By Marriage Divided

by Lindsay Armstrong

  ‘On one condition—that it doesn’t involve leaving this bed in the immediate future,’ he said, and allowed those wandering fingers to roam lower down her body.

  ‘Far from it.’ She moved restlessly and gasped.

  ‘You were about to say?’ he murmured, transferring that smoky-grey gaze to hers so that she could see the teasing glint in his eyes.

  ‘Angus—I have no idea,’ she conceded, ‘but don’t imagine I intend to take this lying down.’ And she swept the sheet aside, sat up, and eased herself onto him. ‘There,’ she said, not without a glint of her own, a spark of triumph in the depths of her blue eyes before she veiled them with her lashes, and propped her chin on her fists, on his chest.

  She felt his silent laughter jolt his chest. Then he said, ‘All right, you’ve got me where you want me, Miss Harris. What do you intend to do with me?’ But his hands were already cradling her hips.

  ‘Keep you in suspense,’ she replied mysteriously.

  ‘Is this to be another test of wills?’ he suggested.

  ‘Well,’ she temporized, ‘perhaps. I like being here. It gives me a sense of power. Of course, I have to admit I’m a slave to the near perfection of your body, Mr Keir, but this position gives me the freedom to—express it.’ She moved on him, voluptuously and wantonly, and had the satisfaction of hearing him groan softly. ‘See what I mean?’ she added, her eyes alight with laughter now.

  ‘Yes, only too well.’ His expression was rueful. ‘However, I have to point out that I can only take so much of this, Miss Harris.’

  ‘That’s a pity!’ She said it gaily and started to kiss him, then stopped abruptly. ‘Then again,’ she whispered and stared searchingly into his eyes, ‘so can I—only take so much. Angus—’ she shuddered as he suddenly held her hard to him ‘—why do we do this to each other?’

  He didn’t answer her question until they came down from that exposed peak they still reached together after three months. Until she was curled into his arms, still breathing unsteadily and they were both soaked in sweat. Then he said as he stroked her hair, ‘We just do, Domenica. About last night—’

  But she put a finger to his lips. ‘That’s what I was going to say—let’s leave last night and the car as a closed book.’

  She saw something flicker in his eyes, perhaps indecision, and waited, suddenly taut and tense. But all he said, finally, was, ‘Should we go for a swim? Then drive down to Lidcombe Peace for the night?’

  She relaxed unwittingly. ‘Sounds perfect. Yes, please.’

  They had an invigorating surf, hot dogs and Coke for lunch, and arrived at Lidcombe Peace mid-afternoon.

  This was another case of home from home for Domenica—in fact it could be said that she’d taken over the house, although all she’d done was take up from where her family had left off. She’d rehired the couple who’d looked after the house and garden for years. She was the one who decided what should be planted and when, that a new washing machine was essential; she was the one who had redecorated a spare bedroom for herself and Angus. And she kept an auxiliary wardrobe at Lidcombe Peace.

  Because he was away so frequently, an old cottage far from the main house had been restored and a manager, a grizzled man in his sixties with a limp, installed to supervise the cattle and other aspects of the farm, such as the paddock of lucerne that had been planted and the two imperious alpacas that had also taken up residence—Domenica had named them Napoleon and Josephine, or Nap and Josie for short. But the manager’s dearest love were the three horses Angus now had, and it was plain to see he was a horseman from way back.

  But there was still the odd occasion when she felt like pinching herself at Lidcombe Peace, and felt a bit guilty that she should be able to enjoy it as if she’d never left it while her mother and Christy could not. Not that it seemed to bother them, and as she and Angus sat before the fire that evening it occurred to her that she hadn’t seen as much of Christy as usual lately, and the young man who’d arrived late last night might be the reason why. She made a mental resolve to correct this state of affairs as soon as possible.

  But thinking of Christy directed her thoughts to the party last night, and one fact that had become submerged in all the drama and emotion of the night. Yes, she had won the battle of the car, she reflected, but what about the stinging realization that what she’d really wanted was an engagement ring?

