Shadow of the Osprey (14 page)

Hilary replaced the revolver in its case where it lay surrounded by smaller compartments containing tins of percussion caps, lubricated bullets and a flask of black powder. ‘I’m afraid I do not stock Winchester rifles Mister Brown,’ he replied. ‘But I can sell you a Spencer in good condition. A carbine favoured by the Northern forces in the late war between the American states.’

‘It was just that I had the good fortune to voyage from Samoa,’ Horace said, ‘with a gentleman from America who dealt in Winchesters. I thought he might have been selling them to Sydney gun dealers. I regret now that I did not take the opportunity to purchase one from him when we were aboard the
Boston
.’

‘I’m afraid Mister O’Flynn’s merchandise was not for sale,’ Hilary frowned. ‘They have already been sold.’

‘Ahh. You know the man I speak of,’ Horace said with a disarming smile. ‘A true gentleman.’

The gun dealer glanced sharply at the portly little man with some suspicion. ‘We have met,’ he replied shortly, ‘on a professional basis.’

‘A pity to learn that Mister O’Flynn has already sold his rifles to someone else,’ Horace said casually. ‘I don’t suppose you might extend me the courtesy of telling me to which Sydney gun dealer he has sold his consignment so that I might inquire as to the purchase of one of those splendid guns.’

‘The Snider is more effective in stopping a myall if that is why you wish to purchase such a gun,’ the gun dealer replied grumpily, as he sensed that he was about to lose a customer. ‘The Winchester is little more than a glorified revolver. Fires a light round. Won’t stop a savage blackfella.’

‘That might be,’ Horace mused. ‘But the Winchester fires a lot of bullets.’

‘Well, I am afraid I cannot help you,’ Hilary growled. ‘I don’t know who Mister O’Flynn sold his consignment to.’

‘Isn’t that rather unusual?’ Horace retorted. ‘I would have assumed such a large consignment of Winchester’s latest rifles would have been the cause of great interest amongst gun dealers such as yourself, sir.’

‘If that is all I can help you with, sir,’ Hilary replied in a manner which indicated that the conversation was at an end, ‘I regret that I must get back to my business and no doubt you to yours. Good day sir.’

‘I will also bid you a good day Mister Hilary,’ Horace said with an audible sigh to show his disappointment. ‘I am sorry that we could not do business together.’

On the footpath outside the gun dealer’s shop Horace paused to consider what he had learned from the brief encounter with O’Flynn’s first Sydney contact. Not much at all. But somewhere in the colony there were enough repeating rifles to equip a small force of men with considerable firepower. For whatever purpose they had in mind.

Inside the gun shop George Hilary scowled as he watched the portly little man standing in deep thought outside his shop. He had felt uneasy about the seemingly innocent remarks by the remittance man. Should he get a message to the American about the encounter with Mister Brown?

He rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. Surely a man as insignificant as Mister Brown could not be a threat to the likes of the tough American.

That evening Michael Duffy sat opposite Penelope von Fellmann at the dining table in her home. The flickering candlelight gave him the devilish appearance of a man well acquainted with life’s vices and his eye patch gave him the rakish look of the old-time English pirates, Penelope mused as she appraised him across the table. During her visit to his hotel room she had seen the scars that covered his muscled body and her long fingers had traced the ugly welt that ran along his ribs. Michael had flinched at the touch of her sharp curved nails.

‘Reb bayonet,’ he had growled.

‘And this one?’

‘Maori axe.’

‘And how did you lose your eye?’

‘Shrapnel. Not sure if it was ours or the Rebs’,’ he answered, as her fingers had lovingly stroked the scars and welts of his naked body.

With her tongue she had traced the scar from a Commanche knife along his ribs. His body read like the saga of some mystical warrior. A wicked, fleeting thought of the women of ancient Rome who were reputed to have drunk the blood of the gladiators fresh from combat in the arena had crossed her mind, causing her to shiver with a delicious ecstasy for the pleasures she and her Roman sisters had experienced. Lust associated with violence – and Michael her modern-day gladiator.

‘Well, Baroness, I guess you will tell me why I am here,’ Michael said, fixing her dreamy gaze through the soft glow of the candles.

