The Secret Rose (43 page)

Fear roiled in him again. He had heard that to die of thirst was the worst agony a man could know. It took a long time. His tongue would thicken until he could not swallow. He would choke to death.

Water!
his mind screamed, tensing muscles that tortured his already aching body.

The cold touch of a tin cup’s rim surprised him almost as much as the hand at the back of his neck that lifted his head. The water ran out around his stiff lips and trickled down his cheeks into his collar. He cursed the cup holder, tears of anger starting in his eyes. And then, blessedly, the cool, life-giving fluid spread across his tongue.

He swallowed, sucking noisily at the cup until the cooling relief bathed his gullet and pooled in his stomach. He felt it slosh gently just behind his lowest ribs as his head was lowered back on the ground. He wanted to thank his savior, but he had no strength left to form the words. No time before weakness reclaimed him in the half-world of stupor.

*

Aisleen sat with her chin propped on her knees as the sun set on the second day. Thomas lay beside her, asleep. She absently brushed away an insect that crawled across his brow and then threaded her fingers through his hair. She had washed away the blood, and his hair felt silky cool to her fingertips. His face was better, if purple bruises and angry red wounds could be considered preferable to blood and puffiness. If only she knew more!

She looked away, her hand still touching him. She had never in all her life felt less competent and more ignorant than in the past two days. She knew nothing about the plants that grew about her. Which ones were beneficial or harmful? Which were edible, which should be avoided at all costs? She did not know in which direction to travel to find help or even if it were safe to leave Thomas to do so.

She turned to check the horse that she had tethered under a new tree, where the grass was fresh. She was not sure she could correctly resaddle a horse, so she had left the saddle in place, only to find that it was beginning to rub sores on the animal’s skin. She had used a little of the lard to soothe the ones she saw, but that had drawn flies to the animal and she
had had to wash it off.

Her ignorance appalled and angered her. It was not until the morning of the second day that she noticed the canteen on Jack’s saddle contained rum rather than water. At least she had the sense to know that whiskey was good for
healing wounds, and she had bathed Thomas’s lacerations with it repeatedly. If only he would awaken.

As she stroked his brow Aisleen sucked her lower lip. She had gnawed it raw with worry. Why did he lie so still? Was he healing or dying? He had eaten nothing. It was all she could do to pour a little water down him without choking him. She was boiling rice and peas together to make a thick gruel in hopes that when he stirred again, she would be able to feed him a little of it. She had fashioned with Jack’s knife a crude spoon from the peeling bark of a tree she had discovered in the forest while fetching firewood.

They were well supplied for at least a week, but even if they had had more, one thing was becoming increasingly clear. They could not remain here. She had not found a single bit of evidence of human life in her forays along the strip of ground between the river and the mountains. They might be stumbled upon tomorrow…or they might never be found.

But how could she move Thomas? She certainly could not lift him onto the horse. And if he did not soon regain consciousness enough to eat, he would be too weak to move when he did awaken.

She had slept too little and eaten almost nothing for fear that their supplies would dwindle too quickly. Every night sound startled her awake, and now there was another night before her.

Where was Jack? Was he dead or wandering about, just out of sight, searching for them? She had awakened the night before with the certainty so strong in her that she had run headlong into the forest shouting his name.

Aisleen cringed with the remembrance. She was a useless, frightened woman who did not know how to save the one person in the world who meant more to her than her own life. Even the voice that taunted her had deserted her.

No. To think like that was to give up to madness. Perhaps she was going mad.

A hard tremor of fear shook her. Her father had been correct. She was useless. Worry and weariness worked in her like yeast, expanding her fears, and she began once more to saw her lip between her teeth. Why had Jack given Thomas into her unskilled care? Had he not realized that she was incapable of caring even for herself? He should not have let them go alone. When Jack found them, if he did, he would probably blame her for Thomas’s death. Because of her, Thomas would die. Because of him, she was stuck in an unfriendly wilderness which offered no clues to salvation. Because of this hostile country, she was doomed to die, unmourned and alone.

She bent over her knees, suddenly sobbing and shouting, “I hate this country! I hate its people! And most of all, I hate you, Thomas Gibson! I hate you for lying there dying! I hate you!”

With her own cries ringing in her ears, she stretched out on the ground beside him, threw her arms about him, and fell asleep.

She knew she was not alone even before she opened her eyes and sat up.

They stood on the far side of the campfire, as still as statues. At first she thought they were some new form of wildlife. A second look told her they were human. The scant firelight picked up the gleam of their dark faces, chests, arms, and legs. Aborigines. She had seen a few of them on the streets of Sydney and Bathurst but never in their native habitat of the bush.

Her heart thumped high in her throat. She was outnumbered
six to one. She reached for the pistol she kept tucked in her waistband. The movement drew the attention of one of the men, and he jumped across the fire and jabbed a sharpened stick at her middle.

Aisleen fell back before the onslaught, the pistol untouched. As she watched, a second man, short and so thin his arms and legs looked like shrunken leather strips, walked around the fire and bent over Thomas.

“Don’t touch him!” she cried in anger as he nudged Thomas with a bare foot. Her guard raised his stick threateningly, but she did not care. “Don’t touch him! He’s hurt!”

The man looked at her sharply, his black eyes wide with interest. “Him wurry bad hurt?”

The question posed in English surprised her so much she smiled. “Do you speak English? Oh, thank heaven! This is my husband.” She gestured to Thomas. “He was hurt by some very bad men. We need help. Can you lead us to the nearest settlement?”

The man’s face split in a broad grin. “Him wurry bad hurt,” he repeated and nodded.

Aisleen stared at the man with only a scrap of cloth covering his privates. “Do you speak English?”

