by Téa Cooper
‘Roisin.’ Jane’s voice broke through her tumbling thoughts. ‘Sit down.’ Jane’s hand was firm on her arm as she forced Roisin back into the chair. ‘You’re as white as chalk.’
She shrugged Jane off. ‘Did Old Pella tell you where he found it?’
‘In the forest. He said to give it to Carrick. I told you. That’s why I need to see Carrick.’
He was right; she hadn’t listened to what he’d said.
Beyond the window the light had faded to grey. The same grey as the morning when she’d found Carrick chopping the wood. Stripped down to his singlet, the light throwing shadows across his skin, across the scar on his shoulder. She ran her finger over the top of the stopper, tracing the letters, not feeling the cold silver of the stopper, instead the smooth raised skin of the brand on Carrick’s skin.
‘Mam.’
‘Be quiet.’ She had to think. She knew it. Why hadn’t she realised before? Why hadn’t she recognised it? The entwined initials. GD—Gideon Dankworth. The very crest atop an ebony cane that had thrashed her shoulders and broken Mam’s skull. ‘Where’s Old Pella?’
‘Dunno. In the woodshed. Can I have my treasure back?’
‘Not for the moment. No. It’s time you went to bed.’
‘I’m hungry.’
‘I’ll get you some supper.’ Jane, dear Jane, stepped towards the table, sensing her confusion.
‘Move your treasure box so there’s room for your bowl.’
Roisin glanced at Jane’s face; her smile for Ruan barely concealed the frown etched across her forehead and the worry in her eyes.
What to do? Her thumb rubbed backwards and forwards across the top of the stopper. GD—Gideon Dankworth. ‘Eat your supper and I’ll take some soup out to Old Pella.’ And ask him where he’d found the stopper. Jane must have read her mind because she pressed a bowl of soup into her hands and the next moment she stood in the fading light.
The door to the woodshed hung open and she waited, allowing her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness.
‘Old Pella, I’ve got some soup. Are you here?’ The silence clung to her like a shroud, then the pile of possum furs in the corner stirred and Old Pella’s eyes appeared over the top.
‘Missus.’
‘Oh, thank goodness.’ She squatted down, placing the bowl on the floor. ‘I’ve brought you some soup. Sit up.’
He struggled upright and she passed him the bowl, then sank down on the floor next to him, enveloped in his smell of damp animal fur, wood smoke and old man. She let out a long, slow breath while he slurped his soup.
‘Ruan gave me this.’ She opened her clasped palm.
He twisted his face from the bowl and fixed his rheumy eyes on her face. ‘For Carrick.’ He went back to slurping his soup.
‘Where did you find it, Old Pella?’
‘With King Polai. In the forest.’
‘Why does Carrick need it?’
‘Blind Bunyip left it.’
‘Blind …’ Her words petered out. What was the point? So caught up in his Dreamtime stories, the old man could have found the stopper anywhere. He hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.
Old Pella inclined his head, tipped the bowl and drained the remains of the soup, then smacked his lips and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Give it to Carrick. Carrick needs it.’
‘But if you were there, tell me.’
He sat up a bit straighter and stared out towards the door, then leaned close to her ear. ‘Bang!’ She jumped, almost toppling over. ‘Blind Bunyip killed him dead.’
Right, so now a bunyip had killed the man, not Carrick but a bunyip. It hardly seemed an improvement. ‘Did you see him?’
‘Old Pella there.’
One last try. ‘Old Pella, what does the bunyip look like?’
‘Told you. Blind, white eyes and the black stick. Rap, rap, rap on his boots.’
Boots. A shiver crossed her shoulders and then a surge of excitement. Pale eyes, boots and a black cane. There was only one person it could be. Dankworth, and if he was … Her heart lifted. If Old Pella had seen Dankworth in the forest, then Carrick may walk free.
‘We have to take it to the courthouse, you must come with me and tell the magistrate before they sentence Carrick.’ If nothing else it might stall the sentencing, give her time to speak to Carrick, show him the stopper.
Old Pella shook his head from side to side, his eyes wide with fear. ‘No court.’
