by Jo Goodman
“As if I didn’t know,” Irish scoffed, wagging his fork at Nathan. To Lydia, he said, “I’d be pleased to have you call me Irish. I probably wouldn’t answer to anything else anyway.”
“Irish it is.”
“Does this mean you’re staying at Ballaburn?” he asked.
Lydia looked from Irish to Nathan. “I honestly haven’t decided. I’ve written to Mother and Papa, explaining as much as I know of what’s happened, and I’ve asked Papa to send money for my passage. I may stay here or in Sydney until then.”
“Sydney!” Ruddy color rushed to Irish’s face and he made a blustery protest. “Where would you go? What would you do? You don’t know anyone in Sydney.”
Still looking at Nathan, Lydia said quietly, “I don’t know anyone here, either.” She lowered her eyes then and continued eating.
Irish opened his mouth to say more but closed it again when Nathan caught his eye with a quick warning to stop. Not used to being told what to do, Irish took the advice without much good humor, stabbing at his food when he returned to his meal.
“You wrote a letter once before to your parents,” Nathan said to Lydia. “At the orphanage, remember? Just after you recovered from your fever.”
“I wrote what you told me to write,” she said. “And it was a lie. We didn’t elope. I doubt that Papa believed it anyway. It had to have confused him. He was there when I sent you and Brig jumping from my bedroom window. He knew how I felt about the both of you.”
“Jumping out of windows?” Irish interjected, his iron gray brows making a single thick line above his eyes. “What’s this about? Nathan?”
“Later,” Nathan said shortly. “I also wrote a letter, Lydia. One to Pei Ling to be given to your father. I told him all about Marcus and the wager and my part in it.”
“Did you?” she asked, clearly disbelieving.
“Yes.”
Lydia hesitated. The way he spit out the single word was like a slap. “Then you told him more than I know,” she said, refusing to be baited. “I’ve heard about this wager, of course, but I don’t think I’ve ever been told the truth about it. Have I?” Nathan started to say something, but Lydia held up her hand, cutting him off. “No, I’d like to hear it from Irish.”
“Nath was right,” Irish said. He wheeled away from the table to the liquor cabinet and poured himself three fingers of whiskey. “You do have spirit. Scratch the surface of that serene Madonna face and one can see right away that you don’t back down. Do you get that from Madeline, I wonder, or from me?”
He came back to the table. “I suppose you think you’ve been the one wronged here, the one who’s had everything done to her and against her. You’ve probably never considered you’re the person everything’s been done for.” His fingers pressed whitely on the tumbler and he stared at his drink, not at Lydia. “This afternoon before you fainted you said my name. I was surprised that you knew about me at all. I’d have thought Madeline would have kept it a secret from you.”
“She did for many years. She told me when I was fourteen.”
“And what did she tell you?”
Lydia was suddenly uncomfortable. Quite unconsciously she sought out Nathan, mutely appealing to him for help.
“Irish...” Nathan began. “She doesn’t—”
Irish slammed his empty hand against the arm of his chair causing Lydia to jerk in surprised reaction. He spoke roughly to Nathan. “She asked me to tell her about the wager and I will—in my words, in my way. You can leave if you want.”
“No, I’ll stay.” After all, he thought, he was one of the people something had been done to.
“What did your mother say about me?” Irish asked Lydia again.
Lydia laid down her fork. “She said you were a rapist…that you raped her and that I was the child of your violence. She said you were a dirty Sydney Duck and that you had committed unspeakable crimes before you were transported. She told me once that there had been a time when she trusted you, thought you were different from the others you ran with, and then you proved to her how wrong she was by taking her by force.”
Irish’s grip on his tumbler eased gradually. “And what would you say if I told you that it was all lies?”
“I’d say you were the liar.”
Irish nodded, expecting that answer. “Then you’re not ready to hear about the wager. You wouldn’t understand and you wouldn’t believe.”
