“Just giving him the run-around.” Grant grinned. “Emus are remarkable creatures and not only for their speed. They can find a living in the most arid parts of the run but they seek shelter in thick scrub when they’re nesting. The eggs are huge as you know. They require more than two months incubation.”
“That’s a long time for poor Mum.”
“Poor dad don’t you mean? The male undertakes that task.”
“Well, good for him. Mother kangaroo at least carries her little ones in her pouch. They’re just adorable, the joeys. It’s absolutely fascinating watching a herd of kangaroos bounding across open country on their long hind legs yet when they walk slowly they use their forefeet and their tail to steady them rather like a tripod, as the hind legs come forward.”
“You’ve made quite a study of them.” He didn’t tell her he had seen her wonderful sketchbooks. Not yet. She had the eye of the artist. The capacity for acute observation.
When they arrived at the site for his proposed homestead, they could see in the distance a large herd of cattle feeding on the purple flowering succulent, the parakeelya, peculiar to the sandhills. The stock could live on this or other succulents for months without water.
“Rafe and Ally will be home soon,” Grant said quietly, still sitting behind the wheel of the Jeep.
“They’re disappointed they’re going to miss Mamma’s party,” Francesca said, “but she put the launch off long enough to fit in with filming.”
“And her marriage,” Grant drawled.
“She and David don’t want to tie the knot without Ally present.” Francesca gave him a quick smile. “Mamma and Ally are very close.”
“Does it bother you?” he asked gently, relieved when she shook her head.
“Not really, I love them both. Mamma understands Ally better than she does me. I’ll have to get married to convince her I’ve grown up.”
“As long as you don’t make it three times.” Grant had a wry joke at Fee’s expense. “Let’s get out.” He moved swiftly around the vehicle to help her, taking her hand, loving the way she twined her fingers through his. In front of them Myora glowed a fiery red under the hot sun, the breeze that seemed to have sprung up out of nowhere causing a strange sighing sound to emanate from its hollowed out cavities and caves.
“Voice of the spirits,” Grant said, looking down at her. “Are you scared?”
“Why wouldn’t there be spirits,” she said. “This is an old old land, full of Dreamtime significance.”
It was time to tell her. Here in this place so close to their hearts.
“I saw your sketchbooks.”
She lifted her head, blue eyes surprised. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I think I was too moved by them,” he answered simply. “I didn’t want anyone else to look at them. Or your sketches of our homestead. That’s something uniquely ours.”
“You liked them?” She stared back at him steadily.
“I loved them, Francesca,” he said, his dark voice deep. “As I love you. I can’t possibly draw like you but you read my mind. Your sketchbooks finally convinced me you truly love this country. The flowers and the animals you’ve drawn so accurately. Your idea of an oasis in isolation proves how closely our minds work.”
She touched his golden face tenderly, in absolute love. “It means everything to me, Grant, you feel like that.”
“I do.” His strong arms encircled her. “Forgive me for ever doubting you couldn’t adapt to a strange land. It isn’t strange at all. It’s part of the richness of your inheritance. And now I have something for you.” He cast his eyes around, settling on a large boulder, mainly rust-red in colouring but with thick yellow ochre veins. “Come sit over here.”
“What is this all about?” She let him lead her, feeling unbelievably precious to him. It was wonderful. Intoxicating. As necessary to her as the air she breathed.
“You’ll see,” he promised.
When she was seated he went down theatrically on one knee before her, flashing her his brilliant smile. “Lady Francesca de Lyle I beg you to marry me. I adore every hair of your Titian head. I’m even prepared to beard your father, the earl, in his den. I want his consent for us to marry. I want his blessing. I want everything that’s going to make you happy. We can be married in England if that’s what you want. I know you’ll want your father to give you away. I’m certain it would please him. I’m equally sure he’ll want it that way. I’ll risk the grey skies and the cold of your winter. I’ll risk everything if only you’ll marry me. And just so you won’t keep me on my knees too much longer I’d be honoured if, in the meantime, you’d wear my ring.” He took a small navy case from his pocket, opened it and withdrew the ring. “Your hand, my lady.” His smile deepened as he registered the joyous anticipation on her lovely face.
“Take it,” she breathed, feeling her hand nerveless.
He did so, slipping the diamond engagement ring down over the satiny skin of her finger. “Not bad! A perfect fit. I love you, Francesca. I’ll love you always.”
“Oh, Grant!” she whispered, extending her hand to the sun, watching all the brilliant flashing lights. Pink diamonds! So beautiful.
“You’re not going to cry, dear love?” Grant asked very tenderly, feeling extraordinarily emotional himself.
“Of course I’m going to cry. It’s obligatory on these occasions. Tears of joy!” She flung herself forward, against his chest, his arms closing around her before he lost his balance. They both rolled on the pure clean sand that was covered in parts by a broad-leafed vine.
Now she was gurgling with laughter.
“Stay still. I want to kiss you.” He arched over her.
“I haven’t told you if I’m going to marry you yet.”
“Tell me after.” He moved with big cat grace, bringing his hands in tightly to hold her body captive, riveted by its female suppleness. Then he lowered his head.
“Ah, Grant….”
The laughter died. There was such burning desire in his voice and in his eyes she felt an answering flame lick her veins.
