‘Yes, I knew you were angry. So was I.’
‘Why?’
Rian wouldn’t meet her eyes. ‘I didn’t want to have to sail with women on board. It’s a rule I have.’
‘So why did you agree to take Wai in the first place?’
‘I had no choice in the matter. She was in danger.’
Kitty nodded, feeling her respect for him growing. ‘I can imagine what you were thinking, then, when Haunui and I came rushing out as well.’
‘No, you can’t.’
‘We had to,’ Kitty said. ‘We didn’t have a choice either.’
‘I know, Haunui told me. And I could see the state Tupehu was in.’
‘What would you have done about Wai when you got to Sydney, if she’d been on her own?’ Kitty asked.
‘I expect I could have arranged for someone to take her in.’
‘Wouldn’t that cost money?’
Rian shrugged. ‘I could have paid. None of this is her fault. In my opinion the blame lies squarely with your uncle.’
‘I know it does,’ Kitty said, and burst into tears.
Rian made a move as though to rise, then sat back again. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said. ‘Please.’
But Kitty couldn’t help herself. The thought of revolting, deranged Uncle George lying with Wai was nauseating, and she was tired and her scalp hurt and her hair looked awful and she still didn’t know what she was going to do when they reached Sydney.
Then Rian did get up. He moved over to the bed, sat down and waited in silence, his hand resting on the lump under the blankets that was her right foot, until she’d cried it all out. When she’d finished he fetched her an enormous handkerchief and she blew her nose honkingly.
She contemplated him from behind the handkerchief, noting that when he wasn’t being grumpy or sarcastic or angry, the lines fanning out from his eyes relaxed. It made him look younger, and even more attractive. Then she realised with a jolt that she’d been thinking of him as handsome for a while now, without actually realising it.
‘Better?’ he said.
Kitty nodded, the last few tears quivering on her eyelashes. ‘I must look a fright.’
‘No,’ Rian said. ‘And your hair is pretty. It’s sort of…wavy now.’
Kitty put up her hand to touch it, then all of a sudden Rian had reached across her and was holding her wrist.
The air between them seemed to expand, and Kitty could no longer hear the sounds of the sea or the schooner as she rode the night waves. Rian started to say something, then stopped himself. Instead, he bent and kissed her. His lips were soft and tasted faintly of Pierre’s courtbouillion, but the stubble on his chin was rough against Kitty’s mouth. She resisted for only a second, then let herself go. Moving closer, he slid his arms around her, and she felt his warmth and the hardness of his muscles through the coarse fabric of his shirt.
Then he sat back suddenly, and from his uncertain expression she thought he was going to apologise. But he lifted a hand to her hair and swept it off her face, then moved his hand to the back of her neck and pulled her into another kiss. She felt incapable of resisting and didn’t actually want to, even when the delicious sensations darting though her body stirred shifting, disturbing memories of Hugh Alexander.
But this wasn’t Hugh Alexander, this was Rian Farrell, and Kitty realised now how grateful she was that she hadn’t wasted herself on the other. The part of her that didn’t think, didn’t worry and didn’t care about implications or repercussions wanted Rian and, at this moment, it felt right.
She leant into the kiss, and when Rian began to undo the buttons at the front of her shirt—his shirt, actually—she let him. Each release was like a small victory, his rough fingers raising goosebumps on her skin, until at last he came to the final button, then opened the shirt as far as it would go, revealing her breasts, pale ivory in the lamplight. Her small pink nipples stood erect, and he whispered ‘Mo mhuirnín’ as he lowered his mouth to them. The sensation was exquisite, and she felt embarrassed to note that her breathing had become something closer to panting.
He stopped and sat back again. ‘Will you take this off?’ he asked, pulling gently at the hem of the shirt.
Kitty nodded. Shyly, she lifted the shirt over her head and put it aside, leaving her nakedness covered to the waist by the bedclothes. She wriggled down the bed until she was on her back, but Rian slowly slid the blankets off her, baring him to her totally. A tiny draught from the window above the bed danced across her skin, raising more goosebumps.
