by Margaret Way
“Oh, come off it, Bruno. Arguably you’re the most-chased bachelor in town.”
“What, women galore trying to entice me into their bed?”
“Something like that.”
He grimaced. “Bella, I don’t kiss and tell.”
“You’re a dying breed. A lot put their exploits on Twitter.”
“I hesitate to ask this, but are you a man hater?”
She laughed. “It’s proving difficult not to be. I don’t hate you, Bruno.”
“I needed to hear that.” He gave a mocking sigh. “As it happens, I do believe a woman should be approached with a certain reverence.” His dark eyes had turned serious, thoughtful, focused on her and what she was saying.
“That would win you a lot of approval, Bruno. It’s my belief there should be a preparation.”
“A courtship?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “I know it’s considered old-fashioned.”
“The woman sets the parameters,” Bruno said from experience. “The man conducts himself accordingly.”
“Hard when women throw themselves at you.”
He was trying very hard to preserve his calm objectivity, though it was rapidly escaping him. “That’s what I love about you, Bella. You don’t. You’re absolutely right to take your time. You’re at the beginning of everything.”
“We’re good pals?” she asked, her radiant head to one side.
His feelings were way too fierce for palship. “We are, Isabella.”
“That’s lovely. I trust you, Bruno. It’s not every man who gives a woman a feeling of safety. You do. The gods have been kind to us. We’ve witnessed a spectacular bush sight together. One, as a city dweller, I never thought to see. That’s further bonding, surely?” On a little wave of euphoria she leaned sideways, lightly kissed his cheek. “My whole being is filled with healing blessings. What about you?”
“You give your heart and soul to things, don’t you?” He felt unnerved by her trust in him. A trust he could never break.
“I suppose I do,” Isabelle admitted.
“That makes you an optimist.” He knew her kissing his cheek was a perfectly innocent, spontaneous gesture, yet it was all he could do not to pull her into his arms, knot his fingers through her hair and tilt back her head so he could see the lovely line of her throat. He felt like crushing her to him, his hands tracing the length of her, the imprint of her small, tender nipples against his chest. If he weakened and kissed her, the whole world would be lost. It was as simple as that. He knew all he had to do to arouse her desire. Isabella was a creature of passion, of strong feelings, revealed in her playing. He could not test her vulnerability. He didn’t through pure force of will. He craved her. Only his duty was clear.
It was his job to follow protocol.
At the same time, her idea of preparation for a love affair struck him as a beautiful concept. But how to keep someone like Isabella at arm’s length?
* * *
Back in the saddle. All around them thousands and thousands of square miles of raw bushland. No sign of the grazing cattle. No sign of human life. Only the phenomenal birdlife and marauding hawks and falcons. Sand and spinifex. Silence. Infinity. It would be all too easy to get lost, especially near the lignum swamps, where the pelicans made their nests.
“The budgies are leading us out of here,” she said, her eyes following their path. Her heart was beating way too fast. Despite all her talk, which she did truly believe in, she felt herself open to powerful sensations she had never before experienced. As for Bruno’s experience in sexual matters? He had plenty. How many women had he kissed? How many women had he taken into his bed? She had registered the tension in him. The silence that lay between them was like a forerunner to something . . . unstoppable? If that happened, Bruno knew she would surrender, for all her talk of holding off. His decision had been not to allow that to happen. That took matters out of her hands.
The sunlight after the golden-green oasis was blinding. Isabelle shaded her eyes to look up at the great flock of budgerigar flying in their natural V formation. A trickle of sweat was running down between her breasts. Heat was getting to her. Inside and out.
She had to confront the fact she wasn’t just falling in love with Bruno. She had been insane enough to fall in love with him on sight. Nothing he had done or said had diminished that. She was the virgin who wanted to be taken. To be his. Her heart was in his hands. Like many a woman before her, she could be in for a hard fall. If that happened, it wouldn’t be easy to get up again. The wisest thing would be to listen to one’s head not one’s heart, yet wisdom was so often abandoned for what was sometimes termed madness.
