“Our thanks for a most pleasant day,” he said in his most mannered of voices.
“The pleasure has been all ours.”
Mrs Smith actually simpered as she spoke and then went even further, blighting Geraldine’s day completely. “It is such a joy to see our wee Miss so well settled, and to such a fine gentleman as yourself, sir.”
It was the final betrayal and how she brought out the polite rejoinder required, Geraldine never knew. She managed to restrain herself as they began their journey home, but as soon as they were decently hidden from the homestead she thrust her heel into her horse’s side and leaned her head forward into the suddenly straining neck as the animal raced across the ground. For an instant, she was blessedly alone. Then the creature who called himself her husband was beside her, his horse matching hers stride for stride. Finally, the roughness of the ground brought a semblance of common sense to her and she reluctantly pulled her horse in, coming to a dispirited halt by a clump of tall native rushes.
“Feeling better, sweetheart?”
She gave him a flat stare. “Not particularly.”
Slowly, the pent-up laughter drained from his face. He returned her look, measure for measure. But the longer she held his eye, the less she could see what lay behind the blue gaze. It was as if some barrier grew up between them. Then he was off his horse, and pulling her down from hers and into his arms. The magic was there, as strong as ever, but something had happened in those few moments at the Smith’s house and for the first time Geraldine felt no call to answer the heat he caused in her veins. She stood unmoved in his clasp and some minutes later, he drew back. He was about to say something, but then read the look in her eyes and, with a softly voiced curse, let her go. His face was now the closed one of a stranger and, with a distant politeness, he helped her remount and they rode home.
The sense of detachment stayed with her throughout the following days. He would come to her and she could feel the warmth swelling inside her, but it was as if a part of her stood to one side, watching.
One day, it all came to a head. He was staring at the skyline again, and to Geraldine suddenly it was as if an anvil was poised over her, waiting to plummet down and flatten every dream she had ever hoped for. Was that why she stood aside, why she had started to build walls? She glared at him and her thoughts formed words before she could stop herself.
“You should leave. It’s what you really want.”
He had heard her, swivelling on one so-properly booted heel. “You are an expert on what I want?”
A sick feeling hit her inside. Why had she said that? Then, traitorously, another thought. Why didn’t he just get on with it, leave her to her future? She held herself rigid, too scared to put more thoughts into words, even when he stayed looking at her, waiting for the answer she dare not give. Finally, with a slam of his hand on the wall, he turned and walked off. Minutes later, the sound of hooves clattered on the stony ground and a horse burst out from the back of the house.
He had not waited even to saddle up—just a rope bridle—and her heart stopped in fear. She stood motionless, watching to make sure he was safe, but now she saw to the full his superb horsemanship. He should be barely in control of the horse—instead, it was as if he was one with it and his muscles spoke straight to the horse’s, guiding it effortlessly over the rough ground.
Then anther thought. He’s not leaving, not yet. Not without so much as a change of shirt or bag of supplies.
She watched for as long as she could make him out, until his horse disappeared around the lake, driven by the demons in him. Then, slowly, she shut the door, carefully placing the latch just so as if by doing this one small thing properly, she could fix everything else.
He was gone a long time. Work, that was all that saved her; keeping her hands busy to stop her mind endlessly ticking over. Evening was coming on and still there was no sign of him. The stew was bubbling over the fire, and she was in the middle of making a plum duff, when there was a clatter of hooves outside, the door was flung open, and he was back.
His eyes raked her. “You’re safe.”
She froze, hands covered in flour. The fierce look on his face was the last one she expected to see.
“Well, yes.”
He shut the door and paced about the room, checking shutters and bolting the back doors.
“You were gone a long time,” she said, more to fill the silence. At least it made him stand still a minute, but the look on his face was so serious, she almost wished he hadn’t.
“I met Robert up the top of the lake. There’s been a stranger up at the homestead, asking after you.” He was off again, slamming the last shutter closed, before checking the whole room again. “You are not to be on your own, not ever. I am going to stable the horse. Latch this door after me.”
He lifted the rifle from its place by the bed and loaded it, then thrust it at her. “Not ever, you hear me? Keep this by you and do not let anyone in except me.”
He was gone again, with a brief yell at her to latch the door when she did not immediately do so. She clicked the latch down. He did not take long, just enough to stable, water, feed and briskly rub down his hard-ridden horse. Then he was back.
“This finishes. I go back to the Dunstan tomorrow.”
“You can’t know that man was a threat. How could anyone have followed us here?”
“That young fool who knew you at Christmas, they followed our trail, saw our smoke, heard rumours, who knows.”
Her hand went to her chest. “And me?”
“You’ll stay with Robert and his wife. It’s safe there.”
He was leaving.
The raw, gaping stab of agony wrenched her whole body again and for the first time in days, she wanted nothing more than to be lost in his arms. That would not happen. His arms were held rigidly at his sides now and his spoke with the voice of reason.
“We cannot live with the threat of Black Jack hanging over us. It colours everything and I, for one, do not choose to be forever restrained by a miserable rogue like that.”
“Why not? We’re safe enough here.” She was fighting for survival.
