“Good ones,” she gasped as he ceased mopping her up. But her sense of being dreadfully overheated had eased.
“So get in the vehicle,” he ordered briefly. “I’ll attend to Richards.”
Francesca did so gratefully, making a real effort to appear sprightly though it cost her a lot. Glenn might be very gifted in his own area but a man of action he wasn’t. The last hour had been fairly ghastly as she made their way out of the rough country where the gelding’s startled gallop had ended, and found a track through the mulga until they reached the open plain. Nothing had spooked the grey gelding outside its rider. Glenn simply didn’t have sympathetic contact with the horse. In fact he had all the common faults, especially with his hands. A horse’s mouth was soft and sensitive. Glenn’s handling harsh and unencouraging. She’d even been giving Glenn riding instructions as they went, realising he’d never been taught, much less got to the point where he understood horses. Nearing the lagoon despite her objection, he had resorted to force instead of hands to change the gelding’s direction, kicking the heel of his boots into its side.
Spook didn’t like that. Francesca the horse lover didn’t blame him. With Glenn’s armchair seat and his bad leg position it was inevitable he would be thrown. To make matters worse he had complained about wearing the helmet from the outset saying he found it much too hot when he really wanted the breeze through his hair. Somehow she had persuaded him to keep it on until they reached the green shade of the red river gums. There he had whipped the helmet off with a kind of bravado, ignoring her pleas to keep it on.
The miracle was she didn’t have to pick up the pieces after he’d been thrown. Some facial grazing where he’d hit the ground hard. A large lump on his head, all the symptoms of concussion, blurred vision, grogginess, some retching. She’d had the devil’s own job getting him up on Gypsy, finding the right boulder to use as a mounting block, then using her own weight on the other side to counteract his. Finally it had all come together without strain to the horse. Gypsy, the ex-racehorse, had been very, very good while the inferior hack, Spook had taken the rare occasion to play up.
Her clothes felt terribly damp and heavy on her, her shirt soaked from Grant’s ministrations, her hair slick with sweat in need of a shampoo. She turned back the cuffs of her shirt, rolled them up then she whipped off the wet blue bandanna. Her heart was still thudding in her chest after her long walk but she just had to grit her teeth and bear it until she could get under a lovely cold shower. Originally she had wanted to ride to the homestead for help but Glenn though disorientated had been adamant she didn’t leave him. She might be getting used to vast distances and life in the wild but Glenn appeared to be genuinely intimidated by the bush. In his altered state he gave the impression he really believed if she left him he’d never be found again or dehydration would claim him.
With Glenn comfortable in the back of the vehicle, Francesca wasn’t surprised when Grant shot her a rapier glance. “Why didn’t you ride for help, Francesca? You made it so hard for yourself walking in.” He noted with relief the high colour of exertion had faded a little from her face. In fact though she was uncharacteristically dishevelled she was looking remarkably calm and composed.
“My fault, I’m afraid,” Glenn mumbled from the back. “I wouldn’t let her go. I don’t mind telling you I find the bush extremely intimidating. It’s great size! A man doesn’t realise until he gets out here.”
“You’re sounding better, Glenn,” Francesca said with satisfaction, turning her head with its dark curtain.
“What a fool you must think me.”
Why not? Grant thought with strong disapproval.
“I have to say you did give me the impression you were a better rider,” Francesca pointed out in a wry voice.
“But, Francesca, I thought I was. Just goes to show how much I’m out of my element here. I’ve been on horse riding trails. Come to think of it, it was mostly in a straight line and always with a party.”
“And what became of your helmet?” Grant asked gratingly, trying to push his extreme irritation with Richards to the back of his mind. Not only had Richards expected Francesca to sit and hold his hand, he had expected her to lead him seated on the horse across the spinifex belt in the heat of the afternoon. He’d never have allowed a woman to undertake such a long, hot trek. This was rough open country not a jaunt through a tree-filled city park.
“It came off in the fall.” Francesca aware of Grant’s anger risked a fib. “The safety harness must have worked loose.”