Bruno, the object of her desire, rode up alongside her. “We won’t get lost, Bella,” he said, noting her unusually tense expression. “I’ve got a good sense of direction. Better yet, I have a compass.”
“God bless you.” The best thing she could do was settle back into their normal easy banter. “Those tall seed stems on the spinifex look a bit like aboriginal spears, don’t you think?”
He didn’t answer.
Isabelle glanced at him sharply. There wasn’t even a flicker of a smile on his face. “Bruno?”
“Sit your horse. Keep still,” he ordered beneath his breath.
She stared at him in astonishment. “I hate to ask, but what for?”
Again he kept silent, causing her to visualize an aboriginal man staring out at them from behind the screen of mulga. He would be wearing the Kadaitcha shoes woven of feathers and human hair, stuck together with blood. Orani had sent him. Nothing seemed impossible in this ancient wilderness. She couldn’t rule out attack.
“Not a witch doctor, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said, reading her mind. “It’s a bit hard to make out, but there’s a lone camel, a dromedary, keeping a close eye on us. His dirty, dusty ginger coat acts as a good camouflage. He’s standing well back in the clump of acacias at two o’clock.”
She turned her head very slowly to the two o’clock position, keeping a tight hold on the reins. “Dear Lord! We’re being staked out. I don’t believe it! It’s huge! Six feet or more. Just look at the hump!”
“It may well mean us no harm,” said Bruno.
Her answer held dismay and incredulity rolled into one. “Are we going to ask it? Hey, camel, please explain. What are your intentions?”
“I said keep quiet.” Bruno’s attitude was totally serious.
“I’m whispering, in case you haven’t noticed. All wild animals are dangerous, aren’t they? Don’t camels bite?”
“I’ve heard they resort to it from time to time. It could see us as a threat, but we don’t want it to think we’re intimidated. We sit tight. Apply universal bush rules. Don’t panic. We are not moving on, Bella. We sit quietly, not annoying it in any way.”
“As if I’m likely to do that.” Her voice quaked. “I’m certain I’ve read somewhere camels can do grievous bodily harm. How fast can they run?”
“I haven’t actually clocked one, but I believe around forty miles per hour.”
“So Honey and I couldn’t outrun it.” She was so outraged, she almost shouted. “The gelding probably could.”
“The gelding isn’t a racehorse, Bella. I’m not going to leave you. We sit tight and wait for it—”
“To charge?”
“In that case, we split to the left. Worst-case scenario: you kick your feet out of the stirrups and gather yourself. I’ll pull you over onto the gelding. The mare can find its own way home.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you can do that?” Her voice rose in panic.
“I’m damn sure I can,” he said tersely. “Have a little faith. But it’s not going to end that way, Bella.” He was speaking with remarkable calm. “There, what did I tell you?” He creased his dark eyes against the blazing light. “It’s turning away.”
“So it is!” Isabelle crossed herself. “Boy, do I have a heap of dinner-party stories to tell.” She took a deep breath watc
hing the camel move off laconically on its huge feet. “I expect you’ve been on big-game hunting trips in Africa with your friend Lubrinski?” There was a note of accusation in her voice.
“I’d be too scared. No, Bella, I’m very much against big-game hunting, though I have been to South Africa and visited a lion park. I can’t understand why intelligent people are lulled into believing wild animals won’t attack. You have to be there to understand how tourists let down their guard. It’s not unlike the way tourists elect to take a dip in our crocodile-infested waters. Even our own people get taken.”
“That won’t be my story.”
“Nor mine. Destroying beautiful endangered animals is not my scene either. It’s a sin.”
“All the same, I wouldn’t come out here without a shotgun,” Isabelle said, staring around her. Six-foot goannas had been known to attack horses and riders.
“Someone was messing around with a gun when Christian was killed,” Bruno pointed out. “We can move on now.” He turned his handsome, dynamic face towards her. “Come along now. We have a full program before we leave. I’d like to see that portrait of Helena. It’s in the East Wing, where Stefan had it hung.”
“I don’t know that I want to go there,” she said, showing signs of rebellion.
“You can wait outside.”
