into the mammoth room, with its custom-made cabinetry, black and white marble-tiled floor, marble benchtops and marble-topped islands. Stainless steel pots and pans hung from a stainless steel fitting suspended from the ceiling. The kitchen had been fitted out with every conceivable appliance. Just for the hell of it, she supposed. Only now and again had her grandfather entertained here. Mostly he’d kept well away from his flagship station.
‘I’m expecting a really good dinner,’ she warned Bryn. ‘This afternoon’s ride has made me hungry.’ She kept her voice light. ‘So what’s on the menu? Do you need any help?’
He shot her a droll glance. ‘Francey, I understood you to say you couldn’t find your way around a kitchen?’
‘I was never allowed in one,’ she confessed with regret, picking up the bottle of chilled white wine that sat opened on the bench and pouring a pale greenish-gold stream into an empty waiting glass.
‘Here—I should have done that,’ he said, laying down his knife. He had been chopping fresh herbs, releasing wonderfully pungent aromas.
‘That’s okay. You’re busy. I like that. You know the way we lived,’ she said, sipping the wine, catching the fragrance of lime blossom. She broke off with a delighted comment. ‘This is delicious. It’s got quite a snap to it. I prefer a good Riesling over a Chardonnay.’
‘That’s why I opened it,’ he said. Francesca was no drinker, but she had a fine palate. ‘I know you and Carrie lived like little princesses.’ He made a clicking sound with his tongue. ‘Even if you were the little princess in the tower.’
‘I’d much rather have been treated like a normal person.’
‘Only it didn’t happen that way. Poor Francey!’
‘That’s why I took a couple of cookery courses—just in case I got married and my husband expected me to be able to turn out a good meal.’
‘Do you think you’d ever have to?’ he asked drolly, midnight-dark eyes mocking. ‘You’re the Forsyth heiress, Francesca, like it or not.’
‘And you’re the Macallan heir,’ she shot back. ‘I mean, you haven’t had a normal life either.’
‘True. But I suppose it’s normal enough for me. We’ve been given a lot, Francey. We have to be able to take the good with the bad. Speaking of the good—we’re having cucumber rounds with Tasmanian smoked salmon for starters. No, don’t interrupt. I found the horseradish cream and the capers after a lengthy search, when they were right in front of me. Jili has left fresh herbs from her garden, as you see: parsley, mint, basil. There are a few others in the crisper. Beef fillet with mushrooms to follow, and there’s a chocolate mousse I’ve taken out of the freezer and put in the fridge about fifteen minutes ago. Jili whipped it up for us before she left.’
‘Good for Jili!’ she exclaimed. ‘Now, Jili really is a good cook. But don’t let that put you off,’ she added with mock kindness. ‘So where are we going to eat? I don’t like it in here. You could seat an army and still have room for reinforcements.’
‘Sir Francis always thought big,’ Bryn remarked dryly. ‘He was notorious for it. What about—?’
‘I know,’ she broke in. ‘The Palm Room. It’s about the only room I like.’
‘You took the words right out of my mouth,’ Bryn said, twisting the top off a jar of capers. ‘You could set the table. You can do that?’
‘Very funny!’ She was feeling so extraordinarily light hearted she felt she could soar.
Francesca found she was every bit as hungry as she’d claimed. The starter was just right—light and crunchy, the richness of the smoked salmon cut by the cucumber, the horseradish sauce and a sprinkle of lemon. The Daramba beef fillet simply melted in the mouth, as did the selection of mushrooms, and Jili’s chocolate mousse was flavoured with Amaretto liqueur. Bryn scooped it out like ice cream and dusted it with cocoa powder. His own touch.
‘Perfect!’ Francesca enthused, laying down her dessert spoon. ‘Let me make the coffee.’
‘No, sit there.’ He shook his head, rising to his feet. ‘I’m enjoying showing off.’
‘You don’t want it to get around how good you are at turning out a meal,’ she warned him. ‘You’ll have to fight off complete strangers.’
‘I take it you mean women?’ he asked suavely over his shoulder.
‘Of course women. God, don’t give me a heart attack. As it is your female admirers stretch for miles.’
He didn’t deny it. ‘Amazing when all I need and want is one.’
