by Laura Parker
What will I do? The question hung unanswered in her mind. The revelation that had come to her as she lay wide-eyed beside her husband was that this was how her life would be from now on, for the rest of their lives, until one of them died. How was she to endure it?
You’ve been defeated, my girl, she thought sadly. She would lie beside him but spurn his advances until he grew tired of her or she gave up the struggle. Either way, she was lost…because he did not and never would love her.
The answer was so simple she did not know why she had not discovered the source of her fear much sooner. From the first she had been attracted to him. The first sight of him had been like gazing on a glorious sunset or a magnificent oak, or the face of a man she could love.
But what was she to him? She was chattel, no better than his horse or sheep or shirt: there when he had a need for her, but uncherished and unmourned in his absence.
The sharp pain of loneliness knifed down between her ribs and she bent forward, covering her eyes with her hands, and wept.
Colleen?
The whispering of the wind across the treetops was louder than the voice, but Aisleen stilled, tears still seeping between her fingers.
Colleen?
She held her breath, waiting for the moment to pass. It was not possible. After all these years, it was not possible.
Colleen?
The third sigh of her name contained within it a heartbeat, and Aisleen jerked her hands away from her eyes.
In the yard below the faint glimmer of a white shirtfront was visible under the ebon shadow of a tree. A breeze brushed past her cheek, carrying in it the scent of roses. And then he was close beside her, so close she could feel the life breath of him warming the night air.
She did not realize when she gained her feet or even when she left the room, tripping down the stairs in only her nightgown. But suddenly dew pearled her bare feet as she hurried toward the spectral shadow.
At first she thought he had disappeared, the glowing white lost in the violet shadings of night. But then the blackest shadow moved, the shape of a man separating from the ethereal opacity of darkness.
“Bouchal?” Aisleen questioned softly.
He paused, an alert silhouette.
Neither moved, each frozen in uncertainty. She thought he quickened first, but perhaps it was she. Suddenly she was in his arms, the arms of safekeeping.
*
Thomas awakened to the strange sensation of soft, cool lips plying his. One moment he held the soft, warm, womanly body of his wife in his arms. The next his eyes were open, and he knew he slept alone.
She stood by the window, a tensely erect figure staring out into the night.
“Aisleen?”
She did not move.
“Aisleen!” he called more sharply.
She jerked at the sound and then swayed as though she would swoon.
The clear, pure scent of roses, sharper than even the soap fragrance, enveloped him as he leapt from the bed to catch her. She did not quite collapse but rather leaned her weight fully against him as he embraced her, so that the swollen buds of her nipples thrust against his bare chest and the soft curve of her belly hugged his bare loins.
“It’s all right, lass,” he crooned into her ear. “Whatever it is, ’tis all right.” He did not know why he said that, for he did not know what she thought or felt, only that she trembled as though emotion too big for her body sought release. He adjusted her in his arms, one hand going to the small of her back to press her lightly against him, the other bracing the width of her shoulders.
Aisleen squeezed her eyes tightly shut, not wanting to allow Thomas in but unable to deny the harder, rougher embrace that had replaced…
She raised her head and craned it around toward the windows. Nothing, no one stood in the shadow of the tree below. It was gone. A dream. With a sigh of defeat, she sagged bonelessly against him.
Thomas scooped her up and carried her back to bed. She was cold to the touch, her skin chilled. He briskly rubbed her hands between his rough palms and then tucked her beneath the bedding, adding the warmth of his kiss to her unresponsive lips.
The sweet aching that had begun with another’s kiss lurked just under her skin, the careless brush of a finger enough to ignite it. It was the source of her body’s betrayal during the dark hours of their wedding night. She could feel again the strummed vibrations of her wanton nature as her husband’s hand moved up under her gown to the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. A deep moan of pleasure shuddered past her lips.
Thomas’s self-discipline broke. He had to have her. She was his wife. He would take her gently, gently…if he could.
