‘And after the deed is done?’ He raised an ironic eyebrow.
‘Time will tell, Etienne.’
For a moment she thought she’d really surprised him as his eyes narrowed. Then he surprised her. ‘Yes, ma’am. I’m thoroughly on my mettle now and will undertake to behave myself in the interim. After I’ve done this, that is.’
For a moment he trailed his fingers down her cheek then he bent his head to kiss her very lightly.
Mel stirred beneath his mouth as all her senses were invaded, and the promise of delicious rapture would have been, so tantalisingly, within her grasp had she not denied it to herself with her own strictures.
He drew away.
Her lips quivered and the tendrils of coppery hair framing her face danced in the light breeze while her velvety blue eyes were slightly desolate, and her breasts beneath the thin cotton blouse moved up and down in tune with her ragged breathing.
‘You did say—’ he began, with his dark eyes focused squarely on what her breathing was doing to the front of her blouse.
‘I know what I said,’ she whispered then took hold of her disappointment and tried, resolutely, to banish it.
After all, she thought, it might not be a bad idea to retain some will-power before she married Etienne Hurst, since she really did not know exactly what she felt about him. And it might be a good idea not to allow him to feel he had too much of an upper hand over her because, while she might have no choice but to marry him, she fully intended to retain some independence.
She squared her shoulders—and detected a glint of something unfathomable in his gaze as he raised his eyes suddenly to hers. Could it be self-directed mockery? she wondered briefly and surprisingly. Then it was gone and she pursued her line of thought—this was undoubtedly an unconventional marriage, so why shouldn’t she be an unconventional bride-to-be?
‘I did mean it,’ she said.
‘So—’ he paused for a beat ‘—so be it.’
‘How…when will we do it?’
He folded his arms. ‘I don’t see much point in dragging it out, do you?’
‘No…’ she said slowly, and felt herself grow hot beneath his quizzical regard.
‘As soon as it can be arranged, then?’
Batman pelted up and deposited a very old tennis ball at their feet then grinned hugely up at them.
Etienne retrieved the ball and lobbed it away.
‘All right,’ she agreed, ‘but let’s also make it as simple as possible.’
He wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘You could always leave it up to me.’
‘That would certainly be—unconventional,’ she murmured, but when he looked at her narrowly she shrugged. ‘If you wouldn’t mind?’
‘Not at all. So long as we have a deal, Mel?’
She put out her hand. ‘We have a deal.’
He took her hand but she could see his amusement and for a moment she was terribly tempted to do something essentially out of character such as—oh, no, she thought, not another fantasy! She closed her eyes tight.
Her mind’s eye resisted all her attempts to smother it, however, and she pictured herself dressed in a filmy, silvery, flowing gown, floating over the grass, not with a Jack Russel puppy but a cheetah cub in a jewelled collar, towards Etienne. And taking his hand and pulling him down into the grass where she then proceeded to unbutton his shirt and run her hands along his shoulders and tantalise him with her lips and her body until he begged for more…
‘Mel?’
Her eyes flew open to see him looking down at her curiously. She went hot and cold with embarrassment and wondered wildly where these strange images came from—cheetah cubs? Or was this fantasy a representation of how she dearly wished she could be—sure of herself, sure of her powers of attraction for him, different, devastating—?
He said her name again.
‘Uh…I was saying,’ she frowned in awful concentration as she tried to remember what on earth she had been saying, ‘that…we have a deal, that’s all.’
‘Sure?’
‘Quite sure. I don’t change my mind once I’ve given my word.’ She tried to sound as airy as possible but she could see that he was still curious.
Fortunately Batman saved her by running up with his ball again, and this time it was she who threw it for him with all her might.
A couple of weeks later, very early on the morning of her wedding day, she examined that decision to be unconventional and decided that, despite Etienne’s insistence on a church wedding, she’d held pretty well to her resolve.
