To Taste The Wine

by Fern Michaels

  It never occurred to Chelsea that the games she was playing could see her the loser. In her mind she and Quaid were meant to be together. He just didn’t know it. Yet.

  Harlow Kane entered the house through the kitchen carrying a small packet of mail. He placed it on the kitchen table, and a feeling of apprehension quivered through Chelsea as she strained to note the origin of the letters. When the Southern Cross had docked in Cape Town, South Africa, she had written diligently to Honoria’s family, informing them of the sad fact of her death. Now she worried that Harlow would receive a letter of commiseration from Jason Munsey, until she counted on her fingers and realized that it was much too soon for a letter to arrive from England. In fact, her own letter to Honoria’s family had probably only just arrived. And by the time Harlow discovered that the real Mrs. Harris had met with an untimely end, she would be safely with Quaid. If only she could arrange a way to see him without simply marching up to his doorstep.

  “We’ve received an invitation to a party for the governor’s wife in Sydney,” Harlow told her beneficiently, leaning over to buss her cheek. “The timing is perfect, as I have business in the city, so we’ll just extend our stay to include the party. It will be an opportune time to introduce you to my associates.”

  Chelsea’s heart leaped. Party. Would Quaid be there? She didn’t dare ask. “How wonderful. I’d very much like to meet your friends,” she trilled. And your enemy, she thought darkly.

  “Martha will accompany us and act as chaperone. Emma will stay here at Bellefleur with Franklin.”

  Even thoughts of being cooped up with Martha couldn’t dull Chelsea’s sense of excitement. “When do we leave?”

  “Day after tomorrow. Does the idea of a party please you?”

  “Of course.” Chelsea beamed. “I can’t wait to dress up in my pretty things. I do want you to be proud of me, Harlow,” she said, lowering her eyes demurely, a gesture she knew Harlow liked.

  “Good. Emma will probably kick up a fuss, but she’s really too immature to take with us. She’d most likely fall head over heels in love with the first young man who asked her to dance, and then there would be the same unpleasantness I experienced with Martha, who fancied herself in love with a man who only had his eye on the fortunes of Bellefleur.”

  How smug he was when he deprecated Martha, Chelsea thought, as though no man in the world could possibly find her attractive and lovable, as though all that existed were his precious Bellefleur.

  “What will you do with the rest of your day?” Harlow asked casually. “If I had more time, I’d take you down to see the lake before the dry season, when we use the water for irrigation and hardly leave a puddle behind.”

  “Can’t I go see it myself? Is it within walking distance?”

  He frowned. “I’m afraid not. It’s on the other side of the hills. Have you ever driven a buggy?”

  “Oh, yes,” Chelsea said eagerly.

  “Then take it. I’ll have one of the men hitch up the bay mare; she’s placid enough, especially in this heat. Just watch the time and be back before dinner. I don’t want you getting lost in the dark.”

  “You’re so considerate, Harlow. I promise.” Inside she was practically dancing. She knew Harlow was selfish with his possessions, and offering her the buggy was a major concession.

  The minute Harlow left, Chelsea ran across the backyard to the garden house. She didn’t want to explain to Martha or Emma where she was going or, worse, have to fend off pleas to go with her. Picking through her wardrobe, she decided upon a cool, light blue muslin embroidered in snowy-white rosebuds. Along with a flat-crowned, wide-brimmed straw hat, it would lend her a certain air of innocence and femininity. Quaid would love it.

  Stripping down to her pantaloons and chemise, she sponged herself with cool water from the pitcher and applied a light dusting of powder. The Australian summer heat was becoming abominable; she didn’t want to look like a damp rag when she saw Quaid. She wondered if he would be home; she hoped so. What if he was in Sydney? Suppose he was visiting friends or doing business? No, she told herself firmly, he would be at Clonmerra, and he would be happy to see her. He would!

