by Laura Parker
“You’ll get the right of it,” the major assured her. “If you are not being met, please permit me to…” His voice trailed away as he spied his wife on the deck of the Black Opal. “Sarah! Sarah Scott! Pardon me a moment, Miss Fitzgerald,” he called over his shoulder as he started toward the pier.
It happened so quickly Aisleen could not prevent herself from falling to her knees when she was shoved roughly in the back. The next instant, her purse was snatched from her wrist.
“My purse!” she cried indignantly as she scrambled to her feet. “That boy—oh! There he goes! Stop him! Stop him!” Without waiting for aid, she started after the thief. All her money and the address of her employer were in that purse. If she lost it, she would be destitute and helpless.
“Let me pass!” she cried to those who crowded the quay. To her dismay, the thief s path was opening up before him as if by magic while the seamen in her way did not move aside but stood grinning at her. They were deliberately allowing the boy to escape!
“Out of my way!” she ordered again and tried to elbow her way through the wall of sailors. When they did not comply, without hesitation she stamped the pointed heel of her leather boot hard on the instep of the man nearest her. The burly man reeled away with a yelp of pain, and she dove through the opening he left.
Her height served her well, for it allowed her to keep sight of the boy. But, hampered by the weight of her many petticoats and the rubbery-kneed feeling left from having been a long time at sea, she could not keep up with him, and he quickly outdistanced her.
“Oh, no!” she whispered in dismay when he rounded the corner of a warehouse. Gasping for breath, she reached the corner only to find that he had disappeared. It was gone, all of it: her money, her instructions, and the crystal brooch her mother had given her. Anger swept her as she turned away from the empty alley. “Damn! Damn! Damn!”
“Do you hear that, laddie? The lass must be a fearsome dragon, for all she looks a lady.”
Aisleen looked up at the sound of the amused masculine voice with the caressing lilt of an Irish brogue. The next instant her gaze locked with the vivid blue of a stranger’s and she felt her world compress to the limits of those incredibly bright eyes.
A wild tangle of black beard hid half his face, and a hat with turned-down brim cast a shadow low on his brow. She could smell the unpleasant musky odor of dirt and sweat and sheep emanating from his worn and stained clothes. Yet, for a moment, something as familiar and comforting as a childhood memory rose to mind.
A scent like heather borne on a breeze from the Irish Sea suddenly enveloped her with poignant sweetness, faint at first and then nearly overwhelming in its pungency. The shadows of home reached out to her…
The sensation vanished more quickly than her senses could record it, and an instant later Aisleen realized that the bushman held her thief firmly by the hair. “You caught him!”
“That I did,” the stranger replied, easily avoiding the kicks and blows the boys aimed at him. “What will ye have me do with him, then?”
She frowned at the boy. He was not as large as she had thought. He was nothing more than a filthy assortment of rags and angular bones topped by a thatch of sun-bleached hair.
“Don’t hurt him,” she cautioned when the boy finally landed a blow high on his captor’s thigh and the man retaliated by smacking the flat of his hand against the side of the boy’s head.
The stranger gave her a hard glance. “Hadn’t ye better make up yer mind?” He jerked a cry of pain from the boy in an effort to restrain him. “Ye were giving fair chase after the lad. Was it to thank him for relieving ye of this?”
Aisleen looked at the purse he held out. “Thank you,” she said with heartfelt relief. Careful not to touch the stranger’s hand, she took it. When he smiled at her she knew he understood her reluctance to touch him and was amused by the fact. That annoyed her, and she turned quickly to the boy, her expression severe.
“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? What would your parents think were they to learn of your thievery? Do you realize what sort of impression your conduct makes on new arrivals?”
Before she could guess his intent, the boy kicked her in the shin. With a sharp cry of pain, she stepped back.
A rude guffaw exploded from the black tangle of the man’s beard. “Ye’re wasting yer breath, m’um.” He shook the boy roughly until Aisleen’s teeth hurt in sympathy for the child, and then he gave the boy a box on the ear before releasing him. “Off with ye!”