“You expect me to believe you?” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that? Ignore everything my mother’s ever told me about you when I have all kinds of evidence to support what she’s said? Nothing you’ve done has been for me. It’s all been for you. You’ve acted ruthlessly and without feeling. I may not understand this stupid, childish wager of yours, but I know enough to realize you never once acted on my behalf or on the behalf of anyone besides yourself.”
Lydia swept the napkin from her lap, folded it neatly, and dropped it beside her plate. She stood, her silk gown whispering softly in the oppressively silent room as she pushed back her chair and walked out.
Nathan watched her go, appreciation in his silver, blue-ringed eyes. The faint smile that hovered on his lips applauded her. He uncovered the rolls, chose one, and began to butter it.
Irish shot him a sour glance and finished his drink in two long swallows. “You approve, I suppose.”
“Of Lydia? Yes, I approve. And so should you, Irish. She’s your daughter through and through.”
Setting down his tumbler, Irish said heavily. “No, she’s not. She’s Samuel Chadwick’s daughter. She just reminded me how much.”
There was a lot of truth in that statement and Nathan didn’t respond to it. “What is it that you expect from her?”
“An open mind. If she’d just hear me out with an open mind, I’d be satisfied with that. What chance do I have of being heard when Madeline’s filled her head with those foul lies?”
“You weren’t really asking for an open mind, though,” said Nathan. “You wanted her to believe you outright and she’s not going to do that. She needs time, Irish. You have to let her come to know you, learn to trust you a little. She’s not going to respect you simply because you say you’re her father. Her feelings aren’t attached.”
“Can’t you talk to her?”
“No. Not about this. You said you wanted it in your words, your way. I’m not interfering. Besides, she was very clear about her feelings toward me this afternoon. I don’t have any influence.”
“But she’s your wife.” His tone suggested there should be no problem.
“She doesn’t think like convict women, Irish, or their daughters. She doesn’t expect to be treated with indifference except in the bedroom, and in there she doesn’t expect to be treated like a whore. Lydia has a heart and mind of her own and you’d do well not to try to stuff her with your opinions because she’ll reject them all. You’ve got to give her time.”
“Time,” Irish said softly, “is the one thing I don’t have.”
Chapter 11
“I brought you this,” Nathan said, nudging the bedroom door closed with his boot heel. He carried a tray filled with a helping of everything from their meal. “You left the table without eating much. I thought you might be hungry.”
“I am.” She put down her embroidery and cleared the side table ladened with books so Nathan would have a place to put the tray.
“We’ll have to get another table for you here if you’re going to eat many meals in this room.” He pushed the table and tray close to the bed where Lydia was perched on the edge.
Prickles of warmth touched Lydia’s cheeks and she stared at her hands in her lap momentarily, sighing. “Yes, well, I’m surprised you’ve brought me anything at all, or more than bread and water. I was unconscionably rude to your employer.”
“Don’t let my relationship with Irish stop you from speaking your mind. He and I have muddled through for years. It was quite something to see him set back on his heels.”
“Still, I
was rude.”
“You were baited.” Nathan sat down in the rocker and stretched out his legs, using his heels as a brake to keep from moving. He glanced around the large room and realized some other furniture was in order. Odd, he thought, how it had all seemed adequate before Lydia. Now he wanted a place where he could sit beside her while she embroidered, a desk where she could write, and a small table where they could have a meal alone when Irish was in one of his black moods. “You won a measure of Irish’s respect this evening.”
“I don’t know if I want his respect,” she said honestly. “I’m not certain I like him or care to. He’s not a very kind man.”
“Kind? No, that’s not Irish. He’s not cut from the same cloth as Samuel Chadwick and you’d do well not to compare them. There’s no competition here for your affection. At least Irish doesn’t mean for there to be. He only wants to come to know his daughter.”
Lydia dabbed a tiny slice of lamb in mint jelly, pausing as she lifted it to her mouth. “As to that,” she said. “How do I know he’s Marcus O’Malley? How do I know I’m really his daughter?”