  She glanced over towards Angus. He was stretched out full length on the settee wearing jeans and an old black T-shirt, reading the paper. She was sitting in a comfortable armchair with her feet drawn up on the seat and her chin resting on her knees. She’d already changed into her tartan flannelette pyjamas—summer was sliding towards autumn in a series of breathtakingly beautiful blue and gold days but with the nights on the Razorback Range turning distinctly chilly.

  ‘Tell me about the other women you’ve had in your life, Angus?’

  He lowered the paper and frowned at her over it. ‘Why? And what brought that up?’

  She shrugged, but glinted him a humorous little smile. ‘Nothing in particular, I’d just like to know. According to my sister, until now, I’ve always gone for more diffident men, for example.’ She raised her eyebrows comically. ‘I can imagine what you might say to that.’

  He looked amused. ‘Then I won’t say it, but is that how you see it?’

  She studied her toes. ‘It’s not how I saw it at the time. But my father was an academic and an historian so I met a lot of…not so much diffident men, but men wrapped up in their own academic world, perhaps. That’s what I attribute it to now, although I guess Christy was right when she said that I’ve always been independent.’ This time she grimaced. Then she looked at him directly. ‘Did you ever have the kind of relationship we have, with another woman?’

  ‘No. But, yes, there have been relationships.’ He studied her thoughtfully. ‘I can’t say that there’s been a pattern to them, though, of diffidence or otherwise.’ He grinned fleetingly. ‘Mind you, two redheads. My very first girlfriend when we were both about sixteen, and a fiery fling with a film star.’

  Domenica stared at him wordlessly.

  Until he said soberly, ‘Are we not being honest, open and adult, Domenica? I thought that was the object of the exercise, and you were the one who brought it up.’

  ‘I’ve just taken an instantaneous dislike to redheaded women,’ she heard herself say, with some bemusement. ‘But—’ she frowned ‘—have there been lots of women?’

  He paused, and smiled a little grimly this time. ‘Would you like me to do a headcount? Have there been lots of men in your life even if they’ve all been wimps?’

  ‘No,’ she said steadily, refusing to let her anger mount, ‘only one relationship, in fact, and it didn’t last very long. By the way, who’s refusing to be open, honest and adult now?’ she added.

  He sat up and dropped the paper to the floor. ‘Domenica, there have been some—I’m thirty-six and I have a very normal admiration for the opposite sex—but, in fact, there haven’t been “lots”, as you put it, because I’ve been too busy. And there has been no one like you.’

  He got up and came to sit on the footstool she wasn’t using and he put out his hand to rest his fingers on her cheek. ‘Some meant more than others,’ he went on quietly, ‘but not one of them did what you do to me, what we do to each other, as you said only this morning.’

  So why don’t you ask me to marry you, Angus? The question was in her mind and on her lips but she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  Then she was glad she hadn’t as he went on, ‘You may not realize this but you weren’t so far off the mark with your “Lone Ranger” comment a couple of months ago. The only things I had to rely on to get me out of the back blocks of Tibooburra were my hands and my brain, and a dream. But sometimes I look back and wonder if it was worth it.’

  ‘Why?’ she whispered, with tears she couldn’t explain in her eyes.

  ‘Why?’ He turned his head and looked into the fire. ‘S
elf-reliance is a wonderful thing, until it becomes impossible to surrender.’ He looked back into her eyes and a wry smile lit his eyes. ‘So I guess we’re two of a kind, Domenica, and that’s why it’s so devastatingly explosive between us at times.’

  She blinked and licked her lips as she digested what he’d said, the explicit and the implicit.

  But before she had a chance to make real sense of it, he said, ‘On the other hand, I’m tired, so are you and I can’t think of anything nicer than to go to bed with you—just to hold you and be warm and together. Shall we?’

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He picked her up and carried her to bed, and did just that: held her and warmed her and stroked her hair until she fell asleep.

  The next morning they carried on as normal.

