Daughter of the Murray Page 8

  Propped up on one elbow, he looked at her in the dim light. He knew her clothes were still wet. He pondered for a moment. If she wasn’t feverish, she needed to get out of those wet garments. He might as well do what he had to and take the consequences, he couldn’t be in more strife with her at this point anyway. Either that or let her catch her death of cold.

  He hesitated at the odd few buttons on the old shirt clinging to her. He didn’t want to remove her clothes. He laughed at himself. Since when had removing a woman’s clothes bothered him?

  He looked at the breeches, crudely tied to her waist with a simply fashioned plait of leather. He touched it and withdrew his hand hastily.

  He laughed again. This was the big, bold Dane MacHenry, who’d affronted her in the house garden on the night of his arrival. Big, bold MacHenry who was hesitating to save her from pneumonia by removing her shirt. He knew there was nothing underneath the clothes. He had seen that much when she emerged from the river.

  He also knew he should wake her so she could remove her own clothes.

  He reached out again and gently nudged her shoulder. ‘Georgina.’

  She didn’t make a sound.

  He nudged again. ‘Georgina. Wake up.’

  She mumbled something and turned her head. He could see angry ant bites on her neck, swollen, merging into one another.

  He touched her forehead but couldn’t detect a fever. He didn’t know what an adverse reaction to ant bites might have been, but he sincerely hoped she didn’t have one. ‘Georgina.’ He dipped closer to her ear and shook her shoulder. ‘You have to get out of those clothes.’

  She groaned and tried to sit up. He helped her. ‘I can’t,’ she mumbled. ‘I’m cold. And I feel strange.’

  ‘You have to remove the wet clothes. I’ll fetch another shirt of mine. Can you stay awake?’ He stood and watched as she slid over to one side. He left her there and went to rummage in the saddlebags. He pulled out a favourite, a soft, well-worn shirt he wore mainly when riding long distances.

  He sat beside her and encouraged her to wake and sit up again.

  She took the shirt, fumbled with the buttons and then opened one puffy eye to look at him.

  ‘Can you manage?’ he asked.

  ‘I will have to.’ Her voice was thick and her fingers clumsy. She became impatient quickly. ‘But they wouldn’t be wet if you hadn’t—’

  He scratched his head. ‘Then please forgive me.’ He moved behind her, pulled up the blanket in front of her. ‘Hold this.’ His tone was brusque, he knew, but his thoughts were in turmoil. This was not proper, a young girl was in his charge and he harboured notions that ran to long, delightful nights wrapped in her arms—and legs.

  He caught his breath, cursed his cock.

  She did as she was told and he helped with hands that shook only a little.

  There was silence as he slowly undid one button, then the next, fingers working carefully as her back fell against his chest. He slipped first one arm then the other out of her shirt as she clutched the blanket, pulling it up further to cover her chest.

  He flung the wet shirt aside. ‘I’ll help you slip this one over your head.’

  She turned and her eyes met his, her distress in the tears that welled.

  He silently cursed all things anew.

  Georgina held the blanket as Dane slipped the soft old shirt over her head. The blanket dropped and she buttoned.

  ‘And the breeches,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll be bare arsed,’ she cried.

  ‘Aye. And I’ve never seen one of them before. Shush. Take off the breeches.’

  She wrapped the blanket as best she could around herself and worked the breeches down.

  He took the clothes and hung them on the bushes to dry, and by the time he had returned she was asleep in a tangle on the ground.

  He moved her to straighten the blanket—and caught a glimpse of her slender body as she turned in discomfort. A leg kicked off the blanket and rested by his thigh. He stared at the slim limbs, the calves shapely and lithe.

  She muttered and his attention was diverted for only a moment. The red bites were scattered over her thighs, interfering angry little lumps that rose in ugly mounds over otherwise perfectly shaped contours. His eyes roved to the dark patch between her legs and the black curls took his breath away. In the fading light he could see the tiny bumps of shivers on her flesh and he quickly, gently, wrapped her up again.

  He backed away as if she were a heat that would scald him. Quelling the desire curling in his gut, he pushed again at the heaviness in his trousers. Slipping off his coat, he threw it around his shoulders, grabbed MacNamara’s blanket, laid it beside her, and settled himself on it.

