Swift Runs The Heart (15 page)

“May I compound the stupidities of tonight and come into your tent? I need privacy and no interruptions to get through this.”

She nodded and drew back the flap for him to enter.

At first he merely stood, his gaze passing over her few belongings. She sensed he saw none of them, his thoughts elsewhere. Possibly she ought to offer him a seat, but as the only one available was her bed, that was not an option. Very soon, the silence became too much for her.

“Perhaps if you told me why you were sent out here?” she suggested, her hands twisting together nervously.

His head drifted back to her. The lilting self-mockery had returned at her words. “Don't worry. It wasn't murder or debauching the innocent.”

She saw the bitterness hidden in his eyes.

“So what was it, then?”

“A far greater crime, at least in the eyes of my very proper brother. I wanted to go into trade.”

Geraldine couldn't help it. Her jaw dropped.

“What is there in that, you wonder?” He smiled wryly at her reaction. “Most of the English settlers out here, irrespective of class, are busy accumulating as much wealth as possible by whatever means occurs to them. Mostly by selling anything they can get their hands on to sell to some less fortunate beggar. So why should brother Charles take umbrage if I do the same? But then, you have only met the type of Englishman who leaves the blessed home country. Brother Charles is of a quite different ilk.”

He began to pace, until stopped by the lack of space in a small tent already fully occupied by a bed, one chest and a lady in a crinoline and gown. He was forced to content himself with placing his feet squarely apart and digging his hands into his pockets.

“Brother Charles' mother, my father's first wife, came from an impeccable lineage with no touch of commerce allowed to sully her pure-blooded veins. On the other hand, my own mama, while of respectable lineage, did have such a connection. Her mother's family were trading merchants—including a great-uncle who made a fortune in trade in India. For whatever reason, he became interested in my unworthy self and took me under his wing.”

“And your father. Did he approve of the connection?”

“Oh yes. Papa was never as insecure or, I have to say, as stupid, as his son. Charles is pure Vere, his mother's family. Boring, pompous and utterly insufferable. Unfortunately, Papa was killed in a hunting accident some years ago and most of the estate is entailed, leaving Mama and I to the tender mercies of his heir.”

“Your less-than-beloved brother Charles?”

“Quite.” Even in the shadows of the tent, she saw the crease of a smile trace his face at her sally. “As you have guessed, my brother and I do not get on. Oh, we did manage to muddle along for some time, mainly due to my lack of funds and need to keep in with brother Charles for my own survival.”

“And your Mama?”

“Fortunately found a second husband to rescue her. A don at Cambridge. Perfectly respectable, if somewhat unworldly, and the most amiable man of my acquaintance. They appear to be very happy.”

She shrugged, uselessly attempting to seem unaffected. “Your family situation may not sound ideal, but few are and at least yours seemed to work in its own fashion. What happened?”

He bowed. “You speak as a fellow sufferer?”

She couldn't help but return his smile, despite her need to keep this man at a distance. The tent was so small, so
intimate
. She tried flippancy. “You grew bored too?”

“Yes, of course,” he said, and she wished back the stupid words, feeling herself grow smaller in his eyes, “but that was not the cause of my exile. You forget my great-uncle. The only periods of true happiness in my later youth were the holidays I spent with Mama and those with my uncle, dabbling in his warehouses in London and listening to his talk. There was a whole great world out there, and I wanted a part of it.”

He broke off then, staring into space, then gave a short sigh and returned to her. “He died, as all great-uncles must, but he did leave me a small legacy. Not quite enough to give me my independence, but enough to give me a start, which I'm sure is what he intended. It was about the time the gold rushes in California were at their height and I wanted in.”

There was such hunger in his voice, and she wished she had the courage to take his hand back. “So what did you do about it?”

“Bought into a venture with a foundry in north England. The plan was to make pans and shovels and ship them out to the goldfields. They would produce them; I would use my uncle's connections to organise the shipping and selling.”

