The Horseman

by Margaret Way

  “Glad to meet you, Mr. Doyle,” Raul responded, shaking the other man’s hand. Jack Doyle. He knew the name. Doyle had moved up in the world. One did when one delivered big on loyalty.

  “Likewise,” Doyle said with a friendly grin. “And it’s Jack. No one calls me Mr. Doyle. Welcome to Malagari, Raul. Ah…Miss Cecile—” Doyle turned to smile at her with open affection “—it’s great to have you back. We’ve been missing you. You too, Miss Tara. What practical jokes have you lined up for us this time?”

  “Got to be a surprise, Jack,” Tara told him breezily.

  “Best get us up to the house, Jack,” Moreland intervened. “It’s pretty darn hot on the runway.”

  “Right, sir. I’ll just load on the luggage.”

  “I’ll give you a hand.” Raul was already moving to do so.

  “Gee, thanks, mate!” Jack gave their visitor a quick smile. Miss Cecile’s fiance had never on any occasion made such a suggestion. There were servants to do things like that. Delusions of grandeur, Jack always thought.

  Ahead of them, set in a desert garden of greens and ochres and flourishing orange-and-scarlet bouganvillea blossom, was the Malagari homestead, an oasis in the wilderness. He had seen pictures of it in pastoral magazines and large coffee table books of historic homesteads, but nothing had prepared him for the heroic scale of the place nor the raw majesty of its setting. In a way, it was rather like the first glimpse of Uluru’s great dome, rising out of the infinite plains. Malagari appealed to his heart, his senses and his mind when he had wanted most deeply to loathe the place. The surrounding gardens, huge by any standard, would depend on bore water from the Great Artesian Basin for survival. He knew that. The homestead, he thought, depended on its great overhanging hipped roof to anchor it to the blood red earth and take care of those who sheltered beneath it. The main single-story structure had wings that formed a squared-off U. Only a man of Moreland’s immense wealth, cattle king and business magnate as he was, could afford it.

  Raul knew the station, all 10,000 square kilometers of it, carried a Santa Gertrudis herd of over a quarter of a million. It formed one of the largest operations in the country and certainly the world. Malagari was the Moreland flagship of the arid zone. The Moreland flagship of the Top End, the tropical zone, was Kumbal Downs. Kumbal, he had discovered, ran around 100,000 Brahman. There were other stations in the chain, vast Opal Creek in Queensland’s Channel Country for one, Lagunda in Queensland another, but Malagari remained the backbone of the operation just-as it had in Raul’s grandfather’s day.

  “This is it!” Joel Moreland ,announced proudly, waving an arm toward the historic homestead.

  “It’s splendid!” Raul was able to respond without difficulty, which was as well since Moreland’s keen regard was leveled on him. “A desert paradise.” Raul turned to admire the courtyard’s central marble fountain. It was playing in the blazing fire of noon, creating an aura of coolness. The great bowl, one in a tier of three, was supported by four magnificently carved rearing horses. It would have to be horses for a man who had lived his life in the saddle.

  “Italian,” Moreland said, following Raul’s gaze. “Cost a fortune, plus another fortune to get it here. I bought it in Rome, one of my favorite places in all the world, not long after my beautiful Ceci was born. Right, girls, we’ll go inside. Must protect those beautiful complexions.” He put an arm around his granddaughter and Tara, turning them toward the house. “Come, Raul. We’ll get settled, then we’ll have lunch. Jack can attend to everything. I can’t wait to hear what you think of the interior. Ceci has been my most recent decorator. She knows exactly what I like. I have to say my late wife and I didn’t always see eye-to-eye in that department. Frances had more of a city eye, if you know what I mean. I’m an Outback man through and through. It was Frances who chose to live in Darwin, which I enjoy—it has its own fascination—but in latter years she rarely visited Malagari. In that sense Justine is like her mother. She’s a city girl at heart. My Ceci isn’t.” He dropped a quick kiss on his granddaughter’s gleaming head.

  So why then did you choose a man who means to keep you pregnant in the suburbs? Raul thought.