Nathan laughed softly, a half smile on his lips. “He asked a similar question. You only have to look at his eyes to know the truth. They’re your own, Lydia, and you know it.”
She didn’t respond to that but ate in thoughtful silence. “What happened to Irish’s legs?” she asked. “Would he mind if you told me?”
“He probably thinks I already have. You barely reacted when you saw him in his chair at dinner.”
“I was shocked. And you noticed.”
“I was touching you,” he said softly. “I notice when you tremble.”
For a moment Lydia forgot how to swallow. She simply stared at Nathan and felt heat blossom in the pit of her stomach. “Don’t,” she said suddenly, angrily. “Don’t say things like that and don’t look at me that way.”
One of Nathan’s brows arched, his features both amused and mocking. “You wanted to know about Mad Irish’s legs,” he said calmly, as if her outburst had never been.
Lydia began to eat again. “Yes. Has he been in the chair very long?”
“A little more than three years. We’d had a run of bad luck with the bushrangers. They were taking sheep, knocking down fences, and breaking dams. One of Ballaburn’s stockmen was killed defending the property. There was a time when the rangers left Ballaburn alone, in deference I suppose to the fact that Mad Irish was a convict himself. But that changed as he got richer and the size of his holdings grew. In general, there’s quite a bit of sympathy for the bushrangers, but not here at Ballaburn, not when we’ve seen firsthand what they’re capable of doing.
“Brig and Irish and I set out with a plan to stop them. We left a few men to defend the house while everyone else mounted to drive the bushrangers out. Irish and I were riding together near Nillaburra ridge, heading south toward the gully. God, I can even remember what we were talking about when it happened.”
San Francisco, Nathan thought. They had been talking about the wager even then. Irish had had something like it in mind for years. Long before Nathan arrived at Ballaburn, Irish had been tutoring Brigham, preparing him to make the voyage to California and bring back his son or daughter from the rarefied air of Frisco’s social elite. But Irish had hedged his bets, bringing in Nathan at Brig’s request and tutoring him in the same vein. While Nathan proved to be a quick study, Brigham still had years of a jump on him and was prepared to leave Ballaburn long before his friend. Irish, however, was only willing to send them in tandem, and that meant Brigham was forced to wait until Irish decided Nathan was ready.
“I was trying to convince Irish to let Brig leave Ballaburn,” Nathan said, his head tilted to the right as he retrieved old memories. “He wouldn’t hear of it. Wouldn’t consider giving Brig the money for his passage and wouldn’t think of letting me go with Brig then. Brig had been bending his ear in a like vein for weeks with a similar lack of success.” He realized that he was coming perilously close to telling Lydia about the wager and shifted his focus. “I’ve always wondered if we’d been paying more attention to what was around us, whether we could have heard the bushrangers taking up positions along the ridge.”
“Oh, God,” Lydia said softly as her thoughts leapt ahead of Nathan’s story, knowing precisely where it would lead.
“We didn’t have any time to get to our guns as the shots were fired. Our horses reared, scrambled, and lost their footing on the steep hill. Mine was shot out from under me and I slid fifty yards to the gully floor. I had a broken leg and a dislocated shoulder. Irish wasn’t so lucky. He took a bullet in the back.”
“And hasn’t walked since.”
Nathan sat up straighter. He nodded. “We were left for dead. Would have been, too, if it hadn’t been for Brig. When we didn’t return to the house that night he took a few men with him and tracked us down. They found us in the morning and brought us both back on a sledge.”
Brig again, Lydia thought. Did Nathan hate her for what she had done to his best friend? And Irish? What must he think? “Don’t you wonder what’s happened to Brig?” she asked. “You’ve never expressed the least concern.”
“How would you know my concerns? I couldn’t talk to you about him the entire voyage because you didn’t recall his existence. Isn’t your question a trifle hypocritical anyway? You’re the one who shot him.”