  His head went down on the saddle and he took too long to drift into a troubled sleep.

  Seven

  ‘Is it night or near morning?’ Georgie tried to sit up and away from him.

  He murmured, turned towards her. ‘It’s late, perhaps nearly midnight, but there’s a bright moon. Go back to sleep.’

  She listened to his voice. It was soothing and sleepy, too. It was a nice voice when he wasn’t yelling. It was melodious, calming. She wasn’t accustomed to hearing the gentle resonance. She was conscious of his body warmth and a feeling of—

  ‘Where are my clothes?’ She grasped the blanket around her more tightly.

  ‘They’ll be dry by the morning, there won’t be a frost. Nothing untoward has happened.’ The dreamy voice pacified her panic and when she realised he was sleeping, she settled back and drifted off again.

  Georgie woke when his stretching interrupted a dream soon forgotten. She tried to protect herself by clutching at the blanket as he drew away. She needn’t have bothered, he seemed uninterested. He wandered a little way off into the bush and she stood as quickly as she could, wrapped herself in the blanket and hopped over to her clothes strung out, as he’d said, on a tree.

  The urgency in her bladder was alarming but she managed to climb into the nearly dry breeches before she made a dash in the opposite direction for the safety of a large tree.

  She checked for ants before shucking off her trousers.

  When she returned, the dampness in her clothes had nearly disappeared, and the cool fabric was soothing to the bites on her body. She threw her old shirt over his newer, cleaner one and sat in the dust to pull on her boots he’d tossed there, lacing them only loosely as her feet throbbed.

  ‘Good morning.’ He was saddling MacNamara.

  ‘Morning,’ she returned briskly, but her tongue was thick and her voice sounded muted. She went to Douglas with blanket and saddle. She seriously doubted if he was going to leave and let her go anywhere by herself.

  ‘Feeling better?’

  She glanced over, watching his hands as they worked the leather. When she grew hot, she looked away. Each time she took a furtive glance, it was as if there was some spell upon her, heating her up. Which was worse—the discomfort from the ant bites or from him?

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ She didn’t want conversation. Things were not as they should’ve been and she couldn’t possibly pretend she was happy about the situation when she was not. She rubbed the back of her neck, the pulpy lumps of flesh alien and squishy under her fingers. She felt squeamish.

  ‘Still troubling you?’ he asked. ‘I’ll help you with some more oil in a minute.’

  There seemed a strangeness about him this morning and Georgie was immediately suspicious. ‘No, thank you.’

  He stopped his work and looked at her. ‘Suit yourself.’ An eyebrow lifted, and so did a shoulder.

  Georgie tried not to rub the throbbing, irritating burn all over her body. Too proud to admit she was being foolish, she would just have to suffer with it. Her head ached dully as well. Her stomach rumbled. ‘I’m hungry.’ She rummaged in Douglas’s empty bags for food. Nothing.

  ‘You’ll survive.’ He finished with MacNamara’s saddle and flicked Georgie a glance. ‘There’s nothing except what you had in m
y saddlebags.’

  Everything would be too stale by now. Hungry, hurting and dishevelled, she eyed Dane then threw the blanket over Douglas, saddled him up and climbed wearily onto his back. The simple moves stretched her swollen skin and the irritation flared anew. Her involuntary gasp as she settled in the saddle fell on deaf ears. There was misery in ant bites.

  ‘Ready?’ He nudged MacNamara on without a backwards glance.

  The pace he set was a canter. Thank God he wasn’t in the mood to gallop. It was obvious that he fully expected Georgie to traipse along behind him without a murmur of protest. She followed on Douglas, not having to instruct the horse as he fell in alongside MacNamara, his old stablemate.

  Georgie’s misery deepened. Her backside chafed on the saddle. Her head ached and her stomach was a hollow pit. She glanced at Dane, his strong body at one with her other lovely horse as he drove him steadily. Georgie struggled to stay with him. She clung to her horse, fearful of falling off.

  This was all quite strange. She was not in control, and felt very unwell. She hung on, praying he would stop soon and give her some peace.

