The Unconventional Bride

by Lindsay Armstrong

  “You’re still not sure about marrying me?”

  She bestowed a deep blue enigmatic gaze on him. “What do you expect, Etienne? I may have enjoyed kissing you, but that’s a far cry from—” she hesitated “—from…”

  “Laying down all your arms?” he suggested.

  “I would like to know…” She stopped and cleared her throat. “I would like to know if I’m expected to go to bed with you tonight? I mean I know, and accept, that it has to happen sometime, but—” She stopped again.

  “I shouldn’t take it as an indication that you’re ready to leap into bed with me?” He reached over to take her hand and fiddled with his wedding ring. “Am I correct in assuming that you’re a virgin, Mel?”

  Some of our bestselling writers are Australians!

  Lindsay Armstrong…

  Helen Bianchin…

  Emma Darcy…

  Miranda Lee…

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  where spirited women win the hearts of Australia’s most eligible men.

  He’s big, he’s brash, he’s brazen—he’s Australian!

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  by

  Carol Marinelli

  #2372

  Lindsay Armstrong

  THE UNCONVENTIONAL BRIDE

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER ONE

  ETIENNE Hurst stood in the cold wind of a grey winter’s day and was amazed to find himself stirred by a woman.

  A girl, more accurately, he reflected, and one who had little time for him although he hadn’t seen her for over a year. Had that changed, though, he wondered, changed as she had changed? She would be…nineteen now, he estimated. All grown up, but who would have guessed Melinda Ethridge would grow into this willowy creature, this fascinating, haunting figure, as she farewelled her father and stepmother, who’d been killed in a light-plane crash?

  Standing quite still, dressed in black but with her wonderful chestnut hair uncovered, she seemed to be in a world of her own. She wasn’t crying, although there was deep sorrow stamped into the young, pale oval of her face and the pure line of her throat was essentially vulnerable. Nevertheless, her tall, slender figure was erect, even proud, as the wind swirled her long black skirt around her legs and lifted her hair.

  Of course, women had stirred him before, he thought rather grimly. There couldn’t be a stranger time for it, however, than while he was making his own farewells to his older sister, Margot, who had been Melinda’s stepmother. Nor could there be much reason to it. Melinda, universally known as Mel, had never got on with her stepmother and, by implication, had included the other member of the Hurst family under the umbrella of her dislike.

  However, there was even less reason to it from the point of view that she was so young. At thirty himself, he thought he’d grown out of bright, breathless young things who fell madly in love at the drop of a hat. On top of that—he paused a moment to think of his sister, Margot. She had married Mel’s father four years ago and brought glamour, sophistication and an expensive lifestyle to Raspberry Hill, the Ethridge family property, but at what cost? he wondered.

  In other words, if, as he suspected, his beautiful, social-butterfly sister had stretched the family finances to the limit, what lay before Mel Ethridge and her three younger brothers and how much of it was his responsibility?

  All the more reason to ignore this sudden fire in his loins, he reasoned with some well-placed irony.

  Then she looked up and across at him and her eyes were like deep blue velvet. He saw recognition come to them, saw them widen and stay wide and trapped beneath his gaze until she blinked suddenly and accorded him a grave nod. And he knew he’d been unable to take his own advice in regard to this girl, although she turned to her brothers without a word and began to shepherd them to the waiting cars.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THREE weeks later, Mel Ethridge was driving a tractor to the storage shed with a load of pineapples in the trailer. It was a pleasant, sunny morning, spring had sprung, and she was feeling a bit better to be out and about and working on Raspberry Hill.

  It had been a tough three weeks in more ways than one. Not only had she lost a beloved parent but she’d also made the discovery that Raspberry Hill, a mixed property that grew pineapples and ran fat cattle and was the only home she’d known, was in dire financial straits.

  Then she noticed a familiar car, sleek, silver and shining, parked beside the shed—Etienne Hurst’s car.

