Her Galahad

by Melissa James

  "They're great liars, Tess—with the proof to show it."

  "Yes," she agreed tonelessly, "and experts at destroying me. They'd do anything to make me go back to him."

  He sighed, and tried to soften the blow. "Tess, I never doubted that they love you."

  "Maybe, but they hate you more. And they love their social standing and respectability above everything else. They took Emily away from me, and let you suffer in prison, to keep their reputation in Sydney society. Find that place to stay," she said, her voice hard. "We need to talk about what to do next."

  He accelerated through another set of lights, looking ahead. "We'll have to stay in one room tonight." He lifted a hand as her vivid face lit in passionate denial. "We have no choice. We'll attract attention as it is by paying cash instead of plastic. Taking separate rooms will guarantee the manager will remember us if one of Beller's dogs goes there."

  Her eyes narrowed. "I'll stay in the car while you book the rooms, or I'll book my own after you go. Then it won't—"

  "This is Australia, Tess. There aren't enough successful indigenous people to make me inconspicuous. If I book two rooms, I'll be remembered for it—and if you book a room alone, you'll be remembered, Tess. Your face isn't one a man forgets easily," he added dryly. "Our first priority here is to remain forgotten." He pulled the car over to the side of the road. "I won't touch you, if that's what scares you. I gave you my word. I can get a twin room if you want, but that will guarantee we're remembered."

  Tessa said nothing, but the bitterness in her face, the quiet disbelief, was louder than a shout.

  "What's the real problem, Tess? I said I wouldn't hurt you or touch you. I didn't last night, did I? And it's not like we're strangers, or we haven't been lovers before. I'm your husband—"

  Her eyes flashed in the gathering gloom. "Oh, sorry, I forgot—the ultimate argument. That's what he said every time. When I didn't want him to touch me. When I didn't like his friends or giving his parties. When he took my passport and all my money, until I had nothing and no one left but him. When he hit me!" She sounded so bitter Jirrah gasped. "So good little Theresa will do as she's told again. Do what you like. You will anyway. It's not like I matter, so long as you get what you want!"

  Again, the fury ate at his gut like acid. "And you think I'm like that?" Damn it, he'd thought she trusted him by now!

  After a little silence, she mumbled, "You control it, but I feel the hate, the rage in you … just like him."

  Oh, damn. The fool that he was! She always saw right through to his heart. Why had he ever thought he could protect her by hiding his hatred of her family? Slowly, gently, he put his hands on her shoulders, letting them rest there. He looked deep into her eyes, those revealing windows into her turbulent soul. "I can't deny what you're saying. You know I can't.

  But it's not aimed at you, Tess. I'm not like him. I'd never hurt you."

  She pushed off his hands. "That's what he said. 'I love you, Theresa. I'd never hurt you'—then it became 'I love you. Theresa. I'll never hurt you again.' But he did … and he enjoyed doing it. Dad and Duncan always said, 'We love you so much. We want what's best for you.' The problem was, the best was Cameron for my husband, putting you inside and giving away my baby! If that's love, I don't want any part of it, ever again!"

  Breathe in, breathe out. He had to do a mental count before he spoke, praying to say the right thing. "Was it your fault?

  Does a man who loves a woman abuse her—with words or fists?"

  "I didn't love him. I couldn't act like I did, or that I was happy with him. I hated sex. It drove him crazy when I felt nothing for him but distaste, and tried to avoid him—"

  "Did you ask for it, Tess? Did you want him to hit you?"

  She turned to him; the look in her eyes was arrested, questioning—unsure.

  "Does a man who really loves a woman lash out at her, no matter what provokes him?" he went on quietly, yet full of meaning. "Does a man who loves a woman blackmail her into marriage, then abuse her for a situation he created himself?"

  "But—but he didn't hit me until the end…"

  "He took away your passport, your money, your job and your friends—that's abuse in my book. He stole your dignity. Would you do that to someone you love, Tess?"

  Slowly, her eyes enormous, she shook her head. "No."