  Suddenly, in spite of her high spirits and racing pulse, Chelsea sank down onto the edge of her bed. She had no reason to believe Quaid would want to see her. If he had, he would have made some excuse to inquire after her by now; he would have braved Harlow and stopped by Bellefleur on some pretense to see for himself. She remembered the last time she’d seen him in Captain Winfield’s cabin, glass shattered on the floor, sherry stain spreading on the carpet, and black rage in his eyes. Suppose he hated her? He should, she admitted to herself. He had stood by her while on the Southern Cross because he’d understood how her mistaken identity had come about. But there wouldn’t be any sympathy for her now, not since she’d blatantly and purposely lied, allowing Harlow to believe she was Honoria. Quaid would have every reason now to believe she was a fortune hunter. And worse, he would be right. A sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. One little lie had brought her to this sorry state of affairs. Mrs. Crain’s words rang in her head. “There are only two kinds of women in New South Wales,” the woman had declared, “those who serve and those who are served.”

  She’d had no other choice than to do what she’d done—and it was all Quaid’s fault, after all. He’d added insult to injury by inviting her to Clonmerra without a word about marriage. And what would have become of her then? Her reputation would have been ruined; no decent man would have looked at her—not even the poorest of the poor. Well, she’d give Quaid one last chance, and if he didn’t ask her to marry him this time, she’d go through with her marriage to Harlow. She would be mistress of Bellefleur, lady of the manor. She would have servants, beautiful clothes, and wealth. She felt ill.

  If she could go back in time, would she have done things differently? She had to be honest with herself. Under the same circumstances she would have done exactly the same things. What other choices had been open to her? Her life in Australia would have been no different than it had been in London, and most likely worse, if Honoria hadn’t been so generous.

  As much as Chelsea hated to admit it, she needed a man in her life. Besides the fact that she had had a taste of love and now craved it, any fool knew that a woman alone in a wild and unknown place, was at the mercy of the world. So many good things in life; happiness—even identity came to a woman through a man, and there was no use in pretending otherwise. Whether or not the man in her life was going to be Quaid was something she must face. There was little she could do except her best and hope that fate smiled favorably upon her. Either way, with Harlow or the man she loved, she must go on in this life, and it was easier to do it in luxury than in poverty. If she must be without the man she wanted, then at least she would be comfortable.

  Once dressed, she brushed her chestnut-sable hair to a sheen, then added a dab of lip rouge and powder and a touch of cologne to make her feel beautiful. Feeling beautiful gave a woman confidence.

  The buggy stood waiting outside the front door of the house. Lifting the hems of her skirts, she stepped into the driver’s seat. As she reached for the reins, she saw the drawing room curtains slit open. Martha was watching her. Well, let her watch! Chelsea found herself laughing with delight as she picked up the traces and sent the buggy rattling down the drive.

  An infantry of old man gum trees lined her path as she headed in the direction of the lake. Cockatoos and kookaburras spiraled in the air, catching wind currents beneath their wings and bringing a palette of colors to the scrubbed blue sky. The fragrance of eucalyptus perfumed the air as the sun baked the spiny leaves and the wind carried the scent across the countryside. How different from green, lush England was this aged place! The outcroppings of rust-red boulders seemed thousands of years old, and the brush climbing the shallow hills looked dry and lifeless, yet continued to exist on sparse water and too much sun. A sudden shower earlier that day now helped to reduce the flurries of red sil
t that the wind caught and blew with abandon. Yet there was life here: birds and animals, species of trees that had yet to be cataloged, vast areas of this land that had yet to be explored. Against all the reds and oranges of the landscape and cooling to the eye was the distant range of the Blue Mountains. Chelsea hungered for what she imagined were tall, deep green trees and lush, ripe undergrowth. Someday, she promised herself, she would go the Blue Mountains and walk beneath the trees, lie in a bed of fragrant grass, and fill her soul with the things she had not valued until they’d been lost to her.

  As the buggy rounded a bend in the road, the vegetation became greener, lusher, and she caught a glimmer of sun sparkling on blue water. The lake was a large body of aqua separating Bellefleur from Clonmerra, three times longer than it was wide. Tall reeds hemmed the borders, and off in the distance upon the hills rolling down to the water was a sun-parched meadow specked by a herd of black-faced sheep, who lingered nearby for the sweet grasses fed by the lake and the abundance of water to quench their thirst. Chelsea drew on the reins and brought the buggy to a halt, her eyes feasting on the vista before her, which was the nearest thing to England she had seen since setting foot on the Southern Cross.