  She sighed but there was no help for it. Etienne was leaning against the car and it was obvious she’d seen him and been seen. Nor was it the first time she’d seen him since the funeral, although prior to it it had been some time. He’d also been out of the country at the time of the accident and had only just got home in time for the funeral.

  Since then, as his sister’s next of kin, he’d been present at the reading of the wills, and he knew as well as she did how precarious the situation was. Not only that, if you didn’t dislike him, you had to admit he’d gone out of his way to be helpful to the orphaned Ethridge family.

  The problem was, she did dislike him.

  She’d resented his sister, who’d married her widowed father out of the blue four years ago and been the root cause of a lot of her problems, and she resented Etienne accordingly; well, that was more or less the scenario.

  She brought the tractor to a halt and jumped down. ‘Good day!’ She stripped off her gloves. ‘What can I do for you, Etienne?’

  His dark gaze roamed over her dusty jeans, her grease-stained shirt and the bright cotton scarf covering her hair. None of it diminished the slip and flow of a lovely, active figure, the bloom of youth and those amazing eyes.

  ‘Just came to see how it was going. Good crop this year?’ He gestured to the pineapples.

  ‘Not bad; we’ve had better, but not bad. Quality is good but,’ she tipped a hand, ‘quantity is down.’ She hauled a pine complete with spiky crown out of the trailer and presented it to him. ‘Take it home; it should be sweet and juicy.’

  He weighed it in his hand then placed it on the bonnet. ‘Thanks. How are the cattle going?’

  Mel wrinkled her nose. ‘I’m a bit worried about the feed; we didn’t get as much winter rain as we needed but,’ she shrugged, ‘time will tell.’

  He grinned. ‘You know what they say about farmers, Mel?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘They’re always complaining.’

  Mel folded her arms and studied him comprehensively. He had dark, curly hair and dark eyes, and stamped into his long lines there was not only strength but also magnificent coordination combined with the ability to be very still but supremely alert. An almost hunter-like quality, she’d thought several times, even though he also possessed an easy charm.

  Although the more you got know him, the more you began to suspect it didn’t quite hide a cool determination to get his own way. Being possessed of the same trait, a liking for her own way, was not, she foresaw, going to help her in her dealings with him.

  She moved at last. ‘You should try it yourself, then you might understand why.’

  ‘Sorry, only joking,’ he murmured, instantly causing her to feel humourless and pretentious.

  To counter it and show him she knew what she was talking about, she offered him a tour o
f the property.

  ‘I’d like that—my car or yours?’

  She glanced at his clean jeans and pressed short-sleeved blue cotton shirt with flap pockets, then down at herself and finally over to the battered ute she drove. ‘Uh—perhaps we should walk. You’re too clean for my ute and I’m too dirty for your car.’

  ‘That’s fine with me, although I could put a rug over the seat for you—’

  ‘No. We’ll walk! Now, first of all,’ she led the way down a path behind the shed, ‘from this little rise you can see the cattle paddocks. Naturally, we rotate them and improve them, so those on the left are “resting” at the moment and,’ she swung her arm, ‘over there you see the herd.’

  ‘How many head?’

  ‘About a hundred.’

  He said nothing for a moment then stated a figure in dollars.

  Mel glanced up at him in surprise because it was a pretty accurate estimate of how much the herd represented to Raspberry Hill in financial terms. ‘You’ve been doing some homework?’

  He nodded.

  She waited but he said no more so she walked him through a pineapple paddock, showed him the stables where Rimfire, her horse, whickered affectionately and accepted some cube sugar she always kept in her pocket. Then she took him on to her pet project, free-range chickens. Not that she sold the chickens, only the eggs. This time he put some surprisingly astute questions on the cost-profit ratio of the project to her.

  ‘It’s not that profitable yet,’ she told him, ‘but to be quite honest I don’t care if it never is. I’m passionate about the abolition of battery hens.’

