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Bryn inclined his dark head in salute. ‘Yesterday, Nellie. A massive heart attack. I’m here to take Francesca back with me.’
Nellie reached out and touched his arm. ‘Better here,’ she said, frowning darkly, as though seriously concerned for Francesca’s welfare. She searched Bryn’s face so carefully she might have been seeing him for the first time. Or was she trying to see into his soul? ‘Your job look after her, byamee.’
‘Don’t worry, Nellie, I will,’ he answered gravely. He knew byamee was a term of respect—a name given to someone of high degree. He only hoped he would be worthy of that honour. He recalled with a sharp pang of grief that the tribal people had called his grandfather byamee. He had never in all the long years heard it applied to Sir Frank.
A look of relief settled on Nellie’s wise old face. ‘You remember now. I bin telling ya. Not over.’ All of a sudden her breath began to labour.
Francesca reacted at once. ‘Nellie, dear, you mustn’t worry. Everything is going to be fine.’ She drew the tiny bent frame beneath her arm. ‘Now, why don’t we show Bryn what we’ve been doing?’ she suggested bracingly. ‘You know how much he loves and appreciates indigenous art.’
It sprang to Bryn’s mind how Carina had once passed off her young cousin’s desire to promote the work of indigenous artists as ‘trying to exorcise the fact she’s an heiress by working among the aborigines.’
Carina wasn’t only callous, she could be remarkably blind—especially when it came to perceiving what was good. She was no judge of Francesca’s work. Francesca Forsyth was a multi-gifted young woman. His mind ran back to the many times he and Francey had got into discussions, not only about Titan, but about the various projects handled—or mishandled might be a better word—by the Forsyth Foundation. Francey had a seriously good brain. When he was in a position to do so, he would endeavour to get her elected to the board, no matter her youth. Hell, he was still considered very young himself, though youth wasn’t the issue it once was. It was more about ability. And Francey was ready for it. She had inherited her father Lionel’s formidable head for business. His grandmother had confirmed that with an ironic smile.
‘When it comes right down to it Francey, not Carina, would make the greatest contribution. Only as fate would have it Carina is the apple of Frank’s eye. He never was much of a judge of character.’
It was as they were taking their leave that Nellie found a moment to speak to Bryn alone. She raised her snowy white head a long way, trying to look him squarely in the eye. ‘You bin her family now,’ she said, as though impressing on him his responsibility. ‘Others gunna do all in their power to destroy her.’
‘Nellie—’
She cut him off. ‘You know that well as me. She sees good in everyone. Even those who will turn against her.’
He already knew that. ‘They will seek to destroy me too, Nellie.’ He spoke as if she were not a nomadic tribal woman but a trusted business ally. Moreover he saw nothing incongruous about it. These people had many gifts. Prescience was a part of them.
‘Won’t happen,’ she told him, her weathered face creasing with scorn. ‘You strong. You bin ready. This time you get justice.’
She might have been delivering a speech, and it was one he heard loud and clear.
* * *
They were in the station Jeep, speeding back to the homestead, with the silver-shot mirage pulsing all around them. The native drums had started up, reverberating across the plains to the ancient eroded hills glowing fiery red in the heat. Other drums were joining in, taking up the beat—tharum, tharum—a deeply primitive sound that was extraordinarily thrilling. They were calling back and forth to each other, seemingly from miles away. The sound came from the North, the North-West.
It was a signal, Bryn and Francesca realised. Now that Bryn’s coming had made it official, the message was being sent out over the vast station and the untameable land.
Francis Forsyth’s spirit had passed. Consequences would follow.
‘Nellie fears for me,’ Francesca said. ‘It looked like she was handing on lots of warnings to you?’ Her tone pressed him for information.
‘Your well-being is important to her and her friends.’ Bryn glanced back at her. She had taken off her straw hat, throwing it onto the back seat. Now he could fully appreciate her beautiful fine-boned face, which always seemed to him radiant with sensitivity. She was far more beautiful than her cousin. Her looks were on a different scale. The thick shiny rope of her hair was held by a coloured elastic band at the end and a blue and purple silk scarf at the top. Incredibly, her eyes had taken on a wash of violet. ‘You’ve been wonderfully helpful to them as a patron, and best of all your motives are entirely pure.’