  With a tender finger he caressed her cheek, and, watching him as if hypnotized, she allowed the touch, not flinching or moving away. "Would I take your dignity from you, mulgu? Would I take your choices away? Would I hit you? Would I force myself on you? Have I ever done that?"

  A long silence. "No. You wouldn't force me." A little smile twitched the corners of her mouth. "I was the one who did that."

  He grinned. "You sure did, more than once … and they're memories I cherish. So if you feel the need to force yourself on me again. I'm here, waiting in hope—but I'll never do it to you. Okay?"

  Slowly, after long, hanging moments, she nodded. "Okay."

  He lifted a brow. "So?"

  "So we get one room, and you behave yourself!"

  He laughed in sheer relief at the impish note in her voice, realizing the magnitude of the victory he'd gained. Tess trusted him—not just with her life and daughter, but with her body; and, given where she'd been the past six years, that was a gigantic leap of faith for her. "That's about the size of it. You trust me, and I wait in hope."

  "Then let's find that mom. After seven hours of riding over the worst roads in the state, I'm too tired for anything but sleep."

  Said with her crooked, one-dimpled smile, the one that tugged at those suddenly shaky barricades around his heart—and made everything inside that made him a man rise up in hot desire.

  He bad to control it. Forcing a smile, he uttered dryly, "Typical." With a mock sigh of surrender he started the car, and drove down the highway toward the city.

  * * *

  "This is—nice."

  They stood side by side in a pretty, country-style hotel room on Sydney's exclusive Lower North Shore, looking at the king-size bed as if it held the secrets to life.

  Tessa cursed her stupid tongue. What a pitifully banal thing to say! She hadn't broken the awkwardness of the unwanted déjà vu, she'd increased it.

  He remained silent, his face expressionless—but she knew what he was thinking. The same thing she was thinking. The last time they'd entered a hotel room together.

  Their wedding night

  Staggering through the door in each other's arms, laughing, kissing. Undressed before they hit the bed. Fast, frantic loving followed by slow, sensuous loving in the spa, slick with bubbles, high on champagne and love. They hadn't even noticed what the room looked like until the next morning.

  The last morning they'd spent together.

  Her eyes misted; her heart ached for the time of innocence, the complete and unconditional love she'd never know again.

  He must have misinterpreted her silence, for he said only, "I'll sleep on the sofa bed if you want, Tess."

  If you want.

  She pressed her lips together, closed her eyes and blew out a sigh. Nothing worked.

  "Tess? What is it?"

  She turned to him, her eyes full of anguish. "Do you know the last time a man said that to me—if you want?" She choked on the words. "It was six years ago—and the man was you. That was the last time anyone called me Tessa. No one knew how I hate being called Theresa. Nobody asked what I wanted. Only you."

  The darkness of desire in his eyes didn't shift, but he spoke gently. "I know how it feels to have your choices taken from you. I'd never do that to another human being, especially you."

  "Better get ready for bed—uh, sleep. Dibs first shower." She snatched the bag of clothes she'd bought in Dubbo and fled to the safety of the bathroom.

  Only then did she start shaking.

  When she reemerged, with damp, rumpled hair and the thick calico nightgown that fell to her feet, she felt on more solid ground, ready to face him. "Your
turn. I'm off to sleep."

  "Tess, can you define empathy for me?"

  His voice, hoarse with the strain of heated sexuality kept under tight leash, arrested her at the edge of the bed. She halted, but couldn't look at him. She stared at the floral bedspread as if it alone absorbed her interest. "What?"

  "It's different from sympathy, or pity. Empathy's a good thing. It means you know where someone's coming from—because you've been there yourself. Tess, I've lived with the trapped feeling, the rage, hatred eating at you like a living thing. Lying awake at night wondering if you'll ever feel like a normal human being again." He stood behind her, close enough to touch, talking in soft, mesmerizing hoarseness. "Yes, your pain hurts me. I want to help heal you of what he did to you if I can. But I don't pity you. I understand. That's why I'll always ask you what you want, why I won't make decisions without consulting you. So don't ever confuse it with pity again. Any pity I felt died before that first night. I couldn't want you like I do if I pitied you."