‘Old Pella, you must. It will save Carrick. You’re a witness.’ The poor old man didn’t understand how the justice system worked. Carrick couldn’t hang for a crime he didn’t commit. Not if there was an eyewitness to state otherwise.
‘Useless natives can’t.’
‘You’re not useless, Old Pella. We’ll take it to Constable Brown and tell him.’
‘You tell Carrick.’ The old man struggled to his feet and tugged the blanket tight around his shoulders. ‘Old Pella gotta go.’
‘Me? No. I need you to come, too, Old Pella.’ Why would they believe her? They’d say she was protecting her lover. Just as Dankworth had. How she wished Carrick were Ruan’s father and not that evil man who soiled everyone he came into contact with.
Before she’d had a chance to protest, Old Pella slipped past her and merged into the gathering darkness. She stood for a while as the moon rose, watching the fleeting shadows. And for the first time realised there were no eyes upon her. There was no shivering dread. No tension, no sense of foreboding. When had it all begun? And why had it stopped now?
Clutching the flask stopper tight in her hand, Roisin made her way back inside.
‘You should eat something.’ Jane placed a bowl of soup on the table. How could she eat? The mere thought of food made her stomach rebel.
She closed her eyes, blocking out Jane and her sympathetic gaze, forcing her mind back to Carrick. She’d woken in the night, watched him as he slept, his body like alabaster in the beam of moonlight slanting through the shutters. She’d run her hand over his skin, across his chest. Heat rose to her face and a long, slow tug of lust snatched at her belly.
‘Roisin, eat, eat now.’
‘Not now, Jane. Not now. I’m trying to think.’ Trying to concentrate on her memories, not her emotions, not the way her skin had danced and her soul had soared; she was trying to remember his skin beneath her fingertips. His shoulder. The scar. The brand.
A reminder not to tamper with the English.
There was no mistaking Dankworth’s heritage. As English as the day was long. She ran her forefinger over the crest again. There were too many coincidences.
‘Where’s Ruan?’
‘He’s in bed. I said you would say goodnight to him when you’d talked to Old Pella. He’s concerned. Very concerned about Carrick.’
And so was she. She turned the stopper over and over in her hand. What to do? She needed to talk to Carrick. What if she was jumping to conclusions? A thousand men must have the initials GD, but how many were so depraved they’d brand them into another’s skin? The only link she had was the word of an old man who’d vanished into the night.
‘Jane, I need your help.’
‘Of course. Anything.’
‘We need to play on some of the scuttlebutt in the town.’ Would Jane do it? It was asking a lot, although she’d stood by her until now. She couldn’t have asked for a stauncher friend. ‘I need to talk to Carrick and I need to do it without Constable Brown listening in.’
A wide grin broke out on Jane’s face and she batted her eyelashes. ‘You want me to entertain Constable Brown. Prove to him the rumours around town about our cathouse are true.’
‘We’ve suffered the scandal, we may as well use it to our advantage. It’s asking a lot, I know. If we fail, your reputation would be in tatters.’
‘Carrick’s life is worth more than my reputation.’
‘And mine.’
‘What about Ruan? We can’t leave him here. What if Dankworth turns up?’
‘He won’t and Slinger’s outside keeping an eye out. He promised Carrick. Dankworth will be at the Winchesters’. Mrs Winchester will be telling him all about my visit and he’ll be relishing her support. A legitimate way to gain custody of Ruan. Far easier than snatching him from under my nose.’
A cold calm settled over her. She would get to the bottom of this mess if it was the last thing she did.
Roisin shivered and glanced at Jane; she must be freezing. With her blouse pulled low on her shoulders and the lacy black and red corset forcing her breasts high until her nipples almost peeked over the top, Roisin doubted any man could resist her. Aunt Lil would snaffle her up in a moment. Her eyes shone huge in her rouged face and her lips puckered like an overripe cherry. She threw an outrageous wink and swung her hips. If it hadn’t been for the fact two lives hung in the balance, Roisin thought she might enjoy the charade. ‘At least I know I can always find a job.’ Jane swayed down the road, twitching her skirt to display an expanse of leg above her sensible laced boots. ‘Do you think he’ll be interested?’
