Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1 (13 page)

Now she was faced with a decision that she had tried to deny to herself. Would she give herself to him? For her, the issues of not seeing Michael in the future, or living for the moment, were in a turbulent conflict with each other.

She made her decision. ‘Michael, I think we should go back to the cottage,’ she said lightly, as she took his hand in hers. ‘Cribbs will have made us supper and I do not want him to be disappointed by not availing ourselves of his undoubtedly fine efforts.’

The young Irishman shook his head and folded his big hand around her delicate fingers. What man could know the intricate workings of the female mind?

The sandstone beach cottage was as fine as any good home Michael knew in Sydney. It had well-kept gardens and a high timber verandah.

At the top of a broad set of steps facing the sea, they were met by a wizened old man who had once been a convict. His skin was as leathery as the broad belt about his waist and he was stooped with arthritis. Fiona had bribed Cribbs with a good supply of gin to remain silent concerning her presence at the cottage, and the gin had also purchased a prepared supper and the old caretaker’s absence for the night. He was more than happy to accept the opportunity to go fishing.

‘Good even’n, Miss Macintosh.’ He greeted her and carefully ignored Michael. It was his way of showing he could be discreet. ‘I left yer supper in the kitchen. Nuthin’ fancy, but all fresh. Trapped ’em meself yesterday.’

‘Thank you, Cribbs. I appreciate your thoughtfulness,’ she replied graciously, and the old man beamed happily. He liked the young mistress, whom he had known since she was a child when he had carved her tiny horses from driftwood. But he eyed Michael suspiciously and decided that he did not like him as the young man did not have the appearance of a gentleman. His face had scars that were reminiscent of a man who knew the meaner streets of Sydney and not the town’s more genteel parlours. Why Miss Macintosh was with such a man mystified him as she was more than worthy of the company of the colony’s finest gentlemen.

‘If’n there be nuthin’ else, I’d be seein’ to the nets, Miss Macintosh,’ he said before hobbling away.

Michael had remained silent as he sensed the animosity towards him. Fiona waited until Cribbs was out of sight before she took Michael’s hand and led him up the broad steps and into the cottage.

Inside, he was duly impressed by the subtle display of vast wealth the Macintosh cottage held. The internal timbers were of dark cedar brought down by Macintosh ships from the northern rainforests of the colony and the furniture was the best money could buy. The Persian carpets had been imported from the Holy Land and there were even one or two expensive vases from the land of the Chinese.

The polished timber floor echoed their footsteps as he followed Fiona down a hall that led into a sitting room with a commanding view of the ocean. If this is what she called a cottage, what would a house be like, Michael thought.

‘My brother, David, is going to stay at the cottage for a while when he returns from visiting Queensland. I think he will be bringing young ladies here,’ Fiona said with a conspiratorial giggle.

Michael scanned the room, admiring the decor. ‘Is that a common occurence?’ he asked, as Fiona sat on a settee decorated with a floral pattern. She brushed down the cotton dress she wore.

‘Granville says my brother is quite a ladies’ man,’ she answered, with a sisterly note of pride. ‘He says David was almost expelled from Oxford for having a lady visit him in his rooms after hours. It caused quite a scandal. But they excused him in the end because they said that they expected no better from a colonial.’ She reached up and drew Michael down beside her on the settee.

‘I didn’t know your brother was in Queensland,’ he said, by way of small talk. He had an impulsive desire to explore her body with his hands and mouth.

‘David left before Christmas to see Father about land purchases,’ she explained. ‘He really did not have to go. But he has not seen Father or Angus for over five years and he thought that he should spend Christmas with them since they were unable to join us this year. We expect him to be returning next month when he and Father have finished their business. Father has plans to extend our properties in Queensland and stock them with cattle because he feels that the land is more suited to cattle than sheep. Angus will manage Glen View while Father sets up a new run.’