  He looked at her keenly. ‘I believe there are a few things you’re passionate about.’

  ‘Well, yes, I guess there are,’ she conceded. ‘I can’t abide cruelty to animals, or anyone, so I’m a paid-up member of Amnesty International and I raise money for the RSPCA. And since I began to worry about the environment I’ve joined Greenpeace.’

  Etienne Hurst’s first instinct was amusement but they were leaning side by side against the fence watching her flock of chickens, and she was so unconsciously lovely in her very serious defence of so much his next sentiment was affection.

  All the same, he cautioned himself, do-gooders, especially if they didn’t have a sense of humour, could be hard work at times.

  Then he frowned at another thought. ‘How come you seem to run the whole farm, Mel?’

  ‘When I left school it was all I wanted to do,’ she answered. ‘So I persuaded Dad to let me help and as he and Margot began to travel more and more I—took over more and more. But…’ She paused.

  ‘Go on,’ he invited.

  ‘Well, I guess it was becoming obvious we needed an injection of cash for fence improvements, a new dam, a new tractor and so on, but Dad kept deferring it all.’

  ‘For which you blame me?’ he suggested.

  Mel took a breath. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Then why do I get the impression you view me along with cane toads and other undesirables?’

  Mel coloured and bit her lip.

  ‘I know you didn’t get on with Margot but I fail to see what that has to do with me,’ he said. ‘Especially now.’

  ‘I don’t like to say this because I’m sure you’re grieving as much as I am, Etienne, but, since you brought it up, Raspberry Hill started to go downhill from the time Dad married Margot.’

  ‘She made him happy,’ he pointed out. And when Mel looked uncomfortable, he added, ‘There were also other factors involved. Investments that didn’t turn out well, for example, but I admit that Margot always had expensive tastes.’

  Mel watched her busy chickens, heads down and bottoms up, as they enjoyed their large, grassy run and all the choice titbits it offered. Then she turned and looked towards the homestead, situated on a headland that overlooked the waters of the Curtis Coast and, from this angle, silhouetted against the skyline. It was a sprawling old wooden Queenslander beneath a green tin roof, and now, thanks to Etienne’s sister, it was fully restored and a treasure trove of antiques, whereas before it had been a big, untidy but comfortable family home.

  But was it fair to transfer her animosity to Margot’s brother? she wondered. And why was she conscious of a feeling of being at sixes and sevens in his company—aware of him—in a way that didn’t often happen to her?

  Was it just the usual effect he had on the opposite sex?

  ‘Uh—she certainly had marvellous taste,’ she said by way of turning aside her thoughts about Etienne Hurst as a man as well as not wishing to speak ill of the dead and regretting her earlier comments on his sister. ‘Anyway, I don’t think there’s much more I can show you, Etienne, but—’ She stopped on a sudden thought. ‘If there’s anything from the house you’d like as a memento of Margot—would you like to come up and have a look?’

  He considered. ‘There is a miniature of our mother—’

  ‘Oh, I know it! It’s still on the dresser in their bedroom. Let’s go up now.’

  This time he wouldn’t take no for an answer and insisted on driving her to the house in his car. Mrs Bedwell, who had been the housekeeper at Raspberry Hill for as long as Mel could remember, came out to greet them.

  ‘Just in time for lunch,’ Mrs Bedwell enthused. ‘I’ve set the table here on the veranda.’

  ‘But,’ Mel bit her tongue, ‘I mean, I’m not sure if Etienne has time for lunch—’

  ‘Of course he does!’ Mrs Bedwell resembled a tall, grey but colourfully attired stork and was renowned for her meddling. ‘Now, you just sit down, Mr Hurst—how about a beer? It’s such a lovely, hot day! I’ll get you one and that will give Mel a chance to duck under the shower.’

  Mel opened and closed her mouth as Etienne replied that he could do with a beer, thank you very much, and Mrs Bedwell caught her wrist and steered her inside.