He gave a cool smile. “No, we’re not. You are not.”
“In my own home country? Black Jack cannot come here without someone knowing. You do not have to risk your life.”
It was as if she had slapped him. The cool smile vanished, to be replaced by the hated English mask that hid all real thought from her. “There is also the matter of my affairs in Dunstan, sweetheart. Should I let such a man ruin me? I worked hard to build up my businesses and I do not intend to let him reap the rewards of my toil. No, it’s long past time I dealt with him, finally and forever, so that I can attend to what really matters.”
She clenched the towel, wiping away at the flour as if at a stain, then flung it down on the table.
“You didn’t think so three weeks ago.”
But this time, his voice was layered with a flat finality. “That’s not why I left the Dunstan, as you know. It was the only way to keep you out of Black Jack’s clutches.” There was a challenging edge to his voice. “I knew of no other way then; now I do”
“Oh, yes?”
“You will be safe with the Smiths while I’m gone. As you remind me, this is your world, they are your men.” There was a sense of bitterness in his voice. “As you point out, Black Jack cannot move here without warning one of them. And in the event of anything happening to me, the Smiths can return you to your father’s care.”
So that was the reason for his sudden interest in neighbours – to find somewhere to offload her. Her shoulders slumped in defeat and her hands automatically finished the pudding, patting the dough into the pan sightlessly.
“When do you go?”
“Tomorrow. I’ve organised with the Smiths to expect us in the morning. There seems little point putting it off.”
She gave up then. He was leaving, discarding her like some parcel at the mail office, stamped ‘Return to Sender
’. All she could retain was a bleak vow that he must not know what it cost to lose him. “Of course,” she said.
She searched his face one last time for a sign to give her hope. There was nothing. He wore the polite mask of a stranger, deserted even by the teasing which so delighted her.
She went about her duties that evening by sheer force of will, putting one foot in front of the other and barely aware of what she did, while being acutely aware of each act of his as he packed what he would need.
After their meal, she carefully wrapped the remains to add to his saddlebag by the front door. He let her go to bed first, stepping outside for a last moment as she finished tidying up the small living room, stripping it bare of all signs of their time there. Nor did he come in again till she had shut the door of the small bedroom firmly behind her.
She had not known what to expect of this night, but didn’t know that she disgusted him so much he would sleep in the outer room. It was only as she lay beneath the blankets, slowly unclenching her fists, that she finally admitted to herself how much she had wanted one last night together. It was dark in the small bedroom, but a thin sliver of yellow beneath the door showed from the lamplight in the outer room. Then that went black, and after a while she knew the dampness of a tear sliding down her cheek and the reality of newfound loneliness.
She had not thought to sleep, but she must have, for suddenly he was there in her dreams. A hand lifted the blanket and a firm body slid in beside hers. Then a hand tugged at the buttons of her nightdress and slid in to caress the welcoming curves within. She moved in delight.
“Shh, my heart.” His lips invaded hers, then he pulled back and a finger traced the salty track down one cheek. Her eyes flew open. It was no dream. The coldness of the night air on her back told her that as she went to sit up, seeing the dark smudge of a face beside her.
“Please, no words. Not tonight. Just let me love you,” he whispered, then his lips claimed hers again and her arms swept round him in grateful joy. She would have one more night, and it proved to be all that she had hoped and more. When sleep finally claimed them both, far into the night, a smugly contented smile was fixed on her lips.
But in the morning when she woke, there was no head on the pillow beside her. She fell back, her eyes caught fully upwards but seeing nothing. He was gone.
Then a noise outside; the clipping of hooves. Never had she dressed so quickly. Out the door she burst. There were two horses saddled up and he was fastening a carry bag to the rear of the second one. As she took in the familiar shape of it, her heart knew a sudden hope.
“I told the Smiths we would be there for breakfast.” He had finished tying on the bag and came round the side of the horse, expertly checking its gear as he passed the reins to her. “Give me a moment while I check everything is secure here and we’ll get going.”
She was left holding the reins of both horses, watching him efficiently seeing to the remains of their idyll here and knew she had been wrong to hope. All too soon, he came out and pulled the door shut behind him with a final thud, then took the reins of his horse from her and swung into the saddle. It was over. Still, she could not stop her head turning for a last look as the bend of the hills finally took the cottage from sight. Bas’s head remained set forward and his talk was of the everyday. His manners had always been superb when needed and today was no different.
“I thought you might stay with the Smiths for the present and later, if you wish, you may prefer to remove to your father’s home. I have no idea how long this business will take me.”
He was looking at her, but he may as well have been discussing the weather. They both knew he did not intend to return, yet still he kept up the polite fiction.
“Whatever you say,” she mumbled. She had leaned forward to flick a bug from her horse’s head, refusing to watch for any reaction from him. If there was one, it certainly did not affect his voice. It was the same lightly pleasant lilt as ever. Yet she had heard it different, his voice roughened with passion, and had she dreamed that softly whispered “Shh, my heart,” last night?