“Shut up, Bruno.” It was enormously important to sound normal.
He only laughed. “See that ghost gum right ahead?” He lifted a hand to point out a beautiful eucalypt that stood in splendid isolation. The most beautiful tree in the desert, its pristine white bole and branches were in sharp contrast to the intense blue of the sky and a rust-red pile of boulders. “Race you there,” he said.
She didn’t ask for a start. She gave Honey’s sides an encouraging little kick with her heels. “You’re on!”
* * *
Stefan Hartmann was waiting for them at the house, still wearing his dust-spattered clothing, his face drawn. “I’ll have one of the girls fix us coffee and sandwiches,” he said. “I don’t want that woman anywhere in my sight. I know evil when I see it. I’ve never liked her. I’ve never wanted her in the house. Now I loathe her. I’m horrified to think she could have Hartmann blood.”
Bruno took pity on him. “We don’t yet know, sir, if she does. She could be making it all up. Why don’t we wait on the truth?”
“She could be mad,” Stefan said, clinging grimly to hope. “She wouldn’t be the first to make false claims. Maybe she even believes them. Maybe she’s delusional? She’s Tom Saunders’s daughter. Hell, she even looks like him at certain times. Her mad mother poisoned her mind. She turned her own crazy dreams into an actual reality. Orani Saunders has been poisoning the air for years, though I have to say she’s run the household well. My uncle has retired to his rooms. He’s in a shocking mess. I’ve never in my life seen him like that. Whether her story is true or not, there’ll be hell to pay.” He broke off, clenching and unclenching his fingers. “How was the ride?” he asked, making a piteous attempt to be normal.
“Very memorable,” Isabelle told him gently. “We had the privilege of seeing a pair of brolgas dance, which was amazing. Then a lone camel had us under close observation.”
“I hope you stayed in place, returned its stare?”
“We did.”
“Good. They’re an absolute bloody menace. Occasionally, we get a real rogue that only a bullet will stop. They’re belligerent beggars. They will charge if you appear in any way to threaten them. Now, you’ll want to wash up. Don’t let me keep you. We’ll eat in the breakfast room, say in an hour? Kurt is devastated. He just can’t get his head around anything. I’ve allowed Erik far too much influence over my boy. The thing is, running the station requires massive effort and long hours. In many ways, I’ve been an absentee father. I plan to send him off to his mother.”
“Does he want to go?” Isabelle asked.
Stefan nodded. “Yes, thank God. His mother can care for him until we get these other matters straightened out.”
* * *
Upstairs, Isabelle showered, shampooed her hair and changed her clothes, choosing a cool cotton dress in a shade of leaf green. Fantastic as the Chinese Room was, she wanted to move out as soon as possible. She saw the room as distinctly museumish, not somewhere to sleep.
Even now, she was astounded by the cruelty of Mrs. Saunders’s actions. It was unbelievable really. Orani could well be cast as a witch, for the housekeeper enjoyed frightening people. Possibly she was clinging to the belief she shared Hartmann blood without any proof except the stories she had been told by her mother.
Wasn’t she a case in point? She had believed all her life she was Isabelle Martin and Hilary and Norville Martin were her parents. Things had progressed at a frantic pace. If progress was what it was. All that remained was DNA testing. If it was proved she had Hartmann blood, the next step was to establish how Hilary had come to get custody of her and rear her as her own. She couldn’t bear to think Helena might have arranged to hand her over. She wasn’t finished with Hilary. She had never had occasion to go to the police, but she needed Hilary to believe she would do so if Hilary didn’t reveal the true story. Hilary would never wave away her and her questions again.
* * *
Kurt joined them for lunch looking so vulnerable he was almost childlike. Clearly, his opinion of his greatly admired great-uncle had taken a nose dive. His father’s devotion to the station had come at a price. Stefan had nearly alienated his son. Kurt had taken a certain position, proven a mistake. His father, not Erik, ran Eaglehawk Station. His father was an honest, honourable man. His great-uncle was an egoist lounging around the house all day, reading, writing the family memoirs, telling Kurt, his captive audience, lies or at the very least falsehoods. As for a sexual relationship with the housekeeper . . . That was too horrible to bear contemplation.