‘Of course they are.’ She dismissed that important point as if it went without saying. ‘It looked like matters of grave importance?’
‘Isn’t your welfare just that?’ he parried.
‘Who is likely to hurt me?’ she appealed to him. ‘I’m not important in anyone’s eyes—least of all poor Grandfather. God rest his troubled soul. I do know he had his bad times.’
Why wouldn’t he? Bryn inwardly raged, but let it go. ‘You’re a Forsyth, Francey,’ he reminded her gravely. ‘It’s to be expected you’ll receive a substantial fortune in your grandfather’s will. It’s not as though there isn’t plenty to go around. He was a billionaire many times over.’
‘A huge responsibility!’ There was a weight of feeling in her voice. ‘Too much money is a curse. Men who build up great fortunes make it extremely difficult for their heirs.’
She was thinking of her uncle Charles. So was Bryn. ‘I think there’s an old proverb, either Chinese or Persian, that says: “The larger a man’s roof, the more snow it collects.” Charles, God help him, has had a bad time of it. I can almost feel sorry for him. Frank treated him very unkindly from his earliest days. Charles never could measure up to his father’s standards of perfection.’
‘Such destructive behaviour,’ Francesca sighed, thinking that at least her uncle treated Carina, his only child, like a princess.
‘I agree. It was your father who inherited the brains and refused point-blank to toe the line. It took a lot of guts to do that. Charles has worked very hard, but sadly for him he doesn’t have what it takes to be the man at the top. Charles is just valued for his name.’
Unfortunately that was true. ‘Our name engenders a lot of hostility.’ She had felt that hostility herself. ‘It’s not all envy. The Macallan name, on the other hand, is greatly admired. Sir Theo was revered.’
‘A great philanthropist,’ Bryn said quietly, immensely proud of his grandfather.
‘And a great man. He had no black cloud hanging over him. I’ve never fully understood what my grandfather did to your family after Sir Theo died. No one speaks of it.’
‘And I’m not going to speak of it now, Francey,’ he said, severity back on him. ‘It’s a bad day for it anyway.’
‘I know. I know,’ she apologised. ‘But you haven’t put it behind you?’
‘Far from it.’ He suddenly turned his smooth dark head, so elegantly shaped. ‘You could be the enemy.’
She looked out of the window at the desert landscape that had come so wondrously alive. ‘You know I’m not.’ She loved him without limit. Always would.
He laughed briefly. ‘You’re certainly not typical of the Forsyths.’ She was the improbable angel in their midst.
Her next words were hard for her to say. ‘You hate us?’ It was very possible. She knew Lady Macallan had despised her grandfather with a passion. There had to be a story there.
A shadow moved across his handsome face. ‘I can’t hate you, Francey. How could you even think it?’
She sighed. ‘Besides, how could you hate me when you own half my soul?’ She spoke with intensity. But then, wasn’t that the way it always felt when she was with Bryn? The heightened perceptions, every nerve ending wired?
‘Do you believe it?’ He turned his dark head again to meet her eyes.
‘I wouldn’t be here without you, Bryn,’ she said, on a soft expelled breath. ‘I like to think we’re… friends.’
‘Well, we are,’ he replied, somewhat sardonically. ‘I want you to promise me something, Francey.’
Something in his tone alarmed her. ‘If I can,’ she answered warily.
‘You must,’ he clipped out, abruptly steering away from a red-glowing boulder that crouched like some mythical animal in the jungle of green gilt-tipped grasses. ‘If you’re worried or unsure about something, or if you need someone to talk to, I want you to contact me. Will you do that?’ There was a note of urgency in his voice.
‘I promise.’
He shot her a brilliant glance that affected her powerfully. ‘You mean that?’
‘Absolutely. I never break a promise. A promise is like a vow.’
‘So let’s shake on it.’ He hit the brake and brought the vehicle to a stop in the shade of a stand of bauhinias, the branches lavishly decorated with flowers of purest white and lime-green. ‘Give me your hand.’
On the instant her heart began fluttering wildly, as if a small bird was trapped in her chest. She was crazily off guard. She only hoped her face wasn’t betraying the turmoil within her. ‘Okay,’ she managed at last. She gave him her hand. Skin on skin. She had to fight hard to compose herself. Beneath her reserved façade she went in trepidation of Bryn Macallan and his power over her. So much so she feared to be alone with him, even though she spent countless hours wishing she were.