‘You’ll have to fight him off … Oh! I hope you don’t. Are you sure you want to go through with this?’
‘Believe me, if I have to fight him off, I’ll manage. I did that for years with Mick before he shot through. This knee could stop a stud bull in its tracks.’ She gave her skirt another swirl. ‘That’s the least of my worries. Now, you. What about you? Do you know where you’re going?’
‘Yes, I’ll wait until you have the constable busy, there should be only one of them on duty tonight, then I’ll slip through the courthouse into the corridor where the cells are. I don’t need to get inside the cell, just to the door to speak with him.’
‘Wait until you see me leave with the constable, then duck up the steps and through the door.’
Roisin settled behind the big tree shading the lockup, while Jane sashayed into the courthouse. Only seconds later she reappeared, leading a bedazzled Constable Brown by the hand, and they disappeared into the shadows.
Roisin flew across the expanse of open ground and in through the door. One lamp burned bright, illuminating the room where she’d spoken to Dankworth. To the right the door that led to the cells was closed. She nudged it open and slipped inside, pulling it closed behind her, throwing the corridor into darkness. Edging her way along the rough sandstone wall, she came to the first cell. The door was open. The second was not.
Carrick paced the floor, stopping to slam his chained hands against the wall every time his five paces took him to the back of the cell. How had it come to this? Dankworth here in Australia. His perfect opportunity and he’d wasted it buried in the forest chopping down trees. If he hadn’t been so hellbent on chasing the almighty cedar and trying to accumulate enough money to seek revenge he might have taken more notice of what was going on in front of his nose. No amount of blarney could convince him that Dankworth was Ruan’s father. Ruan’s red hair came from Roisin, he had her eyes, not that startling green, but green all the same. A pig like Dankworth couldn’t sire a lad like Ruan.
And he wasn’t getting either Roisin or Ruan. Not taking his loved ones twice. Liam and Brigid were more than enough. He slammed his head against the wall, relishing the shaft of pain as it hammered in his temples. At least Slinger had got out of the place. If he was in any doubt, that fact alone proved Dankworth had his sights set on him.
He tossed his head. He’d not be thinking too hard about it. How could the bastard have got his filthy hands on Roisin? No wonder she’d run, chosen to escape the past, leave Sydney. It would stop here. Stop now. When he got hold of the maggot he’d beat the living shite out of him, end it all. Not only for Liam and Brigid. For Roisin and Ruan, too. He’d not stand for him touching them.
He sucked in a deep breath, inhaling the remembered scent of her, of her skin, her home, of warmth and peace. Linen and lavender. He lifted his head, absorbing the touch of her breath on his cheek as she’d murmured his name.
‘Carrick.’ The sound was more insistent. ‘Carrick.’
He brought his head up and turned. His mind had deserted him, taken him away with the fairies. The constant dreams and mirages had to end.
‘Carrick.’
He stepped closer to the door.
Through the Judas window her green eyes blazed. He reached up, touching her fingers. He had to touch her. Had to know she was real, that he hadn’t conjured her from some addled part of his mind. ‘Go away.’
She had to go, stay away from him, stay away from Dankworth. The bastard could argue with him now. She wasn’t alone. He’d fight her battles for her. Brigid would want that. She would want to know he’d learned his lesson. He’d not fail twice.
She intertwined her fingers, small and fine, with his. ‘I have to talk to you.’
‘Leave, leave now before it’s too late. Leave before you become embroiled in something you know nothing of.’
‘I’m already involved. It’s because of me.’
‘Nothing to do with you. Old battles and old enemies.’ He scratched at his shoulder. ‘Remember the English pig who torched my darlings?’
She nodded, impatience glittering in her eyes, her hand curled in a fist held up to the grill. ‘I remember, Carrick. I need to show you something.’
‘It was Dankworth.’ How could he make her understand? ‘He wants Ruan. He’ll take him as he took Liam and Brigid.’ She’d no understanding of the depth of the man’s corruption. Why hadn’t she told him Dankworth was Ruan’s father? He unlaced her fingers from his and her hand dropped.
‘I know.’