  Following the road that led over the shallow hillocks, she came to a wide, inviting drive delineated by a graceful stone archway. Inscribed on a blacked brass plate set in one of the footings was the simple and beautiful name, Clonmerra. Leading the buggy up the drive, Chelsea stood, bracing the backs of her knees against the seat behind her, surveying this place that was home to Quaid. Like Bellefleur, the deep green and shadowed vineyards spilled across the terraced land to greet her.

  Quaid Tanner sat on horseback at the top of the hill overlooking his vineyards, the russet-green leaves of his Malaga vines shading the sweet purple fruits from the harsh sun. If the weather held and there was just as ample an amount of rain in the next few days as there had been earlier that day, harvest this year would be bountiful—thanks to Jack Mundey, his overseer and assistant vintner who for many years had proven his faithfulness and diligence. Clonmerra had never promised more, and the new vine cuttings he’d brought from Bordeaux and Portugal were strong and doing well. If all he’d had to think about were the success of Clonmerra, he’d have been a happy man. But just over the hills on the other side of the lake was Bellefleur and Chelsea.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement flying down the drive—a buggy, and in it a vision in pale blue standing on the driver’s platform, whip raised above the haunches of a bay mare. One of Kane’s horses. Chelsea. Here on Clonmerra, racing toward him.

  Feeling as though he had conjured her from his dreams, Quaid dug his heels into his mount’s flanks, spurring him onward, sprinting through the rows of Malaga vines shadowing the buggy’s path and riding parallel with it. She was heading straight for the house. Cutting off to the left onto a cart path, Quaid lowered himself in the saddle, giving his roan full lead, covering twice the distance of the buggy in half the time. The drive wound leisurely through the gullies, the cart path crested the hillocks and led directly to the back of his house.

  Dismounting, he slapped the roan’s flanks to give him freedom to wander. Heart thumping madly, Quaid walked around to the front veranda. Four weeks. Four weeks of being so near her and yet unable to see her. His hands went immediately to his thick dark hair, fingers combing through the unruly curls. Hardly daring to breathe, wondering for a moment if his hunger to see her and be with her had triggered a mutinous mirage, he waited. When the buggy rounded the last curve, bringing her into view, he heard himself release his breath in a sigh of relief.

  “In the neighborhood, I see.” Quaid grinned insolently, unable to take his eyes from her, yet afraid to let her know how glad he was she had come.

  “Since you didn’t come to see me, I thought I’d come to see you.” Chelsea laughed delightedly. How wonderful he looked, sun-bronzed and strapping. “Wipe that smug look off your face, Quaid. You’re glad to see me, I know you are.”

  “I’m always glad to see a beautiful woman. Life at Bellefleur must agree with you.”

  Chelsea made a face and pouted, countering his insolence with her own. “It is rather trying to prepare for a wedding.” Damn him! Why must they play these games? Why did everything he say border on the insulting? She would put an end to all this role-playing and devil take the hindmost.

  “Quaid, you don’t understand. I—”

  “You thought you’d pay me a visit to renew our friendship,” he said mockingly. Tell me, Chelsea, he demanded silently. Tell me how miserable you are at Bellefleur, how much you dislike Harlow Kane. Tell me you came because you can’t be without me.

  “You haven’t changed a bit, I see. Still as insufferable as ever. Here, help me down and show me your house. After all, that’s why I came, to see your precious Clonmerra.”

  “That’s not why you came.” He smiled, dark eyes dancing, white teeth gleaming against his tanned skin. “You came to have me make love to you. Admit it!”

  “I’ll admit no such thing!” But the conviction in her voice never reached her eyes. “I should get back in my buggy and spare myself your insolence.”

  “You should, but you won’t.” He raised his arms and lifted her down from the carriage, holding her for a moment against him, feeling her tremble in his embrace.

  “Your … your flowers are beautiful,” she faltered, feeling herself losing control of the situation. He was moving too fast, making her admit to things she didn’t want to reveal.