Michael had learned a lot about the Macintosh family. Fiona had spoken about them at great length when they had met on their first secret rendezvous. He’d formed the impression that they were not a close family. At least not in the sense that the Duffy clan were. So the wealthy paid a price for what they had, he thought as he listened to the young woman bemoan the fact that business took precedence over a family reunion. He also knew from the way she spoke of her family that she was closest to three people; her brother David, Molly the Irish nanny, and Penelope her cousin. Although he had never met David, he felt that the man did not sound as pompous as Granville White whom he had instinctively disliked for his arrogant and foppish manner.

‘I hope David enjoyed his Christmas up north with your father and brother,’ he said wistfully. ‘My father and my brother were supposed to come down to Sydney to spend Christmas with us. But we have heard nothing from them since October when we received their last letter. Da said they would make one delivery out to some place called Tambo and then return to Rockhampton.’

She squeezed his hand gently and said, ‘I am sure nothing has happened to them. Daddy says in his letters that they have a lot of rain this time of year and that often they are cut off from the coast for weeks. But you have said that your father and brother are teamsters, so they should not starve with all the supplies they undoubtedly have should they have been cut off.’

Michael stared at the cedar-panelled wall opposite the settee and, despite her attempt to reassure him, he had a deep fear that could not be consoled. Something was very wrong and he had the terrible feeling that he would never see his father again. He also knew that his uncle Frank felt the same way.

‘I should see what Cribbs has prepared for our supper,’ Fiona said as she leapt up from the settee. ‘He can be a wonderful cook when he sets his mind to it and I can smell something delicious in the kitchen. I had some special things delivered on Friday for Cribbs to use in the cooking. Oh!’ she exclaimed with a sudden and terrible realisation. ‘I only hope he did not drink the port I had delivered.’ But her fear was quickly realised when she went to the kitchen. Cribbs
had
drunk the port intended for a pigeon casserole. So instead, he had roasted two wild ducks that he had trapped on a nearby lagoon and he’d fervently hoped that his culinary expertise in preparing the game birds would appease Fiona in lieu of the missing port.

Fiona discovered the switch and was extremely annoyed. But less annoyed when she saw the feast the old man had prepared. He had certainly earned a bottle of port for his efforts.

The table was laid with fine silver and candelabra in the dining room and the delicious aroma of roasted wild duck wafted through the cottage.

Michael lit the candles and Fiona told him to wait while she brought the food to him. The day spent in Manly Village and on the beach had made him ravenous, and she served the supper with an exaggerated flourish; roasted wild duck stuffed with rock oysters (an imaginative and delicious touch by Cribbs), green minted peas, straw potatoes and spiced peaches. Next to Michael’s plate she set a crystal goblet of the Macintoshes’ finest burgundy wine imported from France.

‘You are a fine cook, Miss Macintosh. And as fine a wench as I have seen in any good hotel,’ he said, laughing as he sliced a portion of rich dark meat from the crisp breast of the roast duck. ‘I think we should go to America and you could open a restaurant.’

‘You know I really did not prepare this wonderful supper,’ she said with a frown. ‘And it is not exactly restaurant cuisine.’

He gazed through the candle’s soft light at Fiona who sat and sipped delicately on her wine. ‘You mean you eat like this all the time?’ he said, with a hint of awe for the rich and imaginative variety the meal presented.

‘Michael. Do you know . . . you sound like some kind of peasant when you say things like that. Of course we eat like this,’ she answered with a small note of haughty disdain for his less than urbane question.

‘Yes, well for me it’s a long way from corned beef, cabbage and potatoes. Or pickled pork,’ he answered as he loaded his fork with succulent oysters dripping with their own gravy. ‘This is the kind of meal we starving Irish only dream about.’

‘You
really are
a peasant type,’ she said in a way that made him pause and glance up at her from his meal. There had been a hint of arrogance in her comment he did not like.

‘
Us
peasant types keep this kind of food on your plate, Miss Macintosh. But I think you know that,’ he said, and he felt uneasy at the tense atmosphere that had crept into the room between them. It was like some evil spirit haunting the cottage.

‘You sound annoyed, Michael,’ she flared, with a touch of Macintosh haughtiness. ‘I do not think your criticism of how we earn our wealth is warranted.’