The same sweet-faced aboriginal girl, Nele, served them a light lunch, the choice of open sandwiches of marinated lamb and English spinach and/or smoked salmon with shaved fennel, cucumber and zucchini. There was cold tomato juice in a tall glass container and tiny round cheesecakes to go with the coffee.
Somehow they all kept to the decision to put painful matters temporarily aside. Afterwards, Stefan consented to show them the portrait of Helena that had once hung in the drawing room but had caused so much upset after her disappearance, Erik had ordered it be taken down. At that point, Stefan had stepped in with no intention of banishing the portrait of his beautiful cousin to the attic.
Kurt didn’t move off as Isabelle expected he might. He came with them, as though he needed the comfort of his father’s presence. The East Wing was huge. They entered it through an ornate stained-glass door. Inside, in the open hallway that served as a place to read or write, they found an entire wall covered in leather-bound books. Sunlight fell through the series of tall windows with matching pointed arches into a vaguely melancholy atmosphere. The furnishings were Victorian, comfortable in style, with none of the grandeur of the central core of the homestead. All was quiet, tidy, ordered. It was rather like a gentleman’s club.
In the adjoining room, which was undoubtedly the most decorated in the wing, there was a gleaming polished timber floor, huge Persian rug, lighter-in-style furnishings, pictures, ornaments, rather grand curtains and walls a delicate yellow. A large portrait of Helena dominated the end wall. The light glanced off the carved and gilded frame. In silence, they all walked towards it, stopping in front of it, a saddened group.
“It’s a wonderful painting!” Bruno said after a while, taking a step forward to note the signature of a famous artist.
“Helena was a beautiful little girl, a beautiful young woman,” Stefan said, real grief in his voice. “She was extraordinarily sensitive. She suffered from not having a mother. She suffered from having a mother who dazzled. Helena, had she ever found an antidote to all her troubles, would have been even lovelier. The most remarkable part is that this could be a portrait of you.” Stefan tu
rned his head to study the silent Isabelle.
Isabelle slanted him a poignant smile. She didn’t altogether agree despite the remarkable similarities.
“In many ways, yes,” Bruno was murmuring absently. “But there’s a recognisable difference. One can see it in the expression. Isabella is a confident young woman, sure of her abilities. She knows she has a great deal to offer. Helena looks much frailer in character. She looks like she was at a stage in her life when she felt she was floundering. Her expression is one of appeal.”
“There were reasons,” Stefan said bleakly. “If it’s to be believed, that witch of a woman terrorized her. Claims she kept it up for years. I don’t accept that. Helena could have told me. I would have checked it out without hesitation.”
“Probably you wouldn’t have found anything,” Bruno said. “If it were the didgeridoo, one could count on Mrs. Saunders hiding it away.”
“She wouldn’t have found it hard to come by one,” Kurt interjected, a look of strong condemnation in his voice. “They’re all frightened of her, the aboriginal stockmen, aren’t they, Dad? They reckon she’s a sorceress.”
“She damned well isn’t,” Stefan only said coldly. “I don’t want her on the station. She has to go into exile. Move on.”
“Uncle Erik won’t allow it, Dad.” Kurt was visibly torn.
“Your great-uncle has lost control,” his father returned firmly. “Things are going to change around here, Kurt.” He turned to Bruno. “Now, there’s the matter of DNA samples. My uncle wants no part of it. I want this matter cleared up. I suppose you will have to approach Saunders?”
“One way to shut her up, Dad,” Kurt cried in a fury of intention.
Stefan looked down on Isabelle. “Your mother—the woman who has always claimed to be your biological mother—obviously had contact with Helena. Was there something between them? Of what did Helena die? If she did die. If Helena bore a child, perhaps the father didn’t want the child or even abandoned Helena. But she had friends. She had to have had. Someone helped her flee the country. That fellow Osbourne perhaps? It’s a wonder your father didn’t follow up that lead?” He turned back to Bruno.
