Outback Surrender

by Margaret Way

  "Yes, it does."

  "What do you suppose the reward is?" he drawled.

  "Whatever it is I'll be happy with it. It's just so exciting."

  She slid down on her back, staring up at the blue chinks of the sky through the canopy of trees. Even under the gums the heat was dense. She lifted her hands to her dewed temples. "I'd love to go for a swim." Heat was thrumming through her blood, her feelings for him so overwhelming they were a kind of terror.

  Brock! Unforgettable Brock.

  He levered himself over her, taking hold of her wrists. "Why don't we?"

  "No swimsuits." Sexual tension was in the air between them. Like a blue mist that might explosively self-ignite.

  He laughed deep in his throat. "There's not a soul around, Shelley. No one within miles. I've seen your beauliful luminous body, and you've seen mine. I haven't been able to get the image of you out of my mind. Look at that shimmering water," he urged persuasively. "It's so inviting. I always used to go skinny-dipping as a kid. We can leave our clothes on the rocks on the other side and swim together. I don't believe in allowing these magical moments to go by. Let's go." He saw her hesitation, the soft fluctuating colour in her cheeks.

  "Oh, Brock!"

  "Why so shy?" He stroked her heated face.

  "Because I am." She felt bedevilled, excited, acutely aware he knew her body intimately.

  "Okay-I like it." He smiled, but there was something very demanding in his expression. "Let's." He pulled her effortlessly to her feet.

  "What happens if someone comes?"

  He grasped her slender hips, pulling her close. "We'll dive under the water until they go away."

  "All right. Give me a minute." She inhaled sharply.

  "Sure." He gave her a long, appraising look that set her blood on fire.

  Shelley felt herself falling.. .falling.. .falling in love. In some ways it was like a freefall through space.

  CHAPTER TEN

  BROCK went first, wading through the shallows until he reached the other side.

  "Come on!"

  Shelley was still standing where he'd left her, beneath the trees, an ethereal figure in her filmy, floaty, pale yellow dress. Maybe if he rubbed his eyes she would disappear. Then he'd be alone again. Alone for the rest of his life. It didn't seem at all remarkable that he had fallen deeply iii love with her. Maybe that was the whole story of love. Instant recognition. For him, Shelley was that one young woman who separated herself from all the rest.

  She was moving quickly now, running across the sand, her sandals off, splashing across the clear water, careless of her long skirt, which would soon dry off in the heat. He took time removing his own clothes so he could watch her. The little sleeveless top came off first, then her skirt, the hem sodden. She didn't look at him. Not once. But he knew inside she was ablaze. Next off came her bra and tiny briefs.

  She made his senses reel. He might have been looking at an enchanting pastoral painting come to life. She looked both fragile and luscious, like a peach, her red-gold hair tousled and wild, tumbling down her back. The sun caught that tiny lick of russet-blonde at her flower. He vividly remembered his mouth there. She reached up to place her skirt in the sun, then threw up her head and made a rush for the water.

  "We're both crazy!" she called, the shining light all around her like an aura.

  He was crazy all right, he thought tautly. Crazy for Shelley. It took him seconds to cross to where Shelley was sunlight glistening off his skin, sculpting the taut muscles of his chest, shoulders and buttocks.

  Seeing him coming, so magnificently male, so powerful, Shelley felt an enormous pressure behind her ribcage. She could worship this man. The thought had her diving under the water in an effort to cool off, only surfacing as he came alongside.

  "Got you!" He drew her to him, feeling the thrilling impact of her body, water-slippery against the length of his. lie let his hands stroke all her curves. "How do you feel?" His eyes read her. "Am I giving you a hard time?"

  "Yes!" she whispered, keeping her eyes on his face. The black lashes that so marvellously fringed his brilliant eyes were flecked with beads of water. She pulled his head down and slid her tongue over his lower lip, not surprised when he responded masterfully, lifting her higher and kissing her passionately.

  She could feel the excitement rising in her like a wild scream. They went under, still kissing, the electricity their bodies generated spitting little gold sparks. Neither was able to resist the other, caught in the fierce grip of physical desire.

  It was so new to her. So new and rapturous. Yet with an edge of danger. She had never felt more herself and at the same time not herself at all. His. They swam a little, sending up cascades of water with their hands, always coming back to hold each other tight, their mouths fused in long intoxicating kisses, entwined in sensuality, sinking under the weight of it.

  Finally the foreplay reached a pinnacle of urgency.

  "I need you now." His glance was intense, a silver flame.

  She was ready for him, muscles clenching and unclenching deep within her body, preparing herself to receive him.

  In the shallows he lifted her high in his arms. She was so petite, so perfect to make love to. He felt humbled by the shining trust in her eyes.

  The sun moved over them, naked in their garden of Eden, the hot golden light and the dry wind already beginning to dry their hair and their skin.

  There was no drawing back. They went straight for it, the need so strong they were prepared to forget everything.

