A whoosh past her cheek and a feeling of sharp steel. Then blessed relief and familiar hands pulling her away.
She coughed madly, spitting out the hateful taste, then fought to regain her wits, rolling away from her assailant. Eventually she managed to look up.
Bas knelt beside her, one hand protectively holding her as the other pointed a rifle threateningly at the stranger.
“I guard my own,” he said coldly. “The lady is not for sharing.” Then he leaned forward, yanked a small knife from the shoulder of the other man and quickly picked up the swags he had left ready tied last night. He pulled her upwards and threw their two blankets at her, then slowly backed out of the campsite.
Once out of the firelight, she turned to thank him. His hand cut down. “Not yet.”
After that, she kept a silence as complete as his. They crept carefully over the hill and back the way they had come, then abruptly shifted direction, heading away from the river and up the near dry bed of a small creek. After half an hour of tortuously negotiating the treacherous stones, always straining to both move silently and listen out for pursuit, he changed direction again, heading up the tussock-covered slopes and bending in and around the clumps to leave no telltale damage to show their passage.
It was hours later and near daybreak before he called a halt. It was only the dawning light in the sky that gave Geraldine any idea of their direction. So many twists and turns in their journey had left her stunned and lost—as did the shock of the assault suddenly beginning to set in.
Helplessly she slumped down in a dazed heap and stared listlessly at the streaks of red filtering across the sky.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I tried so hard to be careful in my manner. I didn’t think they knew.”
He crouched down beside her, reaching out and shaking her roughly.
“Cut that out. This is no drawing room and we cannot afford falling into a ladylike decline. This is the goldfields, remember. One thousand men to each woman, and most of those here for entertainment—and don’t tell me you don’t know what I mean.”
She shook her head. “But I am not one of them; why would that man believe I was?”
“That man is rough, starved for a woman, and saw no reason why I should get all the fun.”
“What?”
“I did tell you they would see through your disguise. He thought you my doxy.”
“Well, I’m not,” she retorted staunchly.
“You are not,” he agreed, in a suspiciously meek voice.
“And if he thought I was what you said, I suppose it was because you said so!”
“Possibly,” he again agreed, but with no sign of meekness at all and every sign of glee. “Now, stop sitting there like a slug. I’ve still got some bread and flour, and we are too close to linger.”
She rose reluctantly, unable to banish completely the horror of those moments by the fire, and took refuge in a mumbled, “How much further into these hills do you mean to march us?”
It was lost on him. He was already striding forward and if he heard her, he gave no indication. It was only as they neared the end of her third day of tramping that she got any kind of answer.
They had reached yet another encampment by the river. Bigger this time, with a number of tents and near twenty men. She took one look and stopped.
It took him some yards to notice she was not beside him. He turned, looking about to say something, then saw her face and shut his mouth. For a long minute, she wondered whether he would just ignore her and continue on without her.
Then he began to walk back.
The long days of walking on light rations had begun to erode even his lightheartedness.
“I know these men,” he said when he reached her, no hint of supplication in his voice. “You will be safe here. Whatever I may be, I don’t pledge my surety in bad faith.”
Then he turned again and began to march forward. She had no choice. Fear in every part of her body, she followed him.
“Bas, you aristocratic bastard. What hornet’s nest have you stirred up this time?”
A veritable giant had separated from the group, black-haired with a beard thrusting forward in a pandemonium of growth from his solid chin. Most miners wore beards, but this one was extraordinary. For a brief moment, Geraldine was diverted from her anxieties in studying the black, bushy depths. She saw Bas had grasped its owner’s hand in a warm clasp.
“Josh. Good to see you, too.”
“Now, Bas, no need for that tone. Whenever I see you, you are up to some new devilry, and from the word going the rounds, you’ve picked a real heap of trouble this time.” The young giant stared placidly down at Bas, then cast his eyes over Geraldine, standing nervously behind him. “I take it this is the prime piece word says Black Jack would like to get a hold of. Almost as much as he wants to kill you.”
“Josh Smith – Geraldine MacKenny.”
Geraldine nodded her head briefly at the curt introduction. Never had she felt more unnecessary. Already Bas had turned away again, asking the big man what actual news he had heard.
“… and not your highly embroidered version,” he finished warningly.
“Don’t need to on this one. Talk is you fouled up MacRae’s latest duff scheme as completely as it’s possible to have done, and labelled him the perpetrator. For which favour he intends to kill you very thoroughly in the short time left to him before the authorities run him out of the Dunstan.”
“Which will be how long?”
“Sergeant Brannigan’s due back any day. He and his troopers will give Black Jack his marching orders then, so say the rumours.”
“Let’s hope they are right. Can you put us up here in the meantime?”
“Always, you know that. But not all ears are friendly these days and Black Jack is flashing a big pot of gold around for information on your whereabouts. The newer chums have arrived at this stretch a bit late for a decent claim. They can either take the risk of moving on to Fox’s new strike on the Arrow, or take the gold on offer right here.”
“By telling Black Jack about a newly arrived pair at this camp,” concluded Bas sourly.