Grant sighed. “Tell me another one.”
“Sorry. I’m ashamed of myself. Glenn was feeling the heat. He took it off briefly to cool down.”
“And what spooked the gelding?” His eyes sparkled. “Make my day and give me a straight answer.”
“It was the darnedest thing.” Glenn found his voice from the back. “Such a tame horse yet it cut up a treat. I gave it a little bit of a kick in the sides to make it change direction and ended hanging on for dear life. It bolted into the scrub. I felt a branch might take off my head.”
“Especially without your helmet,” Grant murmured dryly. “They say all’s well that ends well, but I don’t suppose you’ll be interested in going riding again.” He mightn’t have put it into words but not with Francesca came over loud and clear.
By the time they got back to the house everyone had been alerted to the situation, swarming out onto the verandah as Grant drew the four-wheel drive up at the base of the front steps. There were hugs and kisses all round. As the injured party, however self-inflicted, Glenn came in for the lion’s share of attention but as Fee drew her daughter away her face revealed the strain of the past half hour.
“My darling!” One good look was enough for Fee. Embarking on a horse ride with Glenn Richards had not paid off. She could see Francesca’s pink shirt was drying quickly in the heat otherwise she looked as if she’d been dunked, her beautiful long hair pressed flat against her skull her face carrying an expression Fee remembered down the years. Francesca trying very hard indeed to be a good little girl and not cause any fuss.
“It’s all right, Mamma,” she was saying now, anxious to offer reassurance. “Glenn took a tumble but no bones broken. A bump on the head and a modicum of hurt pride.”
“To hell with that!” Fee laughed shortly, looking back over her shoulder to where Glenn was seated on a verandah chair with Ngaire and the crew in attendance. “I don’t know why you took him in the first place. All Glenn knows about horses is what he’s learned in the movies.”
Grant pondered that. “I’ve never seen the hero look for the little lady’s help. He rode. She walked,” he said, trying with some difficulty to lighten his own expression.
“For crying out loud.” Fee shook her head in a flurry of ringlets. “Look, I’ve got to have that out with him.” She made to stalk off with a considerable air of majesty, only Francesca caught at her arm pleadingly.
“Please don’t, Mamma. It wasn’t as though Glenn was himself. He’d taken a tumble. I expect quite a lot of bumps and grazes will appear overnight. “He was far too groggy to walk. The gelding simply bolted for home.”
Outback-bred Fee stared at her perplexed. “But my darling child, why didn’t you simply leave him there and ride for help?”
“Because he got quite agitated when I tried to leave.”
“A case of a city man behaving rather badly in the bush,” Grant offered in a sardonic voice. “Leave it, Fee. Glenn has a nice little story for after dessert. Right now Francesca should get under the shower and cool off. She had quite a trek in the heat.”
Fee knitted her brow very delicately to lessen the chance of wrinkles. “There are things that need saying, Grant.”
“Don’t be upset. Forget it, Mamma,” Francesca begged, hearing another wave of laughter at Glenn’s droll account of his tumble. “It was all my fault. I knew almost from the outset Glenn had little experience. I should have abandoned the ride altogether.”
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p; Grant agreed with a single, very definite nod. “By the same token a man of sense would have told you how little experience he’d had.” He reached out and encircled Francesca’s fragile wrist. “I can find you a clean shirt of mine to put on. Sorry about the jeans. You can use either the bath or the shower in the master bedroom. I’ll find you some clean towels. Richards can use the shower room off the storeroom at the rear of the house. There are clean towels there. I’ll get Myra up to take a look at him.” Grant referred to the wife of Opal’s overseer, for years a qualified nursing sister. “I don’t think there’s much the matter with him if he can sit around spinning yarns.”
“I’m going to make it my business to put them all straight later,” Fee promised. “I’ll come with you, darling,” she said to Francesca, feeling for once extraordinarily useless.