The polished teak table reflected his image as clearly as a mirror. Penelope snapped back to the present, now musing that he was much like the reflection on the table. Two men: one a very dangerous warrior; the other a gentle and creative lover.

‘I like it when you call me Baroness,’ she replied with a slow smile of satisfaction for the power she wielded. ‘It makes me feel as if I am your mistress to command you as I will. To call on you for any service I should desire.’

‘Right now, I am hardly in any position to upset you,’ he growled quietly, ‘knowing what you know about my past.’

‘You are right in that assumption Michael,’ she said haughtily. ‘I dare say the police in Sydney would be more than surprised – and pleased – to know that you are alive and able to stand trial for murder.’ She hesitated when she noticed the dangerous change in his expression as Michael toyed with a crystal goblet of burgundy wine in front of him. ‘But I can promise you that I am not about to reveal your identity,’ she added quickly.

They were alone after the meal. The servants had been dismissed from their duties after the table had been cleared. Penelope was wearing one of her more revealing dresses that showed her large but firm breasts to their best advantage. She was proud too of her narrow waist and wide hips. But she could see from the way the Irishman toyed with the crystal glass that his mind was elsewhere and that he was not entirely smitten with her as she hoped he would be. ‘What are you thinking Michael?’ she probed. ‘Are you thinking about Fiona?’

He glanced up at her, surprised, as if she had read his thoughts. ‘Yes. I guess I was,’ he answered.

‘Fiona did not recognise you,’ Penelope frowned. ‘She saw only a ghost, and ghosts frighten her. But apart from anything else, any future with my cousin was doomed from the very beginning. You must have known that you would never be socially acceptable to the Macintosh family.’

‘But I’m “socially acceptable” for you to go to bed with Baroness,’ he mused, staring into her eyes with a grim smile on his face.

‘You do not know my reasons for wanting to have you Michael,’ Penelope said, dropping her eyes. ‘Now, I am not so sure myself. At first I thought I was . . . ’ She tried to find the reasons: a desire to prove to him that he was no more than another of her play things to discard; an unconscious desire to hurt Fiona for being a Macintosh? ‘I wanted you, that is all,’ she concluded, as if dismissing the muddle of reasons in her own confused thoughts. ‘I suppose it would come as no surprise, if I asked what became of you,’ she said.

‘That is a long story and I am not about to bore you with its account,’ he replied mischievously. ‘Let us say that it pays to make the right kind of friends.’

‘But why the report that you had been killed?’ she queried.

He ceased smiling and stared into the crystal goblet. Burgundy and blood had the same rich colour. ‘Because when you are dead people soon forget about you. Even the traps,’ he replied softly.

‘Then what happened in your life when you left New Zealand, as you obviously did?’ she persisted. She found the mysterious man more fascinating than she dared admit to herself and wondered how much of himself he would reveal.

Her question evoked pain in his face as he took a deep breath and let it out with a visible heave of his broad shoulders. ‘Then I found myself in America. Right in the middle of another war. Too much has happened since then to talk about,’ he answered, dismissing any further discussion on the matter. ‘Maybe some day I might tell you. But I don’t think so.’

Even as she listened to Michael answer her questions she could feel her physical desire rising for him. The damned man had that effect on her. Who was in fact master of the situation between them, she wondered irritably.

But it was time to get down to the business and other more pleasant diversions would have to wait for the moment. ‘I think we should discuss why you are here Michael,’ she said formally.

‘So you aren’t interested in a narrative of any further scars tonight?’ he asked with a wicked hint of mockery in his voice.

She preferred not to answer. The feeling of being filled by him was still with her.

‘My husband has a task that requires a man of your experience,’ she replied, ignoring both his gentle taunt and her own desire.

‘My experience?’ he asked with interest. ‘What do you mean by my
experience.
’

‘Manfred had been informed of your, should we say, colourful exploits in South America, as well as your illustrious war record in America,’ she explained. ‘He felt that you would be the right man to help him in a matter of great importance.’

‘You know about my “exploits”, as you call them, in South America?’ he echoed, in awe of the Prussian’s knowledge of his supposedly secretive career as a soldier of fortune.