  Afterwards, satiated by their lovemaking that had entered the realm of real turbulence, Shelley drifted off to an exhausted sleep, secure in her lover's arms. It was quietude after such heart-stopping ecstasy, when she'd been a slave to her senses. Now, in the aftermath, she was held gently, her hair stroked. Within moments she was lost in her dreamscape...

  Her surroundings were recognisable. She was six again, in Wyboume's home gardens, though they looked more like a jungle, with water reeds and grasses so tall and thick in some places that they obscured the glassy pond like a green veil. She was holding Sean's hand, trying to console him. He was saying he felt sick. They were trailing well behind Amanda, trying to keep up, and Amanda was cross about something. She didn't want to mind them. She never did.

  Shelley knew this was an unreal world. She knew something unthinkable was about to happen. Sean was crying in earnest, so she stopped and put her arms around him, hugging him, trying her hardest to soothe him. Her mother always said she was the stronger twin, being the first to make her appearance into the world.

  Usually her efforts worked, but not now. It was so hot! Even with big floppy hats clamped to their heads, the sun was burning a hole in their scalps. Amanda was walking much too fast, increasing the distance between herself and them. They weren't toddlers any more, but didn't Amanda understand she wasn't to let them out of her sight?

  "Not for a minute now, Amanda," her mother had said, beaming at her precious twins.

  "Yes, yes, Mum!" Amanda was always so impatient. She said her mother could only ever think of the twins. Never her.

  "Amanda, stop!" Shelley shrieked. "Sean feels sick. Please, Amanda. Amanda!" Her cries were growing frantic. Sean was sobbing now and his cheeks were very red, burning to her touch. She expected Amanda to stop and turn around, only Amanda kept on walking however much she called.

  Sean, profoundly upset, broke away from her, saying over and over, "I want to go home." She told him to sit down in the grass and stay where he was. She was a good runner. She'd catch up with Amanda and make her come back.

  "I don't like, Mandy," Sean hiccoughed, his sweet little face strangely sweating. "I only love you, Shel." He allowed her to settle him on the grass in a shady patch, turning up his cheek when she bent to kiss it.

  "You watch how fast I run!" She tried a silly half-start, almost a dance. She hoped he would laugh but he didn't. He looked as if he was coming down with one of his little ailments.

  Wh
y was Mandy so cruel?

  "Go home," Sean muttered. "Want to go home."

  "We will; I promise. Hang on."

  Almost halfway, something made her stop. Fear. Confusion. A terrible foreboding.

  When she turned around Sean had vanished.

  Her scream almost tore the heart out of him. It was filled with so much grief, piteous and full of horror.

  "Shelley!" He wrapped her close but she struggled and struggled. She wasn't even herself when her eyes opened.

  "It was only a dream. You're safe. Your cry almost stopped my heart." He brushed the wild tangle of curls out of her eyes.

  She tried to gather herself but her heart was pounding so much it hurt her.

  "Give yourself a minute." She was obviously deeply distressed.

  "Sean," she managed after a while. "I was dreaming about Sean."

  He turned her into his arms, subject to his own excruciating dreams.

  "I've never been able to remember that day clearly." She clung to his shoulder. "Only Mum screaming. It's all been shrouded in mystery. Amanda said I pushed him-"

  He was furious at this. He held it down, though his jaw clenched. "Your sister is one cruel bitch. I'd stake my life you did nothing of the kind."

  "I didn't. I remember now. Sean was feeling sick. Amanda had walked away from us. She was a long way off. She didn't want to be bothered with her little brother and sister. I told Sean to sit down on the grass and wait while I ran to get her. He wanted to go home. I should have taken him then, but Mum said we had to stay with Amanda. She didn't stay with us. I ran, but when I turned around my twin had disappeared. I never thought of the water. Sean didn't like the water. He never went near it. I could swim. He couldn't. But it was so hot."

  As she spoke she began to cry, tears pouring down her face.

  "Let it out," he bade her, holding her tight.

  "Sean died," she said in a voice so poignant his eyes stung. "It wasn't an accident. Between us, Mandy and me, we let Sean drown."

  "Never, Shelley," he said, his gaze deep in hers. "God just called him home."

  Eula insisted on returning with Brock in the four-wheel drive rather than wait for Philip to fly the chopper in to collect her. Though Brock tried to talk Eula out of it-he considered the trip too long and tiring for her-she was adamant she'd rather travel with him any day.

  At the pub, the three of them had gone over and over the events of Rex Kingsley's last day on earth. But Eula, distress showing in her eyes, simply could not recall where she had hidden the handwritten will.

  "I could have sworn it was in that big Chinese vase, but it wasn't."

  "Maybe someone discovered it?" Shelley decided dismally. "If it was Philip's mother, she'd destroy it."

  "Mr Kingsley signed it," Eula insisted doggedly. "I mightn't have known what was in it, but I know that much. If Maitland said he didn't he's a liar. 'Course, it's my word against his-and who'd believe silly old me before him, the big-shot lawyer?"

  What they all needed was a miracle.