The boy’s feet had scarcely touched the ground before he swung back on Aisleen with a hiss of fury. “Ye bloody pommie slut!”
This time, Aisleen was prepared, and her eyes narrowed in challenge as she hoisted her parasol. “Touch me again and I’ll thrash you myself,” she said in a tone she would never have used with a well-behaved child.
The boy hesitated, his widened eyes darting to the bearded man and then back to the lady. He was not accustomed to ladies who gave chase. Most often, they could be counted on to scream and faint when he robbed them.
“Bleedin’ pommie sow!” he called over his shoulder as he turned and ran.
“Keep away from the wharf or I’ll have you arrested!” Aisleen called back.
“Good on ye!” the bearded man voiced in approval. “Threats are all he understands. As for his parents, wouldn’t doubt their acquaintance was above an evening’s.”
Aisleen blushed at the crude remark. Because he had saved her purse, that did not mean that the bushman had the right to be familiar. “I thank you for your timely intervention,” she replied in the same superior tone she had used with the major. “This should answer for your trouble.” She opened her purse and offered him a coin.
She saw a flash of anger in his eyes as his gaze moved from the coin in her gloved palm to her face. Then his gaze moved down over the voluminous skirts of her navy blue traveling dress. A slow smile formed in his nest of beard as his gaze wandered back to her face. The smile widened in response to some huge joke that he did not share with her. To her astonishment, he reached out and pulled one of her curls which had come loose in the chase. “Can ye do no better, lass?”
Aisleen stepped back and self-consciously put a hand to her bonnet, only to realize that it had slipped from her head during the chase and now dangled by its ribbons down her back. Her hair, which had been carefully coiled into buns on either side of her head, had slid free of its pins and cascaded over her shoulders. Hastily she retrieved her bonnet and set it on her head.
“Do nae hide yer glory, lass,” he said softly. “’Tis bonny fine hair ye have. ’Tis the color of a sunset in the back of beyond.”
She ignored the dubious assessment of her charms and turned away. Relief swept through her as she spied the figure of Major Scott bearing down on them.
“Good heavens, Miss Fitzgerald! You shouldn’t have chased that larrikin!” He sounded winded as he reached her side. “A lady, alone in an alley—you cannot possibly imagine what might happen.”
The major’s scolding only added fuel to Aisleen’s embarrassment. “Nonsense, Major! I am quite accustomed to dealing with children. Besides, I was hardly alone. I have Mr.—” Aisleen fell silent as she turned and found the bearded stranger had disappeared. “Why, that’s odd. Where did he go?”
“The bushman, do you mean?” the major asked. “I saw him. No doubt he thought better of braving an English officer. Did he make overtures to you, Miss Fitzgerald?”
“Overtures?” Aisleen repeated in mystification. “I should think not! He caught my thief.” She held up her purse as proof.
The major was not impressed. “Miss Fitzgerald, if you are to get on in the colony you must remain on your guard. That man might have been the thief s accomplice. They may have plotted together to snatch your purse to lure you away from the dock. Good God!” he cried, forgetting that he was in the presence of a lady. “You might have been stolen out from under my very nose.”
“Stolen for what purpose?” Aisleen
asked skeptically as she readjusted her bonnet.
Major Scott’s startled gaze rested on her a moment. Could she really not guess the reason? Her appearance was that of a pleasant but plain spinster lady, yet surely some man had once pursued her? And now, with her bonnet askew, her cheeks flushed, and the most remarkable red curls tumbling from beneath her bonnet, she was quite a fetching picture. All the more reason, perhaps, that he should admonish her.
“Miss Fitzgerald, I must be frank. Do not assume that life in New South Wales will be a pastoral idyll. There is civility among the city population but, unfortunately, you’ve already witnessed the other sort.”
Aisleen heard the censure of her behavior with faint irritation. “I suppose you refer to the man who saved my purse when no one else would.”
The major’s cheeks reddened. “Perhaps, Miss Fitzgerald, I am less than fair in his case. But I warn you, do not be deceived by the rogues of Sydney. Men like those who greet the arriving ships and this bushman who saved your purse are not bound by the rules of decent society. They consider any female without male protection fair game.” He did not see the gathering storm in Aisleen’s expression or he would not have continued. “In any case, you would not wish to consort with convicts.”
