To Taste The Wine

by Fern Michaels

  “Then you weren’t responsible for founding Bellefleur; it was your uncle.”

  His sidelong glance was stern and forbidding. “I, madam, made Bellefleur what it is today with no assistance from anyone or anything. My uncle perceived himself a gentleman vigneron and was on the edge of ruin when I arrived and took things in rein. Bellefleur is mine, it belongs to me; it is my right!”

  “Of course it’s yours, Harlow, I didn’t mean to indicate otherwise.” Hastily she smoothed his feathers. What had she said to make him so angry? This man with all his pride, Chelsea immediately realized, could be enraged with a careless word, and the thought was unsettling.

  “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to become so emotional,” he said easily, giving her the impression that Harlow Kane made apologies only when the occasion suited him. “I am a jealous man, Chelsea,” he warned. “What is mine is always mine. There are those who would stop at nothing to take what belongs to another. I’ve fought men like that before in my life, and I’ve always won.”

  Chelsea remembered another warning he’d issued just the day before, when he’d warned Quaid that one day he would take possession of Clonmerra. The sound of Harlow’s voice and the corresponding glint in his eyes made Chelsea uneasy. She was beginning to understand that Harlow was a self-righteous, jealous man who could be more than a little dangerous in his methods. Still, there was a quality of power about him that was magnetically attractive. He, at least, was a man who knew what he wanted and, more, how to go about getting it. He was not one to be easily managed, however acquiescent he had been about securing servants to appease her. There would be a price to pay for that demand, she knew, and hoped that when the time came it would not be too high.

  Chapter 9

  For more than an hour Harlow had been silent, intent on driving the bay mare over a rough patch of track, giving Chelsea time to peruse the landscape. This was the land Quaid loved, she thought, this rich, rugged land scrubbed bare by winds and parched by summer sun. A strong land, unyielding and unforgiving. Low, sloping hills were littered with dry brush, and the arid soil grew little but thornbushes and pungent eucalyptus trees. The wide-brimmed hat Harlow had suggested she wear was a blessing against the blazing sun, but even the fine net veil could not keep the powdery red dust from smudging her face and crusting on her eyelashes. The light muslin gown she wore would require careful laundering and sun-bleaching, and she wished she could take down her hair and brush away the offending silt.

  Crows circled overhead crying to one another, and small gatherings of raucous kookaburras shrieked their maniacal laughter. In the distance, she heard the bark of a dingo, and once during the day-long journey a small, bearlike creature lumbered across the road in lazy disregard of their oncoming buggy. A hairy-nosed wombat, Harlow had explained, telling her she would come to know many strange creatures in this land of upside down. When he discovered her fascination for native wildlife, he began pointing out various species of birds and trees and promised there was every likelihood they would come across a herd of red-necked wallaby.

  Twisted, forbidding gum trees stood sentinel along the roadside and reminded Chelsea of old men, prompting her to recite, “There was a crooked man who walked a crooked mile.” Galah birds and gray cockatoos with blushing-pink breasts swooped skyward, delighting Chelsea with the spectacle of their colorful feathers against the stark landscape.

  “You appear to approve of Australia.” Harlow seemed pleased.

  “Most heartily,” Chelsea agreed, “although I find my eyes are hungry for the sight of green. So many months sailing blue waters, and now to come to this raw umber color. Do you still miss England’s green lawns and hazy mornings, Harlow?”

  “No. Not from the first. This is my land, where I belong, and it belongs to me. You’ll have your fill of green once we get to Bellefleur. From the front porch you can look over the vineyards, acres and acres of green, rolling off into the distance. The leaves of the Madeira vines are almost black, and they seem to ease the eye from the rest of this gaudy landscape.” As he spoke his voice became gentle, almost caressing.

  Just like when Quaid told me about Clonmerra, Chelsea thought. These two men, hating one another, yet having more in common than most friends. Or was it the effect this wild, untamed land had on those who sought to claim it and bring it under control?

  When the sun was sinking behind the far ridge of hills in the west, Harlow prodded the horse to quicken its pace. Chelsea saw now the need to change horses at way stations. The distances and the pace would kill a good animal in less than a year.