The sun was rising over Raspberry Hill as she sat in a cane rocker on the veranda in her Snoopy pyjamas with a cup of tea and thought back over the last weeks that had simply flown from the day she’d agreed to Etienne’s proposal.
There had been moments when she’d regretted the conditions she’d laid down for the run-up to the wedding or, perhaps, regretted the sense of hostility and tension within her that had prompted her to impose them. But nothing could change the fact that her feelings on the subject of Etienne Hurst were most ambiguous, just as her feelings about having to marry him to save her home and her family were difficult to deal with.
But when she saw the ease with which he got on with the boys, when he outlined the plans he had for Raspberry Hill, she did sometimes wonder whether she shouldn’t have simply buried her antagonism towards being married to a man who wanted her but didn’t love her, and gone with the flow? Even thrown herself into the wedding preparations rather than preserving a rather prickly distance from it all?
As for the boys, both Ewan and Tosh had accepted the idea of their sister marrying Etienne on its face value, but Justin had divined the true state of affairs and had lined himself up solidly on Mrs Bedwell’s side of the fence. Although he had said to Mel that, if Etienne made her skin crawl, not even to give his proposal a second thought, and they would find some other way of managing.
The irony of that was that no one really believed Etienne could make any woman’s skin crawl but it was an irony that irked Mel considerably.
Even if he didn’t make her skin crawl, however, what he did do to her was no open book. She might get trapped into the odd fantasy about him, but since the day she’d agreed to marry him Etienne had been most circumspect, as requested. In fact, if it hadn’t been for a couple more of those hunter-still looks she’d encountered when she’d least expected it, she’d have thought herself safe, although that posed a question… Why would someone who experienced rather vividly intimate fantasies about a man feel safe when he ignored her?
Of course, today would change all that; she’d be foolish to pretend otherwise to herself.
She stirred, pleated her pyjama leg and stared out over the garden. There was a frilly lizard sunning itself on a rock, and two kookaburras sitting immobile and quite silent in a gum tree, watching it intently. Then she became aware that she was no longer the only one up.
She sniffed the air and the delicious aroma of frying bacon told her that Mrs Bedwell was out and about. A couple of thumps echoed from Justin’s bedroom—his latest hobby was weightlifting—and she could hear Tosh talking to Batman.
No sound of Ewan; was he all right? she wondered as she always wondered. Then he she heard him bitterly telling Tosh his damn dog had chewed one of his socks, and she relaxed.
But she knew suddenly she could never get through this day without doing two things, and without bothering to change or put on shoes she ran down the steps and through the damp grass to her father’s favourite spot on all of Raspberry Hill.
It was a spot on the headland, where many years ago he had built her a swing. And from where, when she was a little girl, he’d pointed out the Narrows, the strip of water that separated Curtis Island from the mainland. What was unusual about the Narrows was that at low tide it was high and dry and used as a cattle crossing to bring stock across from the island, whereas at high tide small ships could sail over the fences.
The swing was still there, alt
hough she could barely fit onto it now, but she wedged herself in and caressed the frayed ropes as she thought of her father with deep, deep sorrow. But at least he would know, surely he would know, she thought, that in his place she was taking care of the family. For that matter, she recalled, he’d always got on well with Etienne Hurst…
She watched as a trawler, with its nets tucked up like a woman holding up her skirts, steamed towards Ramsay’s Crossing. Then she closed her eyes, swallowed several times, and went to see her horse.
Rimfire, a chestnut gelding, heard her coming and his lovely long face with its white blaze and pricked ears was turned towards her over the half-door of the stable as he whickered excitedly.
She flung her arms round his neck to receive his familiar nuzzle of her shoulder before hunger got the better of him and he nipped her gently.
‘OK. OK! I know, I may be getting married today, believe it or not, but first things first,’ she crooned. And not only did she mix his feed but she also cleaned out his stall and brushed him until he shone.
‘Now, I’m going away for a week,’ she told him, ‘but Justin has sworn to look after you, so don’t pine, don’t sulk and don’t you dare kick him or bite him! I know you don’t like men but all the same—’
‘Melinda!’