“It sounds a promising enterprise.” she said tentatively, closely studying what she could see of his face. For such a quick-witted and lively man, he rarely allowed any trace of his real feelings to show. The only sign of turmoil was a certain stiffness about the corner of his mouth.

“It was.” He dug his hands even deeper into his pockets. “A very good
commercial
enterprise. Brother Charles' pride was insulted. Apparently one of his dratted mother's relatives told him of it, along with a great deal of narrow-minded invective and bluster one gathers. Charles had the bank withdraw all offers to me, leaving my reputation in the City in tatters and my enterprise at a standstill.”

“And that didn't affect his pride?”

“What did he care what a ‘pack of cits' might think? All that mattered to him was that the taint of trade had come too close to the family. He informed me that I could either continue my endeavour, without any funds from the estate to support me, or agree to come out here. The latter seemed the only course offering any degree of self-respect, not to mention opportunity, so I took it.”

He fell silent again, but this time his gaze never left her face. She didn't know what to say. Her fingers began nervously pleating her gown again.

Finally, she blurted out, “So, what now?”

“Now? Why, marriage, it seems, unless your young man can be encouraged to keep his mouth shut. I take it from his words that he is no longer a friend of yours?”

Her head dropped. Little did Bas Deverill know, but it was paradise he offered her, yet for every wrong reason possible. “Is there no other alternative?” she whispered.

“Only an ignominious return to your family.”

“Back to Aunt Shonagh's. She would have me married off to a
suitable
young man before I knew what had happened. Is that all? Forced marriage to you, or to a colourless, dour man whose only interest would be my father's wealth. No, a thousand times no!”

“Am I so bad an option? No one has ever accused me of being colourless or dour, at least.”

“A saloon owner, whose wealth is gleaned from trading liquor and the services of unfortunate young women to the miners? You think I should find such an offer flattering?” If she could make herself angry enough, would the pain go away? Almost, she smiled. “Or should I be overwhelmed by your noble connections? How pleasant to think that with one little word, I could make my stepmother happy.”

“Or I, my brother, you forget.”

“So pleased that I might be of use to you.” Her eyes flashed angrily.

It drew a like answer from him. “Why act so insulted? Look at what you get. A wealthy husband, and the source of my riches mean nothing in this country of opportunists, not to mention the social advantage gained by becoming the Honourable Mrs Deverill. While I get exactly the kind of wife my brother would appreciate; one of which he is able speak to his acquaintances, but who would also keep me permanently trapped in this misbegotten land on the other side of the world. You belong here, you have connections that would be useful to anyone settling here, and not even I am cruel enough to take you to England where you would wither and die.” He thrust a hand through his hair, then clasped both hands behind his back and glared at her. “I am offering you an honourable solution to a dilemma that is largely of your own making, Miss MacKenny. Might I remind you that if we do not marry, I lose nothing, and I keep my freedom.”

“But what about mine?”
And you don't love me
, said the silent voice in her heart.

The tent walls were closing in, suffocating her. She had to get out. Her shove at his chest took him by surprise and he tumbled sideways, crashing onto her bed. She didn't care. Her skirts swishing, she was out. Into the open air, with the moonlight silvering the rocks and grasses at the river's edge below. She turned towards it, away from the noise and chaos of the streets. Down to a river deserted of prospectors for the first time since she had come here. So intent was she on escape that her slipper-shod feet raced across the rocks and gravel without noticing the tears and bruises. She halted her onward rush only when she was right away from the tent.

A small rock jutted out over the rushing waters here. She stood where she had stopped, her eyes taking in the shapes and lights about her. Below, flashes and sparkles from the river; close to, the lines and blocks of rocks and grass; over the other side, the steely mirror of night's cold light on planes of stone and bare dirt. The only sounds to be heard above the rushing of waters were the harsh gasping sounds of her breathing, ragged gusts of air forced haphazardly into tormented lungs.