  If Domenica sometimes wondered about the boy from the bush in Angus Keir, and how his upbringing had shaped him, since the man reflected it so little, there was one area where you could easily imagine him in an outback scenario, and that was on a horse.

  She rode well enough herself and had always loved horses but he was in a class of his own and so were his horses. Registered stock horses, all fillies, two were expertly trained and mouthed and a pleasure to ride. Which was what they did the next morning, Angus leading the third filly from his mount because she was still being broken in.

  He’d explained to her the paramount abilities stock horses required—temperament, agility and safety—and how these traits were not only required of working horses that drafted cattle, but made them excellent polocrosse and campdrafting horses. There was a very good market for them, which was why he’d selected the three fillies with great care because he planned to breed from them.

  She’d asked him once if he’d ever competed at campdrafting or polocrosse himself.

  They’d been riding with Luke King, the manager, at the time and he and Angus had exchanged amused glances. Then Angus had said, ‘Uh-huh. I bought my first truck with the cheque from a campdraft competition.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have been some kind of a champion at it?’ she’d queried with her head to one side.

  Luke had spat over his shoulder, and answered from beneath his beloved and battered Akubra hat, ‘Only one of the best I ever saw.’

  She’d later prised from Angus that he and Luke went all the way back to Tibooburra, and that he’d offered Luke the Lidcombe Peace job because of a broken leg that had set badly.

  This early morning, however, they were alone. She had a quilted vest over her shirt, and jeans on, but Angus didn’t seem to notice the chill and wore an old favourite, his khaki bush shirt, with his jeans. And he was talking encouragingly to the filly he was leading, as they rode into the main Hereford paddock.

  Which gave her the opportunity to watch him without having to say much. Because, despite having presented a normal demeanour, there were all sorts of questions on her mind. Of course, she acknowledged, it was a pleasure just to be able to watch him.

  He was hatless and superb. He rode his filly more with his body than his hands—you got the feeling he could ride with his hands tied behind his back—and you could see the strength in his lean, long lines. You could also hear the humour of what he was saying to the nervous filly he was leading—she was propping and rolling her eyes at the cattle—and how it was adapted to a feminine creature.

  She found herself smiling at some of the things he said, such as, ‘Sweetheart, it’s all very well to look pretty and as if you’d like to pick up your skirts and run from these strange critters, but you need to show them you can out-think them any day of the week!’ as he coaxed her along.

  Then it occurred to Domenica that she herself might be a prime example of Angus Keir’s way with women. And she forced herself to sift through what he’d said the night before. A warning? she wondered. A statement that, while things might be special between them, it was too soon to be making any plans for the future?

  She moved her shoulders restlessly. It was only three months. But had his statement meant more than that? Surely marriage and children must feature on his agenda some time? She’d seen how well he got on with the Bailey children, who were regular visitors to Lidcombe Peace now. So why was that intrinsic wariness she’d had of Angus Keir back firmly in place now?

  The only thing she resolved in the next few moments was that, however well-trained your horse was, if you were paying no attention to your riding at all you were likely to come a cropper. Which she did when a calf broke away from the herd, and her horse took off after it.

  It wasn’t a bad fall; the ground was thickly grassed and it acted as a cushion. She was only winded for a moment, then she got up to discover no broken bones, although she’d probably have some bruises. But Angus was at her side almost immediately and he dismounted, managed to handle both his horses with one hand and put the other arm around her.

  And she could feel his heart thudding through his shirt almost as hard as hers was.

  That did it, she thought later in the day, when she was home in her apartment, alone. That moment of heart-stopping concern convinced her to stop tilting at windmills as he’d once accused her of. Yes, she could accept that he’d have to make adjustments, she of all people should be able to accept that. Yes, time was what they both needed, but perhaps he more than her. So what would a little time cost her?

  Nothing, she decided. And ignored the inner voice that asked her what choice she had in the matter anyway.

  CHAPTER SIX

  FOUR months and most of winter went by.