  “I want to make Bellefleur before dark,” Harlow explained. “Just as suddenly as the sun rises, it sets. Twilight and dusk are almost unknown here most of the year. In a few minutes you’ll be hard-pressed to see your hand before your eyes.”

  Shortly, he turned off onto a secondary road, more narrow than the first, if possible. As they drove there seemed to be a semblance of order; someone had trimmed the shrubs and bushes back from the road and had taken care to fill in potholes and remove the larger stones. “We’re on Bellefleur now, and soon you’ll see the first of my vineyards.”

  Another turn and they passed through a wooden gate, and then as far as her eye could see over the rolling terrain were the grapes of Bellefleur. Even the air seemed sweeter, heavy with the scent of ripening fruit. No taller than a man, the vines grew upward from a single trunk, spreading outward at their tops and falling toward the ground again in long, graceful boughs. Row upon neat row, soil cultivated and bare of weeds between, stood the vines.

  “These will make sauterne,” Harlow told her. “I imported them myself from France, and if the weather holds, we’ll have a magnificent harvest. At one time Australia was populated with military people and convicts. I’m happy to say that sad state of affairs has been changing over the past years, and along with it the people’s penchant for stronger drink like rum and whiskey. World markets are opening to Australian wines, and I intend to be the forerunning supplier. I’ve already secured markets in Germany and British colonies in the Far East, which really isn’t that far from this part of the world. One day Queen Victoria herself will serve a Bellefleur wine at a state dinner, and my reputation as a vigneron will be established. My next market will be America, and my dream is to penetrate the French monopoly.”

  It was the most he’d spoken all day, Chelsea noticed, and it was not about his family or about their impending marriage, but about his conquering the world wine market. “How much of this is Bellefleur land?”

  “All of it!” Harlow waved his arm. “In that direction, to the north, is Tanner’s land. Someday soon, that, too, will be known as Bellefleur.”

  Chelsea looked off in the direction of Clonmerra, a stab of longing in her heart. She wanted to be with Quaid, hearing him tell her about his land, his dreams. She had no idea what she was doing here with Harlow, continuing a charade that had caused her nothing but grief and allowing herself to be manipulated into a marriage she didn’t want. Perhaps in time, she told herself. Harlow was a wealthy man, and Bellefleur was certainly impressive. And Harlow would marry her; Quaid wouldn’t.

  Over the next hill she could see the house, tall and wide, light coming through the long, narrow windows in welcome. A steepled roof like a witch’s hat sat atop the two-storied bay, and around the lower floor ran a trellised veranda. Green eucalyptus hemmed the edges of the wide, sprawling lawn, and willows lent a graceful softness to the sharp corners of the house. At the end of the drive, cobbles had been laid and curved gracefully in a semicircle to the front door.

  “It’s lovely,” Chelsea heard herself say, and Harlow seemed pleased.

  “It’s mine,” he answered as though anything he claimed for his own could never be less than perfect.

  When they clattered up the drive, however, Chelsea saw she’d been mistaken. Here the hedges and bushes were overgrown and in need of attention, and what she had thought was a lawn was merely a weed-filled rectangle, brown and parched a
nd unsightly. The veranda railing surrounding the lower floor was sorely in need of paint and repair, as were the dismally gray shutters and window frames. How was it that the vineyards were kept so meticulously while the house had been left to go to ruin?

  Harlow retrieved Chelsea’s bag, which contained all her immediate necessities until the dray arrived, and dropped the rest of her things onto the drive. A cloud of red dust shot upward, causing her to sneeze three times in rapid succession. He handed her down from the buggy and led her up the walk and across the porch and through the front door.

  “Emma! Martha!” Harlow bellowed from the wide central hall. “Come down here!”

  The corners were gritty with dust, and the faded carpet had long ago outlived its usefulness. The dark stained wood floors were scratched and dying for a broom. Beyond, in the drawing room, she noticed that white sheets covered most of the furniture, but the heavy velvet draperies were thick with more of the red dust. Spartan. Shabby. Dirty. The stairs leading upward were covered with more of the worn carpeting, and the balustrades needed painting.

