Her Australian Cattle Baron

by Margaret Way

  “This is your business, Marigold,” she said, almost pitying her adoptive sister. “It would be a cruelty for Jimmy not to know the truth.”

  “Truth?” James cried, fully conscious now there was something very wrong. “What the hell is going on here?”

  Amelia bowed her golden-blond head, revealing her vulnerable nape.

  “Bitch! You bitch!” Marigold jumped up from the table, sending her chair flying. She was practically spitting venom. Marigold hadn’t allowed for betrayal. It shouldn’t be happening.

  Amelia felt the terror of Royce Stirling’s piercing black gaze. This was a nightmare. What would her parents think of her, of Marigold? Of the whole rotten business? Her whole body seemed to be losing strength, limb after limb. There was a mist before her eyes. Even then, she couldn’t fail to see the naked hatred on Marigold’s face.

  Her heart stumbled. She couldn’t get up. Instead, Amelia, for the first time in her life, fainted dead away.

  * * *

  When she came to, she was lying on a sofa in the living room. Anthea was gently stroking her face. “It’s all right, Amelia, dear. Lie still for a moment, dear. Everything will be fine shortly.”

  “I’ve never fainted before,” she murmured, embarrassed. “Not ever!”

  “We could all see how distressed you were.”

  Amelia attempted to sit up. “Where’s Marigold?”

  Anthea’s lips tightened as she eased Amelia back. “Apparently, she’s locked herself in her room. I have a set of keys to every room in the house, but naturally we have no wish to invade Marigold’s privacy. Both of you appeared desperate in your own way.”

  Amelia felt as though she was drowning in sadness. “All our lives, I’ve supported Marigold. I was the elder, the steady one. Marigold has always had problems that she hasn’t yet resolved.”

  “Ah, yes,” Anthea said, compassion on her thin, fine features. “I have no wish to offend, Amelia. I hold you in high regard, but I think with the very best intentions, you’ve helped Marigold get on with her tendency to destroy things. Destructiveness can turn into a habit. I’ve seen it first-hand.”

  Amelia swallowed down Anthea’s analysis. She went to say something more, only she caught sight of Royce’s tall figure. He moved across the room to the sofa where she lay, her hand in Anthea’s, looming over them. “I’ll get Amelia upstairs.” He bent to speak quietly to his aunt. “I’ve moved her down to the west wing. I think it best. Marigold may well take it into her head to take her condemnations further.”

  “What a sorry, sorry, business!” Anthea said, shaking her fine head of silver-grey hair that had once been the Stirling golden brown. “How Marigold manoeuvred herself into our lives!”

  “She did have help from Jimmy,” Royce pointed out. “He too has gone off to bed. I’m going to suggest he go back to university next year. Finish his architectural degree. Jimmy has a lot of ability in that direction. Time he learned to use it.”

  “Amen!” Anthea spoke fervently. She moved off the sofa so Royce could scoop Amelia up.

  “I can walk. Truly,” Amelia protested. Lightning sensations were sweeping through her. She had to lean back against him, one arm around his neck. A pulse beat in her throat. She had lost the comb she had used to pin up her hair. It tumbled all over the place, golden strands clinging to his shirt. She felt so emotional she had to fight off the weakness that might cause her to burst into tears. “Please, Royce,” she said.

  He ignored her, the line of his clean-cut jaw tense.

  She might have weighed little more than a child for all the effort it took him to carry her up the stairs. She supposed he was used to lifting far heavier burdens than her. She prayed the anger she could feel in him would ease up, that he wouldn’t blame her too severely when the truth came out.

  If it ever did.

  Marigold was quite capable of sticking to her story even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. It was a dubious accomplishment. Her job had been to defend the indefensible. She hadn’t been able to do it. The Stirlings would pull together as a family. The Boyd family would never be the same again. She remembered with a great sinking of spirits Marigold’s expression as she had looked at her. It had contained as much hatred as anyone could muster. She thought the sheer awfulness of it would remain with her forever.