He climbed into the bed, lifting her gown up to bare her hips. Lush skin trembled under his touch, the subtle curve of her belly a tender swelling that he could not resist kissing. The sweet steam of her body filled his senses with attar of roses, fragrant musk, and woodland mosses. The taste of tears and sweat and salt became the sea, the sea that he knew from childhood. Desire twisted down tighter in his loins.
He moved quickly over her, prying her reluctant limbs apart with a firm but cautious hand. When he knelt between her thighs, a fleeting feeling of anxiety spun through him. The first time the amorous intoxication of rum had made him too eager. This time he would go slowly, gently, and pray that she would in some measure understand the gesture.
Aisleen clawed the bed as he entered her, the slow penetration more a torment than a torture. She knew the exact moment when her body relaxed enough to accommodate him. This was not invasion but a filling of the sweetly swollen center of her, a hidden void she had never before suspected.
Nails digging deeper into the tick, she bit her lip to keep from answering with loud cries of pleasure his deep, hard, slow thrusts. The instinctive need of her body to rise and meet him answered them instead.
Perspiration broke from their bodies, bathing them in the slick wash of the emotional tsunami which he rode gratefully and she struggled to comprehend.
The cresting came too soon for both, but they rode together the bursting, foaming wave of desire.
Later, when he found the strength to move, he pulled her close and tucked her tenderly to him.
*
Thomas lay for a long time watching the indistinct silhouette until he was certain she slept. When satisfied, he rose and went to the window to look out.
The night was still, the faint whispering of leaves in the eddy of mountain breezes the only sound and movement beyond the window.
Give to these children, new from the world,
Rest far from men.
—A Faery Song
W. B. Yeats
Chapter Thirteen
Aisleen wiped the perspiration from her face, lifting aside the veil she had adopted to keep her face from becoming more sunburned. Ahead the drovers had brought the sheep to a halt when on the road beyond an argument had erupted. Beside her, the cook sawed on the traces as the pair of bullocks who now drew their wagon bawled in protest and lumbered to a stop. Stock whip still in hand, the cook jumped down from the wagon and ran toward the fray.
She did not watch. During the morning, there had been innumerable arguments among the travelers over the right of way on the mountain road. After the first few, she realized that the frays ended as quickly as they began.
The general profanity of the argument subsided quickly as Aisleen gazed about. Over the last few days, she had become inured to the crudities and blasphemies of the men among whom she lived, but she had not grown accustomed to the startling beauty and breath-arresting sights of the Blue Mountains.
In the beginning, she had been amazed by the number of people and vehicles traveling west. They had been alone during the first leg of their journey from Sydney. Now that they had reached the mountains they were frequently overtaken by wagonettes full of waving children and grim-faced parents, horsemen in expensively cut coats and finely tooled boots, and itinerant workers on foot. Once an overland coach had rumbled past,
its passengers hanging on for fear of their lives. One and all, the cook had informed her in one of his rare moments of speech, they were headed for the goldfields, with names like Blackman’s Creek, Ophir, Hill End, and Mookerawa, which lay west of the mountains.
The road was far from the fine highway she had expected. The narrow passage through the towering peaks was often harrowingly steep. Once they lost half a dozen sheep when a sudden noise sent them stampeding over the edge of a sharp turn in the road.
In reality, the mountains were not blue at all. The vertical cliffs that seemed at times to run straight to the sky were sand-colored sandwiches of stone streaked rust-red or impurpled brown. A blue haze rose from the thickly wooded bush of the lower elevations. The oily green fragrance had been pleasant at first, but after a few hours, she began to feel as though she were trapped inside a closet pomander. Today the strong aromatic odor hung heavily in the air above the canyons. Nearby the strange laughter from what the drovers called “bleedin’ kookaburra birds” could be heard in the underbrush.
“G’day, lass.”