No, she must not remember that. She was but an encumbrance to him, a responsibility now to be discharged. Yes, the passion had been real, the physical want of her, but she had been a fool to read more into it than he could give her. Bas Deverill loved life and was constantly amused by the pleasures it insisted upon throwing in his path. It had been her misfortune to be one of them for a short spell and now it was over.
Yet she did not regret the interlude. The ending of it hurt – God how it hurt – and she knew the pain was only beginning, but she could not truly say she wished it had never happened. Now she had only the remains of an hour left. Her fingers clamped down over her wedding ring. He had given her that at least, the illusion of respectability to protect her when he had gone. Must she destroy these last moments with her melancholy? He was the English stranger today, but last night he had been her lover and nothing could take that from her.
Her horse stumbled then and he reached quickly for her reins, one leg brushing her own. Abruptly he pulled her horse safely to a stop then quickly tugged his own away from her vicinity. Geraldine watched his leg. She had not imagined that sudden tensing of his body.
Suddenly, laughter lit her face. Whatever lay ahead now, not even Bas Deverill could deny he still wanted her
“Race you to Big Rock,” she called and dug her heels in.
The track was level here, a grass-covered river flat with no dangers to hinder the galloping horses. The hard ground would yield no comfort to a falling rider, but that only increased the sharp edge of excitement that bubbled within her. After a stunned pause, he followed her, the light in his face an answer to the taunting challenge in hers. It was a good mile to the large rock set by a bend in the river and Geraldine knew the track well. She used all her knowledge to keep just ahead of Bas, her horse edging just ahead of his. Then it dawned on her that he was letting her stay ahead, using her knowledge of the terrain to aid his own horse, slowing as she did, twisting to avoid a covered hollow just as she had. And when they neared the finish, she well knew he would surge ahead of her, his bigger horse more than a match for her mount. It only widened the grin on her face. There were a few traps for the unwary yet to come.
She eased her horse a bit, confident she could nurse its strength without risking the race. As she expected, Bas’s horse matched hers, staying a length behind. Then she threw in the odd false feint. He followed every move. On they raced, the hills glowing in the early morning light on their right, the river nearing them on their left. The last ridge before the homestead approached, with the mighty boulder thrown out by some past flood marking the edge of the river and now known simply as Big Rock. Their route passed between river and hill, and the land offered a dead flat run on grass to the end. Now she must go. Hoofbeats behind her drummed a heavy tattoo. Bas was making his move, racing across the dew-covered grasses. Soon his horse’s head was level with her mount’s tail. Then it breathed on her leg, then shoulder. Now they were neck and neck and he was throwing her a triumphant grin. She returned it, a secret smile in her challenge.
Almost the rock was upon them. Fifty yards more, forty. Suddenly she yanked her horse’s head to one side, swerving in a short arc.
Too late, Bas followed her action. The hidden sink of soft sand and gravel hiding under the grass caught him, his horse stumbling then slowing. He was an expert rider and soon had it under control, easing up the far side and digging his heels in for the last few yards of desperate pursuit.
Too late. Geraldine flashed by the rock, then slowly pulled her horse up in a long arc to ease to a halt and wait for him to come up to her.
He had eased to a trot and was eying her dubiously.
“You just about brought my horse down with that little trick of yours.”
“Rubbish. You’re too good a rider. I knew you would be safe.” She grinned, seeing no anger in the gaze he fixed on her.
He stared at her face a mo
ment longer, then sat back in the saddle, kicking his horse to a slow amble towards the collection of buildings up ahead, and cast a considering scrutiny over her own seat and her hands on the reins.
“You’re not bad yourself,” he admitted.
His hand reached across for hers, drawing it up to his lips. Gently, he kissed her fingertips, then looked up into her face.
“I will come back for you.”
A red flush of warmth invaded her cheeks and she drew her hand back.
“Of course you will.”
It was a nice fiction. All the same, she was very grateful for the loud “Halloo” from the homestead porch as the Smiths saw them. She wondered now why she had begun that wild race across the plain. A moment of wild exhilaration to finish this strange period of her life. Was that brief joy preferable to a full half hour spent together, even one strained and marked with false politeness?
Now, there were only moments left. A flurry of greeting at the homestead, the gossip over breakfast of people starved for company, then he was reaching down his hand in a last touch of farewell as she stood beside his horse. A wave to their hosts and he swung his horse about.
She had sworn she would not do it, yet his departing back saw her standing foolishly watching until all trace of a dust cloud had vanished from the horizon.
It took a huge effort of will to force her feet to take the steps that turned away from the last sight of him and back to the house. Her voice spoke words, the everyday words of work and gossip, and her hands set to the tasks that came to her.
In a raw station, there was no time for idle hands and she quickly fitted into the pattern of the workday. First, help with the interminable sweeping and cleaning of the house in this dusty place. Then to the kitchen, to prepare morning tea to take out to the men working in the nearby yards, followed by lunch, afternoon tea and the inevitable roast of mutton for the evening meal. Though most of the men ate in the cookhouse next to the single men’s quarters, two young cadets lodged with the family along with the Smiths’ brood of four youngsters.
Swift Runs The Heart Page 18
