by Darry Fraser
She nodded, studying the likenesses. ‘I did know your mother a little. She knew my mother, Cecilia Thomas.’
‘I have no recollection of her, unfortunately,’ he said. ‘Or of you and your family.’
Shaking her head, Nell said, ‘Understandable. My mother is dead some years now, my two brothers were born after me, but died a long time ago, as infants. I don’t remember them. My father does.’ She gave a short laugh, as if she regretted what she’d just said. ‘As for meeting you, our paths barely crossed, just once, I think, at your sister’s funeral. You wouldn’t remember me from that.’ She stopped. Looked as if she thought she was talking too much.
‘Susan. Susie. Yes.’ Finn felt his chest swell with emotion. ‘Unfortunately, I have no likeness of her for my mantel.’
‘I am so sorry for what happened to her.’
Her words touched a deep chord in him. ‘There’s no need for you to be sorry for that.’
‘I survived what she did not. To be standing here …’ Her voice choked off.
He went to her, his hands firm on her arms only for a moment before he dropped them, remembering himself. The bushranger might well put his hands on her, but Finn Seymour was trying to woo her; he had to rein in. Yet in that instant, feeling her warm under his hands, her arms strong and lean, he nearly gave in to grabbing her to his chest, holding her and rocking her in his arms. Instead, he said, ‘For you to be standing here is a victory over people like him. Do not be sorry on her account without gratitude for your own.’ He stood to one side. ‘Please sit with me.’
She took a chair close to where he’d been sitting, and a sigh escaped as she settled back. Her boots were worn, but the dust had been wiped away. Her black skirt fell just shy of the heels as she found some comfort. Her nails were short, and her hands, now folded in her lap, were reddened.
He glanced away, took his seat once again. ‘I don’t have much food here, a few eggs. I usually eat out. There’s not a lot to offer you except tea. And rum.’
She nodded. She’d bundled her hair into place again though wisps had escaped, and a loose tendril dropped along the line of her neck. ‘Only some tea, thank you, before I journey home to the camp.’
‘I will happily provide the tea, and then the company home,’ he said, though he didn’t want to let her go too soon. ‘But tell me, you were running hard, away from the ball, when I saw you outside the main tent. What had happened?’
Drawing in a breath, she said, ‘My father was being his threatening self, and Lewis Wilshire appeared to have cause to fight with him and then with me. I was closed in. I just had to get out of there.’ She flattened her hands on her skirt. ‘I thought I saw you with Mr Worrell when I left.’
Finn shifted in his seat, murmured a noise. ‘I needed some air, myself. You might have noticed I wear a great sling, and why I wear it.’ He nodded across to the side table on which the broadcloth was draped.
‘I saw you at your sister’s funeral. You wore a sling then.’
‘Ah. That was a very bad day for many reasons.’
She frowned. ‘And then there was some episode at the hold-up but no sling.’
‘That episode nearly cost our lives. It’s a cursed thing.’ He studied his hands. ‘I left the ball tonight because of it. Not many have been witness to it when it strikes me. I hope to lessen its impact on others,’ he pointed again at the sling, ‘although, it’s not easily done, if at all. I am sometimes vilified for it.’
Nell waited, her eyes on him. Candidly, patiently, she waited for more from him.
‘I was with the British army for a short period of time. Some cousins are in England and I thought to lose myself there with them after Louisa passed away.’ He glanced at Nell. Attentive, her blue eyes locked on his. ‘We saw a number of engagements prior to what is now the Crimean War. It appears I have some sort of affliction after surviving those skirmishes. The tremors can be debilitating, and frightening, for me as well as for those who see them. It seemed that another episode was about to descend on me at the ball. I left before it did. And when it didn’t, and I watched you running by, I followed you.’
He’d told her too much, he knew it. She was too quiet. She’d dropped her gaze, was intent on her hands. She looked away to the mantel. She would think him cowardly, and not fit to—
‘It’s a wound then,’ she said, still looking at the pictures on the mantel.
‘Not a physical one.’
She looked back at him. ‘And one not yet healed.’