  Cecile sensed it as if he had spoken his thought aloud. His expressive glance subtly mocked her, catching her up in the now familiar black magic. For a moment she had the strong impression he was going to address her directly. To make it worse, although her grandfather had never interfered in her choice of Stuart or openly criticized any aspect of his behavior, she knew he had never taken to Stuart the way he had so obviously taken to Raul Montalvan.

  Damn him!

  Raul saw the light flush color her high cheekbones, felt her little wave of hostility. She tilted her chin. It only served to enhance the lovely line of her throat. He was becoming very aware of the fact that she wasn’t slow to pick up on his wavelength, read his thoughts. He would have to be careful there. Her friend, Tara, turned her head over her shoulder to smile at him. He couldn’t help knowing Tara was attracted to him, but like a madness, he had his heart and his mind set on Cecile.

  Raul followed them through the deeply recessed double doors, which appeared to have been carved from Indian teak, and into the world of the very rich. The floor of the grand entrance hall was covered in a wonderful mosaic tile that brought him up short. It had all the glowing colors of a Persian carpet.

  “Again an Italian artisan.” Joel Moreland smiled at his guest’s look of appreciation. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed it is.” Raul glanced around him. It was a very handsome house, but as they continued on their way he saw the decoration had been handled in a manner that welcomed.

  Inside all was serene, cool and quiet. The main rooms he was able to glimpse through tall pedimented archways of dark gleaming timbers. The furnishings, the pictures, all the valuable objects around the place—one such resting on a console in the entrance hall looked like a Tang Dynasty horse and probably was—created an aura of richness, but the overall effect was one of a comfortable, inviting, large country house. There was a graceful balance, Raul thought, like Cecile Moreland herself. The spaces between the beautiful paintings were exactly right. Some of the large canvases depicted the very best of aboriginal art which he knew was attracting a world following. He found himself seduced. Cecile, he noticed with some irony, walked with easy familiarity past all these treasures. Outback royalty, he thought, staring after her.

  The color scheme was pale: ivories and creams and dusky golds. It made a cool contrast to the dark timbers, as did the light and airy drapes that billowed gently at the series of broad French doors. The floors weren’t carpeted in the desert heat. They were polished to the color of golden honey, the hardwood scattered here and there with magnificent rugs.

  There were intimate womanly touches to counteract the sheer richness, books, flowers, a very pleasing juxtaposition of objects. He caught a glimpse of an ebony concert grand in the living room. She had a most indulgent grandfather, this Cecile. Life would have been idyllic for her as she was growing up, loved and indulged at every turn. Unlike his, her life had not been vandalized.

  Alison Doyle, the housekeeper, came rushing out to greet them, a little flustered, excusing her late appearance as having to get something out of the oven. Introductions began again. Doyle’s wife was a slim attractive woman in her late forties, auburn hair, lightly freckled skin with bright blue eyes and a sunny smile.

  “I’ve got everything ready for you, Mr. Moreland,” she said. “Lunch in a half hour if that suits?”

  “Fine, Ally, fine!” Moreland said, in his easy charming voice. “I know I can always rely on you. I’ve brought a couple of CDs for you to add to your collection. Ella Fitzgerald and Peggy Lee.”

  The housekeeper’s face lit up. “That’s great; Really great!”

  “Ally has discovered the great female jazz singers,” Joel Moreland turned to Raul with a word of explanation. “I don’t think anyone has topped Ella.”

  “I kno
w I’m going to love them,” Ally said. “Now if you’ll excuse me I’ll get on with preparing lunch.” She gave another smile that encompassed them all, then moved off.

  “If you’d like to come with me now, Raul, I’ll show you to your room,” Cecile said. .

  “Thank you.” Raul turned his eyes away from her to smile at his host. “You have a very beautiful home, sir.” He was able to say it with perfect sincerity.

  “Look here, you’ve got to make it Joel.” Moreland didn’t hold back on extending the friendship. “You can’t keep calling me sir.”