  They had a glorious holiday together skiing at Mount Buller, and one day a month or so later Angus simply rang Domenica at work and said he was picking her up in half an hour.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I hate August,’ he said down the line.

  ‘Most people do in the southern hemisphere,’ she responded with a laugh.

  ‘Not necessarily closer to the equator.’

  ‘Well, no, I guess they even appreciate it but…so?’ She picked up a pencil and frowned at it.

  ‘Let’s just go.’

  ‘To the equator? Angus, are you sickening for something?’

  ‘Yes, for you, on a beach in a bikini on a tropical island with nothing to do but swim, eat and make love.’

  Domenica hesitated. ‘That sounds wonderful but—in half an hour? I…’ she looked around her busy studio ‘…I…mean—’

  ‘Did you not tell me your fashion empire is flourishing these days, Miss Harris?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said cautiously, ‘but even if I could just walk out at the drop of a hat, I’d have to go home and pack—’

  ‘It’s all done.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve acquired everything you need for a tropical island, which is not such a lot—Domenica, you’re not going to do the car act on me again, are you?’ he enquired plaintively.

  ‘Hang on—you mean you’ve bought me clothes?’ she asked severely.

  ‘Uh-huh. Much as I prefer you without them—well, that’s not quite true,’ he drawled down the phone. ‘Taking you out of them is one of the great pleasures of life for me, as it so happens. Had you noticed?’

  Domenica could feel the colour starting to rise in her cheeks and she looked around warily. To see that Natalie was studiously looking the other away.

  ‘I’m also the man you once told you were a slave to the—er—perfection of—or something along those lines,’ he went on conversationally. ‘Not that I would have brought it up in the normal course of events, but I happen to remember exactly what you were doing when you said that. Do you? Perhaps I can refresh your memory—’

  ‘All right,’ her voice quivered as she broke in, ‘I’ll come but if that’s not, well, blackmail I’ll eat my hat.’

  ‘Actually, it’s something else,’ he said and she could hear he was laughing. ‘So? Half an hour?’

  ‘Yes…’ She put the phone down and hesitated before turning again to Natalie. ‘I—’

  ‘Just go,’
Natalie said with an airy wave of her hand. ‘Although why you have all the luck, I have no idea. All I ever get asked out to is the movies.’

  Domenica flinched. ‘But I feel—’

  ‘Dom, I can cope, although it might be an idea to let me know where you are and how long you’ll be away. Listen, let’s just run through your diary before he arrives to sweep you off to the Tropics!’

  Domenica paused in the act of starting to say that wasn’t what she meant, and said instead, but with a curiously helpless little shrug, ‘Thanks, pal.’

  They spent five magic days and nights on Dunk Island, once home to that legendary beachcomber E. J. Banfield.

  And all her misgivings, which she had difficulty putting a name to anyway, vanished for a time beneath the magic of Dunk with its exquisite Ulysses butterflies, marvellous rainforest that you could ride through on horseback, and lovely waters and beaches. They played golf on the six-hole course, she wore his choice of clothes and bikinis serenely—not hard to do because they were lovely anyway—and she pinned hibiscus blooms in the night darkness of her hair. But for the first time she saw an Angus Keir who needed help to relax.

  ‘What is it?’ she said on their third night when she woke up to find him, not in bed beside her, but on the veranda, looking out over Brammo Bay in the moonlight.

  ‘Can’t sleep, that’s all,’ he replied when she got up to join him and slipped an arm round his waist.

  ‘Business on your mind?’

  ‘No, not really.’ He looked up towards the dark bulk of Mount Kootaloo. ‘Beachcombing, I guess. Can you imagine what it would have been like for Banfield?’

  ‘An enormous challenge, yes, also for Mrs Banfield—Bertha—to come here and start a new life, although she would have followed him to the ends of the earth from the inscription on her grave. Are you saying…’ she paused ‘…you’d like to give it all up and do something similar?’

  He rested his chin on the top of her head and she thought he sighed. ‘Sometimes it’s tempting.’