He hadn’t thought of it like that. ‘Yes. That’s possible.’
‘I too had wounds.’
Finn took a sudden, deep breath. ‘A man who harms a woman … he’s not a man. Had I avenged Susie earlier—’
‘I’m glad he’s gone,’ she blurted, and her chin shook as she gathered herself. ‘And so will the memory of him be gone. I have scars, not physical ones either, but scars all the same. Wounds will heal,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m sure yours will too.’
She’d only glanced at him. His heart swelled as her confidence bolstered him. ‘You have strength of mind.’
‘I just wanted to survive. I had to,’ she said, and fiddled with her skirt. ‘So, I was in that surviving part of my mind, not my right mind, at the hold-up.’ A bloom of colour crossed her cheeks.
He remembered his own rush of blood the day of the hold-up, the moment she requested his help. He felt the blood thicken again and spoke for distraction. ‘You had a strategy for survival.’
Her blush remained. She gave a short laugh. ‘A polite way of putting it.’
‘But it was a strategy. And I fully understood.’
‘Surely not.’ She shifted in her seat. ‘Oh, this is very difficult.’
‘Then we need not speak of it again.’ He watched her curt nod. ‘Except to say that once I recovered from denying your request, I was immensely flattered.’ It warmed his heart to see a twitch of a smile from her.
It disappeared when she looked at him, those intense blue eyes on his. ‘At the hold-up,’ she began, ‘you didn’t know about the gold, did you?’
Finn shook his head. ‘I knew nothing of any gold. I only wanted to kill the man who’d killed my sister and her unborn child and consequently, by way of the grief that inflicted, killed my father.’ Emotion spiralled up like a ball of flame in his chest, and a pulse thudded in his neck. He ran a finger along his shirt collar, though it was already loosened.
Nell’s eyes squeezed shut a moment. ‘I’d never seen the bags before. I didn’t know there was gold in the coach until he said so, earlier that morning. I’d no idea it had come from your family.’
‘That was new information for me, too. But I will be glad to have it back.’
She looked up sharply. ‘You know I wrote to Mr Campbell about returning it?’
‘Which is why his cousin, Mr Worrell, is here to act as agent and retrieve it.’
Retreating into silence, she nodded. Her face carried a little frown, and she lifted a shoulder as she thought of something, as she rubbed her fingers.
Hands clasped in front of him, he caught her eye. ‘I am only so very glad, now, that I do not have his murder on my hands.’
Nell started to say something and stopped. Started again, but shook her head, looked away.
‘Nell.’ He held out his hand when she looked back. ‘May I take your hand?’ She hesitated only a moment before reaching across and slipping hers into his. He held her fingers, unsure until he felt the tension leave her. ‘Even though murder was my intention on the day, I’m glad I wasn’t able to pull the trigger.’ Those blue eyes of hers were clear as she stared at him. A clench in his gut. He wanted to drink her in, or take her under him now, lose himself inside of her, have her writhe on top of him and whisper his name.
‘And I’m glad you are not a murderer. But I am glad he’s dead.’ Nell leaned across and laid her other hand over his. ‘Perhaps we should speak no more of him, now. It sours the evening.’ Before his pulse could thunde
r around his body, she inched forward. ‘I don’t suppose we could make some tea?’
Thirty-Four
Nell’s mouth had dried, probably from thirst, or worry, and now nerves, because she’d just begged for a drink after boldly gripping his hand.
‘Tea.’ Finn barked a laugh. ‘Of course. I’m remiss.’ He pointed out the back, one hand still holding hers, hard calluses rough on her palm. ‘I’ll fire up the cooker—’
‘I’ll come with you.’ She followed him outside, letting her fingers fall from his. It left her feeling a little bereft. She wondered if she should slip her hand back into his … No. That would be like a desperate woman, needing a man. She puffed out a breath.
Finn picked up a candle from the shelf at the back door and led her outside and into a room devoid of furniture except for two chairs and a small, square table by the stove. The candle flickered, strengthened, and light glowed when he placed it on the table. Indicating she take the chair, he turned to stoke the cooking fire. He tested the kettle for water, set it on the stove then took down the teapot from the mantel.