She turned to see Mrs Bedwell bearing down on her.
‘I’m coming, I’m coming, Mrs B!’
‘Mel, it’s your wedding day! You shouldn’t be cleaning out horse stalls—what am I going to do with you?’
Mel kissed Rimfire on his velvety nose, took a deep breath and turned to Mrs Bedwell. ‘OK—what did you have in mind?’
‘A bath, your hair—oh, look at your nails! I—’
But Mel put an arm around Mrs Bedwell. ‘I’m all yours,’ she said gravely.
Three hours later she was ready, as unconventionally ready to be a bride as she knew how.
In the first instance, no one was giving her away. In the second, she had no bridesmaids; rather, her three brothers were not so much attendants but guardians of honour. Then there was her outfit, hardly a traditional bridal gown.
Made of a soft, shimmering fabric, it wasn’t white but pale blue and it wasn’t a dress but a top and a three-quarter skirt with a definite gypsy flavour. The top was gathered and shirred around the shoulders with short puff sleeves. The skirt had a flounce around the bottom and she wore a topaz sash around her waist. The topaz colour was repeated in a choker necklace of six strands of glass beads and gilt bars around her slender neck and she wore dangly gilt and diamanté earrings set with seed-pearls.
She would have carried no flowers if Mrs Bedwell hadn’t, with tears in her eyes, insisted she couldn’t get married without a bouquet and a garter to throw, but she’d won the battle to wear no veil and her chestnut hair was simply tied back with a flower and long, wavy tendrils framing her face.
‘Wow!’
‘Blimey!’
‘Holy moly!’
Justin, Tosh and Ewan all looked stunned by her appearance as she stepped into the lounge, where they were assembled waiting for her.
‘Does that mean—what does that mean?’ she asked with a grin.
‘As the oldest brother,’ Justin quelled the other two with a glance, ‘may I say you look simply sensational, Mel?’
‘I don’t see why you should be the only spokesman, Justin, you look just lovely, Mel,’ Ewan contributed.
‘Well, you sure look like a girl,’ Tosh commented. ‘Mel, Mellie, please can I take Batman with us to the wedding? He’ll be so lonely!’
‘No!’ It was such a chorus, even Tosh, who rarely took no for an answer, shrugged and desisted. And together—Mrs Bedwell, looking regal in purple with a pink flower-garden hat had left a few minutes earlier with her nephew—they made their way to the waiting limousine.
On the face of it, it was a glorious day for a wedding. The clear blue skies of early spring presided over the dark green folds of Mount Larcom, whose craggy peak, in turn, presided over Gladstone, Curtis Island and the waters of the Narrows, shimmering in the sunlight.
‘Mel?’
She turned to Justin.
‘Only about ten minutes to go until we get to the church. How do you feel, sis?’
‘Nervous, I guess.’ She twined her fingers together.
‘Why?’ Tosh queried.
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ Justin replied loftily.
‘It’s a big step, getting married,’ Ewan explained with more patience.
‘Why? It feels like a party to me!’ Tosh patted his new suit, his first, with palpable pride.
‘It’s probably harder for girls,’ Ewan said reflectively. ‘They’ve got to worry about how they look and all that. But at least you’re luckier than most girls, Mel. You don’t have to change homes.’
And therein lies the kernel, Mel thought as she stared out of the window.
‘Mel?’
It was Justin again, as the limousine slowed and turned into the churchyard.
She withdrew her gaze from the old wooden church with its small white bell tower. ‘Yes?’
‘He’s a good bloke—and you’ve still got us. Always. Hasn’t she, boys?’
Ewan and Tosh agreed fervently.
Mel stared into Justin’s blue eye, so like her own, then smiled shakily. ‘Thanks.’ And they all leaned forward and crossed hands as they’d always done in moments of unity.
Seconds later the limousine pulled up in front of the church and, taking a deep breath, Mel alighted and went to her wedding.
