The English Bride

by Way, Margaret

  “Such a heavenly night,” she breathed, lifting her head from contemplation of the silvery waters to the glittering heavens. “The Southern Cross is always over the tip of the house. It’s so easy to pick out.”

  Grant nodded. “Rafe and Ally won’t see it in the United States. The cross is gradually shifting southward in the sky.”

  “Is it really?” Francesca turned her head to stare up at him, thrilled because he was so tall.

  “It is, my lady.” He gave a mocking bow. “A result of the earth’s precession or the circular motion of the earth’s axis. The Southern Cross was known to the people of the ancient world, Babylonians and Greeks. They thought it part of the constellation Centaurus. See the star furthest to the south?” He pointed it out.

  “The brightest?”

  He nodded. “A star of the first magnitude. It points to the South Pole. The aborigines have wonderful Dreamtime legends about the Milky Way and stars. I’ll tell you some of them one of these days. Maybe nights when we’re camping out.”

  “Are you serious?”

  A short silence. “I suppose it could be arranged.” His voice sounded sardonic. “Do you think it would be a good idea, the two of us camping out under the stars?”

  “I think it could be wonderful.” Francesca drew a breath of sheer excitement.

  “What about when the dingoes started to howl?” he mocked.

  “Mournful not to say eerie cries, I know—” she shivered a little remembering “—but I’d have you to protect me.”

  “And who’s going to protect me?” Suddenly he put a finger beneath her chin, turning up her face to him.

  “Am I so much to worry about?” She cut to the very heart of the matter.

  “I think so, yes,” he answered slowly. “You’re out of reach, Francesca.”

  “And I thought you were a man who aimed for the stars?” she taunted him very gently.

  “Aircraft are safer than women,” he countered dryly. “They don’t preoccupy a man’s mind.”

  “So that makes harmless little me a great danger?” Her voice was low-pitched but uniquely intense.

  “Except in the realm of my secret dreams,” he surprised himself by admitting.

  It was a tremendous turn-on, causing Francesca’s body to quiver like a plucked string. “That’s very revealing, Grant. Why would you reveal so much of yourself to me?” she asked in some frustration.

  “Because in many ways we’re intensely compatible. I think we knew that very early on.”

  “When we were just teenagers?” There was simply no way she could deny it. “And now we’re to assume a different relationship?”

  “Not assume, my lady.” His voice deepened, became somewhat combative. “You were born to grandeur. The daughter of an earl. Journeying to the outback is in lots of ways an escape for you, maybe even an escape from reality. An attempt to avoid much of the pressure from your position in life. I’d expect your father will confidently expect you to marry a man from within your own ranks. A member of the English aristocracy. At the very least a scion of one of the established families.”

  It was perfectly true. Her father had certain hopes of her. Even two possible suitors. “I’m Fee’s daughter, too.” She tried to stave the issue off. “That makes me half Australian. Fee only wants me to be happy.”

  “Which means I’m right. Your father has high expectations of you. He wouldn’t want to lose you.”

  Francesca shook her head almost pleadingly. “Daddy will never lose me. I love him. But he has his own life you know.”

  “But no grandchildren.” Grant pointed out bluntly. “You have to give him them. Such a child, a male child, would become his heir. The future Earl of Moray. Inescapably a fact.”

  “Oh don’t let’s take that all on yet, Grant,” Francesca burst out. She wanted them to be together, with no conflicts between them.

  But Grant had other ideas, seeing where it was taking them. “I have to. You know as well as I do we’re becoming increasingly involved. Hell what am I sacrificing here? I could fall in love with you then you’d go off home to Daddy, back to your own world, leaving me to profound wretchedness.”

  Somehow she didn’t associate him with becoming any woman’s victim. He was too much the self-contained man. “I think you have what it takes to resist me.”

  “Darn right!” Abruptly he bent his head and gave her a hard kiss. “I’ve seen these patterns before.”

  “So what’s the solution?” She was compelled to clutch him for support.

  “Neither of us allows ourselves to get carried away,” he said brusquely.

