by Margaret Way
“I want you, Rafe,” she said.
Her whole body quivered with nerves and desire. “I want you to hold me close.”
This nightmare of Ally’s could be no more than trickery, he thought with sudden anger. “I see.” Rafe’s voice was harsh. “We make love until dawn, then you fly off to Sydney and your brilliant career.”
“How can you be so cold to me? I know I did something dreadful but can’t you try to understand?”
“Ally, please, no more. I’ve spent years killing off my feeling for you. Roll over and go back to sleep; I’m not even tempted.”
“You’re in as much pain as I am.” How could he not be aware of the passion that had always been between them? “I want you, Rafe.” Her lips parted on a shaky breath. I need you.” It came out as a quick sob. She needed to tell him how much she loved him. How she had always loved him. Always would….
Dear Reader
Ever since It can remember our legendary Outback has had an almost mystical grip on me. The cattlemen have become cultural heroes, figures of romance, excitement
and adventure. These tough, dynamic, sometimes dangerous men carved out their
destinies in this new world of Australia as they drove deeper and deeper into the uncompromising Wild Heart with its extremes of stark grandeur and its bleached cruelty.
The type of man I like to write about is, a unique definable breed—rugged, masculine and full of vigour. This Outback man is strong yet sensitive, courageous enough to battle all the odds in order to claim the woman of his dreams.
THE BRIDESMAID’S WEDDING is the second of three linked books. where I explore the friendships, loves, rivalries and reconciliations between two great Australian pioneering families. They are truly Legends of the Outback.
THE BRIDESMAID’S
WEDDING
BY
MARGARET WAY
First Published 2000—
First Australian Paperback Edition 2000
ISBN 0 733 52468 0
THE BRIDESMAID’S WEDDING © 2000 by Margaret Way, Pty, Ltd
Philippine Copyright 2000
Australian Copyright 2000
New Zealand Copyright 2000
Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole, or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Harlequin Mills & Boon, PO. Box 810, Chatswood, N.S. W., Australia 2067.
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by. way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All-rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Enterprises ll B. V.
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CHAPTER ONE
BRISBANE in June. Sky meets the bay in an all-consuming blue, glorious in the sunshine. Brilliant flights of lorikeets dart in and out of the blossoming bottlebrushes, drunk on an excess of honey. Chattering parties of grey and pink galahs pick over the abundant grass seeds on the footpaths, not even bothering to fly off as someone approaches. The twenty-seven larkspur hills that surround the river city glow with Wattles, the national emblem, a zillion puffballs of golden yellow flowers drenching the city in irresistible fragrance.
In the parks and gardens, the ubiquitous eucalyptus turn on an astonishing colour display as do the bauhinias, every branch quivering with masses of flowers—bridal white, pink, purple and cerise—like butterflies in motion, a foil for the pomp of the great tulip trees with their scarlet cups. All over suburbia, poinsettias dazzle the eye while the bougainvillea, never to be outdone, cover walls, fences, pergolas and balconies with sweeping arches of pink, crimson, purple, gold and bronze, but none more beautiful than the exquisite bridal white. A surpassing sight.
It was on just such a June afternoon, beloved by brides, Broderick Kinross, master of the historic cattle station Kimbara, in the giant state of Queensland’s far southwest, was married to his beautiful Rebecca in the garden of the graceful Queensland colonial Rebecca’s father, a retired airline captain, had bought when he and his second family returned home from his long-time base in Hong Kong. The wedding ceremony and reception were deliberately low key in accordance with the bride’s and groom’s wishes, with family and close friends, but a huge Outback reception was planned on Kimbara when the couple returned from their honeymoon in Venice.
Now in the rear garden bordered by the deep, wide river, some seventy guests were assembled, revelling in the sparkling sunshine and the stirring uplift of emotions. Even the breeze gave off soft tender sighs, showering blossom out of the trees, like so much confetti, All faces wore smiles. Some like the bridegroom’s aunt, the internationally known stage actress, Fiona Kinross, superbly dressed in yellow silk with a marvellously becoming, confection on her head, registered transports of rapture. This was a wonderful day; the family wedding, the culmination of a great romance.
As the hour approached, everyone looked expectantly towards the house when quite suddenly the bride’s four attendants, three bridesmaids and one little flower girl, the bride’s enchanting little stepsister Christina, appeared, moving down the soaring palm-dotted lush sweep of lawn to some wondrous, floating music by Handel.
Each bridesmaid was a natural beauty. Each had fabulous long hair, sable, titian and blonde, left flowing over bare shoulders, with tiny braids at the sides and back woven with seed pearls, miniature silk roses in the same shade as their gowns with flashes of gold leaves. Their ankle-length sheath gowns of delustred satin showed off their willowy figures to perfection, the strapless bodices decorated with delicate pearl and crystal beading that glittered in the sunlight, the precise shades of the gowns chosen to be wonderfully complementary, rose pink, jacaranda blue, a delicate lime green.