How could she know? Know that Dankworth had killed the overseer. That he’d set him up from the start. Same as last time. Something glinted in the light. He squinted through the Judas door as she held out her hand, palm up.
‘What is it?’
‘Old Pella gave Ruan this.’
She forced it into his hand. He held it up in the shaft of moonlight shining through the window. A cork, a stopper. What use was that? The woman had taken leave of her senses.
‘He found it. In the forest at King Polai. He said you must have it.’
‘Too much rum. His brain’s pickled.’ He banged his head against the door and wrapped his fingers around the rusty bars, rattling at his cage. He had to get out.
‘Carrick, I have no time. Constable Brown will be back. Give me your hand.’ She unpeeled his fingers from the grill and traced them across the metal surface of the stopper. It was lumpy … no, something inscribed, raised.
‘What is it?’
‘Can you not feel the crest?’
He snatched away his fingers, the metal burning hot. GD. The letters he knew so well. The brand he’d carried since that fateful night. Dankworth’s crest. She had to leave. ‘Stay out of this.’ Better he hang than Dankworth wreak his revenge on her and the lad.
‘It belongs to Dankworth. I know it does. It’s the same as his cane. The same as the brand on your shoulder.’
‘Where did you get it?’ Talk. Talk her out of it.
‘Old Pella found it beneath the cedar tree. He said the blind bunyip left it.’
Carrick’s hands fisted against the tide of rage and impotence.
‘It proves Dankworth was there. Old Pella says he saw him shoot the overseer before you and Slinger arrived.’
A shout of laughter and a high-pitched giggle broke the taut silence, bringing him back to reality. He shook his head. ‘What’s happening out there?’
‘Jane’s entertaining the constable. We haven’t long. I must rescue her.’
He groaned. Why couldn’t she just leave him to sort it all out? ‘So what if this is Dankworth’s? I can’t prove he was there and neither can Old Pella. He’s native. His words won’t stand in court.’
‘If Dankworth is the man from Ireland, why does he want to harm you now? That’s all in the past.’
‘He wants Ruan.’ He raked a hand through his hair. Maybe he didn’t want to hear it. Too scared it would b
ring back the memories he thought he’d finally buried.
‘I know he wants Ruan. That’s why I left Sydney.’
‘He believes I want his son. As retribution for him killing Brigid and Liam.’ His mind spiralled out of control, lost in the insidious desire for revenge. Dankworth couldn’t be Ruan’s father. ‘Is he Ruan’s father?’
Even in the dim light he saw the colour flood her face.
‘Is he?’
She nodded, just once.
A hand clutched at his heart, and twisted. ‘Did you love him? Do you love him?’
‘I hate him, with every fibre of my being. He raped me. Beat my mam to death.’ A single tear tracked down her cheek, a pearl in the moonlight, and the breath returned to his body.
Between the bars he reached out and threaded his fingers through hers, knowing her pain. ‘Can he prove he’s Ruan’s father?’
‘No man can prove that. He says Ruan resembles him. He knows his age. He can work the numbers as well as any man.’
‘Did you have the lad baptised?’
She turned her face away from him. ‘I don’t hold with the church—any church.’
Once her bland statement would have bothered him. Now? He doubted the truth that had sustained him for so long. How could there be a God if a man like Dankworth roamed the earth?
‘Aunt Lil thought it better not to. She said the laws were new and there were lots of excuses we could give, so no one would need to know.’
‘So there’s no record of the lad’s father.’ No record of the maggot’s claim on Ruan. ‘Do you think he’ll try to snatch Ruan?’
‘No, he says he’s going to swear to his paternity in front of a magistrate.’
‘Roisin, this is important. Let me stand up for you. Tell them the boy is mine.’
‘How could he be yours? I didn’t even know you then. I was in Sydney, you were—where were you? See, I don’t even know where you were.’
‘Dankworth said he’s going to talk to a lawyer?’
She nodded, that much was true. It seemed a million years ago she’d made the dresses and the corsets; how she wished she’d stuck with the likes of Mrs Blackmore and stayed away from the Winchesters and their fancy friends. And she thought it would be the making of her—well, it wouldn’t. It would be the death of her. If anything happened to Ruan, or Carrick, her life would end.