“Bas, no need for that. You’ve been up against worse. Come on, sit down and get a feed inside you. You’ll soon be back to your old self again.”
“Sometimes lately I’ve begun to wonder if that’s possible.” Deverill fell strangely silent, turning to study Geraldine. She wished more than ever that the ground would open, but just as she was about to protest his scrutiny he turned back with a shrug, clapped Josh on the shoulder, and reverted once more to the jesting companion she had first met.
In one thing, Josh was right. A good meal brought a whole different perspective on her situation, although even her renewed optimism balked at what appeared to be their generally accepted sleeping arrangement. Two men had kindly turned out of their tent and Geraldine found herself being escorted to a small oasis of privacy, alongside a jovial Deverill. From the annoying tilt of his eyebrows, she guessed he knew exactly what she thought of spending a night in a tent alone with him. Worse, how little she could say about it in the company of men she neither knew nor trusted.
The flap fell behind them and Bas bowed theatrically, spreading their blankets on the rough mattress of grasses. “Your couch awaits, my lady.”
“Don’t even think of acting as if I should enjoy this,” she shot back, twitching her own blanket firmly away from his. He just as firmly pulled it back.
“The only thing keeping you safe tonight is the belief of those men out there that you are with me. Remember, they all know you as the prime piece from my bar who seduced Black Jack MacRae.”
“Thanks to you!” She twitched the blanket back again and lay down on it to hold it in place. Next moment, she was being dragged closer and closer to a Bas sprawled laughing on his own blanket. “Oh God, no—you’re drunk!” she exclaimed, vainly trying to stop him.
“On the miserable few mugs I sank tonight? Nonsense.”
“Shh, my sweet. They will hear you and probably come to investigate. Have you no idea how long it is since most of these men had a woman. Or maybe you would enjoy the attentions of a whole camp of healthy young men?”
Her cheeks flamed. Thankfully, it was too dark in the tent for him to see. “Of course not. But nor do I want your attentions.”
“Are you sure?” he murmured, the treacherous hand sweeping slowly around her cheek, trailing down her neck, lower and lower.
“Quite sure.” But there was a quaver in her voice she could not hide and she had to tightly clench her own hands to stop them moving up in their own exploration.
He guessed anyway. His other hand reached down, gently tugging one fist open and drawing it up to his mouth. She could feel the upward tilt of laughter at the corners of his mouth then forgot it. His tongue, warm and questing, slowly traced a path across the opened palm of her hand, and deep within her something clenched then began to throb. A rhythm pulsed through her veins in time with the slow stroke of his hand across her cheek, down her throat, lower and lower.
“Please,” she whispered.
“Sweetheart, with all my heart. Your skin is so fine.”
“No, don’t.” But the plea was too half-hearted. His mouth quirked again, then his head lifted from her hand and descended upon her mouth. His warm lips took hers, any protest she might think to attempt dying forgotten.
She had known too few men to have been kissed often, but there had been the odd, fumbling trial. Nervous forays of untrained adolescence. This kiss was not that. His mouth moved gently, then more urgently across hers. Teasing, tempting, his tongue seeking entrance and bringing a promise of warm delights. The men outside, forgotten. This man, this night, this was all her world.
Dazed, she fell deeper and deeper into the spell he wove. His arms moved urgently across her, kneading her back, then lower, circling her breasts and wandering in slow exploration down her abdomen. Then down…
“Damn it!” Suddenly, she was free. He had wrenched back as he spoke, rearing up on his elbows and one hand, barely visible in the gloom, could be seen dragging through his bright hair.
Still dazed, she shook her head, then suddenly came to herself. Scarlet rushed over her cheeks and she sat up in dismay.
“It seems you were right. I must be more drunk than I thought. My apologies.”
“No. Don’t apologise.” Her voice seemed to be strangled somewhere in her throat; the barest whisper was all she could manage. Embarrassment ruptured her into pieces. Untried, untaught. He didn’t want her, was all she could think. That wasn’t right, she was sure of it. She ought to be horrified, frightened at such attention. But all she could feel was a desperate physical loss.
Then her voice came back and she drew herself rigidly upright. “It is for me to apologise, I think. I forced you to bring me with you and perhaps led you to believe I expected something like this to happen. Which would have been foolish, given my inexperience. I’m sorry I was such an inadequate partner.”
“Inadequate?” The word was gasped as if on a breath suddenly thrust out. “Inadequate!”
He had flopped backwards, his shape barely discernable in the shadowy pile of blankets. How she wished for a light; anything to see his face. Then she heard it, the unmistakeable gurgle of choked laughter.
“Must you do that? You may not want me, but to be forever laughing at me as you do is cruel.”
The dark mass of him rolled over and she could just see that his face was turned towards her as he propped himself up on one elbow.
“Oh God, sweetheart, if you only knew.” Amusement corded every word. “Not want you? You have driven me nearly mad these last days with the urge to tip you up on the ground and take you where you lay. Not want you! I can’t remember when I wanted a woman as much as I do you.”
Her cheeks were a roaring furnace now. What to say to that?