  “So much for your behaviour then. Why do you have to kiss me?”

  He laughed, a low, attractive sound with a hint of self-disgust. “That’s the hell of it, Francesca. Reconciling sexual desire with the need for good sense.”

  “So sadly there are to be no more kisses?” she challenged with a little note of scepticism.

  He looked down into her light filled eyes, aware of the complexity of his feelings. She looked so lovely, very much a piece of porcelain, a woman to be cherished, protected from damage. “Can I help it if I’m continually at war?” he asked ironically. “You’re so beautiful, aren’t you? You moved into my path like a princess from a fairy tale. I know dozens of eligible, available women. Wouldn’t I be the world’s biggest fool to pick on someone like you? A young woman who has lived a charmed life? Equally well I don’t think your father would get a big kick out of knowing you were dallying with a rough-around-the-edges man from the outback.”

  It in no way described him. “Rugged, Grant. Never rough. You’re a lot more edgy than Rafe, but he’s very much your brother and one of the most courteous men I’ve ever met.”

  “Free from my aggression, you mean.” Grant nodded in wry amusement. “It’s an inborn grace, Francesca, he inherited from our father. I’m nowhere near as simpatico.”

  Her normally sweet voice was a little tart in her throat, like citrus peel in chocolate. “Well don’t feel too badly. I like you. Temper and all. I like the way you hit on an idea and go for it. I like your breadth of vision. I like the way you make big plans. I even like your strong sense of competitiveness. What I don’t like is the way you see me as a threat.”

  He could see the hurt in her eyes but he was compelled to speak. “Because you are a threat, Francesca. A real threat. To us both.”

  “That’s awful.” She looked away abruptly over the moon-drenched home gardens.

  “I know,” he muttered sombrely, “but it makes sense.”

  Unlike a lot of men let loose at a barbeque, Brod cooked the steaks to perfection, each to their requirements from medium rare to well done. For all her whirring feelings Francesca enjoyed herself, eating a good meal, warming to the conversation, and afterwards offering to make coffee.

  “I’ll help you.” Impulsively Grant moved back his chair, willing the pleasure of the evening to go on. Brod and Rebecca had shifted seats and were now holding hands. The younger couple wouldn’t be missed for a while.

  In the huge kitchen outfitted for feeding an army, Grant thought, Francesca set him to grinding the coffee beans, the marvellous aroma rising and flowing out towards them. Francesca was busy setting out cups and saucers then assembling plates for the slices of chocolate torte she’d already cut. All very deftly, he noticed. She was very organised, very methodical, with quick, neat hands.

  “You’re managing very well,” he drawled.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” The overhead light turned her glorious hair to flame, giving him a great wave of pleasure.

  “Have you ever actually cooked a meal?” he smiled.

  “I made the salad,” she pointed out collectedly.

  “And it was very good, but I can’t think you ever have any need to go into a kitchen and start cooking the supper.”

  She scarcely remembered being allowed in the kitchen except at Christmas to stir the pudding. “Not at Ormond, no.” She named her father�
�s stately home. “We always had a housekeeper, Mrs. Lincoln. She was pretty fierce. Nothing casual about her and she had staff, just as Brod’s father did, only Brod and Rebecca have decided they want to be on their own. At least for a while. Once I shifted to London to start work I managed to get all my own meals. It truly isn’t difficult,” she added dryly.

  “When you weren’t going out?” He poured boiling water into the plunger. “You must accept lots and lots of invitations?”

  “I have a full social life.” She flashed him a blue, sparkling look. “But it’s not an obsession.”

  “No love affairs?” He found he couldn’t bear the thought of her with another man.

  “One or two romantic involvements. Like you.” Grant Cameron didn’t lack female admirers.

  “No one serious?” he persisted as though the thought was gnawing away at him.

  “I’ve yet to meet my perfect man,” she answered sweetly.

  “Which brings me to why you have designs on me.”

  His effrontery took her breath away. “You can haul yourself out when the going gets tough. Because I’m only following my own instincts. You do have a certain emotional pull and physically you’re extraordinarily attractive.”