“No, Mamma, I’m fine!” Francesca shook her head. “I just want to cool down. Thank the Lord I was wearing a good sun block. Glenn will find himself with a bad case of sunburn, but I’m afraid he was too careless for comfort.” She glanced at her watch, then back to her mother. “You’re not finished for the day are you?”
“We’ll see, darling.” Fee glanced around. “We were doing some lighting set-ups when that wretched horse came in. But now that you’re both home safely I expect Ngaire will want to finish the scene. Marc and I are ready. He’s a pleasure to work with. So professional.”
“Can you pass on that message to Richards, Fee?” Grant asked, as Fee started to move off. “I’ll put a call through for Myra to come up to the house and take a look at him. She’ll find him a good spray for that sunburn. It doesn’t matter how many times you warn people of conditions out here they don’t seem to take much notice.”
All the rooms at Opal were of a generous size but the master bedroom was huge, dominated by a beautiful satinwood four-poster the floral pelmet of the elegantly decorated canopy matching the chintz of the ruffled bed valance that fell to the carpeted floor. All the furnishings were instantly familiar to Francesca’s English eyes, the George III giltwood mirror, the mahogany chests, the scrolled day bed near the French doors, a pair of Regency chairs. All of it could have come from Ormond even to the side cabinet painted Chinoiserie panels and the English needlepoint carpet. Obviously the Camerons had gone “Home” to do their buying or had the furnishings and all that went with it shipped out.
“The bathroom is through here,” Grant said, leading her through the dressing room to a very large bathroom, which had been modernised without losing its sense of the traditional.
“You wouldn’t have anything like shampoo?” Francesca asked hopefully, realising the master suite hadn’t been used for some time.
“I wouldn’t think here,” Grant said doubtfully, looking towards a wall of handsome timber cabinets and matching wall cabinets complemented with brass fittings. “But let’s see, Rafe and I didn’t want a live-in housekeeper like the old days. A couple of the station wives, headed by Myra, keep an eye on the place for us.” As he was speaking, Grant walked to the line of cabinets trying the wall fixtures first.
“It’s your lucky day,” he announced, full of satisfaction. “There’s a whole range of stuff here. There could even be towels in the linen press. Myra must be anticipating the day Rafe and Ally get home.”
That was evident judging by the contents of the tall linen press that flanked the cabinets. Francesca saw two of the deep shelves held bed linen, others a selection of towels in three colours: white, pale yellow and apple-green.
“I don’t know what we’d do without Myra and her crew,” Grant said gratefully. “They’re downright motherly. I expect Ally will change things but she’ll always have their support. So what’s it to be.” He turned to Francesca as she stood staring around her.” Bath or shower? I can run the bath for you if you like? You might relish a soak.”
Francesca raised her eyes to his, finding them electric, sparkling with erotic fantasies that rivalled her own. “I would but I think I’d better settle for a shower,” she said as calmly as she could. “Easier to shampoo my hair. Besides you’ll want to get everyone home before sunset.”
“I find I’m more concerned about you,” he said, still gazing at her with those gold-flecked eyes.
“The shower is fine, Grant.” It shook her that she was wishing he could join her, her whole body, tired as it was, vibrating with awareness, her pulses speeded up.
“All right I’ll leave you to it.” Grant moved abruptly, prey to his own wishful thinking. “Thanks to Myra everything you need is there down to new combs. Take your time. Some of those towels would be bath sheets. Rafe and I hate those little bits of things that would only go once around you. You’ll be able to wrap yourself up.”
Without a backwards glance he moved off, closing the bedroom door after him with a soft thud. Alone Francesca shook her head, trying to clear it. It was truly extraordinary the way he affected her. She had never in her life believed herself to be highly sexed. Now she realised it was only because she had never met the man who could deeply stir her. The master musician who could play her like golden sounds.