  Sometime down the track, he shouted above the noise of the horses’ hooves that they would take the next turn right off the road. Georgie held a hand up to indicate she understood him, and nearly came out of the saddle. Her hands had cramped around the reins and Douglas’s mane from having hung on so tightly.

  Not long after, she saw with great relief there was a gate ahead and they would be entering a property. Perhaps he intended to get something to eat there.

  They reined in at a house hidden behind two great peppercorn trees and a vine growing along a well-kept trellis. Its wide veranda, shading the porch swings from the sun, looked cool and inviting. Tranquil.

  She could feel her grip on the reins loosening as she began to slide sideways—

  Cool hands held her head up to the cup to drink.

  ‘What on earth happened?’ Georgie asked as she stared into the kind face of an older woman, who simply smiled and encouraged her to drink before anything else. It was broth, strong and tasty, and she managed a slurp or two before her head dropped back to the pillow.

  ‘There,’ the woman said happily. ‘That’s much better than before.’ Her face creased into a smile and Georgie smiled back, basking in the kindness. ‘Now, I bathed you, dear, and dressed those nastier ant bites. I don’t think we need call the doctor out, you seem to be coming along nicely. Nothing a good meal and some pampering won’t fix.’ She patted Georgie’s hand. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Better, thank you.’ Georgie glanced around the room, large and homely. The bed was huge after her rickety old one at Jacaranda, and comfortable, and the crisp sheets were indeed cool on her skin. The burning of the bites had dissipated and she closed her eyes, marvelling at the soothing comfort. ‘Where am I?’

  The lady stood up and plumped the pillows. ‘I’m May, dear, Mrs Rossmoyne. You’re at our place a few miles out of Echuca.’ She smoothed her hands over her hair, soft blonde dusted with silvery sparkles, caught back into a bun that sat at the nape of her neck. ‘My husband, Charlie, is out a few nights mending fences. Now, take your time, and you’ll be up and out of here tomorrow or the next day.’ She smiled at Georgie again, and Georgie smiled back. She swallowed all the broth and May seemed very pleased with her.

  There was a tap at the door. May called, ‘Come in,’ and Dane poked his head inside. ‘Ah, Mr MacHenry.’ May beamed at him.

  Georgie’s face dropped. Not for a minute would Aunt Jem allow a gentleman—or any man for that matter—into a lady’s room, whether she was sick or not. She tried to give Dane her best stony look, but he grinned widely at May. He carelessly dropped his hat onto the dresser and removed his jacket.

  ‘Our patient is much better, now, Mr MacHenry. Perhaps you would like to look after her for a little while.’

  ‘Delighted.’ Dane’s brows arched and the grin remained.

  ‘No. No, I—’ Georgie protested.

  May obviously misunderstood. ‘There, there, dear. I’m sure your husband can do more for you than I can.’ She left the room.

  Georgie was aghast.

  Dane stood leaning against the closed door. He screwed up his nose. ‘How fares my lovely wife?’

  ‘Wife?’ Georgie raged at him in a whisper. ‘Is that what you told the kind woman—that I was your wife?’

  ‘What else was I going to say to the “kind woman”?’ he whispered in return. ‘That you are my runaway urchin, who I am accompanying to Melbourne? Or perhaps a lone young woman thief? What would you have me say? I thought you’d be grateful I considered your, ah … virtue.’ His voice had risen.

  Georgie ignored his goading. ‘What happened to me—did I faint?’

  ‘Spectacularly. Threw yourself off Douglas and landed at the veranda steps. I had thought to leave you there in that crumpled little heap but—’

  ‘Oh, stop. It’s not funny.’ She folded her arms. ‘I was simply without food for too long. Hardly a dramatic turn of events.’

  ‘My, my, the bravado returns. So, how are those nasty ant bites?’ He moved away from the door and sat on the bed. He took her hand in his and turned it over, inspecting the stings. ‘Hmm, you’ll have them for some time to come.’ He ran his fingers over the less affected skin of her arm, and studied her. ‘It’s a very good thing they didn’t get to your face.’