  He still thought she was beautiful.

  She couldn't look at him, but felt the soft rushes of breath over the back of her neck. A warm shiver of carnal desire rippled down her spine, settling low in her belly. "How do you want me?" she murmured, low and husky.

  His warm, furry voice came behind her ear, sensual, rasping with need. "Every minute of the day. Every second of those minutes. With your hair damp and mussed like that, and wearing that ridiculous calico nightie, you should look like something out of Anne of Green Gables—but instead you're all cute and rumpled and so damn sexy I'm in pain with wanting to take that thing off you. I want to kiss touch, taste every inch of you as I peel it up and off your body. I want to love you all night, with you undressing me, loving me right back."

  "Oh," she gasped. A quiver ran all the way through her, her blood so thick with the excited pounding it clouded her brain. "Just like we used to," she whispered, her inner vision filled with erotic memory, his bands and lips on her body, moving inside her. Time after time of beautiful, blinding fulfillment.

  "Yeah." The breathless hush of sound sent anguished yearning through her, telling her he was reliving the same times, the loving that had been their addiction. "Just like that."

  She closed her eyes, her craving body fighting her terrified heart. Terrified of becoming so lost in him she'd never find her way back out when their lives parted. She drew a deep breath. "But I'm in control?"

  A tiny rumbling chuckle. "Just consider me your love slave. I'm up for the challenge … in more ways than one."

  She choked on a giggle.

  His voice, deep, soft and full of a man's need rippled into her, burning her from the inside like tiny licking tongues of flame. "Turn around, Tess. Look at me."

  She turned. He was so close she could see the reflection of her aching desire in his eyes. "Tell me," he rasped. "Tell me you want me, ngaya mulgu, my wild black swan."

  She couldn't deny it; she knew her eyes must be ablaze with the pounding need thrumming through her very veins and pores. "You know I want you, Jirrah," she breathed. "I want you more than I thought I could ever want a man again."

  He closed his eyes, smiling wryly. "But you're not ready."

  "It's only my fears that make me this way—the memories of what it was like with him. My body's gone twenty rounds with my mind over it, but the fears keep winning. Give me time Jirrah," she pleaded softly. "Just a little time."

  "And you can't forgive me yet. You don't learn trust in the school of hard knocks. Don't you think I know that?" He touched her cheek. "Take the bed. I'll pull out the sofa."

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, needing his nearness, his warmth and strength. But the feel of his hot, aroused body against hers made the pain worse. Oh, how she wanted to press her lips to the strong column of his neck, to run questing hands over his lithe, muscled darkness…

  She didn't realize she was fulfilling her fantasy until he said, in an agonized tone, "Tess, I can't take much more. Not when a bed's right behind us."

  She gulped, and tore her hands and lips from his body. Her eyes searched his face. It was alive, ablaze with masculine need—but he was still trying to smile, even if it came out like a grimace. "Please, mulgu, if you've got any compassion at all, ask the manager to put ice in the water of my very cold shower—and snore like Fred Flintstone when I come out."

  Caught off guard, she giggled again.

  He leaned forward, kissing her with infinite gentleness and care. "Good night," he murmured huskily. "Sweet dreams."

  "Good night," she whispered against his mouth.

  From the sanctuary of the bed, she watched him pull out the spare bed, and make it up. She watched him pick up his pyjamas and walk into the bathroom for that very cold shower.

  He was only wearing the pants when he came out—and his gleaming brown maleness in the soft, half-lit darkness tested her resolve to its limits. His words pounding like a jungle drumbeat in her head: Kiss and touch every inch of your body as I slowly peel that thing off you … make love to you all night.

  He came over to where she lay, and she tensed, filled with such anguished need she felt only a little fear of the act she'd hated for so long. "Sleep well." He kissed her forehead.

  Her heart almost burst with the melting tenderness in the single touch. "You, too," she whispered, finally closing her eyes. Jirrah wanted her, cared for her and, most important of all, he respected her body. For the first time in a long time, she was no longer alone. He'd given her the greatest gift of all: dignity of choice. They'd be lovers again—but only when she wanted it.