Over the beef fillet they had abandoned white wine for red. Picking up her crystal wine glass, Francesca leaned back in her bamboo armchair. The chair was comfortably upholstered in a fabric she liked—an embossed damask in a deep shade of crimson that stood up to all the greenery in the room, the luxuriant palms and tree ferns in their huge pots, and the dark timbers of the Asian furnishings. Smiling dreamily to herself, she drank a little more of the Margaret River Cabernet Sauvignon.
It was from their own state of Western Australia, the ruggedly beautiful Margaret River wine region, which had fast become one of the world’s viticulture hot spots. This red she loved. It was smooth and elegant, with a succulent blackcurrant flavour.
After the drama of the afternoon, the night was a dream. A huge full moon saturated the enormous panorama of Daramba in its radiance. Through the floor-to-ceiling doors that stood open to the rear terrace the night wind came in deliciously cool gusts, spiked with the native boronia that grew wild. Which brought her to thinking of a garden. She would have to do something about establishing one. Bring in a landscaper capable of turning the desert site into an oasis. Jili had her extensive vegetable garden, which flourished. Her grandfather hadn’t minded that. The produce was used in the house and around the station. But he hadn’t shown the slightest interest in establishing a garden, either at the Forsyth mausoleum or at Daramba homestead. Didn’t that say something about the aridity of his character? It wasn’t as though he hadn’t been able to spare the money, though she realised it would take a lot. Gardens just hadn’t been in his philosophy.
The success of an Outback garden was going to depend on the skill of the landscaper and his ability to choose plants that would thrive in the dry. She had her heart set on date palms—as advanced as could be obtained and successfully transplanted. And she wanted a large water garden. Daramba abounded in underground springs. The University of Western Australia had a magnificent campus of more than fifty hectares, set in a superb natural bush setting. She had always loved the Canary Island date palms in the grounds there. Her home state was dry, yet beautiful gardens flourished. Why not here? She just needed the right person to handle the job. Lady Macallan could help her there. She was something of an authority on gardens. She adored her own magnificent garden, which was open to public viewing at certain times of the year.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Bryn asked as he wheeled in the trolley.
‘Gardens,’ she said, turning her jewelled gaze on him.
Bryn smiled with satisfaction. ‘I knew you’d get around to it. The homestead is crying out for a proper setting. So too is the family mansion, but Charles and Carrie seem happy enough with the way it is. You need a home of your own, you know, Francey. You weren’t left the mansion.’
‘Thank God!’ She sighed with feel feeling. ‘It’s such a strange place. More like a public building. Take those monumental pilasters supporting roaring lions at the front gate. What was with Grandfather and lions, do you know?’
‘Wasn’t Leo his star sign?’ Bryn poured coffee, placing one in front of her. ‘He named one of his sons Lionel. Sir Frank and my grandfather visited South Africa in their youth. They were stationed in Cape Town with friends, but they travelled quite extensively. It’s a wonder he didn’t try to bag a lion and bring it home.’
‘What—shoot it?’ she cried, horrified.
Bryn laughed and shook his head. ‘No, he’d have liked nothing better than to capture it live, bring it back, then let it wander around the grounds of the family home. You know—start a tradition.’
‘At least that’s better than shooting such a splendid creature. I plan on asking Lady Macallan’s advice regarding a landscaper for here. I want date palms. Lots of them. Desert oaks. Native plants. A big water garden. God knows we’ve got plenty of room.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be delighted to help you,’ Bryn said.
After coffee he allowed her to help him. Then, when the kitchen had been returned to its immaculate condition and the dishes stacked away, they decided on a short walk.
‘Even if it’s only around the driveway.’ Bryn spoke lightly, though he was acutely aware of his soaring sensory perceptions. As always with Francesca—holding her hand guaranteed sexual arousal. ‘Do you remember the stone fountain that used to grace the centre of the driveway when the Frazers used to own it?’ he asked, striving for the casual. She was wearing that lovely elusive perfume he always associated with her, and it was really getting to him. ‘I don’t suppose you do. You were too young.’
‘My father and Grandfather were already estranged.’
‘Yes,’ he acknowledged. ‘I wonder what happened to the fountain? The Frazers had it sent out from Italy. Three winged horses supported the main basin with rearing front legs. I think my grandfather tried to find out where it had gone, but Frank was very non-committal. I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if he had it reduced to rubble.’
‘Oh, surely not?’ she cried, dismayed.
‘Don’t take it personally.’
‘How can I not take it personally? Sir Francis was my grandfather.’
