by Dorothy Eden
Briar herself suppressed a shriek as she saw the dark face peering in. It was impossible to identify it in the gloom, but she knew it was that of a Hauhau because of the long powerful naked arm, and the sudden rank smell of oil.
The faintness of extreme fear swept over her. Then a deep musical voice said softly, questioningly, “Little Rata Flower?”
Katie sprang up, crying incredulously, “Rangi! It’s Rangi, Briar! It’s all right.”
Stiff, dirty and disheveled, the girls tumbled out of the sheltering hollow. Briar still stood back warily, for this might be a trick. Rangi, for all Katie’s trust in him, was a Hauhau.
But he was saying, “Come. It’s safe now.” And as Briar looked at him she suddenly saw the green tiki hanging around his neck. Automatically her fingers went to her own hidden beneath her dress, and as she wondered if once more the strange little god had brought her luck, she raised her eyes and saw a tall figure beneath the trees on the other side of the clearing.
She stared. She must be dreaming. It couldn’t be Saul!
Then he stepped out into the light and she saw that it was.
“Saul!” she cried. Miraculously her stiff tired limbs came to life. Picking up her draggled skirts she flew towards him. She saw that his arms were held out, and she hurled herself into them, feeling herself crushed against his hard chest, and dizzy with the exquisite pain.
His cheek was against hers. There seemed to be dampness on it. Or was it her own tears? Neither of them spoke. Words were unnecessary and impossible. But life had come flaming back into her, and when Saul suddenly swung her slight body into his arms she buried her face against his shoulder, knowing that this was where she had always longed to be.
Reality had to be faced. Riding on the front of Saul’s horse out of the forest, Briar said bleakly, “Your mother is dead, Saul. At least she must be because she was in the house when it was set on fire.”
“Yes, I know she’s dead.”
“She saved my life, mine and Katie’s. She made us escape. She fired until she had only one shot left, and she promised that would be for herself.” Her dry small voice made the recital almost prosaic. “She was very brave.”
Saul was silent a few moments. Then he said quietly, “She was dying, anyway. MacTavish told me that just now. He gave her only a few weeks. So let her have her moment of glory. She’d have liked it that way. After all, she had come to admire you very much.”
Briar’s head shot up. “Me!”
“Yes. She told me so not long ago, just when I was ready to agree with her that I’d made a fearful mistake in marrying you. When we really thought we hated each other. But my mother admired your spirit and the way you stood by your friends. She said you were the woman to have my children, if ever I could persuade you to.”
“And—what did you say?” Briar’s voice was almost inaudible.
“I said if I could only persuade you to love me, I’d be happy.”
They had emerged from the forest, and Saul abruptly drew rein. Briar realized that he had stopped deliberately to look down over the smoking ruins of the house. The harshness had come back into his voice.
“But you married me for a fine house, didn’t you? Now I have none. So what about it?”
“We’ll build another. There’s plenty of time.”
“In the meantime you’ll be content to live in a tiny cottage like Jemima’s?” he asked skeptically.
Briar rubbed her dirty weary face. She knew he would not believe her, but it was true that she did not mind having no possessions. She had been born to that, it was nothing new to her, and now at last she could accept the fact. Also, she had been wrong in thinking that this fertile, exciting country was hers. For it was going to belong truly only to those bred in it. And that was the heritage that she, the waif and stray, who had traveled so far, with such high ambitions, was going to be able to give her son.
The knowledge was strange and wonderful.
“I don’t mind if our baby is born in a cottage,” she said dreamily, then, as Saul’s arm tightened around her in an imprisoning grip, she realized that he did not yet know this news. She looked up into his face, seeing in it all her future.
“It’s true, Saul. We are to have a baby.” Secretly she hoped the child would inherit that proud arrogant look. “I told your mother this morning, just before—” her voice trembled. “I’m so glad I told her. Though one can’t know whether it matters to her now.”
“It will matter,” said Saul.
“And you?”
“If you are happy about it, so am I.”
She met the dazzling tenderness in his eyes. She had never heard humility in his voice before.
But her composure deserted her when they reached the village and she saw the little cluster of people waiting for them.
“Here’s Briar!” she heard voices calling thankfully. “Here’s Briar, safe.”
The words were an echo out of her lonely, day-dreaming past. She had never thought to hear them really spoken with such love and gratitude. And there were the familiar faces lifted to her, Jemima’s, Prudence’s, the wide-eyed children’s, Martha Peabody’s. The faces of her friends. She slipped off Saul’s horse to be gathered into their arms.
Later that evening, tucked up with heart-warming care, in Martha Peabody’s own bed, the nightmare part of the day receded from Briar’s mind, and she began to think practically once more.
She asked that Saul should come in, partly because she wanted to discuss matters with him, but more because the sight of his lean, hard body filled her with such wild, secret delight that she could not bear him out of her sight—though this she had no intention of letting him know at the moment, or there would be no conversation at all.
“Sit down, my love. There are things to discuss.”
Saul raised his brows slightly at her imperiousness, but sat down meekly enough.
“First, a home and work must be found for Mabel while our new house is being built. She fought very bravely for us this morning, and she tells me she only escaped by hiding in one of the dog kennels which, I gather, left her rather bruised. Not being the shape entirely suited to dog kennels.” Briar repressed a small giggle. “And also she lost both of her dresses, which we must replace as soon as possible because they seem to represent her status in life. And then there’s Katie. I think now Rangi’s such a reformed character he’ll probably marry her in a church, but if he doesn’t we must protect her and her baby. That’s important. I’ve promised her.”
“I’m not arguing it, my love.”
“Then why are you scowling?”
“Because you sound remarkably like Aunt Charity.”
Briar sat up indignantly. Then she realized that he was laughing, and reluctantly her lips twitched, for it was the first time they had ever laughed together.
“You do not still wish to send me back to Wellington?” she asked involuntarily.
“On the contrary, I shall never trust you out of my sight again.”
He observed her incipient tears, and because Martha Peabody’s bedroom was not the place to take satisfactory measures about checking them, he went on, with forced calmness, “I picked up mail on the way today.”
Briar moved her head indifferently. “There’ll be nothing for me. I have no family, you know, and no one to write to me except you. And your letters, my dearest, must improve and show some affection or I shall leave you.”
“You’re wrong, there is a letter for you.”
With childish eagerness she sat up to receive the strange letter. Who could be writing to her?
“Saul!” Her voice was an awed whisper. “It’s from Government House. It’s addressed to us both.”
“I know. Open it.”
Briar tore the thick envelope open, and pulled out the gilt-edged invitation card. Mr. and Mrs. Saul Whitmore are requested …
“Saul! We’re invited to curtsey to the Governor and his wife.”
Saul looked at her widened eyes. “You
can do the curtseying, my love. Allow me merely to bow.”
“To meet the Governor.” Then she lay back with a deep sigh. “But it’s really rather unimportant, isn’t it? I shall do it only for the sake of our children.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
For the purposes of the story, the author has enlarged the area of Te Kooti’s campaign in the North Island of New Zealand. The episode related concerning the famous flag, the Whip, is fictitious.
About the Author
Dorothy Eden (1912–1982) was the internationally acclaimed author of more than forty bestselling, romantic suspense, and historical novels. Born in New Zealand, where she attended school and worked as a legal secretary, she moved to London in 1954 and continued to write prolifically. Eden’s novels are known for their suspenseful, spellbinding plots, finely drawn characters, authentic historical detail, and often a hint of spookiness.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1974 by Dorothy Eden
Cover design by Connie Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4976-7332-8
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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