But how did one stop longing for what one so desperately longed for?
Bryn’s hand was gripping hers—not gently, but tightly. It was as though he wanted her to understand what her promise might mean in the days ahead.
To Francesca the intimacy was breathtaking. The heat in her blood wrapped her body like a shawl. Her limbs were melting, as though her body might collapse like a concertina. For glittering moments she accepted her deepest longings and desires. She was irrevocably in love with Bryn Macallan. She couldn’t remember a time she hadn’t been. It was the most important thing in her life. She was off her head, really. And it was so humiliating. Carina was the woman in Bryn’s life. She had to clamp down on the torment.
‘Where will it finally end, Francey?’ Bryn was asking quietly, not relinquishing her hand as she’d thought he would. ‘You know I mean to take over Titan?’
He waited in silence for her response. ‘I’m aware of your burning ambitions, Bryn,’ she said. ‘I know you want to put things right. I don’t know your secrets, and you won’t tell me, but I do know you would probably have the numbers to oust Uncle Charles.’
‘Without a doubt!’ Not the slightest flare of arrogance, just plain fact, though the muscles along his jaw clenched.
‘Grandfather’s dearest wish was for you and Carina to marry.’ She turned to look him squarely in the face. ‘To unite the two dynasties.’
‘I’m well aware of that,’ he answered, his tone suggesting her grandfather’s dearest wish didn’t come into it.
Or so she interpreted it. Was she wrong? ‘And it will happen?’
If for whatever reason the longed-for alliance didn’t eventuate, he knew Carina would become his enemy. He laughed, but there was little humour in it. ‘Why don’t you leave all that to me, Francey? My main concern at the moment is you.’
Heat started up in her veins. ‘Me?’ She was unable to find another word.
‘Yes, you. Don’t sound so surprised. I don’t see much of you. Certainly not as much as I’d like,’ Bryn continued as she remained silent. He firmed up his hold on her trembling hand, then—shockingly—raised it to his lips.
‘“Thus with a kiss I die.”’ he quoted lightly, but Francesca’s heart flipped in her breast.
It was easy to identify Romeo’s final line. What was Bryn thinking, saying that? It bewildered her. So did his darkly enigmatic gaze. Didn’t he know how difficult it was for her, loving him and knowing he was with Carina? But then, how could he know? She did everything possible to hide her true feelings.
‘Break out of your shell, Francesca,’ he abruptly urged. ‘You’ve been over-long inside it.’
She felt a rush of humiliation at the criticism. Doubly so because he was right. ‘I thought it was for my own protection.’
‘I understand all that.’
There was a high, humming sound in her ears. ‘May I have my hand back?’
‘Of course.’ He released her hand on the instant, leaning forward to switch on the ignition. ‘We should get back anyway,’ he added briskly. ‘I want to leave as soon as possible.’
‘I’m ready.’
It wasn’t a good feeling.
She could feel her heart sink.
The Jeep bounded across the vast sun-drenched plain accompanied by a great flight of budgerigars—the phenomenon of the Outback that had materialised again. Francesca gazed up at them, wondering if and when she would see Daramba again. She was certain her uncle would inherit the pastoral chain, but Charles had never much cared for Daramba.
Like all inhabitants of the great island continent, in particular of remote Western Australia, he was used to vast open spaces, to incredible emptiness, but on his own admission something about Daramba spooked him. It was there, after all, that Gulla Nolan had mysteriously disappeared. The verdict after an intensive search at the time was that Gulla had been drunk and had slipped into one of the maze of waterholes, billabongs, lagoons and swamps that crisscrossed the station. Everyone knew Gulla had had a great liking for the booze. Gulla Nolan had been the famous tracker Sir Theodore Macallan and her own grandfather had taken along with them on their expeditions. Gulla had been with them when they had discovered Mount Gloriana.
To this day no one knew Gulla’s fate—although it was Sir Theo who had set up a trust fund which had grown very substantially over the years, for Gulla and his descendants. One of them was a well-known political activist—a university graduate, educated through the Gulla Nolan Trust and—ironically—a sworn enemy of the Forsyths. It was quite possible, then, that her uncle would sell Daramba, if not the whole chain.