  Chapter 6

  Amelia slept deeply for five or six hours before she woke with a muffled cry. Where was she? She sat bolt upright in a strange bed. In the space of a couple of heartbeats, she oriented herself. Her hand moved to the right to turn on a bedside lamp. She could plainly see it. She hadn’t awakened in pitch black, which had a calming effect. The radiant silver light from a full moon streamed across the room through the open French doors. It was a huge room like all the other rooms in the house. The first Stirling who had built the homestead evidently intended it to be his castle.

  She looked around her. Dark walls, either dark blue or navy. White ceiling with a lot of white trim to relieve the colour of the walls. The decor spoke volumes. This was a man’s bedroom, though it wasn’t the sort of place a man could tramp around in. Certainly not with muddy boots. Or even lounge in. No time for lounging. There were huge blown-up photographs of thoroughbred horses on the walls. A striking portrait of a handsome elderly gentleman who looked very important was given pride of place. A large desk and chair filled one corner, with a tall bookcase alongside. Books everywhere. In a way, it was like travelling back in time. She wondered who the bedroom had belonged to. She knew it wasn’t Royce or Jimmy.

  She felt thirsty, in need of a drink of water. Anthea had left her a jug and a glass. She stood up in one fluid motion of long legs and long arms. She felt steady enough on her feet, but she couldn’t ignore the fact she had fainted hours before.

  Picking up the jug, she poured herself some of the contents, taking a large, refreshing swallow. The water was still cold. Even the breeze that moved the heavy white curtains was decidedly cool. She knew the desert and the desert fringe could get very cold after the burning heat went out of the sands.

  Despite the size of the room, she was starting to feel claustrophobic. The drama of the evening was coming back to haunt her: Marigold had made a holy show of them. She most remembered the look of burning hatred on Marigold’s face. There was something implacable about it. It had to be some sort of chemical imbalance. Marigold’s behaviour had not improved with age as the family had hoped.

  She remembered how her mother had once taken Marigold to a clinical psychiatrist after some incident had worried her. Marigold had been around eight at the time. Amelia would have been ten. It had been some behavioural problem that had given their mother concern.

  Marigold’s attachment to Amelia had always been strong, if not affectionate, she thought as she sat down on the side of the bed. Although she had tried hard to interest Marigold in any number of pleasurable pursuits, Marigold’s range of interests had been and remained limited. She had not been a happy, smiling child, but then she had never been a child to join in even when her parents had been alive. The conclusion was reached Marigold might need professional help.

  Marigold had undergone tests. The conclusion: She wasn’t handicapped in any way. Marigold was herself. Marigold had lost both her parents at a young age. The loss would have affected her deeply. There were behavioural problems, certainly, ones she would probably outgrow.

  Marigold was prone to blame the world for her problems. To a family who knew her well, to Jimmy, Marigold had “issues.” That was as far as it went. The worrying thing was, the older Marigold got, the more exploitive she became. Marigold had exploited Jimmy. She had exploited Amelia, prevailing on her to return to Kooralya. If the concerning traits veered towards sociopathic, people Amelia had watched pass through the Family Court had exhibited similar traits. What was normal, anyway? She thought a “normal” person displayed kindness and understanding, a self-discipline one could see exhibited in even well-adjusted six-year-olds.

&nbs
p; The large room suddenly seemed too confining. It was a familiar feeling. Both she and her mother were mildly claustrophobic. She remembered how she and her father had to escort her mother off the crowded plane they were supposed to be travelling to London on. Long flights still remained a challenge for both her and her mother, though flying to New Zealand three hours away was a breeze. She wondered if Marigold were fast asleep. She would have to confront Marigold in the morning. It had been a long, long road they had travelled together. They both needed to free themselves.

  For now, she needed air more than anything else. She had often felt that way when staying in hotels: the pressing need for air.