In their hands they carried small trailing bouquets of perfect white butterfly orchids on a bed of ferns. The little flower girl dressed in lilac silk organdie with a wide satin sash, was smiling angelically, scattering rose petals from her beautifully decorated flower basket. All four of them shimmering in the radiant light, irresistible in their youth and Beauty.
“Oh, the magic of being young!” Fee whispered with a catch of emotion to the tall, distinguished man standing next to her. “They might have stepped out of a painting!”
A sentiment apparently shared by the other guests who broke into cries of delight and at great wave of “Aahs.”
Only one person felt strangely alone, almost isolated, but no one would have ever guessed it. Rafe Cameron, best man, with his golden leonine mane, fine features and air of authority and pride. Rafe had his own thoughts, far-ranging yet fiercely close. Thoughts that stirre
d an unwelcome rush of bitterness that had no part in this wonderful day. But Rafe was human. A strong man of correspondingly strong emotions who had known rejection and heartache and never got used to it.
Now he stood rooted, staring up at the ravishing tableau, his eyes drawn hypnotically towards the chief bridesmaid in her beautiful rose gown. Ally Kinross. Brod’s much loved younger sister. The girl who had stolen his heart and left him with a bitter dark void in exchange. It was an agony to him how beautiful she looked, a smile of utter luminosity on her face, her magnificent curly dark hair—cosmic hair he had once labelled it in fun—hair with a life of its own, tracking down her back, the sun striking all the sparkling little gems woven into the long strands. Her perfect olive skin was pale but high colour burned in her cheeks, a sure sign of her inner excitement.
Oh, Ally, he mourned deep inside of him. Have you any idea what you did to me? But then, they never had used the same measure. Ally’s protestations of undying love were like tears that quickly dried up.
Brod and Rebecca. It should have been Ally and me. He could scarcely credit it now, but this joyous occasion could have been for them. Hadn’t they planned on getting married, even when they were kids? It was almost something they took for granted. The two great pioneering families, Kinross and Cameron, were surely destined one day to be united? Even Stewart Kinross, Brod’s and Ally’s difficult, autocratic, late father had wished it. Except it didn’t happen. Ally had turned her back on him, running off to Sydney to make a name for herself as an actress just like her extraordinary aunt Fee, who now stood smiling brilliantly, looking fantastically nowhere near her age. Ally would look just like that when she was older. Both had the same marvellous bone structure to fight the years. Both had that laughing, vibrant and I-can-do-anything nature. Both knew how to take men’s hearts and break them. It was in the blood.
Determinedly Rafe pushed the thought from his mind. This wasn’t the day for self-pity, God knows. He rejoiced in his great friend’s good fortune but he was beginning to feel his practised smile stretch on his mouth. It was this first sight of Ally that had thrown his hard-won detachment into uproar. He only hoped no one would notice, not realising how very successful he had become at masking his emotions. But hell, he was supposed to be tough. A Cameron which counted for a lot in this part of the world. A Cameron respected by his peers. A Cameron brought unstuck by was Kinross woman. And it wasn’t the first time. But they were old stories. Everyone at the wedding would know them.
Rafe wrestled down the old anguish, rewarded by a moment’s powerful diversion as right on cue the bride, on the arm of her proud father, appeared on the upper terrace moving from the shade of the wide verandah into the sunburst of light. She was wearing a lovely smile, posing for a time as though exquisitely conscious of her impact.
Rafe for all his hurt felt his own mood lifting, hearing Fee exclaim, “Magic!” above the great wave of spontaneous applause.
The bride remained on the terrace a short time longer so everyone could look at her, her great sparkling eyes dominating her face, her hands clasped loosely on her beautiful trailing bouquet of white roses, tulips and orchids. Like her bridesmaids she wore as slim-fitting gown, an overlay of gossamer-thin silver lace, over an ice blue satin sheath that reached to her delicate ankles and showed off her exquisite handmade shoes. She didn’t wear the traditional veil. Her thick glossy hair was drawn back into the very fashionable “Asian” style, a little reminiscent of Madame Butterfly, decorated high on the crown with tiny white orchids and little cascades of seed pearls and crystals. She wore no jewellery except for the diamond studs in her earlobes, a wedding present from her adoring groom.
For the shortest time, something she couldn’t possibly indulge on such a day, a kind of broken-hearted sadness swept over Fee. Memories she had learned to suppress. Her two failed marriages, all wrong really, right from the start, but she had her child, her beautiful Francesca, more precious to her with every passing day. In retrospect it seemed she had failed though she had been judged highly successful in the eyes of the world as an acclaimed actress; a countess for almost twelve years until the terrible divorce when she had been out of her mind with a short-lived passion for her then lover, an American film star more famous than she. The lunatic years, she thought of them now. Lust never becomes love. And she had had to say goodbye to her lovely little daughter who remained in the custody of her father.
“Fee, darling, you’re looking very sad.” Her companion bent his pewter-coloured head. “Is anything the matter?”