“He was trying to—”
Holding up his hand, Nathan stopped her. “You don’t have to defend yourself to me. I didn’t mean to sound accusing. I know Brig.” He wanted to win at all costs, Nathan added silently. “I’ve often thought that if it hadn’t been for your memory loss, you might have shot me as well.”
“I still may.” She blinked widely, covering her hand with her mouth as she realized she had spoken her thoughts aloud.
Nathan leveled her with a hard, chilling glance. “Don’t try it, Lydia. You wouldn’t like the consequences.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“As for Brig,” he said, ignoring her protest. “If he’s recovered, we’ll know it soon enough because he’ll come to Ballaburn. And if he’s dead, well, there’s nothing much I can do about it, is there?”
“My God, you’re a hard man.”
“Those are the realities, Lydia. They don’t make me hard, only practical. You’ve never had a mate like Brigham Moore so I don’t expect you to understand. Just accept it.”
“I only thought—”
“Don’t.” He stood. “Don’t think. I’ve already told you I don’t blame you for what happened. If anything, I have you to thank for removing Brig from the picture. You helped me win.” He turned on his heel then, not waiting for her to demand that he leave, and strode out of the room.
A few minutes later Lydia watched him from her bedroom window as he took a horse from the stable and charged hell bent for leather into the darkening hills.
It was after midnight when Nathan returned to the room. Lydia had been drifting in and out of sleep for the better part of two hours. As quiet as Nathan was, Lydia bolted upright when she heard the door click into place.
“Who’s there?”
The question stopped Nathan in his tracks. He swayed a little, his imperfect balance the result of lifting too many beers with Irish. “It’s Nathan,” he said. “Who were you expecting?”
Lydia leaned across the bed toward the nightstand, fumbled for the matches, and lit the oil lamp. She replaced the glass globe carefully and adjusted the wick. “I wasn’t expecting anyone,” she said. She drew the covers more securely around her, but it wasn’t only because the room was chilled.
Nathan sat heavily in the rocker and began removing his boots and socks. His grin was a trifle lopsided and a dimple appeared at one corner of his mouth. “But then I’m not just anyone.”
“I wasn’t expecting you, either,” she said. “What are you doing here?”
He held up a shoe with the tip of his forefinger. It slipped off and thundered to the floor.
“Should be perfectly obvious. I’m undressing.”
“I can see that. But why here?”
Shrugging out of his jacket, Nathan frowned. “I know I’m a bit tiddley, but not so much that I don’t know it would cause considerable comment if I undressed anywhere else. Where did you have in mind? One of the shearing sheds? The entrance hall? The kitchen?”
“Your bedroom,” she answered.
“This is my bedroom.” He got up and went to the armoire, opening it with an exaggerated flourish. “You see? My clothes are—” He stopped, brows drawn together in perfect puzzlement. “—are not here.” He remembered the trunks and valises and swiveled around, looking for them. They weren’t in the room. “What have you done?”
Lydia drew a deep, calming breath. “What I’ve done is unpack my belongings. I had yours removed to another room, not without some protest from the housekeeper, but I persevered. You’ll find them at the end of the hall, in the room that once was Irish’s before his accident confined him to the first floor. It looked entirely satisfactory.”
“The hell it is.” He sloughed off his alcoholic haze as if he were molting a too tight skin. He suddenly felt very sober.
Lydia watched as he disappeared into the hallway, a little shaken by the cold resolve she had seen in his predator eyes and in the hard set of his features. He was back in less than a minute, carrying two valises stuffed haphazardly with his clothes. He left again, and this time the bumping and scraping of one of the trunks being dragged along the hallway announced his return.
Lydia ran to the door, trying to shut it before he and the trunk came through. Nathan stopped her, bracing his shoulder against it. He held it there, pushing back against her strength, proving that she couldn’t shut him out. “I don’t want you here,” she said, yielding the entrance to him.
“You’ve made that clear.” He dropped the trunk and caught her by the waist as she made to go past him into the hall. “I, on the other hand, want to be here, and I want you with me.”