His hands stroked her, roaming across her breasts then up to her throat and neck where they rested while he kissed her again. Her heart pounding with excitement and need, she raised her arms to draw him closer, but he gently pushed them back to her sides while he continued to explore her body. She felt her stomach tense as his fingers trailed across the hollow beneath her ribs down to the curve of her belly, then over her hips to stroke and smooth the long muscles of her thighs. He kissed her knees, one of which was scabbed from falling over two days ago, then licked his way back up her legs to where they joined, making the dark hair there spring to attention.
Kitty gasped and, seemingly of their own accord, her thighs parted. Rian cupped her with his hand, then slid his finger along her swollen lips and into the satin wetness between them. And she knew, without ever having been told, that she was ready for him.
Rian, breathing now as heavily as she was, broke away and bent to pull off his boots. His shirt came next, dropped without ceremony onto the floor, followed by his trousers, beneath which he wore nothing. In the lamplight his muscled body seemed carved from marble, the width of his chest and his flat belly glinting with a scattering of dark gold hair.
Kitty raised her arms to him again and this time he let her. Kneeling carefully between her legs he lowered himself, his hips settling onto hers but taking much of his weight on his elbows. He smelt of fresh sweat, and of the sea. She felt his hardness nudging her and lifted her own hips to meet him. Groaning, he pushed gently but firmly into her. There was a brief, bright moment of pain and then he slid in, filling her with his strength and his rhythm.
She wrapped her arms across his broad back and hung on, feeling each increasingly explosive, grunting thrust until finally he was still, sweat slick across his skin and his breath coming in great ragged gasps. She waited, and eventually his heart slowed and his taut muscles began to relax.
‘Oh God!’ he groaned into her hair, loudly enough to make her jump.
Then he propped himself on one elbow and gazed down at her. ‘I didn’t intend for that to happen, Kitty. I couldn’t…I couldn’t help myself. I’m sorry,’ he said, pulling her close and squeezing her against him.
She nodded and snuggled into him, making the most of the delicious feeling of comfort and warmth and security.
It had been wonderful, and shockingly exciting, and deeply satisfying.
And she knew she could never allow it to happen again.
Chapter Thirteen
Sydney, February 1840
Bugger,’ Rian said, squinting through the spyglass across the glinting waters of Sydney Cove towards the wharves and warehouses of The Rocks.
‘What?’ Hawk said, beside him.
‘It’s that little bastard Kinghazel. Look.’ Rian handed him the glass.
Hawk raised it to his eye. In the centre of the vivid circle surrounded by black was the magnified image of a man rowing determinedly towards them, his hat set well down on his head and his face red with exertion. He turned around every three or four strokes, as though reassuring himself that the Katipo hadn’t disappeared while he wasn’t looking.
‘We are carrying a legal cargo,’ Hawk said. ‘There is no problem.’
Walter Kinghazel was a customs and excise man, the scourge of every captain who traded in and out of Sydney and an all-round pain in the arse, as far as Rian was concerned.
‘Not this time, no,’ Rian said, but he was sure that Kinghazel hadn’t forgotten the
Katipo’s last visit to Sydney Cove last November. Kinghazel was an officious and unpopular little shite but he wielded an inordinate amount of power, and Rian had seen several acquaintances sent to prison—rightly or wrongly—over the past few years after sailing foul of him.
He sighed and gave the order to have the ladder lowered.
Unaware of all this, Kitty leant on the Katipo’s stern rail eating a floury apple, watching the lazy rise and fall of the many ships anchored in the harbour and the progress of small boats criss-crossing the bright, shifting waters like back-swimmer beetles. She’d seen Sydney Harbour before of course, when she and Uncle George and Aunt Sarah had been on their way out to New Zealand, but had been in no mood to appreciate it, or even really notice it. It was true that the sea voyage had soothed her, but the prospect of going ashore had only reminded her that it wasn’t Norfolk, and that she had no idea when, or if, she would see England again. Then, they had been collected immediately from their ship by someone from the Church Missionary Society and taken by small boat upriver to Parramatta, where they were to stay until they managed to secure berths on to New Zealand. The waterman had treated them to a guided tour along the way, but Kitty hadn’t bothered to listen to any of it. Now, she wished she had.