  Her satin robe lay gleaming across a chair. She picked it up, sliding her arms into the long sleeves. The gold cord was attached. She tightened it firmly around her. She would go downstairs. She could even step out into the garden. There wouldn’t be a soul about. Work on a cattle station started at dawn and finished at dusk.

  She wished she were at home, back in her apartment.

  She went quietly down the staircase, compelled to hold on to the banister. The great house was never in total darkness in case some member of the household might want to get something from the kitchen or one of the other rooms. A few strategic wall sconces were burning. She didn’t think she should try the front door. One of the French doors in the drawing room seemed the better option.

  Moonlight was streaming through the tall stained-glass window that rose from the first landing. Even so, she wished she had a torch. The last thing she wanted to do was trip over the hem of her robe.

  When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she realized a breeze was ruffling her hair. How odd! Where was it coming from? Should she call out and ask if anyone was downstairs? Who would be roaming around at just after two? An intruder never crossed her mind. No one came to the big house unless they had business there. Had she done the right thing, leaving her bedroom? As she moved across the central entrance hall, darkness was surrounding her. She was certain she wasn’t alone.

  “Is anyone there?” she whispered, though her voice was like distant thunder in her ears. She could feel the thump-thump of her heart. She had to calm herself. This was ridiculous. She was perfectly safe even if she believed the colonial mansion harboured a few ghosts. She wasn’t a weak woman. She wasn’t a nervous woman, but she was a highly imaginative one.

  She listened for an answer, her ears strained. The night was the time for listening.

  “Why wouldn’t a witch be wandering around at night?” a male voice asked, before he came into view.

  Her breath caught short in her throat.

  “Royce?”

  Life did have a way of presenting you with your hopes and dreams. Or was she dreaming? Even sleep walking. She moved on slippered feet towards the tall, wide-shouldered figure. He hadn’t gone to bed. He was still wearing the same clothes he had worn at dinner, minus the light jacket.

  “You startled me,” she said. The breeze she had noticed was coming through an open French door in the drawing room. Part of her wanted to rush back up the stairs, only he exerted so much control, she stayed in place, staring up into his face. She didn’t realize she had been holding her breath. “I wanted air,” she said by way of explanation. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Why would you?” he asked, sardonically.

  “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

  “I do.”

  Tis the witching hour of night,

  Orbed is the moon and bright,

  And the stars they glisten, glisten,

  Seeming with bright eyes to listen

  For what listen they?

  “Keats,” she said instantly. He spoke the lines beautifully, in his deep, vibrant voice. “Only it’s well past midnight.”

  “Opinions differ over the witching hour,” he said smoothly. “Witches can be active anytime between midnight and three. Extraordinary time for mere mortals to walk around.”

  “Is three the time you’re hanging around for?” she asked. It seemed strange she should meet with him at this time of night. Morning, really.

  “Ah, you’re referring to the ‘devil’s hour’?”

  “As I’ve said before, Royce, you do have a devil in you.”

  “Then we’re well matched. Only witches can claim some extra power. It has something to do with the way they move,” he said, as though he had given the subject long consideration. “Your walk has an element of floating.”

  “Years of ballet lessons,” she explained. Both she and Marigold had attended ballet lessons for years. “Do you really think witches exist?”

  The breeze through the open French door whipped a long strand of her hair around her throat.

  Royce reached out a hand to tuck it behind her ear. “If there is such a thing as a witch, it’s you.” His voice had roughened slightly. “You have a power. I know it. You know it. You fascinate me.”

  She turned away from him, with a ragged sigh. “Ah, Royce!”

  He caught her back to him.

  “You’re angry with me?” she asked, a tremble in her legs.

  He put out an imperative arm, steering her towards the drawing room. “You wanted air. Let’s go for a stroll in the garden, shall we?”

  She was walking through a dream. “Aren’t you supposed to start work at dawn?” she asked.