Then a crunch of soil and the hurry of feet. For the second time this evening a hand fell on her shoulder. This time she was expecting it and turned slowly, her gaze steady on him as she forced her breathing to slow, to sound calm.

He was not so calm.

“What in hell do you mean coming out here on your own? Hasn't anyone told you that ladies shouldn't wander about mining camps on their own at night?”

She glanced at his hand, then back to his face.

“Why? Why did you offer marriage?”

“With that young idiot about to smear your reputation to anyone who cared to listen? What other choice did I have?”

She shook her head slowly. “No. Before you spoke to him, he had no real proof it was me. One hasty sighting in a crowded room means nothing. My reputation was damaged because you sought him out. You are many things, but stupid is not one of them.”

Then she saw the anger leave him as soon as it had come and a twisted smile touched his lips. His eyes scanned her face slowly then his face was swept bare and assumed a bland mask. “Maybe I was just bedazzled by a lady in a green gown.”

That was as specious a reply as he had ever given her. “I don't think you know why you asked me. Until you do, the answer is no.”

With which, she turned her back on him and sent her gaze back determinedly to the river.

He would have none of it. His hands reached out, pulling her back firmly into his arms. “I know exactly why I asked you—but I doubt whether you would believe me yet,” he murmured. Then his lips found hers and she wondered what all the anger had been about. Now, there was no choice. Her arms stole up and her mouth opened to him.

It was he who broke off first, putting her determinedly from him. One of his lean hands reached up and softly traced the line of her cheek. He sighed. “You are too beautiful for me this evening. Unless you wish to change your decision, it's time you got back to the safety of your tent. And take off that dammed gown. No man seeing you tonight would ask twice before taking what he fancied, including me if you don't leave now.”

He shoved her curtly back up the hill, and stood watching her every step of the way. She turned to look at him just before she ducked into her tent. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets again, legs spread apart and mouth straight, and the bright flame of his hair shone iridescent silver in the moonlight. Then the flap closed behind her.

It was Molly who told her the tale of his exploits in the remains of that night.

“Proud of yourself, are you?” were her words as her sharp toe dug into Geraldine's shin next morning. Her foot thrust forward a second time, vicious and angry. Geraldine was struggling through heavy layers of sleepless fog and the face scowling at her seemed at first to come from a lingering nightmare. The third thrust of heavy, pointed boots finally convinced her it was real.

“Wha … what do you mean?” She pushed up ineffectually, somehow stumbling to a full stand and reaching for her blanket.

“I've known himself three years now, and I've not seen a night like the last one since his first days in Australia. A wildness was on him, and I'm thinking I'm knowing why.”

Geraldine shook her head, struggling for sanity. “I haven't seen Bas Deverill since I left him last night, if that's to whom you are referring. And while I may think he had taken leave of his senses then, that was a private matter between him and me and I'm surprised he made you privy to it.”

“Don't come the hoity with me, young lady. I don't know what happened between you two, but I do know what happened later last night.”

“Oh?”

“Or rather, what didn't he do, might be more to the matter.” The woman spoke as if Geraldine had said nothing. “Stupid wagers and madcap races down the street in the middle of the night. Riding backwards on frightened horses at full gallop among that crowd of drunken idiots. Target shooting at anything he could think of, including himself when they ran out of targets dangerous enough to satisfy that mob. To end up with, who does he taunt and antagonise but Black Jack himself? Thank the Lord they were both too drunk to do more than brawl and bargy at each other in the street, and thanks be, what's more, that Sergeant Braddock was there to put a stop to their foolery.”

“Bas was hurt?”

“Not that he knew at the time, no thanks to whatever you did to fire him up, my girl. The good sergeant finally threw him into the lock up – “till you've cooled down and got your good sense back,” he said to him, and there he is now. No doubt still as mad as Hell, and a sitting duck for Black Jack when he sobers up unless the sergeant stands protection on that place day and night. Which it's not likely he'll be able to, what with all the other drunken hotheads who don't seem to know the holiday is over!”