This time, coming into Sydney Harbour between North and South Heads past the oddly named Pinchgut Island and the imposing walls of Fort Macquarie at Bennelong Point, she had been entranced by the scenery, so different here from that of New Zealand. It was a real marvel: the two countries were not very far apart at all, yet New Zealand was lush and ripe—truly a new green and pleasant land—whereas Australia, this part of it anyway, seemed to be dry and scrubby with great slabs of orange rock lining the coves and bays all the way into Sydney Cove. Even the hue of green here was different: a much dustier version than she’d seen anywhere else.
It was, however, beautiful in a barren sort of way, and Kitty could see the attraction for the immigrants who had been coming here in increasing numbers over the years. Not all had chosen to, of course; many had arrived on convict ships courtesy of three English kings and now the new queen, and in all likelihood would never go home again.
She raised her chin and gave a sad little smile as the wind blew her hair back off her face. Her long tresses had gone, and so had the old Kitty Carlisle. Her time with Rian last night had been a revelation, and when he’d kissed her and left her to sleep she’d known then how easy it would be to fall in love with him. And, with just as much certainty, she knew that if she allowed that to happen, betrayal would be sure to follow. Men were never what they seemed, and the only man she had trusted—her beloved father—had left her. So she’d told Rian this morning that there would be nothing more, that whatever happened next she would face by herself. His eyes had narrowed, but his only words had been a terse ‘As you wish’. Then he’d walked off, leaving her feeling relieved and strangely empty.
She tossed the apple core into the harbour and watched it disappear momentarily, then bob back up and float slowly away on some unseen current.
‘There is a funny little man coming aboard,’ Wai said, coming up behind her. Like Kitty, she was wearing her dress again, cleaner now and mended. ‘He does not look happy,’ she added.
Kitty followed her along the deck to the forecastle, where a funny little man was indeed hauling himself over the rail. He was not much over five feet tall and almost as wide, the buttons on his fancy waistcoat straining under the immense pressure of his paunch. He was beardless, but the whiskers of his long sideboards stuck out frizzily, giving him the appearance of an overweight squirrel, an impression reinforced by a ruddy face and beady little eyes that darted about in all directions. The crew were on deck now, their shore bags at their feet, busy concealing an alarming assortment of hand weapons about themselves. No one bothered to introduce the stranger, who was glaring at Rian with naked animosity. Rian stared back with the amused, arrogant expression that had so irritated her in the past.
‘Be my guest,’ he was saying. ‘In fact we’re all about to go ashore, except for Mick on watch. Bring your men out by all means, or feel free to start now. If you want a cup of tea or something stronger I’m sure Mick will oblige, won’t you, Mick?’
Mick grinned unpleasantly.
A loud and prolonged rattling of chains signalled the lowering of the Katipo’s two boats.
Rian made a production of digging in his pocket and consulting his watch. ‘Forgive me, Mr Kinghazel, but you must excuse us.’ He gestured at Kitty and Wai to come forward. ‘Ladies first.’
Kinghazel eyed the two girls suspiciously but said nothing.
Everyone except Mick descended into the rowboats, the crew smug in the knowledge that the customs and excise man could tear the Katipo apart plank by plank and still not find anything that could remotely be considered illegal. They were as clean as a whistle on this trip.
Kitty climbed the slippery, barnacle-encrusted ladder up onto the wharf and waited as the others followed. She had to admit, as they appeared one by one, that they were a ragged and rather fearsome-looking lot.
Rian came first, his shirt open at the neck, his jacket flapping over the pistol at his belt, and his sea-boots in need of a good polish. His hat, too, had seen much better days. After him came Gideon, the black, barefoot giant. Kitty knew by now the story of how Rian had ‘emancipated’ Gideon on one of his trips to America, and had arranged for him to be taught the King’s English and to read, write and do basic bookwork. Consequently, as well as his duties as a seaman, Gideon also dealt with much of the Katipo’s paperwork, an accomplishment most casual observers would never imagine.