“It’s still no laughing matter.”
“Believe me, it is. I can think of a string of women who would be thoroughly delighted by my current predicament. You see, my dear, despite the fact that you would be about as at home in my sister-in-law’s drawing room as one of your prickly matagouri bushes, you are a lady and unwed, and I have not yet descended to the ravishing of unmarried ladies. No matter how much they may suggest they would wish it.”
“Oh.” Geraldine felt small, and somehow soiled. She drew the blanket tighter around her shoulder, subsiding tentatively to the ground again and rolling away from him.
There was a moment of strained silence, unbroken finally by any sounds of amusement from him. She had managed to stop that at least. Then—
“Oh, Hell.” He drew her back into his arms. She pulled back, but his arms were firm.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Please don’t worry. You are safe tonight, if it kills me. As for tomorrow, I’m taking you back to the Dunstan. It seems I can protect you better there after all—from everyone, including me. Black Jack has interrupted our lives quite long enough.” His arms held her close, soothing and gentle this time, and his hands began a rhythmic stroking down her back. Surprisingly, within a few moments she felt herself relax and sleep claimed her. Still she knew a last, regretful thought. I don’t want to be safe tonight.
Chapter 4
Next morning was different. She argued with him till her mouth hurt with dryness. Josh told him why he should not. The rest of the camp joined in, telling him he was an idiot. Nothing would change Bas’s mind. Back to Dunstan they went.
“It’s too exposed out here,” he said. “If Black Jack wants to kill me, an isolated spot like this would be ideal. Old Dunstan Town is the safest place, right under his nose and that of every other miner and trooper. It’s only a matter of weeks before he moves on. There are fields opening up further inland. Time both of us moved on, for that matter. I’ll wait to see where he goes, then I’ll go in the opposite direction.”
And what about me, Geraldine wanted to ask. But she kept her mouth closed for fear of the reply. Despite everything, she still had no intention of climbing aboard any conveyance heading back to Dunedin.
As it happened, they did not march boldly back into the makeshift collection of dusty canvas erections that constituted the township of Dunstan that December of 1862. Thankfully, Deverill’s streak of practicality overrode the jaunty air of cocksure confidence he carried all through the trek back to town. They came down from the hills late at night and some way to the east of the settlement, slipping into a group of celebrating miners raucously making their way into Dunstan. Just after the first of the canvas shanties had passed, Deverill snatched at Geraldine’s elbow, pulling her abruptly through a gap in the tents to quietly slip through to the insalubrious backside of the township. Soon they came to a new building; mud brick and canvas walls with a plain door set into the rear. He pulled her through it.
“We’ll stop here tonight. The owner is a friend of mine. There’s a bed in the back room for you.” He indicated a makeshift curtain covering a small alcove. “I’ll doss down in this room after I find out what’s been happening in town since we left. I don’t want to be seen in any place that MacRae might expect us till we’re better prepared. Don’t worry, you’re safe enough here and I’ll be back soon.”
Then he was gone. Geraldine moved back into the shadows, keeping out of sight and conscious of a prickle of irritation. She was beginning to feel like a piece of stray baggage, forever being stowed out of sight as Bas went on with his life. He was gone long enough for her to start wondering how safe this refuge in which he had dumped her was. She began to explore.
The back room contained little more than a bed and table, but the main room was an office of some kind. In the sparse light filtering through the
blinds from the flaming brands lighting up the main street, she made out a desk covered in orderly stacks of papers and a set of cabinets. The stacks looked to be legal and financial papers, much as she has seen on her father’s desk at home. For want of something to distract her from her worries, she idly picked a bundle up, huddling down below the window where it was lighter so that she could read the contents without being seen through the panes. Then she began to take in the details and her interest grew. Soon she was avidly picking up sheet after sheet. She had spent sufficient time going over accounts with both her father and aunt to gain some understanding of their contents, and was starting to feel decidedly cross. Then a creak of a door sent her scurrying for safety under the desk.
“You there, sweetheart?” The familiar whisper calmed the thudding of her heartbeat. She crawled out from her refuge, but still kept low.
“What took you so long?”
“Things to organise,” he replied, and even in the poor light she just knew he was grinning unrepentantly at her. “Comfortable?”
He watched her come fully into the open, moving away from the window before standing up to meet his brimming eyes. It was all that was needed to turn the spark of annoyance into a full-blown blaze of outrage. She waved the clutch of papers in her hand at him.
“A petty saloon owner, you let me think! Living hand to mouth and about to lose your sole source of income if we did not hurry back here. Yet by the looks of these, you have interests in every part of the goldfields, and not just selling grog and your arrangements with Molly and her girls. Though the records show that her trade is quite separate from your saloon, despite what you tried to make me believe.”
He shrugged. “We have a mutually beneficial agreement. She makes money her way, and I make mine my way.”
“Quite a lot of money, by the looks of it. It’s no wonder you’re so worried about Black Jack. You wouldn’t last a day if he had any idea how much you’re worth, not to mention all the other riff raff who would be after your blood,” she finished heatedly.
Swift Runs The Heart Page 5