He kissed her into breathless submission, pressing the length of his body against hers. “Anyway I’m not going to take no for an answer.” His fingers tripped the pearly buttons of her shirt and slipped inside, shaping and caressing her naked breast. He was utterly sure of her, the dominant male, but she loved it. Her arms slid around his neck, her fingers digging into the tawny hair that curved thickly into his nape. He was a beautiful man. Beautiful!
“I love you.”
“I thought you did,” he said passionately.
“I can’t wait to marry you.”
“I can’t wait to marry you,” he groaned, falling back on the sand beside her. “We have to see your father. We have to make him delighted with our news. A wedding has to be arranged. How the hell am I going to be able to manage all that without ravishing you?”
“But I want you to.” Her voice choked on emotion. She ached for him to take her.
“And I going to.” He was breathing harshly, his handsome, high cheek-boned face taut and hungry but with a strength that confounded her. “But not like this, my love. The first time we’re together is going to be very, very, precious. The first time I lower myself into your body. The time and place will be right. No hurry.”
“You’re too sure of yourself, Grant Cameron.”
He turned and kissed her again, brushing back the hair that fell about her face in wild disarray. “I have some news for you that you will like,” he told her as they eventually lay back entwined. A small grin crooked the corners of his shapely mouth. “I’m having that architect I saw come out here to walk over the site. It’s all organised. We’ll show him your sketches. Let him work with them. I’ll order it so we can have a three-month honeymoon. Anywhere in the world you want to go. Fiji, Patagonia, Antarctica, the Swiss Alps. By the time we get back, our dream home will be built.”
EPILOGUE
THE Cameron-de Lyle wedding took pla
ce in England in June of the following year. The ceremony was held in the centuries-old village church of St. Thomas, adjoining the bride’s father, the earl of Moray’s splendid country estate in the rolling hills of Hampshire; the reception for two hundred people held in giant white marquees erected in the grounds of Ormond Hall the de Lyle ancestral seat, which at that time of the year were breathtakingly beautiful, a landscape gardener’s dream and inspiration. The wedding said to be one of the most beautiful of the decade was covered by Tatler, Harpers & Queen and the Australian Woman’s Weekly, so there were plenty of photographs for those who followed the social pages and weren’t fortunate enough to get an invitation.
A marvellous shot of bride and groom looking gloriously happy appeared on the cover of the Australian magazine. Although the bride Lady Francesca de Lyle, dubbed by the Australian press, “The English Bride,” was indeed English on her illustrious father’s side, her mother was the internationally known Australian born actress Fiona Kinross who had had a brilliant career on the London stage, spanning some thirty years. Fiona Kinross, Mrs. David Westbury, was a member of the prominent landed Kinross family, daughter of the late Sir Andrew Kinross, a legendary Australian cattle king, whose forebears had pioneered the industry in colonial days.
There were colour photographs of the bride on her own, looking exquisitely romantic in delustred duchess satin, the sweetheart neckline and bodice decorated with beautiful corded lace that ran down the full skirt. On her head she wore a flaring waist-length tulle veil held in place by a delicately beautiful family tiara of diamonds and pearls. Pearls with a diamond pendant at her throat, a small posy of beautiful white roses in her hands.
There were photographs of the bride with her two small flower girls, an enchanting shot; the bride with her attendants, the stunning Alison Cameron, nee Kinross, matron of honour, first cousin to the bride on the mother’s side, Lady Georgina Lamb and Miss Serena Strickland, the bride’s friends from childhood, all in harmonious shades of pink silk. There were photographs of the groom with his attendants, the best man, elder brother, Rafe, master of the Australian historic cattle station, Opal Downs, their close friend and recent brother-in-law by virtue of Rafe’s marriage to the stunning matron of honour, and her brother, Broderick, master of the equally famous Kimbara Station. Mr. Kinross’s beautiful wife, Rebecca, was clearly from the photographs some months pregnant but radiant in a simple, elegant blue dress with a gorgeous blue hat.
There was a lovely photograph of the bride with her father, the earl of Moray, both beaming with delight. A photograph of Mr. and Mrs. David Westbury, Mrs. Westbury wearing the most fabulous emerald hat and silk two-piece suit, shoes and handbag precisely matched. No photographs of the bride’s father and mother together. But one of the earl with his present countess, Holly. Some photographs of people the English side of the family didn’t know at all. Among them Miss Lainie Rhodes from Victoria Springs, a cascade of blonde hair and an irresistible big smile wore an elegant white-and-navy suit with a rather wonderful confection in navy with a huge navy-and-white bow on her head. “It’s wonderful! The best fun!” Miss Rhodes went on record as saying. Seated beside her, a rakish grin on his mouth, a strikingly handsome young man who bore a decided resemblance to the tawny haired groom and his “golden” brother. Family, of course—Mr. Rory Cameron, world traveller.
The honeymoon, which included a flight over Antarctica said to be “truly awesome” in the true sense of the word, would take the happy couple to places as far away as Scandinavia and Canada where the groom wanted to look up members of the Cameron clan who had migrated there in the early days.
It was the perfect day for a perfect wedding, all three magazines reported. Sky-blue and golden the sun pushing its way through a few early-morning clouds to shine down on the happy couple. Everyone who was there and those who devoured the magazine photographs afterwards, agreed it was plainly a love match.
Wasn’t that just wonderful!
ISBN: 978-1-4268-8203-6
THE ENGLISH BRIDE
First North American Publication 2000.
Copyright © 2000 by Margaret Way, Pty., Ltd.
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The English Bride Page 16