This declaration silenced Aisleen’s intended remark about her lack of interest in a husband. “Surely you do not refer to the man who saved my property?”
“I do, Miss Fitzgerald,” he continued. “Many a bushman and jackeroo is the descendant of convicts. He may be an ex-convict himself.”
Aisleen glanced back at the deserted alley. The man was an Irishman. Had he once been a rebel transported for crimes against the English Crown? The thought both appalled her and piqued her curiosity, but it was not the major’s business what she thought.
“Well, Major, I can say I’ve survived my first adventure in the colony,” she declared with a sense of humor the major had not suspected.
“Indeed you have, miss,” he answered with an arched brow. He had misjudged her in more matters than one, it seemed. “We should return to the quay. I must collect my wife, and you have your bags to look to.”
As they retraced their steps Aisleen could not forget that pair of mocking eyes of brilliant blue. Was it admiration that shone in the bushman’s gaze? Was it because she had given chase to the thief or merely because she, a lady, had spoken to him?
Aisleen smiled. The major’s declarations about wife-hungry bushmen were beginning to influence her reasoning. The bushman had been amused by her disheveled appearance. And yet, she remembered with surprising pleasure, he had paid her a careless compliment about her hair; and she had been flattered. That in itself was remarkable enough to make him memorable.
The remembered scent of heather stirred briefly m her mind. “Is there a flower garden nearby, Major?” she asked absently.
Major Scott burst into laughter. “How could one tell when the air reeks of the docks?”
Aisleen did not answer. She was mistaken, of course. It was the Irishman’s brogue that had brought back memories of rolling green hills spiked with fragrant wild flowers. She was homesick and more than a little unsettled by the events of the last minutes. The reminder of home had been welcome. As for the bushman himself, he was no doubt the rogue Major Scott pegged him as. Only a fool or a pitiable spinster would allow herself to dwell on the hollow flirtations of a stranger.
When Major Scott had led her to her baggage Aisleen realized that she did not even know which step to take next. She knew nothing about the people for whom she had come eleven thousand miles to work. She had only a name and an address, thanks to the bushman’s quick action. “I have an address here,” she said crisply as she pulled the letter from her purse. “If you will find a hansom cab for me—oh, dear, there is such a thing, isn’t there?”
“Indeed there is, Miss Fitzgerald,” the major assured her.
“Miss Fitzgerald?” repeated a middle-aged woman who stood nearby. She turned to Aisleen. “Are you Miss Alice Fitzgerald of Dublin?”
“I am,” Aisleen answered.
The woman extended a gloved hand. “My name is Mrs. Freeman. I am from Hyde Park Barracks. Welcome to Sydney.”
Aisleen shook the woman’s hand. “Thank you. Did Mrs. Britten send you?”
The woman nodded. “You are to come with me until arrangements can be made for you.”
Before Aisleen could question her further, Mrs. Freeman signaled a young boy to begin loading Aisleen’s baggage onto a cart. “Come along now, we’ve kept the others waiting.”
Aisleen looked up at the wagon onto which her bags were being piled and recognized one of her cabin mates from the ship. The girl smiled and offered her hand, but the major suddenly grasped Aisleen about the waist and lifted her up.
Aisleen looked back at the major with a slight frown. “I was quite capable, but I thank you, Major Scott, for everything. Give my farewells to your lady wife.”
“Righto!” Major Scott answered with a wave. As the wagon rolled away he brought his hands together as he had around Aisleen’s waist and grinned at the narrowness of the span. Nineteen inches and not a fraction more, with hair the color of flame; surely he had misjudged the young woman.
*
Sally Wilks smiled warmly at the man who entered the Cross and Crown, one of Sydney’s more notorious drinking establishments. Amid the cluster of sailors and dock workers who filled the tavern, the man in moleskin britches and broad-brimmed hat struck a definite contrast. Anyone watching would have known instantly that he was in from the bush. But for her the sight had a special significance. After two years’ absence, Tom Gibson was back in town.