Hawk was next, wearing his knife in his belt as usual, and a long speckled feather in his left ear. Then came Sharkey with his gap-toothed grin, glinting earrings and sly eyes—the sort of character who gave the impression of being generally untrustworthy. Kitty had little doubt that he was exactly that, and very rough and ready as well, but she also suspected that he was remarkably loyal to his captain and to the crew he sailed with.
She moved forward as Wai appeared, extending her hand to help her friend up the last few rungs. Poor little Wai with her bare feet and patched dress. Between them they made a right pair, Kitty thought, neither having bonnets, gloves or even shawls. They must look as though they’d recently been fished out of the ocean after some catastrophic shipwreck.
Then came Haunui, almost as big as Gideon but much more menacing-looking with his ugly face and extensive moko, and his lovely decent heart beneath his tatty shirt. Behind him was Ropata, quiet and contemplative but nevertheless eye-catching, his bushy, shoulder-length hair in a topknot today in honour of the shore leave. Of all the crew, Ropata was the most recent recruit, having sailed with Rian for only six months. He had replaced another Maori seaman, one Te Kanene also from the Ngati Kahungungu tribe of New Zealand’s East Coast, who had departed to run his own coastal shipping business.
And finally Pierre, who this morning was wearing a hat that looked like something left over from the Napoleonic Wars. He had greased his hair and waxed his wispy little moustache, and as he stepped off the ladder Kitty caught a definite whiff of lavender coming off him.
Anyone looking at them could be forgiven for thinking that they might be a gang of pirates. Then Kitty noticed that more than a few people on the wharf actually were staring at them, and moved a little closer to Haunui.
They ascended the slope up from the wharf, past several looming warehouses, and crossed the dusty, pot-holed thoroughfare that ran parallel to the waterfront. The street was thronged with people going about their business, or merely hanging about on corners enjoying the sights. Many were obviously locals, but there was also the odd police constable, a smattering of soldiers in distinctive red and blue uniforms, and many more seamen, if the number of men wearing gold rings in their ears was anything to go by. A cock-fight was in progress at the junction of two streets, the simultaneous cheering and groans of the spectators momentarily drowning out the cri
es of hawkers and a small boy standing on a box trying to sell newspapers. The town seemed to be extremely noisy and busy, worse even than market day in Norwich, Kitty thought, although the amount of animal dung on the ground was about the same. After the peace and quiet of Paihia over the past twelve months she felt a little unnerved by the din, bustle and excitement. The buildings, too, were impressive for a relatively new town, great pale stone or red brick edifices that rose several storeys high, interspersed with smaller buildings and cottages, shops and narrow little lanes.
‘Keep close,’ Gideon said, falling in beside Kitty and Wai. ‘There are plenty of pickpockets about. And they do not much like seamen here.’
‘I think we’ll be safe,’ Kitty remarked, eyeing Gideon’s massive shoulders and bulging muscles.
‘It is better to be safe than sorry,’ he replied, sounding exactly like Aunt Sarah.
They had turned off the main thoroughfare now and were walking up a steep, narrow street named Suffolk Lane, lined with pubs, tenement houses and shops. The sea smell of the harbour was fading, replaced by a dreadful stink that was beginning to make Kitty’s eyes water—dead animal, offal and human waste mingling incongruously with the aroma of fresh bread. At the end of the lane they turned left onto the slightly wider but equally pot-holed Gloucester Street, also bordered by narrow terrace houses and shop fronts, and yet more drinking establishments.
Panting slightly, Kitty now understood how The Rocks had come by its name: the town had clearly been hewn directly from the rock it stood on. The streets running north to south were relatively level, but the lanes dissecting them from east to west were markedly steep and uneven, some dwellings apparently accessible only by perilously steep steps cut into the solid rock. There were open drains everywhere, channelling the effluent the hard ground clearly couldn’t absorb directly onto the streets, causing Kitty to pick up her skirts and choose very carefully where she placed her feet. It must be a nightmare here when it rained: natural indentations and channels in the sandstone indicated where water had had to make its own way for perhaps decades. There were no horses, carts or gigs in the narrow lanes, but there were still plenty of people, staring suspiciously at them from front steps and doorways as they passed.
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