‘Maybe it’s because without your clothes, or without your money, you are no different to any of the other women I know,’ he growled.

She flushed with anger and glared at him. How dare this man speak to her as if she had anything in common with the other women he knew. Penelope was right in trying to dissuade her from seeing him. She had been infatuated with him like a schoolgirl in love with her music teacher, and now that they were finally alone she was seeing him for what he truly was. Despite his peasant upbringing though, he was a damned desirable man.

They remained uncomfortably silent for the rest of the meal. Fiona picked at her food and wished she had been less haughty in her manner towards Michael, who tucked heartily into his own meal. She could not understand how he could eat when she herself was upset. Although he was disturbed by the tension between them, the roast duck tasted too good to be wasted, and when he had finished eating he wiped his mouth with a linen napkin.

‘Thank you for the meal, Miss Macintosh,’ he said formally, as he stood and walked across the room towards the door. ‘I hope all goes well for you in the future.’

‘Where are you going?’ she asked in a strained voice. She had not expected him to just suddenly depart. The realisation that her hold over him was very tenuous stunned her. Could he not see that she was practically sacrificing her noble body to him? It had not occurred to her that a working-class Irishman was capable of dismissing her. She was, after all, the daughter of the powerful and renowned Donald Macintosh.

‘I’m not sure,’ he said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘Maybe the Steyne for the night.’

‘You cannot leave me alone here, Michael,’ she pleaded in her panic. ‘Something might happen to me.’

‘If it’s any consolation to you,’ he said bitterly, ‘it was I who forced my attentions on you. But I realise how right you have been about the situation. We have no future together in this country. Maybe if you had considered the Americas, we might have had a chance. But I know the idea was a foolish and stupid impulse of mine.’

She stared at him. The wine was taking effect as it flowed through her body, and she felt that same hot feeling that she had known alone in her bed when the images of the black stallion had come to her. There had to be a first time for every woman. And she wanted that first time to be with him. She did not know if she was using him or was in love with him. All she knew was the ache to be held in his arms and feel his sweet breath on her cheek. A feeling which had never been so strong as at the present moment. Had denial of her love for him been the reason for her haughtiness towards him? Had she tried to play a game . . . as Penelope might . . . to dominate him?

‘No, Michael,’ she whispered. ‘You only think you have all the control. Have you ever considered that I might want you as much as you want me?’

She rose from her chair and went to him and placed the palm of her hand on his cheek. Her hand felt soft and warm against his skin and he stiffened. The woman was confusing him! One moment she was arrogant and aloof. The next, soft and gentle.

‘Right now, all I know is that I want you,’ he said quietly, as he placed his hand over hers. ‘I want you like I have never wanted anything else in this world.’

She tilted her face to him and her lips parted, inviting him to taste the sweetness of her desire, and he covered her mouth with his kiss. It was at first soft – then demanding – and she could feel his body relax and fold into hers. Nothing else mattered between them for this moment in time.

She was vaguely aware that he had lifted her in his arms as he had when they were on the beach. She slipped her arm around his neck and curled into his chest. With little effort, he carried her across the room to drop her gently on a counterpaned double bed in the cottage’s master bedroom.

‘Wait,’ she said in a husky voice, as she knelt on the bed and began to undress. She removed the long white cotton dress, under which she wore a tight-fitting corset under a camisole bodice and a knee-length chemise. The cumbersome clothes fell to the floor one by one. Finally she knelt on the bed, wearing only her pantaloons which were divided at the crotch.

She did not feel embarrassed, as she had thought she might. Instead, she knelt near naked before him because it felt so natural. She reached out to draw him to her on the bed and he reached out to embrace her, sliding his hand up the inside of her thigh where his fingers found yielding flesh at the top of the pantaloons. She gasped and closed her eyes, absorbing the animal feelings that his touch triggered in her mind and body. And she thrust her hips towards him, moaning with pleasure as his fingers gently entered her. Whatever lingering doubts she might have had about giving herself to him were gone. All that mattered was that this bed had become their universe, and this time exclusive to their lives.