  “Not half as beautiful as you,” he breathed against her ear. “You don’t have to admit it, I know you, Chelsea. You need me, you want me. That’s why you’ve come here.” Say it, dammit! he wanted to cry. Tell me how you feel, tell me you want me, only me! Tell me you regret this game you’re playing, that you have no intention of marrying Harlow Kane and never did. Tell me!

  “You always did have a way with words, Quaid.” Chelsea smiled sweetly, unaware of the turbulence raging within him. Why did he always have to be right? Mentally, she was already shedding her garments, and her naked body was melding into his. At the image, she had to turn her face away to hide the blush staining into her cheeks.

  “I have more than a way with words, and you know it. How long can you stay?” His voice was too hoarse; something was beating against his chest, making it difficult for him to breathe. She was more beautiful than he remembered, and he wanted her more than ever. Just the thought of Harlow Kane having her was enough to drive him mad.

  “Until dusk. I promised I’d be back before dark.” Would he whisper all the right words when he crushed her to him? The right words, say them, say them! Marry me, Chelsea. Marry me, and stay here on Clonmerra with me. Leave Harlow Kane, let me be the man to make you happy. Marry me. Right words or wrong, they were the ones she wanted to hear.

  Dusk. He had until dusk to make her love him, to make her want no one and nothing but him. He wanted to hear her say she would stay here with him forever. Four hours. Four hours till dusk. “Come with me.” He took her hand. “I want to show you my house.” His voice sounded even deeper than before, and he grimaced ruefully. She must think him a lovesick fool.

  “I’ll see your house later.” Chelsea smiled. He wanted her; she could see the fever of desire in his eyes. “Right now I want you to make love to me.”

  “I always said I liked an honest woman.”

  “If I said I liked an honest man, what would you say?” Chelsea teased.

  Quaid’s eyes narrowed in the bright sunlight. “I’d have to say you were looking at one. Come along, love, I’m going to give you what you’re looking for.”

  “That sounds like a promise.”

  “It is, love, it is. Let’s put an end to these games, Chelsea. We both know why you’re here, and it isn’t to look at the flowers.”

  Chelsea drew back, her tawny eyes filled with sudden outrage. It was one thing to put games aside, but quite another for him to be so damn certain of himself. �
�On second thought, I think I’ll just tell you your flowers are pretty and turn this buggy around and go back to Bellefleur.”

  Quaid’s stomach flip-flopped. It would be just like her to come to Clonmerra just to tantalize and tease him. He reached out and seized her, preventing her from acting on her words. Lifting her into his arms, he carried her into the house.

  The sound of the heavy wooden door closing behind Quaid as he slammed it shut with his foot was music to Chelsea’s ears. At last she was alone with him, away from the prying eyes of the world. Alone to love him, to fall into his arms and hold on tightly while he transported them to paradise.

  He carried her through the front hall and up the center stairs to his bedroom. The door swung shut behind him, and she raised her face to his, welcoming his lips, yielding beneath his kiss, parting to accept the gentle exploration of his tongue within the soft recesses of her mouth.

  When he lay down beside her on his bed they were naked, their hands searching, caressing, arousing passions. He placed his lips on the pleasure spot at the base of her throat, worshiping her, adoring the abandon with which she expressed her desire for him. It was when he leaned over her, about to claim her lips again, that he looked into her face and her beautiful eyes locked boldly with his.

  “I need you, Quaid. More than my next breath, I need you!” It was an admission he had been willing to die for, one that came from her heart and was born in her soul.

  She reached for him, winding her arms around his neck, pulling him down to her fierce kiss, demanding more of him than she had ever asked before. Her soft lips were bruised with passion; she licked enticingly at his velvet-tipped tongue.

  His lips parted, allowing her to dart within his mouth to tease and caress as her tongue dueled with his. Her breasts were crushed against his chest, her curves fit perfectly against the muscular planes and hollows of his body. Becoming the aggressor, he claimed her mouth with his and took possession of her body with his hands. The sound of her passion filled his head and throbbed through his loins.