  Lovers until they found Emily, or until he found evidence against her family. If it were only for a few days, she'd take the risk. Only Jirrah could make her want to be a woman again; and whatever price she paid in the end would be worth it.

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  « ^ »

  "I'm so sorry. She's not on the register. Nothing at all about her." The social worker with JigSaw spread her hands in a gesture of helpless empathy. "I'll put your names on the parent register, and hope she applies. They usually do sooner or later, once they're told of their adoption."

  Tessa nodded, her face a cool, private mask. "We'll do that. Thank you."

  But when they were out on the streets of Sydney, she slumped against the wall. "Just the same as LinkUp. Nothing."

  "She'll join the register, Tess."

  She'd never wanted anything more than to feel his arms around her—but they were on a busy Sydney street, people pushing and jostling them for the offence of standing still. "She's five, Jirrah. Her parents may not tell her until she's eighteen." She passed a shaking hand over her brow. "How do I wait that long? How do I wait for my daughter another thirteen years?"

  "We don't." She looked up at his hard tone. His face was full of steely determination. "LinkUp said not to give up. They have ways of tracing kids we wouldn't dream of. And don't forget Rod at the Aboriginal Legal Service. He might have a few tricks up his sleeve—especially with Mrs. Whitlow's affidavit that she believed you were drugged when you signed the adoption papers."

  "He's a lawyer, not a magician."

  "You don't know Rod." His eyes twinkled. "He could talk his way into information and out of trouble faster than any kid I ever met." He held out a hand; and, needing the comfort right now, she took it. "Don't lose heart, mulgu," he said softly, his fingers brushing her palm. "We're in this together. We'll find a way. We'll meet our daughter."

  He was so close she could drink in his warmth, inhale his clean male scent, the soft tang of deodorant and honest sweat. "She's my only child," she whispered, fighting to keep her strength, to not lean on him. "I have to be a part of her life."

  "We'll find her, mulgu. I won't let you live alone again."

  "Excuse me!"

  Startled, they realized they were blocking a woman's entrance to the building behind them. Apologizing, they moved off, walking toward the new four-wheel-drive they'd bought that morning.


  He opened the passenger door for her. Tessa smiled, albeit a small, watery grimace. "Even Sir Galahad couldn't give his fair maiden her heart's desire," she said huskily. "Don't make promises you're not sure you can keep about finding Emily, or about us, my Galahad, my knight in dark armor. It's not fair to either of us."

  He ran a hand through his hair. "Tess—I—" He sighed. "Let's get Emily's birth certificate." He walked to the driver's side.

  She watched him, aching. Watching him walk away from her had become her habit. He wanted to help her—by some crazy miracle, he even wanted to make love to her again—but he deserved far better than the pitifully little she had left to offer a man.

  At Sydney's historic Rocks district beneath the Harbour Bridge, where streetwalkers once lined the cobble-stoned paths with pimps and murderers, and felons and transported convicts mingled with sons of lords in hidden gaming hells, Tessa asked a bored clerk for her daughter's birth certificate.

  "Name?"

  The simple question left her floundering. "I—um—" What would they have put on the birth certificate?

  "Beller," Jirrah put in, quick and smooth. "Emily Anne Beller." Tessa stared at him in amazement; but the clerk punched in the information, then nodded. "And you are the natural mother?" she asked. "I'll need identification."

  "Yes, I'm the natural mother," Tessa replied, supplying her driver's license. She paid the required amount.

  The clerk punched in a few keys, and nodded. "Fill in the form, please. It should be ready for you in an hour or so."

  "I'd like to get a copy of my brother's marriage license while I'm here," Jirrah added casually. "David Jirrah Oliveri."

  The clerk punched in the name. "I'm sorry, sir, nothing's coming up listed for that name except his birth and death."

  Tessa gasped, starting back. "That's impossible!"

  "What?" Jirrah croaked at the same time, taking an involuntary step back with her. "But I—but he married his wife on March 10, 1996. Could you look again?"

  But the clerk shook her head. "Sorry. It's not here. What's the name of the woman?"