  He gave a mock bow, surprisingly elegant. “Thank you, Francesca. That makes my heart swell.”

  “As long as it’s not your head,” she retorted crisply.

  “My head has the high ground at the moment,” he drawled. “But I’ve enjoyed tonight. Brod and Rebecca are such good company and you are you.”

  It was so disconcerting, the swings from sarcastic to sizzling emotion. An acknowledgment, perhaps, that their connection was powerful, though he was going to fight it all the way.

  “That’s good I’ve done something right,” Francesca said in response, trying to keep her tone light, but she was utterly confounded when tears came into her eyes. Being with him made her more sensitive, more womanly with a much bigger capacity for being hurt. For all the calmness of her voice, Grant was instantly alerted. He glanced up swiftly, catching her the moment before she blinked furiously.

  “Francesca!” Heart drumming with dismay and desire he reached for her, pulling her into his arms. “What is it? Have I hurt you? I’m a brute. I’m sorry.” He could see the pulse beating in her creamy throat answering the pulses that were beating in him. “I’m trying to see what’s best for both of us. Surely you can understand that?”

  “Of course.” Her voice was a husky whisper. She dashed her hand across her eyes. Just like a little girl. Grace under fire.

  An immense wave of passion tied to a deep sense of protectiveness broke across him, causing him to mould her into him more tightly, achingly aware of the feel of her delicate breasts against the wall of his chest. He was on the verge of losing it. It was terrible. But good. Better than good. Ravishing.

  She attempted to speak but he was seized by the urgent need to kiss her, to take the crushed strawberry sweetness of her mouth, to find her tongue, to move it back and forth against his in the age-old mating ritual. This incredible delight in a woman was something new to him. Something well beyond his former sexual experiences. He wanted her. Needed her like a man needs water.

  There was tremendous passion in his kiss, a touch of fierceness that thrilled her because she knew she meant more to him than he dared acknowledge. His hand held her nape, cupped it, holding her head to him. She was almost lying back in his arms, allowing him to take his intense pleasure, and something deep, deep inside her started to melt. She was almost fainting under the tumult of sensation, her own ardent response. She had never known such intimacy, never before revelled in it, knowing it could be a cause of much unhappiness but she was too needy or too stupid to care.

  What bright spirit impelled towards delight was ever known to figure out the cost?

  They broke apart, both of them momentarily disorientated as though they had been beamed down from another world. Grant, for his part, was profoundly conscious his moods, attitudes and thoughts about this woman were vacillating wildly like a geiger counter exposed to radiation. She set his blood on fire, which greatly complicated their relationship. How could one think calmly, rationally when he was continually longing to make love to her? She might even see his masculine drive as excessive, a kind of male sexual aggression. She was so small, so light limbed, so fragile in his arms, the perfume of her, of her very skin, a potent trigger to desire.

  By contrast she seemed shaken, deprived of speech, unusually pale.

  “I’m sorry, Francesca.” Remorse was in his voice. “I never meant to be rough with you. I got carried away. Forgive me. It’s as you say, I lack the courtly touch.”

  She could have and perhaps should have told him how she felt, how she welcomed his advances with all her heart, but the tide of emotion was too dangerously high. She stood away, putting a trembling hand to her hair, realising a few long, silky strands had worked their way loose. “You didn’t hurt me, Grant,” she managed to say. “Appearances can be deceptive. I’m a lot tougher than I look.”

  His low laugh was spontaneous. “You could have fooled me.” He watched her trying to fix her hair, wanting to pull it free of its braided coils. What fascination long, beautiful hair had for a man. He could even imagine himself brushing it. God he had to be mad! He forced a grin, the smile not going with the look in his eyes. “I suppose we’d better take the coffee out. It’ll be getting cold.” He reached around and set the glass plunger on the tray. “I’ll carry it out. You relax. Get the colour back in your cheeks.” A tall order when he had reduced her to a breathless quivering receptacle of sensation, naked in her clothes.

  CHAPTER TWO

  FRANCESCA woke with a start knowing before she even looked at the clock she had slept in. She had set the alarm for five in the morning, now it was six-ten.