  Raul flashed his illuminating smile. “I’d be delighted to call you Joel if that’s your wish.” He gave a slight inclination of his head. “I’m looking forward to hearing from Cecile which parts of the homestead have benefited from her elegant hand.”

  “Why, nearly the lot!” Tara told him blithely. She was relishing the fact that she was here with him. “Ceci is multitalented. You know, good at everything!”

  Cecile laughed. “Easy to see Tara are I are old friends. She likes to praise me. My attentions most notably, Raul, have been directed to the living room, the formal dining room and the library. It’s a big house. I’m working my way through it gradually.” She turned her head to her friend. “You’re in the Blue Room, Tara. I know how much you like it.”

  “I love it!” Tara responded, the excitement she was feeling evident to all.

  IN THE ELEGANT GUEST SUITE that had been allotted him, the French doors stood open to the garden and the warm desert breeze. Cecile walked briskly toward them, wondering how on earth she was going to handle this inflammatory situation, though she felt fortified by having Tara’s company. Raul followed more slowly, moving out onto the broad veranda that ran the length of the entire building at the rear.

  “The casuarinas are what I call monumental,” he remarked after a while, his tanned, long-fingered hands spread out on the balustrade as he gazed at the magnificent desert specimens, four in all, that graced that section of the garden. Around their base to a considerable depth were planted the extremely hardy sunbursts of the blue flowering agapanthus.

  Cecile glanced at him in surprise. She had now joined him at the balustrade, but keeping a distance away. “You have casuarinas in Argentina?”

  That was a slip. “Well, I know what they are.” He shrugged.

  “You’re very knowledgeable about our native desert plants. Yet you can’t have been here very long.”

  “I’m sure there’s one in Fiona’s garden.”

  “No, there isn’t,” she said. “They don’t grow in the torrid zone.”

  “All right, I’ve seen a picture.” He moved his hand along the railing so it covered hers where it lay.

  “Don’t, Raul,” she said, low voiced. “Nothing can come of this.” Yet he had only to touch her hand for something to happen.

  “I can’t stop this thing between us any more than you can,” he answered, the golden sparkles in his eyes catching the light. He didn’t remove his hand.

  She had to do something. Anything. Only, she was overtaken by the incredible languor he was able to induce in her body while her mind remained on high alert.

  “Come here to me.”

  Four simple words to make up a sentence, yet the effect on her was electrifying. She should have been shocked at his audacity but wasn’t. Instead she tried to imagine herself physically putting up barriers…

  He straightened and pulled her toward him, fluidity in his every movement. He kept one arm around her waist. “I understand you’re perturbed at having me here.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” She arched back slightly, looking up into his face. “You’re increasing my fears, Raul. You’re not doing anything to dispel them.”

  His velvet brown eyes smoldered. He was trying hard to crush his own feelings of vulnerability without much success. She was not what he had been expecting at all. “I want to kiss you,” he said, abruptly abandoning control. “I want to bury my face in your neck, between your breasts. I want to pull your beautiful hair out of that clasp. I want to stroke it with my hands. Feel how soft and silky it is. Do you mind?”

  Before she could answer, if she could even find her voice, he lifted his free hand and removed the gold clasp that held back her long hair. Immediately it slid forward, rippling around her shoulders.

  Does your fiancé ever sit with you and brush it?” he asked, smoothing a sensuous hand down a long glossy coil. He had seen Ramon brush his mother’s long, thick blond hair many many times. Probably a prelude to their lovemaking.

  “No,” Cecile answered shakily, fighting an overpowering urge to move right into his arms. Finish this thing they had started.

  “You sleep with him?” His hand slowed as he studied her face closely.

  “Is that so strange?” she countered self-consciously. “He’s my fiancé. I’m going to marry him.”

  “You’re wrong,” he said, his voice curt. “You’re not going to marry him. I think you already know that. My sister now, Ramona, will go to her bridegroom a virgin. I find I hate the idea of that man touching you.”

  She could see it in his face. Hear it in his voice. “You have no right to hate,” she said. “No right at all.”