  Her eyes met his and her cheeks burned. ‘Please don’t ridicule me. I know you think you have cause to hate me, but I cannot abide this—this—’

  ‘This what?’ He turned her hand over, palm up, and raised it to his lips. ‘It’s not ridicule. I certainly don’t hate you.’

  Georgie pulled away. He mocked her regardless of his words. The strange flutter in her belly started again and she lay her hand there to still it. He stood up, towering over her, and she closed her eyes to block him from her sight.

  ‘We will be sharing this bedroom for at least tonight, Georgie. Perhaps the antagonism will entirely disappear after that.’

  ‘I won’t have you sleeping in—’

  ‘Keep your voice down. I’ll sleep in here at the foot of the bed. And you’ll just have to put up with it.’ He turned and left her alone in their room.

  Eight

  Conor Foley reached up and gripped the architrave of the boat’s cabin. He stretched, easing his big frame, his loosening joints protesting long nights at the helm.

  He stood on the deck of the Lady Mitchell and watched as the crew got her under way from the dock at Renmark. With the chug of the boiler beating rhythmically, he looked skywards, checking the weather. Bright blue skies, high wisps of clouds in the distance and nary a breath of wind. There’d be nearly a full moon tonight. If it remained a largely cloudless sky, the river would be a ribbon of milky light leading him serenely through the evening. He stared upriver while his mate guided the steamer through the channel. He barely noticed the tall gums lining the banks of the Murray as he squinted into the morning sun.

  As was his habit, he looked towards the west and found himself thinking of Jacaranda and the girl there, Georgina Calthorpe. He smiled to himself. He’d be there in a few days if all went well and he looked forward to seeing her. He would claim the homestead as his own, rightfully his thanks to Tom MacHenry’s drunken challenge at cards and his own exceedingly good luck. He was not a man to let opportunity slip through his fingers. And he would claim the girl. He was winning whichever way he turned.

  He hardly expected a warm welcome from Tom and Jemimah MacHenry. He didn’t have to be there long, certainly Georgina would leave with him especially if there was a promise of marriage to encourage her. She had caught his attention eighteen months ago—she was a beauty—and MacHenry, in his decline, had opened the door to good fortune.

  Georgina, the perfect wife. Beautiful. Intelligent. Virginal.

  Conor Foley would have his young and beautiful wife, untouched by society and unused to the ways of life. A woman who wouldn’t
know what to expect of her husband, a woman who needed what he could offer and only that. And he had found her living at Jacaranda, almost buried under Tom MacHenry’s sodden habit and debt-ridden life.

  With Georgina he was certain to regain what he had lost over the years, the thing that defied all the voodoo and magic and useless potions and lotions he tried, and all the whores and ladies he’d had. The Boers. The Transvaal. Wounded at the Battle of Majuba Hill in 1881. Shot in the cock, the fucking thing mangled and stunned for all time into flaccidity. He even pissed crooked. The medicine men all said there was nothing to be done.

  But with Georgina, he would become whole again. He could feel a stirring he’d barely felt since his injury. To once again feel the deep pull in his lower belly, the swelling and the weight of his cock as it filled, the powerful thrusting … the anticipation of having her legs and her tight little cunny around him …

  Only her. She would make it work for him again. He could almost feel how good it would be.

  He would not whisk her away to his riverboat as he could have done—and wanted to do—on each visit. Her conversation, intelligent and inquisitive, had passion. Her manner told him Georgina was untouched, and that was why he wanted her. He would bide his time.

  Of course there would be some things he would have to curb about her. Far too independent. Far too capable of thinking for herself and not toeing his line. Those traits did not suit him. Neither did her horse riding, though she was a natural. Her riding days were numbered. He’d rather be driven in a carriage. It wouldn’t do to have his lady wife riding on the back of a horse—and better at it than he was.

  She would do nicely with that little edge smoothed off. Just perfect, in fact. Once more he thought he felt a stirring in his loins. As usual, it slipped away before it began.

  We will have to elope, he mused with some satisfaction. MacHenry would never consent to a marriage now, not after the card game. Had it been the plump and untidy Elspeth he wished to marry, MacHenry wouldn’t hesitate—his problems would be over. But Georgie could do naught to save him.