  At Mulgaree homestead Brock found the household in an uproar because nobody could find the great key that locked the heavy double doors of the mausoleum. The interment was the following morning. An Anglican bishop was flying in to conduct the service.

  "Shoot the bloody lock," Brock advised, feeling dreadful about the whole business.

  "We might have to," Philip agreed helplessly. "I wonder what happened to the key? It was big enough not to get lost. Did I dream it or was it always in the top right-hand drawer of Grandfather's desk? I haven't seen it for years. Eula might know."

  Eula didn't; she was too busy cursing herself for not being able to remember. Why was she so certain the will was in the big Chinese vase? The vase alone was worth thousands and thousands.

  "You saw Shelley in town. Is she all right?" Philip tried to get his cousin's attention, but Brock looked grim and unapproachable.

  "Why wouldn't she be all right?" Brock countered.

  "Something funny is going on," Philip confided. "I rang the house and spoke to Amanda. Lord, I don't like her. What's Shelley doing staying in town?"

  "Maybe she's had a gutful of her family," Brock said bluntly.

  "I want her at the service."

  "I don't. Leave her alone."

  "You're grumpy, aren't you?" Philip said. "Grumpy? What the hell are you talking about?"

  "I'm referring to your mood. You are such a moody person."

  "You don't think I have cause?" Brock looked at his cousin with open contempt and disbelief. "God, you're an idiot."

  "There's no need to swear."

  "Oh, for God's sake, Philip, shut up. If we can't find the key we'll have to shoot the lock."

  In the end Brock had to do it, Philip was too concerned with thoughts of desecration. Both young men were in a kind of anguish, with the pall of death hanging over them, the massive disruption caused by argument over the authenticity of the will and the enduring misfortunes of the house of Kingsley.

  Having opened the great door, Brock stood well back, as if he couldn't bear to go in. "I'll wait here."

  "Come in with me, please." Philip, too, had dewed to a halt. "This is one hell of a scary place."

  "It was your idea." Brock shrugged ironically. "You can still call it off. You know perfectly well what our grandfather's wishes were. I expect he hid the key. He didn't want anyone to come here."

  "No one would have. Only he died."

  It was so dark inside they really needed a torch. Aaron Kingsley's ornate raised tomb, white marble, like the floor. lay in the centre of the crypt, under the bulb-dome. The whiteness of the marble was lending some illumination.

  "I suppose we should say a prayer," Philip said, his voice echoing hollowly.

  "You say it. It won't help your father now."

  "This place worries me," Philip moaned. "It smells like it's been closed up for a thousand years. Do you suppose it was guilt that made Grandfather build it? He never treated my father well-or any of us, for that matter." He looked towards his cousin, but Brock wasn't answering. Why wasn't he?

  Brock, who had characteristically moved ahead, had fallen to his knees, staring down at something that lay behind Aaron Kingsley's tomb.

  "No-o-o-o!" A great voice poured out of him, so primeval, so tortured, it ran an icy hand down Philip's spine.

  "Brock, what is it?" Philip almost collapsed in shock, but recovered himself, stumbling to his cousin's side, though Brock turned his head to cry out a warning.

  They both instinctively knew whose skeleton it was. And they both knew who had put the perfectly round hole in the skeleton's skull.

  Philip, his face a mask of horror, turned and ran, barely making it outside before he began to retch his heart out.

  How evil was the man he'd called Grandfather?

  Inside the mausoleum Brock, his eyes closed, began to offer up the prayers he'd withheld for half his lifetime. This was his father, who'd once been young and handsome and strong. He had to hold onto his memories. He was at once a boy again, with tears sliding from beneath his lids. His father hadn't deserted them. He'd been here all along.

  Spine-chilling horror turned to tremendous anxiety. "What are we going to do about this?" Philip, ashen-faced, looked apprehensively towards the house. "It's your father. It must be."

  "It couldn't be anyone else," Brock responded, pressing both hands to his throbbing temples. "Even if he hadn't been wearing that medal around his neck I'd have known. My mother made him wear that to protect him." He gave a laugh so grim Philip shuddered. "Damn him to hell!"

  They both knew who "him" was.

  The cousins were sitting, in shock, on the stone steps that led up to the mausoleum, the great doors now firmly shut.

  "I can't find the words to express how sorry I am, Brock." Philip shook his head in despair. "So very sorry. There's no way any of us can make it up to you. We simply have to live with it. As a family, we're cursed."

  "It seems like it," Brock answere
d in a blighted voice.

  "What's going to happen when we make this public?" Philip asked, his voice terribly disturbed. "I can't bear to tell my mother. I don't even trust her. I'd hate Maitland to know. This will do frightful things to our family. To our name."

  "Some family." Brock tried to focus his mind on all the consequences of their grim discovery. "Give me time to think this out. Kingsley is dead. The law can't touch him. But one thing I'll make clear. You're not going to put him in the mausoleum. That really would be a desecration. You'll tell your mother you've decided against it."