‘My husband has many contacts in America. And there is little he does not know about what you have done there. He felt that you had the right kind of experience to help him in his mission. But I think he would even be more impressed if he knew all that there is to know about Michael Duffy.’

Michael pulled a candle towards him to light one of the cigars that had been left on the table. As he puffed at the cigar, a halo of blue smoke curled around his head. ‘I think it would be better for us all if your husband just knew about Michael O’Flynn, Baroness. Michael Duffy died a long time ago, as we both know.’

‘If that is your wish. Then I will respect it,’ she replied as she watched the smoke around his head and tried not to smile at the strangely symbolic shape. Michael was certainly no angel!

‘This mission your husband has?’ he asked bluntly. ‘What is my role?’

‘That I am not at liberty to tell you at this stage,’ Penelope answered guardedly. ‘I am only in a position to offer you the job – and the money. Would two thousand dollars American interest you for, say, two months’ work?’

The Irish mercenary raised his brow as an expression of interest. Two thousand dollars for two months’ work was a lot of money! He had long learned not to question closely the nature of such highly paid work. But he knew this job must be either very dangerous or unlawful. ‘I suppose it would be a waste of time inquiring any further into what I am to do for the money,’ he said, as he took another puff of the cigar.

Penelope could smell the rich smoke and guessed his kiss would taste of cigar and burgundy. ‘I wish I could tell you more but my husband does not share
all
his secrets with me and I have learned not to ask him about certain matters. But I do know Manfred has a mission that might change the nature of things. A mission of great importance to Germany. I do not know exactly what things will change,’ she confessed, and Michael could see that she was telling the truth by the puzzled expression on her beautiful face as she explained her husband’s wishes. ‘Will it bother you to take German money?’ she asked. He shook his head. ‘Good,’ she added, with an expression of relief. ‘I do know that Manfred has the greatest respect for your reputation and that is why he wants you to work for him.’

Michael fell into a silence as he contemplated all that she had told him – which was not a great deal. Two thousand dollars, however, was. ‘What happens next?’ he asked as he emerged from his silence.

‘Next week you will take passage on the
Mary Anne
sailing for Brisbane. There, you will change ships and sail for Cooktown. When you get to Cooktown you will meet a gentleman by the name of Herr Straub and recruit six men. Six men you deem to be not unlike yourself in experience. You will be authorised to pay them well and will have access to money from the Bank of New South Wales in Cooktown,’ she explained as she leaned forward in such a way that he was able to admire and remember the firmness of her breasts. ‘The men will be outfitted when Manfred arrives. But you will supply the rifles I believe you have brought from America with you. They have been paid for, as you will see when you check with Mister Hilary in George Street. As for the rest, Manfred will inform you when he arrives in Cooktown.’

‘Cooktown. Your husband planning on a bit of claim jumping up there?’ Michael asked wryly.

‘If I know Manfred,’ Penelope answered, ignoring his attempt at witticism, ‘he will be playing for far greater stakes than a mere gold mine.’ She did have a suspicion of what her husband was planning but preferred not to confirm it as this would only put her in conflict with loyalties to herself and her empire. She was pleased that Michael asked few questions. ‘There is one other very important matter I think I should mention,’ she said drawing a breath. ‘I sense that you have a great need to take your revenge on my brother for what he has done to you.’

Michael looked up sharply. She could see the grey eye staring at her with a cold hate. ‘Would you expect any less of me?’ he snarled.

‘You will not harm him Michael,’ she replied calmly. ‘For all that he has done to you he is still my brother and the father of Fiona’s daughters. And, if it is any consolation, I suspect that the ghost of your memory haunts him anyway. You will promise me that no harm will come to my brother at your hand.’ She could see the raging turmoil reflected in his face. His personal and abiding hatred would have to be tempered by the cold logic of the tactician.

‘I promise I will not harm him whilst I am in the employ of your husband,’ he reluctantly conceded. ‘After that time, all bets are off,’ he added savagely.

Penelope felt the tension flow from her body. The promise would hold him for the moment and it was the moment that counted in her experience. Now that she had passed on her husband’s instructions and settled the matter of her brother there were other more pleasurable matters to pursue.