  Two primly dressed young women appeared at the top of the stairs. “This is my oldest daughter, Martha,” Harlow said, gesturing toward the taller, more angular girl, her straight brown hair parted unflatteringly in the center and pulled to a matronly bun at the nape of her neck. “And Emma, my youngest.” Emma proved to be just the opposite of Martha, a mellow-faced, plumpish young woman with frizzy hair a dull shade of blond. “This is Chelsea Harris, my intended,” Harlow told them.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Martha said tightly, insolence and defiance rampant in her demeanor.

  When Martha made no move to either embrace her or even hold out her hand in welcome, Chelsea turned her attention to the younger girl, Emma, who held a vague smile on her plump face and a dreamy expression in her eyes. Ignoring her father’s introduction, she said, “I thought your name was Honoria. At least that’s what you wrote.”

  “I prefer using Chelsea.”

  “I like Honoria much better. I looked it up in one of Mama’s books, and it means honor and virtue.”

  “Perhaps she’s neither honorable nor virtuous and feels Chelsea fits her better,” Martha snapped.

  “Martha!” Harlow barked. “Make your apology instantly!”

  She’s ugly, Chelsea thought, ugly inside. A little primping on the outside wouldn’t hurt, either.

  “I always thought stepmothers were old and mean, like witches,” Emma said, apparently pleased to find that Chelsea was neither. “You mustn’t listen to Martha. She enjoys saying terrible things. Don’t you, Martha?”

  “Idiot,” Martha muttered, reaching for Chelsea’s valise and heading for the stairs.

  “Girls, that’s enough,” Harlow interjected, silencing them at once. “You’ll have Chelsea thinking you’ve no manners at all. Your mother taught you better than this, and I want both of you to give my bride-to-be a proper welcome.” Turning to Chelsea: “Emma will show you to the sewing room for tonight, and the garden house can be prepared for you in the morning. It’s hardly livable as it is now.”

  “That will be fine,” Chelsea agreed.

  “Yes, and I hope you’ve prepared a generous dinner, daughters,” Harlow added. “I employed three female servants while in Sydney, and they’ll want to eat before they retire for the night.”

  Emma and Martha looked from their father to one another and then at Chelsea. Servants! Father had always said there was no need for servants with two able-bodied females about the house. Their own mother had died slaving for her husband, who’d enjoyed being waited upon hand and foot. They knew their father for what he was—a selfish man, caring only for his own comforts. Why, then, had he suddenly changed his attitude? As one, they turned again to stare at Chelsea, realizing with mixed emotions that she was responsible for this unprecedented phenomenon. And while on the one hand they resented the fact that Harlow was considering his bride’s comfort when he had ignored their mother’s, they were also grateful. Servants would make life much more pleasant.

  “We had planned cold mutton for dinner, since we didn’t know when to expect you. There should be enough for … for everyone,” Martha told him, still a little stunned. “Perhaps Chelsea would prefer something brought up to her room. She must be tired from the long buggy ride.”

  “That would be most kind,” Chelsea replied gratefully. She was tired, and in truth, she’d seen enough of Harlow for one day. Following Emma up the staircase, she turned to look down at Harlow. “Good night, Harlow. Sleep well.” She allowed a certain tenderness to enter her voice and struck a dramatic pose with her chin lifted high and her hand resting delicately on the banister.

  “Until tomorrow, Chelsea,” he murmured, transfixed by the sight of her loveliness in the lamplight and by the sound of her soft, feminine voice. He had already decided she was quite an elegant creature and would be an asset to Bellefleur and his social position. But now there was something else stirring within him, something very close to desire.

  Harlow’s hungry eyes followed Chelsea’s ascent. The desire he felt flickered and burst into flames. He found his feet taking him to the stairway. His eyes narrowed in determination as he made his way up the stairs. He’d been without a woman for a long time. The feelings he was experiencing would suffocate him if he didn’t find release. There was no need to deprive himself, and she was, after all, a widow—wise to the ways of the marriage bed.