Aisleen nodded shyly and stared ahead as Thomas stopped beside the wagon. Since they had left the community at the base of the mountains, they had not exchanged more than a dozen words. She slept alone in the back of the cook wagon, while he spent his nights with the drovers. Nothing seemed changed.
Yet everything had changed inside her. She could not look at him now without the desire to be truly loved by him rising uppermost in her mind. The knowledge left her profoundly shaken and more wary than ever before. He could not know of her feelings, yet she knew that he sensed a difference in her. There was an enigmatic question in his gaze. It was not lust or impatience or cockiness, but a quixotic question which she could not decipher.
“We’re coming out of the worst of it,” he offered with a ghost of his old smile. He looked distinctly uncomfortable as he said, “Would ye care to ride a bit?”
Aisleen nodded again, and the brilliant smile that she received in reward set her heart knocking against her ribs. The strength of her reaction embarrassed her. She was truly and thoroughly distracted to react so to his pleasure.
He moved his horse alongside the seat and reached for her hand to guide her. She slipped easily onto the horse’s broad flanks and, without any encouragement from him, adjusted her skirts.
“Ye’re nae afraid this time,” he commented over his shoulder. “’Tis good to know ye trust me.”
It was a simple statement, but she realized the truth of it as he turned his horse and sent them cantering down the road. She did trust him about many things. It was herself that she had begun to doubt.
They did not travel far before Thomas slowed and turned his horse off the highway and down into a shallow gully. At once, they were plunged into the shadows of the surrounding forest. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of spindly, pale-limbed trees and became a pale green opaline haze illuminating the underbrush.
“I’ve something to show ye that I discovered the last time through,” he said. “For meself, I cannae think of a more pleasant way to spend any part of a day.”
He reached back to pat his saddlebag and instead found the shapely thigh of his wife under his hand. He felt her stiffen but thought better of apologizing. “Ye’re tempting, lass, and more tender than the gentlest lamb, I’d be swearing, but ’twas a joint of mutton I was reaching for.” Reluctantly he moved his hand past her thigh to the leather pouch.
Aisleen said nothing. She could not think of a thing to say with the impression of his hand still tingling warmly on her skin. Why did she feel so giddy, so near laughter?
I am growing quite dizzy with the heat, she told herself, but that was not the truth. The shaded canyon was much cooler than the sunlit road. It was Thomas and his carefree manner that made her want to smile.
“Do ye like adventures?” he questioned as they picked a path through the strange forest.
“I do,” she admitted. “Are we to have an adventure?”
The disarming question made Thomas reach down and place a hand over her laced fingers splayed across his stomach. “As much as ye’d like.”
A burst of clear, sweet music from the forest redirected Aisleen’s attention from his hand. “What was that?”
“A magpie most likely,” he answered, idly brushing his thumb back and forth across the back of her hand. “Keep watch in the lower branches, and ye may be surprised.”
“What sort of surprise?” she asked, remembering the dark eyes along the Parramatta River.
“Are ye afraid of the forest? Or is it only creatures with bright eyes in the dark that ye’re afeared of?” he suggested with laughter.
“I made a fool of myself, falling in the river.”
“Did ye think so, lass? I’d never have thought that, what with ye so angry with me method of saving ye.”
“I was ungrateful. I apologize.”
He turned in the saddle to look at her. “Did I hear ye right?”
Caught unprepared for the brilliance of his smile, she heard an unusual huskiness in her voice. “I apologize for shouting at you. Thank you for saving my life.”
“Musha! I never expected anything so surprising as that!”
In the face of his teasing, she grew more ashamed than ever. She had been thoroughly churlish about the incident. “I am sorry,” she murmured.
“No more, lass! Ye’ll have me believing that I’ve tamed yer temper with no more than a ride through the woods.” He winked at her and turned around.