Quickly Francesca stripped off her clothes and wrapped herself in a huge yellow towel. Then she walked out to the enclosed verandah off the bedroom where she lay her clothes over a couple of chairs that still received hot rays of sunshine. That should dry them off! Back in the bathroom she flung off the towel stepping into the large shower enclosure that would easily accommodate two people with its frameless translucent walls and porcelain fittings. She turned on the taps, keeping the temperature initially lukewarm. The shower cascaded like a waterfall from a very effective wide nozzle producing a wonderfully, sensual, soothing effect. She held up her face to it letting it splash all over her skin. She really needed this. She had come over really rough terrain on foot and no one could understand the effects of the blazing outback sun, the dazzling quality of the light unless they had experienced it.
She reached for the shampoo and conditioner in one, lathering her hair twice then rinsing off. Only then did she start to feel the effects of her trek or maybe it was the alternate play of warm then cold water. A faint mist, like a veil, seemed to rise before her eyes and the legs that had pumped so strongly across the spinifex plains began to feel extraordinarily weak. She made a big effort to pull herself together, lurching forward to grasp the porcelain controls. The mist wasn’t clearing. It was turning into a fog. Surely she wasn’t going to do something silly and faint? She hadn’t done that since childhood when she had taken a nasty fall from her pony.
Moaning aloud, Francesca made another attempt to get out of the shower enclosure, only barely aware of a tall figure that loomed up outside the glass door.
In the west wing of the house, Grant had put a call through to the overseer’s bungalow, glad Myra was around to pick it up. Quickly he explained what had happened to Richards asking her to come up to the homestead and check him over. That out of the way he thanked her for looking after the homestead so well, particularly for stocking the bathroom in the master suite. It had proved a godsend.
Afterwards, with Myra’s bubbly, pleased laugh still in his ears, he hunted up a fresh shirt for Francesca to put on. He understood she would be the most fastidious of young women. Of course he was a good foot taller and maybe four stone heavier but the shirt would be clean and fresh and she could turn up the sleeves, tie up the tails, whatever women did with men’s shirts. Difficult to fit her out with jeans, he thought with a wry grin, but her pink shirt had taken the worst of it.
A soft collared white cotton sports shirt with a blue stripe through it came to hand. He couldn’t remember the last time he had worn it if he’d worn it at all. Either way it looked pretty new or it had been beautifully laundered and pressed. It would do nicely. He had a clear mental picture of how Francesca would look in it. Only it. An image that caused him to take a deep, whistling breath. He tapped on the master bedroom door and received no reply. Unless she’d been very slick about it, Francesca would still
be washing her hair. The shirt over his arm he trod quickly to the foot of the canopied bed, intending to lay the shirt on the quilted damask coverlet before beating a retreat when he heard to his alarm the most piteous low moan.
The hair on the back of his neck literally stood up, his stomach muscles contracting sickeningly. For God’s sake what was the matter? He shouldn’t have left her. He should have sat right outside the door.
“Francesca?” Grant strode to the entrance of the dressing room, noting the sliding door to the bathroom wasn’t fully shut. “Francesca?” His voice had picked up considerably in volume and intensity. What the hell was this? She had to hear him.
No answer but he could hear the water running. He called her name one more time coming right to the sliding door. Another of those moans saw him flinging it back so hard it rocked in its tracks.
Her naked body was even more beautiful than his imaginings, the curves and the contours, the breasts like fruit. She was hunched over the taps, slender arms extended to turn them off, fingers tightening but ineffectually.
“All right, I’m here!” Grant moved with speed, opening the shower enclosure, catching the spray, grasping her with one arm while the other made short work of turning off the taps. “Francesca!”
She slumped against him causing a great surge of desire he couldn’t possibly control, her lovely creamy flesh under his hands, breasts so pretty they left him breathless, the lick of red-gold at the base of her body. Desire he was immediately ashamed of. She was fainting right under his eyes.
A long arm with its whipcord muscles shot out and grabbed a yellow towel. With the utmost dexterity he wound it around her as carefully as if she were a newborn babe, cradling her, before he lifted her completely into his arms, carrying her back to the bedroom where he sat her upright on the side of the bed.
The English Bride Page 14