  ‘Will you stop pushing me around?’ she said to Mrs Bedwell once they were out of earshot. ‘And how can you give him lunch when you’ve only just laid eyes on him, and how about consulting me first before you issue invitations left, right and centre?’

  ‘How? It’s simple—I saw him drive in, I give you lunch every day and if you think I can’t stretch it to two you don’t know me very well, Mel! As for issuing invitations left, right and centre, I just knew it would never cross your mind to do it so I figured I might as well do it for you. You’ve got ten minutes!’

  ‘But why do we need him to come to lunch?’ Mel protested.

  Mrs Bedwell put her hands on her hips. ‘Only you could be so thick, Mel. Now, you just do as you’re told and make sure you’re nice to him!’

  Mel regarded Mrs Bedwell’s retreating back with smouldering eyes despite the fact that she was extremely fond of her, then she shrugged and went to shower.

  Fifteen minutes later, she came out onto the veranda in clean jeans and a floral blouse and carrying the miniature carefully wrapped up in tissue paper. She’d run the gauntlet of Mrs Bedwell again, to be asked in exasperated tones why she couldn’t have worn a dress, and had answered simply that it hadn’t crossed her mind.

  ‘Sorry,’ she sat down opposite Etienne, who rose briefly, ‘to have left you alone like this but Mrs Bedwell is a stickler for the niceties.’

  He looked at his watch then took in her appearance. All the dust and grease had disappeared. Her hair, released from the scarf, rippled and glinted like new pennies in a well-brushed loose cascade to her shoulders and her skin was smooth and fresh.

  ‘I was prepared for at least half an hour, so you did well.’ He reached for his beer but for some reason their gazes locked.

  Something trickled along Mel’s nerve-endings as she couldn’t look away, a strange little frisson that made her feel excited but also vulnerable and somehow at the mercy of this man.

  Then he cut the eye contact but not before Mel remembered the look she’d intercepted from him three weeks earlier. A look that, in the most surprising circumstances, had held her trapped at the sheer unexpectedness of it.
It came back to her now, and left her posing a question to herself.

  For the first time since she’d known him, was Etienne Hurst looking at her as a woman rather than a troublesome tomboy who’d always made it clear she didn’t like him? But, perhaps more pertinently, was she responding in kind to it?

  ‘How are the boys?’

  She blinked and tried to deal with the change of subject smoothly as she thought of her three brothers, Justin, Ewan and Tosh, aged fifteen, twelve and ten respectively. ‘As well as can be expected. Still lost and bewildered. Tosh was having nightmares so I got him a puppy.’ She grimaced.

  Tosh, short for Thomas, which Ewan hadn’t been able to pronounce so the baby name of Tosh had stuck, had been allowed to choose his puppy. The result was a three-month-old tan and white Jack Russell he’d named Batman, who was almost as mischievous and trouble-prone as his new owner. Although, since Batman had been allowed to sleep on Tosh’s bed, the nightmares had stopped.

  ‘Talking of Batman,’ Mel added as Mrs Bedwell came on the veranda pushing a trolley, ‘where is the little monster?’

  Mrs Bedwell laid before them a minor feast. Cold chicken and ham, a green salad, her home-grown and cooked beetroot, new potatoes in their jackets sprinkled with parsley and drizzled with garlic butter and warm crusty rolls. ‘That dratted dog,’ she intoned, ‘is asleep, thank the lord!’

  ‘What’s he done this morning?’ Mel asked with resignation.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to know! There.’ Mrs Bedwell stood back. ‘Enjoy your lunch!’

  The smile of thanks Etienne Hurst bestowed on her was dazzling and she retreated indoors in some disarray, causing Mel to think darkly that she resented being included in the universal effect on women this man had, however, well, slightly intoxicating it was.

  ‘So you’re not working today, Etienne?’ she queried as they started their lunch.