  “Here’s your chance to talk to me.”

  She took a deep breath. “What is it you want to know?”

  He glanced down at her. “We might leave it for the time being. You did faint last night.”

  “A first.” she said. This was unreal, the two of them walking in the gardens under a big silver moon.

  “But not surprising after Marigold’s tirade,” Royce said.

  “It was a very angst-filled night.”

  “Angst-filled? Is that a word?” There was humour in his voice.

  “It is now.”

  “Let’s walk on to the lake,” Royce said, keeping her lightly clad body close to his side. He could smell her special fragrance above the myriad scents of all the shrubs and flowers.

  “Why? Would you like to drown me?” She stared up at him. The moonlight was so bright she could see his expression clearly.

  “No, Amelia. I’d like to make love to you.”

  “I’d say you’re determined to.”

  “Would you stop me?” he asked.

  “Would it be any use?”

  “I’m certain I would have your consent.”

  “Is droit du seigneur your modus operandi, or is it your natural arrogance talking?”

  “It’s not as if you hate me,” he said in a maddeningly reasonable voice.

  “You’re worth hating.”

  He laughed. “You don’t mean that, Amelia. You’re afraid of real involvement. Isn’t that true?”

  “As I’ve said before, that makes two of us.”

  “Perhaps. But the heart, the mind, and the body still want what they want, don’t they?”

  “I’m afraid so.” She knew she wasn’t safe with this man.

  They had reached the lake with its stands of iris and arum lilies. The pure white lilies had a lovely incandescence. The full moon glittered on the water, for the most part covered in water lilies. The moon, like Narcissus, had found its own perfect silver reflection.

  “Oh, look at that! Isn’t that marvellous?” Enchanted, Amelia moved out of Royce’s light grasp. “You’ve seen this before?” She turned her head to ask.

  “Quite a spectacle, isn’t it?”

  “Magic! The illumination is quite unique. I think Anthea might consider getting Vernon to make a curve of the water lilies,” She made a sweeping S-shaped curve with her hand. “As it is, the water lilies are growing right across the surface, clustered at the borders.”

  “You can speak to Vernon yourself, flower child!” he said with a faint laugh. “He’s always open to fresh ideas. How are you feeling now? You said you needed air.”

  “I wasn’t expect
ing anything like this!” She was transfixed by the beauty of nature.

  He moved down to where she was standing. She was illuminated herself. “So I’m not the arrogant, insensitive man you claim I am?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean I’m about to fly into your arms.”

  “However desperately you want to?” There was mockery in his voice.

  “I think we should go back to the house.” Before her legs gave way and she sank down onto the grass. This man had too much power over her. She was losing her direction, her sense of autonomy. She had played into his hands far too quickly.

  “You fear our enfant terrible could be watching? She’s a very odd young woman, your adopted sister. But then you know that?”

  “I do.” Things had gone too far to deny it. Marigold wasn’t odd. She was dangerous.

  “High time then you took a stand,” he suggested crisply.

  “No lecture, please, Royce.”

  “Of course, you’re right. Who would want to spoil the magic? But you know how much she’s hurt James. I don’t want to see her hurt you.” His tone had hardened. “I will do everything in my power to keep you from harm.”

  * * *

  They were back inside the house, walking up the staircase together. Guarded with most men, Amelia had no defence against Royce Stirling. Her ability to think analytically about all male admirers was no more than an illusion with him. She was trying very hard to will away images of them in bed together. She felt the intense physical attraction between them. It hadn’t gone through phases. She had been powerfully attracted to him on sight. Now her emotions bore a resemblance to a volcano about to erupt. She was engulfed by sexual heat.

  Then there was the sense of inevitability. She knew what was going to happen. She foresaw the passionate intensity of it. Electricity was thrumming through her veins. It was a wonder she didn’t burst into flame. The pedestal clock in the hallway had pealed three as they walked in. Three o’clock, the true witching hour.