Nell looked around. The room was sturdy, large timbers exposed, and the space big enough for more furniture but there was nothing, not even a cupboard.
He caught her frown. ‘I lived in here when I was building the rest of the house. There was a bed there,’ he said pointing to one side by the far wall. ‘Was plenty for me at the time.’
‘You built this house?’
‘I did. I wasn’t a wealthy man because my father had insisted I make my own money. So I went and found work. Any work. Blacksmithing, shoe-smithing, labouring on other farms. Anything to avoid his merchandise business. Finally got enough to build this place, small as it is. But I was about to be married, so …’ He let his voice trail off as he reached for the tea caddy and pried off the lid with a spoon from the mantel.
The words shouldn’t have unsettled her. As she heard them, a sadness crept in. He was a widower who had clearly loved his wife. He had worked hard to put a roof over their heads and done it without help like most others who might have had some privilege.
Watching him swill hot water into the pot, toss it into a bowl on the hearth, measure the tea leaves, she wondered what Louisa’s life had been like with him. She stopped herself as the heat rose over her neck. Of course, the heat would be from the stove, and from the kettle now popping its lid as it began to boil.
He looked at her once as he poured steaming water into the teapot. That flutter tripped inside her again. She should make conversation. Should talk about something, anything, but the silence seemed somehow comfortable, and it lengthened. Two people were about to share a pot of tea. That was comfortable. But these two people had already shared some strange experiences. Some dangerous, heart-pumping experiences.
The kettle set aside, he pulled two tin cups from the mantel and poured lightly steeped tea in each. ‘I prefer it weak when there’s no milk. I hope that’s all right for you. Please, sit there.’ He indicated the chair at one end of the table.
Aroma from the steaming pannikin reached her. She took the cup and blew into it. No other words would come. She blew again, tried to sip but the tea was still too hot.
He dragged out the other chair to sit near her. ‘Here I am talking about tea.’
‘Yes?’ Her heart thumped. She stared at his mouth, his nose, eyes. The stubble of auburn beard once again on his jaw. She wanted to touch the line of his dark rusty coloured brows. Finn Seymour. The bushranger.
‘Tea. As if the extraordinary events of these last months have not occurred.’ He lifted a shoulder, as if to say there should be more to it. He leaned an arm on the table, his eyes on hers.
She could sip her tea at last, and though hot, it allayed her thirst. ‘A mark of normalcy, I suppose. I’m not usually a risk-taker, but after the events of tonight, I seem to have properly acquired the necessity.’ Sipping again, she felt her throat ease. Blew some more and was able to take a swallow. She sighed her enjoyment of it, and her stomach thrilled as she caught his gaze.
‘I would like to relieve you of that necessity, madam,’ he said, inclining his head, a small smile lighting his features. ‘However, it would be just plain Finn Seymour at your service. I advise that the bushranger has retired.’
‘Oh. A pity.’ There was sharp dismay that the bushranger would no longer appear. Yet, instead she had the real man here, and a man who seemed genuine. Who was genuine. She knew she wanted him the way a woman should want a man, to be giving and affectionate. She knew he wanted her, too. To have her and hold her and love her. And he protected her, looked out for her. Deep breath, Nell. Her glance was tentative, but she knew that what she was about to say was not. Hoping her hands wouldn’t shake, she kept a grip on her cup and said, ‘The bushranger was such a gentleman. I would miss him.’ At her own daring words, she sipped more tea and watched for his reaction.
He snorted. ‘If you’ll pardon me, he was a damn fool. He is gone.’ His fingers tapped the table as if marking the bushranger’s demise final.
She set her cup down. He’d missed it. Completely. ‘Well, Finn Seymour, if you’ll pardon me, I meant I should like the damn fool back. I had become very fond of him and do not have a care to be without.’ She held her breath and stood up. Bold, bold, bold, Nell. You are running away with yourself again.
I don’t care. I don’t care.