CHAPTER SIX
THE church was surprisingly full for the small wedding planned.
Mel looked down the aisle and at the populated pews on either side as she hesitated on the porch. She’d agreed to Etienne’s suggestion that they get in a wedding consultant to plan the reception he’d also insisted they hold. She now realised that, without his consulting her, a larger wedding was about to take place.
It flashed through her mind that it could be her own fault she was unprepared for this. She’d virtually given the consultant carte blanche because she’d found herself unable to be enthusiastic about a wedding that had to be a farce.
Now she regretted that frame of mind as the consultant, a stylish woman of about fifty, came out onto the porch to greet her, at the same time unable to mask a glint of surprise in her eyes.
‘Who are all these people?’ Mel whispered.
The consultant, Mary Lees, blinked. ‘Well, Etienne gave me a guest list… Melinda, I must say you look gorgeous! I knew you wanted to surprise us but you’ve done so beautifully. It’s so unusual but—just you!’
‘Thank you,’ Mel said distractedly, as Mary smoothed out her skirt and turned her around so she could check the back of it.
‘There, perfect,’ Mary murmured and turned her attention to the boys. ‘My, my!’ she enthused. ‘Don’t you three look gorgeous too? Now, you know what to do? Once your sister reaches the altar, the three of you move into the first pew on the left. Mrs Bedwell is there. Are we ready?’ she asked warmly.
Mel swallowed then nodded, and at a signal from Mary Lees the organ swelled and the ‘Wedding March’ began.
It was the longest walk of Mel’s life. She didn’t hear the rustle of approbation that rose as she moved down the aisle; she didn’t notice the lovely flowers; even the music faded as she concentrated on the tall, dark figure waiting for her in front of the altar.
Then, about three-quarters of the way down the aisle, he turned and their gazes clashed. Like the consultant, a glint of surprise lit his eyes as he took in her shimmering pale blue outfit and one dark eyebrow lifted briefly. And he smiled at her, a smile full of humour and wry understanding that amply signified he knew just what kind of a statement she was making in her blue dress—a protest because this marriage did not have her approval.
To make matters worse, to tell her she’d failed in her protest, as she arrived at his side, he put his hand on her arm and murmured, ‘You leave all o
ther brides I’ve seen for dead, Mel.’
She bit her lip and, thankfully but with considerable irony, surrendered herself to the rituals of the ceremony.
‘You may kiss the bride…’
She heard the words in an almost trance-like state, stared down for a long moment at the ring on her left hand then turned to Etienne Hurst for his kiss.
That was when she saw it again, that so still, so alert dark gaze focused squarely on her, and she shivered visibly as he bent his head and claimed her lips. But he surprised her. Although to all intents and purposes he was kissing her lightly, with his hands now on her waist, he was in fact saying barely audibly against the corner of her mouth.
‘Whatever else I may be, Mel, I do have your best interests at heart, so—could we lighten up a bit?’
A ripple of indignation ran through her along with a sense of pride. Was he suggesting that she looked like a martyr? Well, that was the last stance she intended to take and she would show Etienne Hurst she was made of sterner stuff if it killed her!
So instead of being stiff and unyielding in his arms, she forced herself to relax. She also closed her eyes and murmured back, ‘OK, I’m ready.’
She felt the jolt of laughter in him and her lashes fluttered up. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then why aren’t you kissing me?’
‘I am—now.’ His lips closed on hers and his hands moved on her waist and, for one horrified moment, she thought some outlandish scenario along the lines of nude nymphs was going to overtake her.
Not here, she commanded herself, and relaxed again, in relief, as her mind remained blank.
All the same, the church receded, all the difficulties of this marriage faded to be replaced by a supreme awareness of Etienne Hurst and—surely not?—surely yes, the conviction that she’d missed being kissed by him.
Then he stopped kissing her and looked into her eyes. And he said to the little flare of shock in them, ‘Hello, Mrs Hurst.’
The Unconventional Bride Page 5