“Memories, Davey, that’s all.” Fee turned slightly to squeeze his arm. “My mind was wandering like a bird in the breeze. I’m an emotional creature at the best of times.”
Lord wasn’t that the s truth! David Westbury, first cousin to Fee’s ex-husband, Lord de Lyle, the Earl of Moray smiled down on her wryly. The bold and bewitchingly beautiful Fee. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t found her captivating, for all the family had never wanted de Lyle to marry her. They feared what his own ultra-conservative mother, sister to de Lyle’s mother, had called her “gaudiness,” her palpable sex appeal, the richness and “loudness” of her voice, which was really her training, the resonance that could reach to the back seat of a theatre, the terribly foreseeable conflict of interests. The family turned out to be right but David knew for a fact Fee had given his cousin his only glimpse of heaven for all it came with a heavy price.
“Here comes the bride,” Fee began to hum, doing her best to forget her own deep regrets. “Be happy, my darlings!” she breathed.
“Amen!” David seconded beneath his breath, feeling enormously proud of his own young relative, Francesca, the titian-haired bridesmaid in the lovely blue gown. He was so glad Fee had kept up the family ties, inviting him out to Australia for the wedding and the promise of a long luxurious holiday in the sun. Four years now since he had lost his dearest Sybilla, the nicest woman he had ever known. Four sad rather empty years.
Even from as away as Australia Fee had shown her concern. “You want a bit of mothering, Davey,” she had announced over the phone in that still wildly flirtatious voice. Even steeped in depression that had made him laugh. Fee had never known how to “mother” anyone, least of all her own daughter Francesca.
The focus of all eyes, Rebecca and her father began to move down the short flight of stone steps flanked by golden cymbidium orchids in great urns, smiling at the guests in front of her. It was all dreamlike in its perfection, Fee thought, her eyes stealing to the Gothic archway specially erected for the wedding ceremony. It was decorated with masses and masses of fresh flowers and beneath the arch stood her adored nephew, Brod, looking wonderfully handsome, his traditional male attendants by his side; the splendid Cameron brothers, Rafe, the best man, then Grant, the sun flaring off their golden heads. Next to Grant, a six-footer-plus like the rest of them, Brod’s .long-time friend and fellow polo player, Mark Farrell, all four, lean, rangy bodies resplendent in long-jacketed slate blue suits with white, pleated, front-wing collared shirts.
The bridegroom wore a royal blue Italian—style cravat, his attendants, silver. It was all dreamlike in its perfection, Fee thought. As one’s wedding day should be.
Now the ceremony was due to begin. The celebrant was waiting, moved by the atmosphere of reverence that settled over the assembly like a veil.
Throughout the marriage ritual, Rafe stood fair and square beside his friend, smoothly handing Brod the bridal ring at just the right moment, his heart deeply touched by the obvious happiness of the bride and groom. Rebecca had changed greatly from the ice-cool young woman he had first met. Secure in Brod’s love she had blossomed like a closely furled bud into radiant flower, the warmth that had always been in her, quenched by a disastrous first marriage, bubbling to the surface. Nowadays Rebecca was brimming with life, a wonderful transformation with Brod beside her.
As bride and groom were pronounced man and wife, he couldn’t control the pressing desire to look towards th
e young woman who had beguiled then betrayed him, though it showed him danger. Those laughing green eyes, witch’s eyes, forever promising and cajoling, were glittering with tears.
Tears?
His jaw was sore from clenching it. Where was his strength? He wasn’t going to share any tears with her though her glance locked with his at precisely the same moment, as though reminding him openly. It perturbed him there was so much anger left inside him, so much misery he had shoved into a dark corner. She had hurt him that badly. But she wasn’t going to know about it. The tenderness towards her that had been so much a part of him at least had vanished. Ally might be a superb actress but he wasn’t too bad at acting a part himself. God knows he’d had plenty of practice.
His tanned, golden face wearing a masterpiece of a smile, Rafe congratulated his friend, clamped him affectionately around the shoulders, and kissed Rebecca’s satin cheek, wishing her all the happiness in the world. He told the bridesmaids, Francesca, Fee’s beautiful daughter, and Caroline, Rebecca’s long-time friend, they looked absolutely perfect before turning to Ally, who was unashamedly wiping the few spilt tears from her cheeks.
“It must be fantastic to marry the woman you love,” he remarked as though there wasn’t a single dark corner left in him. “I’ve never seen Brod so happy or so utterly at peace.”
His voice was deep and relaxed, yet Ally winced as if from a sharp sting. Knowing him so well, she was aware of the fires that burned deep inside him, the feelings of betrayal so smoothly hidden but a hundred times worse since the last time she had seen him at her father’s funeral. The message behind his words told her very clearly he would never take her back again. She wanted to go into his arms. Hug him. Beg his forgiveness, his understanding. But she knew she couldn’t.
Instead she answered gently, “It was a beautiful ceremony. Perfect. I’m going to miss my big brother.” Her expression turned nostalgic. “Motherless, and with the way Dad was, Brod and I were so close.”