  “Haven’t I?” he answered, still in that oddly curt voice. Careful, Raul thought. Careful. He lifted a hand to encircle her nape. Her beautiful hair cascaded over his hand and wrist. He allowed his callused thumb to massage her skin. How cool her skin was! Smooth as satin.

  Cecile could have moaned aloud from the pleasure he was giving her. Perhaps she did. “Things must be different in Argentina,” she breathed, realizing how wonderfully well he knew how to touch. Stuart had never stirred her like this even in the wildest throes of their lovemaking. All those sharp little contractions she associated with being touched by this man were starting up again, stabbing deep into her vagina. She touched the tip of her tongue to suddenly parched lips.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said, lowering his head. His mouth was very close. “Lift your face to me, Cecile.” He spoke very quietly, but the effect was infinitely powerful.

  “Where are we going with this, Raul? The consequences could be disastrous.” She was terrified, too, someone would come and catch them in this compromising tableau.

  “Need you ask?” He bent his head then, kissing her so softly but so passionately, his mouth savoring the texture of hers, the kiss might have lasted through eternity. “What

  bright spirit impelled toward delight was ever known to finger out the cost?” His arm remained locked around her as though he knew without being told that the sexual languor that had overtaken her could cause her to sway.

  Her heart was beating so high up it was almost in her throat. Her mouth was open to his. His to hers. Their tongues mated. There could be no one else like him in the world.

  So this was how a woman fell from grace? If he had picked her up and carried her back inside to the bed? Impossible to do anything now, but if the opportunity arose? God, she hadn’t just gone out on a limb, she had already made her decision. The only honorable thing left to her was to-break her engagement. That thought, the sudden flare of resolution, gave her the strength to pull free.

  There was no look of triumph on his face at overcoming her every scruple. Rather, his expression was deeply brooding. “I wonder which one of us will surrender first?” he said in a perfectly hard, considering, way.

  His words burned into her. “I ought to have you thrown out,” she muttered, realizing she was wound up as tight as a spring. If there had ever been a moment to reject him, it had long passed.

  “I daresay you would have in the old days.” There was a flash of sexual antagonism in his own eyes. “You look like a princess. You even act like one. So ready to turn imperious.”

  “Because you frighten me, Raul. You really do.” Frantic in case they were interrupted, she tried to drawback her long hair, but skeins of it escaped. “Please, my clasp, give it back to me.”

  “Wh
en I thought to souvenir it.” He loosened a long silky strand of hair that had twined itself around her throat, then removed the clasp from his pocket and put it into her trembling hand.

  “Thank you,” she said raggedly.

  Somewhere along the corridor a door shut firmly.

  “That’s Tara,” she said with a touch of panic. She looked at him with a plea in her eyes. “How do I look?”

  “Exquisite,” he said, openly mocking. “You have the most astonishing eyes. Silver. You know the name Argentina come from the Latin word argentums, which means silver?”

  “Yes,” she said, breathlessly. “Do you prefer dark eyes or light? You must have had many affairs. Women and girls with hair as dark as my own but flashing black eyes?”

  That smile touched his handsome mouth, lighting up the tiny space between them. “I forget that part now I’ve met you.”

  “You’re trying to seduce me, aren’t you?”

  “Aren’t you doing the same with me?”

  All the magnetism in the world was in his eyes.

  WHEN TARA FINALLY CAME to the open doorway, Cecile was pointing out three splendid Chinese bronzes that sat atop a yellow rosewood cabinet, “Tang Dynasty,” she said, amazed her voice sounded quite normal. This particular guest room had been fumished with a male guest in mind. The color scheme was neutral, the furnishings Oriental.

  “So what do you think of your room, Raul? Pretty classy, eh?” Tara all but danced into the room, her hair a light nimbus around her pert, glowing face. She was feeling so happy it was all she could do not to pinch herself to prove it was really happening. Her attention, so deeply focused on Raul, allowed the highly nervous Cecile to beat a swift retreat to the door, speaking over her shoulder as she went. “Bring Raul to the garden room when you’re ready, Tara,” she said, worried there might be some lingering touch of agitation in her voice. “That’s where we’ll be having lunch.”