‘That doesn’t make him a saint, Francey,’ Bryn said bluntly. ‘But better late than never. He left the Forsyth fortune largely in your hands.’
She stared up at his handsome, chiselled profile, gilded by the exterior lights. ‘You know what I’ve been thinking about?’
Going to bed with me? Bryn was in half-agony, half-rapture. How the hell was he going to get through the night without her beside him?
‘Couldn’t we return one of the Queensland stations, say Mount Kolah, to being a wildlife area?’ she suggested persuasively. ‘I understand it has quite a few protected species within its boundaries.’
Bryn stopped in his tracks. ‘You’ve been talking to someone from the Bush Heritage Authority?’
‘Ross Fitzgibbon. But he certainly didn’t suggest it.’
‘Ha!’ said Bryn, and walked on.
‘He didn’t!’
‘Francey, Ross Fitzgibbon spends his life spreading the message.’
‘Why wouldn’t he? He’s one of our leading ecologists.’
‘We can talk about this,’ Bryn said, meaning it, ‘but not tonight. I just want to relax. Last I heard they were having trouble on Mount Kolah from feral pigs. As far as that goes, Roy Forster told me they might have to organise a hunt here, for the leader of a dingo pack that hangs out on the desert fringe. It seems the brute has acquired a taste for blood, savaging calves. It’s more dangerous than a pure-bred dingo because it has German Shepherd blood in it. Not from a station dog. Some desert traveller either lost a dog or abandoned it. This isn’t the city. Out here it’s primeval power that reigns. We’ll never tame it.’
They were rounding the side of the homestead, out of the broad reach of the exterior lights and their excessive brightness. Unknown to them they were walking towards a dark figure who had broken all the rules by entering the home compound and then, seeing them emerge from the house, swiftly withdrawn to a hiding place behind the stone archway that led to the vegetable and fruit gardens.
He couldn’t make out what they were saying, and his hearing was razor-sharp. Their bodies had drawn close together. He warned himself to be careful. The man was the danger. The woman would present no problem. That was what he’d been told. By the Bitch—that was how he thought of her—who had treated him like scum, instead of as a trained professional whose expertise was unquestioned. Yet she was only too pleased to hire him to carry out her dirty work—like her grandfather before her.
He’d been furious when he’d first found out she knew all about him, what he had done for the Iron Man, how to contact him. He’d thought of it as blowing his cover. Where had she got her information from? He couldn’t accept it was from the old man. Forsyth had known better than anyone how to cover his tracks. The Bitch had the same piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through you. She was a real stunner, but he hated her. Hated her sort. A normal woman would think what she was asking him to do too monstrous to even put into words. Not her!
It hadn’t taken him any time at all to land a job on the station and settle in. There weren’t many jobs he couldn’t handle. He had grown up on a small Outback cattle run, with a father who had beaten the hell out of him and his mother. He’d done what he had to do. He’d joined the army. Served in the world’s trouble spots. That was where he had learned how to take care of business. These days he was more of a mercena
ry—bodyguard, security man, enforcer, contract guy.
Although he was a man of violence, he didn’t like hurting women. Especially not one who looked like a Madonna. He had always stopped short of that. But the Bitch had too much on him, and she had only contempt for his fearsome reputation. Her grandfather had raised her in his image. He had to bide his time. He was in. An opportunity would arise. He felt a surge of rebellion. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like being dictated to by a woman—a woman, moreover, as ruthless as any enemy he had faced. The only good thing—if one could call it that—was that the Madonna wouldn’t feel a thing…
Francesca thought she saw a blur out of the corner of her eye. It unnerved her. ‘I’d like to go back now, Bryn,’ she said quietly.
‘Of course.’ He caught the anxious note in her voice. ‘Is anything wrong?’ She had clutched his hand, as though to have him with her was everything.
‘No. I just have an odd feeling we’re being watched.’
‘What?’ Bryn jerked his head in the only direction there was cover. ‘I’m sure there’s no one about, Francey. None of the men would come up to the house at this time of night unless there was an emergency. They would identify themselves, anyway.’
‘I know that.’ Still she was caught fast in tendrils of panic.
‘I’ll take you back to the house, then I’ll have a look around.’ Bryn drew her closer to his side. ‘It’s moonlight. There’s very little cover except for Jili’s vegetable garden,’ he pointed out. ‘Perhaps it’s being raided by a bird? Stand on the path and wait. I’ll take a look.’