At a little above average height, he was not the biggest man in the room, and he suffered from time to time with a gimpy leg; but he was as tough as any of them. She had known him to drink a roomful of seamen under the table and still complete a twelve-hour shift on the shearing floor of Parramatta, fifteen miles away, the next day.
Sally’s gaze traveled over the solid muscles clearly outlined beneath his soft gray trousers. A clean plaid shirt clothed the upper portion of his work-toughened body. As he lifted his broad-brimmed hat, revealing a head of thick glossy black hair, her stomach jumped nervously. He had not changed. He was handsomer than ever.
She waited for him every shearing season, wondering if he had married or died during the intervening year. When he had not returned last spring, she had canvassed the few drovers and swagmen who came to the Cross and Crown for news of him. From them she had learned that he now owned a station in the north near Armidale. Some said he would soon be as wealthy as any man in the colony. Most important of all, he had not yet wed.
Anticipation tingled through Sally. She did not care. She would marry him be he swagman, sundowner, or shearer. She had been a child when they met, and because of him, she had never given herself to any of the men who frequented the public house. From the first, her heart had been fixed on Tom. This year she meant to have him.
“’Ere! Sally! There’s a swab dyin’ o’ thirst!” shouted one of the sailors at a nearby table.
“Shove off!” Sally called back, but she moved to draw the man a fresh pint. “’E’s a two-pot screamer, that one,” she muttered. Couldn’t hold his liquor worth tuppence, but he was a steady customer.
When she had delivered the order, she saw that Tom had propped his feet on the table. His chin had dropped forward against his chest, and she knew he had fallen asleep.
A few moments later, she was beside him with a tumbler of ale and a plate of stew. “Long season, luv?” she questioned softly and gently shook his shoulder.
At the unexpected touch, Thomas reached automatically for the pistol he kept tucked in his waistband. An instant later, he eased back in his chair. “Hullo, Sally! Didn’t see ye when I came in. Thought ye’d deserted me for another man.”
“Evenin’s young,” she answered in the thick Cockney accent which betrayed her origins. “A girl must earn ’er keep.” She leane
d forward to set the stew before him and then curved her hand against his cheek to stroke his beard. “Ouch! Ye’re as prickly as a porcupine, ye are. ’Twould give a girl a rash.”
As she bent forward to place his meal before him, her full-swelling breasts snagged Thomas’s attention. Her skin was as white as goose down, and the edge of one ruby crest peeked over the edge of her low-cut bodice. She had been a scrawny child when they met, and he continued to think of her as a mere lass. As she straightened, his gaze moved first to her narrow waist, then her gently flaring hips. That was no longer true. A sudden stirring in his loins reminded him of how long he had been without a woman.
A secret smile softened the corners of his mouth. He had nearly forgotten the grazier’s wife up on the Lachkan River. They had had a single night; but she had been as lonely as he, and the sleepless night had seen him well-satisfied…until now.
His gaze met Sally’s and he saw that she was aware of the drift of his thoughts and, more, was not averse to them. Reaching up to scratch his jaw, he drawled, “Could be I’m willing to shave this off—for a proper reason.”
Desire surged through Sally, tingling in her breasts and loins. Long ago, her mum had told her that the Black Irish—with their black hair and blue eyes—were the best company a woman could want. She meant to find out for herself. “For tuppence, I’ll rid ye of the itch.”
“Certain ye know how to treat a man?” he asked doubtfully.
“I know a trick or two,” Sally replied, but she did not meet his eyes. If he laughed at her blatant invitation, she was certain she would die.
“Surprise me,” Thomas answered and reached for his fork.
Sally’s gaze lit upon his hands, the palms horn-hard with calluses, and a jab of jealousy dug at her. The men of the Outback were notoriously high-spirited, playing fast and loose with the women of the settlements and then disappearing into the bush. She would have to find a way to keep Tom from going walkabout. That was why she had saved herself. Once he knew for certain that she was a good girl, he would have to do right by her.