He looked at her in puzzlement, and then he spied the billy over the fire. “You drink ’em tea?”

“No, that’s rice and peas,” Aisleen answered and went to lift the billy with its charred contents. The man looked in the pot and then sniffed it and shook his head. “You drink ’em tea?” he repeated.

“Tea. You want tea?” she asked. “I have a little left.” She reached into the saddlebag and withdrew the packet of tea and handed it to the man. “Will you help us now?”

The man sniffed the tea and then nodded, smiling. He made a movement with his hand and a small young woman came forward bearing a fur rug, which she dropped at Aisleen’s feet.

The man, apparently the leader, now looked across the grass, and though she could not see it, she knew that he had seen the horse. “Brumby?”

She did not know the word, but she understood the suggestion in his tone, and she would not give, sell, or trade him the horse. “No!” she said emphatically. “No horse!”

The man lifted his spear, but she was not frightened this time. The loss of the horse would mean certain death. Backing quickly away, she pulled the pistol from her belt and fired it above her head.

The sharp point of a spear poked her in the small of her back. She reacted out of instinct, swinging about and pointing her gun at her attacker. The loud report sent her backward a step as the man cried out in pain. She saw him grab his neck in surprise and then look at the blood that smeared his hand. Baring his teeth, he raised his weapon a second time, but a guttural grunt from the leader made him pause.

Aisleen backed farther away from the man brandishing the spear. “Go!” she shouted. “Go! Now!”

She did not expect to be obeyed. There were more grunts and clicking of tongues behind her, and at any moment she expected a lance to be driven into her back; but she did not turn away from the man she had wounded or lower her weapon.

A strange bird called deep in the forest. Suddenly there was absolute silence behind her. The man before her swiveled his head sharply in the direction of the sound as the call was repeated. Instantly he set off, racing across the grass and out of sight.

Aisleen turned toward the campfire slowly, not knowing what to expect. What she saw utterly amazed her. She was alone with Thomas. The others had disappeared as swiftly and silently as they had appeared. Had the birdcall been a signal that someone else, a white man, was approaching? Perhaps her fire had drawn the attention of a settler or swagman.

For a moment, she allowed that irrational hope to bolster
her spirits. She stood waiting as still as a statue for several minutes. Should she fire the revolver again, just to make certain they could not mistake her direction? She lifted her arm to do so but then changed her mind. What if the natives were only temporarily frightened? If they came back she would need every bullet.

One minute became five. Five minutes stretched out to ten. Still no one came. New thoughts nagged her. If the aborigines had not been frightened away by other men, what would have made them leave? Were there beasts in the forest that even they
feared? If so, how would she, an ignorant Irish lass, know how to cope?

Ye’ve nae done so badly, for an ignorant Irish lass!

Aisleen did not even look for him. She was too tired to cheerfully indulge the apparitions of her half-mad mind.

So it’s to be that way, is it? Then ye’ll not be wanting to know me news.

Aisleen closed her eyes. Dreams and mad schemes—she had inherited her father’s madness.

Ye cannae stay here any longer, lass, and well ye know it. Ye may be certain of nothing else, but this ye know
—
there’s bushrangers nearby. Now isn’t that so?

Aisleen straightened up. She had forgotten. Of course! Bushrangers. She did not know how many had been killed by Jack before they…killed him.

“Oh, Jack!” She gave up a shuddery sigh. He was dead. She had known it all along but had been too afraid to admit it. She was afraid of so much. It had been too great a burden to think that she was absolutely alone. But it was true.

She looked back over her shoulder. There was nothing she could do before morning. If she put out the fire, they would not find her before dawn. By then, she would have devised a plan.

“Aisleen?”

The thick, coarse whisper brought her head snapping back. Thomas was lying with his eyes open. “Tom!”

*

“Better? Is that better, darling?” she whispered, afraid even the sound of her voice might cause him further pain.

Thomas gazed at her in mute joy. His head rested in the curve of her left arm, her left breast the softest of pillows for his sore cheek. She had been spooning a nasty concoction of scorched rice and pea porridge into him, and though he had been able to swallow it, his teeth were still too sore for him to chew. Her hair hung down in straggly tangles on either side of her dirty face. The bruise on her chin had turned a greenish yellow. Her usually bright eyes were sunk deep in worry-bruised sockets.

He wanted to comfort her, to hold her close and tell her that she need not worry about him any longer, but his assurances would scarcely have been worth the effort. She had talked to him while she fed him, told him everything that had happened from the moment of his capture until he awakened a short while ago. The tale amazed him. He would not have believed it had he heard it after the fact.

No, there was nothing to be gained by empty words. He was completely useless to her as a source of protection. He was a burden to her. Careful examination of his body with her help had confirmed his suspicion that several of his ribs were broken. He suspected that his nose was also. His crippled leg had been kicked. As for his groin, well, he would never aim a kick at a man’s privates again, unless they were Sean’s.

He did not need the look in her eyes to tell him how badly his face was damaged She did not seem to realize that a
tear slipped unimpeded down her cheek once in a while. “It will heal,” he had said as another tear appeared.

“Of course it will!” she answered in the crisp, no-nonsense tone he had not heard in weeks. “You attracted quite too many women before. Although in your case a few decorative scars might only season the appeal.”

He smiled at her—at least he hoped it was a smile and not the grimace of pain that it felt like. “I love you,” he murmured between stiff lips.

Aisleen blinked at him. What had he said?

“Aye, love,” he said, seeing the disbelief in her face. “Didn’t ye know it, lass?”

Her reaction wasn’t what he hoped for. She burst into tears that scalded his tender skin as they dripped into his face.
Women
,
he thought, closing his eyes. He would never understand them.