He shot to his feet, reached across and pulled her to him, his eyes glinting, the auburn hair rakish in the candlelight. ‘He might not be the gentleman bushranger this time.’
Her heart leapt. ‘I will take my chances.’ She loosened a hand and her fingers brushed his mouth. Whiskers tickled as she found the soft flesh of his lips. ‘I have long wondered what that would feel like.’ She trailed fingertips over his cheeks to smooth his brows. ‘And what that would feel like. And this.’ She ran both hands through his hair.
He took her wrists. Eyes bored into hers. ‘Nell.’
She felt the hard swell of his penis against her. Warmth curled through her belly and she knew she would take her chances tonight. She knew that whatever happened afterwards, she would be all right.
‘Nell,’ he breathed. ‘You have been hurt by the worst—’
‘I choose to leave that behind me,’ she cried. Her hands shook in his. ‘I will not be afraid to live my life because of it. But if I falter,’ she said, staring into those beautiful eyes, ‘it will not be because of this.’
His mouth came down on hers, held her there a moment before he kissed her neck, scraped his jaw along her nape. ‘Perhaps the kitchen another time,’ he ground out, ‘but tonight, to my bed. The bushranger still has his manners.’ He took up the candle, tugged her back to the house. Setting the light on his dresser inside his room, he let go of her, only for a moment, waiting.
In a heartbeat, she came to him, her mouth to his, breasts pushed hard to his chest. His hands grabbed fistfuls of her skirt. Fingers gathered the fabric until he could slip his hands underneath. He toyed with the cotton of her drawers. Her belly tensed, her hands clung to his shoulders before sliding to the hem of his shirt.
He took it off himself then lifted her, hands under her backside. Turning, his thighs quivered and bunched as he lowered to sit on the bed. Astride his lap, waves of pleasure cascaded through her as he flicked open the buttons on his flies. Every movement sent tingling little pulses between her legs, made her breathless against him.
I never thought this is how it would feel …
He stopped, withdrew his hands and began the task of opening the buttons on her jacket. He kissed her, quick and hard, his fingers working on the small buttons, and then the soft, smooth fabric fell open over her chemise.
His lips pressed on her neck, on the swell of her breasts. Her hands cradled his face and she dipped to meet his mouth. A warm callused hand slid under her chemise along her ribcage and found a nipple. Shivers of delight feathered over her as a finger stroked, and the pulse between her legs became urgent.
He lay her on the bed, shucked his trousers, fell alongside her. Pushing up her skirt, he let a finger glide between her legs where it was sleek and hot. She reached up to take his shoulders as sudden wave after wave of pleasure rolled through. She sank, in wonder, wanting more, needing more. He knelt over her and slipped his penis, warm, hard, and insistent, inside and his body leisurely rocked her. Urgent now, he lifted her hip and thrust deeper, swelled, and drove harder. Then he buried his face in the curve of her neck, tensed, and let himself go.
He sank on her, settled his weight on her, and she waited, happy and awe-filled. When his breathing returned to normal, he rose up unsteadily on one arm. Kissed her nose and her mouth and fell back to the bed. ‘Nell, my Nell. The bushranger has surrendered.’
They lay, naked now, under the covers. A candle flickered on either side of his bed. Her head rested on his shoulder, and her fingers splayed over the wiry dark hair on his chest. Strange that it wasn’t all the same colour as the hair on his head or of his beard stubble. Her hand travelled down the line of hair, over his belly button, into the tight coils of his pubic hair, and inched back up again.
‘And so, Ben and I travel to Melbourne periodically to pick up more supplies. Perhaps only two more times before this winter sets in. Each trip takes about two weeks, all being well, and we go in a few days’ time. I miss you already.’ He turned to glide a languorous kiss on her.
Nell burrowed deeper alongside him. Her hair, spilled from her pins, fell forward on his chest. The contrast of her blonde locks against his dark and sometimes fiery copper tones fascinated her.
‘Then we go onto the fields with a laden cart,’ he continued.
‘And what about the store? Do you not trade out of there?’ Her fingers twirled on his chest, scooted softly to the thatch of hair under one arm.