CHAPTER TWO
THE funeral of Sir Francis Forsyth was unique in one respect. No one cried. Though it should be said there was no easy way to shed a tear for a man more often described as ‘a ruthless bastard’ than a jewel in the giant State of Western Australia’s crown. Nevertheless, the Anglican Cathedral St George’s—Victorian Gothic Revival in style, and relatively modest compared to the huge Catholic Cathedral, St Mary’s, built on the site that had actually been set aside by the Founding Fathers for St George’s—was packed by ‘mourners’. This covered anyone who was anyone in the public eye: a federal senator, representative of the Prime Minister, the State Premier, the State Governor, who had once privately called Sir Francis ‘an appalling old villain’, various dignitaries, representatives of the pastoral, business and the legal world. All seated behind the Forsyth family on the right, the Macallan family to the left.
The truly ironic thing was that Sir Theodore Macallan, co-founder with Sir Francis of Titan, had been universally loved and admired. But then, Sir Theo had been a great man, with that much-to-bedesired accolade of being a true gentleman bestowed on him. That meant a gentleman at heart as well as in the graciousness of his manner. It had helped that he had been a huge benefactor to the state as well. Sir Frank, on the other hand, had always kept his philanthropy in line with tax avoidance schemes—all legal, naturally. He had long been known to proclaim he paid his taxes along with everyone else, of course. One didn’t get to be a billionaire and not have an army of lawyers whose whole lives were devoted to protecting the Forsyth business empire against all comers—including the government.
The Forsyth heiress, Carina, looked wonderful, they all agreed. Everyone craned their heads for a look, even though footage of the celebrity funeral would appear on national television.
The whole funeral scene had been revolutionised over recent years: the style of eulogies, the music that would never have been allowed in the old days, the kind of people given the opportunity to speak, even the things they got away with saying. The entire ritual had been rewritten. And today most of the mourners, some of whom had expressed behind-the-scenes opinions that the world was a better place without the deceased, had dressed up as much as they would have if they’d been going to a huge social function like the Melbourne Cup. There was even the odd whiff of excitement in the air. Many, on meeting up with old friends, had to concentrate hard on not breaking into laughter, though some light laughter would be allowed during the eulogies.
Carina Forsyth attracted the most attention. She always wore the most glamorous clothes and jewels—even to her grandfather’s funeral. Everyone looked at the size of her South Sea pearls, a steal at $100,000 a strand! The state had always been famous for its pearling industry. No one was about to bring up a fairly recent scandal when a society wife—present on this sad day—had accused the heiress of having an affair with her businessman husband and labelled her ‘a tramp.’ Well, not today anyway. Not before, during or after the service. Possibly over drinks that evening.
The ‘spare’ Forsyth heiress, as Francesca had long been dubbed by the press, by comparison was very plainly attired. A simple black suit, modest jewellery, no big glamorous hat, and her long hair arranged in a low coil at her nape, held with a stylised black grosgrain ribbon. She even wore sunglasses in church—a sure sign she wanted to hide. Not that the ‘spare’ needed to hide. Francesca Forsyth had already established herself in the general community’s good books. As a Forsyth, like her cousin, it wouldn’t have been necessary for her ever to lift a finger, but Francesca was creating a real niche for herself in public-spirited good works—like the aunt who had reared her, the much admired Elizabeth Forsyth, who—oddly—was seated with the Macallans. Then again, everyone knew about the split in the Forsyth family ranks.
While Carina was feted, and treated with a near sickening degree of deference—at least to her face—her cousin was winning for herself a considerable degree of affection and admiration of which she was unaware.
What everyone needed to know now was this: what were the contents of Sir Francis Forsyth’s will? It was taken for granted that his only son Charles Forsyth would be the main beneficiary, though Charles had always been judged by the business community as ‘dead wood’. There were all sorts of interlocking trusts in place to provide income for various members of the extended family, but the bulk of the Forsyth fortune would pass by tradition to his eldest son—Sir Francis’s younger son, Lionel, with whom he had fallen out anyway, being deceased.
The entire business world could clearly see Charles Forsyth’s clear and present danger. He was sitting in the front pew on the left.