Contented to allow him the last word, she turned her attention to the forest once again. The day was far from silent. The chirping of unseen insects, the strange dialects of unknown birds, and the soft squelch of the horse’s hooves all reverberated under the high roofing of the forest. After a few minutes, a bright shaft of sunlight appeared between the rows of tree trunks, and Thomas urged their horse in that direction. All at once, they were thrust back into the sunlight and into a scene of wild, exotic beauty that was set between the steep walls of a red stone canyon.
Ropy vines high in the pale branches of the eucalyptus bound together the boughs which overhung the clearing. Huge ferns grew like trees on thick trunks while their lazy cousins matted the canyon floor and framed the branches of brilliant orchids wedged in the half-shadows of sprawling tree roots. Other trees thrust spikes of pink blossoms above the crowns of their branches. Tumbled canyon outcroppings formed a colorful backdrop for the great sprays of yellow blossoms rising from the slender, pendant leaves of trees the drovers called wattles. Even the deepest underbrush was faint green and flower-tinted.
Thomas dismounted by lifting his leg over the horse’s head. Smiling, he reached for her.
For an instant, he held her suspended, and the grin on his face told her that he was well pleased with his display of strength and her acceptance of his help. And then her feet touched the ground and his hands left her waist. He had done nothing more than was courteous and acceptable, yet she understood his purpose. He enjoyed touching her and wanted to continue to do so. She turned away, her breath hemmed in by disquiet that was not displeasure.
“Mind yer step,” he cautioned. “Ground’s uneven.”
Aisleen slipped her hand into the one he extended and followed his lead as he lifted back a branch to allow them to pass. It was more quiet in the sun than in the forest, and gradually a merry tinkling made itself heard.
“There’s water here!” Aisleen said as she looked up from concentrating on the path.
“Aye.” He pointed ahead.
For a moment it was hidden by sunlight, so bright all else receded into optical shadows. Then she realized the source of the silver-bright flash. Forty feet above, a single silver-tinseled stream of water broke from a crevice in the canyon lip. Turning, twisting, tripping like precious molten metal, it fell into a pool between the rocks, which swallowed it in a gurgling hiss.
“A waterfall!” She approached the shallow, crystalline pool showing mossy pebbles at
its heart. Seeking ever lower ground, the pool spilled over at one end and dashed over tumbled rocks and disappeared.
Kneeling on a rock, she dipped a hand in and brought a palmful of water to her lips. The bracingly cold drink tingled her teeth. When she was done she pressed her cool hand to her brow and then to each cheek.
“Too bad ye cannae enjoy yerself properly,” Thomas said as he stood beside her
She looked up at him. “Why not?”
“Well, first ye would be needing to set aside yer bonnet.”
She reached up, untied the bow under her chin, and removed her bonnet.
“And slippers—though being a proper lady, ye may nae wish to pad about in the mountains without yer brogans.”
She thought only a moment before sitting back on the flat surface of the rock and lifting her skirts to reach the lacing of her boots.
“Allow me,” he offered and bent on one knee. His fingers skillfully plucked the laces, and then he lifted one foot to slip the boot free. “Musha! Ye’ve a wee foot and, what’s more, ye’ve deceived me!” He held up the narrow, high-heeled boot and measured the two-inch heel with his fingers. There was a fierce scowl on his face as he looked up at her. “Ye’re nae so tall as I believed!”
Aisleen pinkened. “It is the style at home.”
“Aye, well,” he grumbled as if resisting her attempt to mollify him. He slipped the second boot off and laid it beside the first. “A pity ye’re so proper. There’s nothing to compare on a warm day with paddling about in a stream.”
Aisleen studied the tips of her black cotton stockings for, as she expected, there was a glittering in his eyes when she met his blue gaze again. As she bent to reach under her skirts his hand was there first, resting lightly on her knee. “I can do it myself,” she said quickly.
“Aye, but ye’d nae get half the pleasure from it that I will,” he answered in a voice that made her wish she had remained on the wagon seat beside the cook.