  There were no locks in Bellefleur. Harlow’s hand went first to the knob, but then he changed his mind. He rapped lightly and waited a moment before turning the knob. The sight of Chelsea’s frightened face drove him across the room. Standing in her petticoats, she presented an alluring picture, one he had no time to study. All he wanted was to devour her youthful body and satisfy his needs.

  “Harlow!” Chelsea spun around looking for her dress to cover the cleavage exposed by her petticoat. “What … do you … We aren’t married yet!” she cried, reading the intent in his eyes.

  “You aren’t a virgin,” Harlow said intensely as if that explained everything.

  “That doesn’t give you the right to burst in here and assume that you can … It isn’t proper! What will your daughters think? Don’t you care what I think?”

  “I need you. I’ve been counting the days, waiting for you. I can’t wait any longer. It would be cruel of you to make me wait,” Harlow said as he started to undo the buttons on his shirt.

  Chelsea’s mind raced. She was trapped and she knew it, but still she tried. “I’ve been without a man a long time myself,” she lied. “But I can wait. Waiting and anticipation will make our union all the sweeter.” God, was that groggy voice hers? Of course it was.

  She watched in horror as Harlow’s shoes and then his socks were kicked aside. She sucked in her breath, holding her dress tightly in front of her. When Harlow’s trousers dropped to the floor, she gasped, half in awe and half in fright. He was a monstrously big man and very well-endowed. She gasped again as he stepped toward her, his eyes narrowed and his mouth a grim, determined line. Even if she struggled, she would be no match for him. Of all the damnable rotten luck. She backed off a step and then two. Harlow reached for her, and the dress slipped to the floor. The sound of her petticoat ripping was so loud, she thought she would scream. Within seconds she was exposed to his avid gaze. Shame ran through her like a river, and tears that went unheeded streamed down her cheeks. Her arms, outstretched to ward him off, were suddenly held in a viselike grip. She felt herself being pushed until her back was against the wall.

  Chelsea whimpered as Harlow’s large hands cupped her breasts. His touch was rough, brutal, and she knew the soft, white flesh would carry his mark for days. She waited, clenching her teeth. Without a sound, he drove into her, jerking her head backward. Chelsea opened her eyes and found him watching her, pumping furiously and oblivious—or indifferent—to the pain he was causing her. When it was all over, she slumped in his hold. But he drove into her agai
n, crushing her breasts and muttering obscenities that he ordered her to repeat after him. She cried out, a sick kitten cry that went unheeded.

  Harlow shook himself as though trying to get his bearings. His hand settled on the top of Chelsea’s head, pushing her down till she was on her knees. Both hands gripped her shoulders, forcing her to do what he wanted. She made her mind a blank and obliged her intended husband. Minutes later he gave a loud grunt of satisfaction and released Chelsea, who fell back and immediately crawled away like a wounded animal.

  Harlow took his time getting dressed, all the while watching Chelsea cower against the wall. “That was splendid, my dear, just splendid. The next time we will use the bed. You do like making love in bed, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Chelsea whispered. He bestowed a lurid smile upon her as he made his exit. Love! He called what he had just done making love! She’d been raped, physically as well as mentally. But she’d survive; she had no other choice. Oh, God, what had she gotten herself into?

  While Chelsea lay in her bed quivering with fright, Harlow Kane dropped to his knees in his room. And prayed. Not for forgiveness, but to be made a stronger man in the face of temptation. His prayers finished, he undressed, hanging each garment carefully in the wardrobe, his thoughts on his work schedule for the following day.

  Chelsea wakened early, the nightmare of the past hours still with her. If she could put Harlow out of her mind, she might be able to accomplish something. She’d barely slept at all, dozing off just before dawn. The mirror told her she looked tired, but only half as tired as she felt. She should have fought, struggled, screamed, done something to ward off Harlow’s advances. But instinct had told her then as well as now that if she had, she’d be carrying some pretty ugly bruises.

  While she stared in the mirror, Chelsea talked to herself. Perhaps last night was just … something that happened because he hadn’t had a woman for a long time. Now that he was satisfied he might wait until they were married. Married. Dear God, what if last night was truly an indication of what married life with Harlow would be like?