Tall, stunningly handsome, powerfully lean and sombre of expression, Bryn sat between his aristocratic grandmother, Lady Antonia Macallan, and his beautiful mother, Annette Macallan, who had never remarried despite the many offers that had followed in the wake of the tragic death of her husband. Bryn Macallan was firmly entrenched as a power player. It was said he had handled without effort everything the late Sir Francis had thrown at him—and Sir Francis had done a lot of throwing. Considered one of the biggest catches in the country, he was not yet married. Everyone in the state knew Sir Francis had worked for an alliance—a business merger—between Macallan and his granddaughter Carina, but so far nothing had eventuated. It was generally held that it was only a question of when.
The mining giant Titan was too big to be owned by any one family—indeed, any one person—but Macallan, through his family history, his prodigious intellect and business acumen, looked very much as if he could at some stage become the man in control. Surely that was reason enough for him and Carina Forsyth to finally tie the knot? Both of them had ‘star quality’.
Hundreds of people flocked back to the Forsyth mansion, a geometric modern-day fortress, wandering all over the huge reception rooms and the library as if it was open house and the property would soon be up for auction. Very few of them had ever been invited inside, so most faces were stamped with expressions of wonderment, amazement and occasionally dismay—but huge curiosity none the less.
Although the day was quite hot, Charles Forsyth stood in front of a gigantic stone fireplace—one might wonder from whence it had been acquired…from one of the Medici clan, probably—looking chilled to the bone. The aperture, filled on that day with a stupendous arrangement of white lilies and fanning greenery, was so vast a fully grown man could have been roasted standing up.
‘Buck up, Dad, for God’s sake!’ Carina uttered a wrathful warning into her father’s ear. Though she loved her father, sometimes his manner simply enraged her. She quite understood how it had enraged her grandfather.
‘The devil with that!’ her father replied. ‘I’ve seen the will.’
‘So?’ Carina drew back, as if a particularly virulent wasp, hidden away in the lilies, had chosen that moment to sting her. ‘It’s what we expected, isn’t it?’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Charles Forsyth admitted, his face abruptly turning red.
Carina turned her back to the huge crowded living room, squarely facing her father. Her eyes had turned a chilling iceberg blue. ‘So when were you going to tell me?’
Her tone was so trenchant, so much like his father’s, that for a moment Charles Forsyth looked terrified. ‘You’ll know soon enough. I wish you weren’t so much like him, Carrie. It frightens me sometimes. You’re right. I should buck up and circulate. Most of them have only come to goggle and giggle anyway. This place is in appalling taste. Forget any notion Dad was revered, or even liked. Even the Archbishop was hard-pressed to come up with the odd kind word. My father has the rankest outside chance of getting into heaven.’
Carina gritted her perfect white teeth. ‘Get a grip, Dad! There is no heaven.’
He laughed sadly. ‘You may be right. But there is, God help us, a hell. There’s no glory in inheriting a great fortune, Carina. Whatever you believe. You’ve no idea of normal life because you’ve been so pampered. Nothing has been expected of you except to look glamorous. The job of stepping into your grandfather’s shoes is bigger than you and I can possibly imagine. I’ll be the first to admit I don’t have the intellect. And I’m far from tough. Everyone knows my bark is worse than my bite. We need someone as tough as he was, even when he was slowing down. He knew it himself. He was coming to rely more and more on Macallan’s judgment, and the good will that goes with the Macallan name. Sir Theo wasn’t a scoundrel.’
It took all of Carina’s self-control not to lash out in anger. She had adored her grandfather. She adored strength and ruthlessness in a man. They were assets, not mortal sins. ‘I’m not going to listen to this!’ she said, her eyes turning hard and cold as stones. ‘Gramps was a great man.’
‘That’s your view, certainly,’ her father answered wearily. ‘But you won’t find many to agree with you.’ For a minute Charles Forsyth was almost tempted to tell his daughter just a few of her grandfather’s venial sins, even if he left out the mortal ones. But what purpose would that serve? ‘We owe our great success in the main to Sir Theo,’ he told his daughter patiently. ‘We owe him many times over. What we need now is a fighter! You must be aware Orion is awaiting its opportunity to move in on us? I’m not a fighter. I’m a coward. Your mother told me that at the end, before the divorce. I have no guts. She was right. She was always right.’