  “Damn!” This was too awful. She wanted to go with Grant. Francesca flung herself out of bed, glancing through the open French doors that gave onto the verandah. Sun-up four-thirty. The sky was now a bright blue, the air redolent with the wonderful smell of heat. She had even missed the morning symphony of birds, the combined voices so powerful, so swelling they regularly woke her at dawn. Sometimes the kookaburras started up their unique cackling din in predawn and she was awake to hear them, lying in bed enjoying their laughter. But she had slept deeply, exhausted by the chaos of emotion that was in her.

  Still she planned to go with Grant and he’d agreed, if somewhat reluctantly. Grant had told them all before retiring he intended to wait an hour for a message to be relayed in from Bunnerong. All stations operated from dawn. Perhaps his pilot had already called in or Bunnerong had notified Kimbara of his arrival? That was the way they did it in the bush.

  Hastily she splashed her face with cold water to wake herself up, cleaned her teeth and dressed in the clothes she had laid out the night before to save time. Cotton shirt, cotton jeans, sneakers. She put the brush through her hair, caught up a scarf to tie it back and rushed out into the silent hallway, padding along it until she reached the central staircase. She was almost at the bottom, when Brod came through the front door, surprise on his handsome face. “Fran? We thought we’d better let you sleep in.”

  Dismay hit her and she sent him a sparkling glance. “You don’t mean to tell me Grant has gone without me?” Her emotions were so close to the surface she felt betrayed.

  “I think he intends to go without you,” Brod admitted wryly. “He has the firm idea you’re not really up to it. Bunnerong has called in, as expected. Curly still hasn’t arrived. Grant has delayed taking off for as long as he can. He’s down at the airstrip refuelling.”

  “So he hasn’t taken off yet?” Hope flashed in her eyes.

  “No.” Brod heaved a sigh, beginning to think Grant was right not to take her. This was his little cousin from England. He valued her highly but she wasn’t used to confronting potentially dangerous situations. With no makeup and her long hair floating all around her, her cheeks pink with indi
gnation she looked little more than a child.

  “Get me down there,” she said, racing towards him and taking him firmly by the arm. Literally a fire head.

  Brod resisted momentarily, even though his expression was affectionate and understanding. “Fran, think about this. There’s a possibility the pilot has come to some harm. That could be very distressing for you. Believe me, I know.”

  She looked up at him with her flower-blue eyes. “I won’t screw up, Brod, I promise. I want to be of help. I completed a first-aid course.”

  Brod gave a sigh and ran his hand through his raven hair. “I don’t want to be alarmist but out here accidents aren’t something that happen to other people, Fran. We don’t read about it in the newspapers or see it on television. They happen to us. All the time. Curly might be beyond first-aid. Think of that. No matter how game you are, how much you want to help, you’ve led a protected life.”

  “Most people do. But I’m ready to learn, Brod.” Francesca caught his stare and held it. “Stop treating me like a pampered little girl. I’ve had my tough times as well. Now, get in and drive.” She ran to the waiting Jeep ahead of him, almost dancing in her desire to get down to the airstrip. “Grant promised he’d take me,” she called over her shoulder. “I know it mightn’t be good but I’m not going to cave in. I’m half Kinross.”

  She was, too, he thought with some admiration. Used as a buffer between warring parents. “It sounds to me like you have something to prove, love,” Brod said as he started the engine.

  “Yes, I have.” The great thing about her cousins, Brod and Ally, was they wanted to listen.

  “To Grant?” He looked at her with his all-seeing eyes, encouraging her.

  “Who else?” she flashed him her smile.

  Brod nodded, his expression wry. “He’s a helluva guy, Fran, a genuinely exciting personality. He’ll go far, but he’s very stubborn. Once he makes up his mind you won’t change it. Princess that you are you won’t wind him around your little finger so be warned. Grant has very strong views. A quick pride. Strength and energy to burn. But he has lots to learn like the rest of us. We know he’s deeply attracted to you but you could get hurt. Rebecca and I don’t want to see that because we care about you too much.”