The English Bride

Grant’s voice deepened. “The daughter of an earl. Journeying to the Outback is an escape for you. I could fall in love with you then you’d go off home to Daddy, back to your own world.”

“So what’s the solution?” Francesca was compelled to clutch him for support.

“Neither of us allows ourselves to get carried away,” he said brusquely. “You’re so beautiful. But I don’t think your father would get a big kick out of knowing you were dallying with a rough-around-the-edges man from the Outback.”

It in no way described him. “Rugged, Grant. Never rough. I like you. Temper and all. I like the way you hit on an idea and go for it. What I don’t like is the way you see me as a threat.”

He could see the hurt in her eyes but he was compelled to speak. “Because you are a threat, Francesca. A real threat. To us both.”

Dear Reader,

Ever since I can remember, our legendary Outback has had an almost mystical grip on me. The cattlemen have become cultural heroes, figures of romance, excitement and adventure. These tough, dynamic, sometimes dangerous men carved out their destinies in this new world of Australia as they drove deeper and deeper into the uncompromising Wild Heart with its extremes of stark grandeur and bleached cruelty.

The type of man I like to write about is a unique and definable breed—rugged, masculine and full of vigor. This Outback man is strong yet sensitive, courageous enough to battle all the odds in order to claim the woman of his dreams.

The English Bride is the third of three linked books in which I explore the friendships, loves, rivalries and reconciliations between two great Australian pioneering families. They are truly LEGENDS OF THE OUTBACK.

The English Bride

Margaret Way

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS getting on towards late afternoon when Grant Cameron set the chopper down on the rear lawn of Kimbara as sweetly as a pelican setting down on a lagoon. Winds created by the whirling fanlike rotor stirred up a mini dust storm mixed with grass clippings and a sea of spent blossom from the nearby bauhinias but that quickly abated as the long blades wound to a standstill. Grant completed his interior checks and took off his headset, preparatory to jumping down onto the grass.

This was historic Kimbara Station, desert stronghold of the Kinross family since the early days of settlement; the nearest neighbour to his own family station, Opal Downs, some hundred miles to the north-east.

His older brother, Rafe, much loved and much respected, was currently on honeymoon in the United States with his new bride and love of his life, Alison Cameron, nee Kinross. Rafe ran the station. He, Grant, was making a very successful business out of his own aerial mustering service, operating out of Opal. It had suited both brothers well. Rafe was the cattleman. He was the pilot.

He’d always been mad about aircraft even since he’d been a kid. Even the inconsolable grief of losing their beloved parents to a light aircraft crash hadn’t killed his love of flying. With an outback so vast flying was a way of life in Australia. The tragedy had to be survived.

Grant reached for his akubra and slung it on at an unconsciously rakish angle. The sun still had a powerful kick in it and he couldn’t altogether forget his tawny colouring, a Cameron trademark. “A pride of lions” was the way people used to describe his dad, Douglas Cameron, and his two sons, Rafe and Grant.

A pride of lions!

For a moment a terrible sadness constricted his chest. He wished with all his heart his dad was still alive. Mum and Dad. They never got to see him make such a success of himself. They would have been proud. He had always been the younger brother, a bit of a wildcat trying to develop in his brother’s shadow. Rafe was born responsible, ready to take over from their father.

Out of the helicopter Grant made a quick circuit of the aircraft, his eyes always checking for the slightest sign of possible trouble though the fleet was scrupulously maintained. The yellow fuselage with its broad blue stripe and company logo in blue and gold gave off a crackle as the metal cooled down. He patted the insignia with satisfaction and made off for the house.

It had been an exhausting day driving a whole heap of cantankerous, overheated cattle in from the isolated Sixty Mile out near Jarajara, a single huge sentinel granite dome that marked Kimbara’s western border to the camp Brod’s men had set up out near Mareeba Waters with its winding water courses. Camp would be shifted as the muster went on. The men were expected to be out for the best past of three weeks. What he needed now was a long cold beer and to feast his tired eyes on a beautiful woman.

Francesca

Not necessarily in that order he thought dryly. Francesca was occupying far too many of his thoughts these days. Lady Francesca de Lyle, first cousin to Brod Kinross, master of Kimbara and brother to Ally, his new sister-in-law. Cameron and Kinross were legendary names in this part of the world, pioneering giants.

Now with the marriage of Rafe and Alison the two families were finally united to everyone’s great satisfaction except maybe Lainie Rhodes of Victoria Springs who had nurtured an outsize crush on Rafe since puberty struck her. Not that Lainie wasn’t good marriage material but there had never been anyone else for Rafe but his Ally.

The unbreakable bond between them had been forged in their childhood out of tempered steel. Now they were man and wife, deliriously happy from all accounts but Grant realised full well he had better start making plans.

Big as Opal’s homestead was he had no intention of intruding on his brother’s and Ally’s privacy. They would want the homestead to themselves no matter how much they tried to reassure him Opal was as much his home as theirs. A big share of Opal Station maybe, which had financed his aerial muster business, but the homestead was for the newlyweds. He was determined on that. Besides Ally had lots of plans for doing the place up and he guessed it needed it.

What would it be like to be married? Grant mused as he strode past the original old kitchens and servants’ quarters. Long out-of-date they were perfectly maintained for their historic value. Shrubs surrounded these outbuildings, light filtering trees, the whole linked to the Big House by the long covered walkway he now took.

What would it be like to come home each night to a woman he could take to his heart, to his bed? A woman to share his hopes and dreams, his profoundest inner expectations. A woman he belonged with as surely as she belonged with him.

The first time he met Francesca de Lyle when he was in his teens he had felt an instant click, a deep rapport, now years later he was well into fantasising about her. Why then was he so persuaded an intimate relationship with Francesca could only bring danger to them both? Maybe he wasn’t ready for any deep relationship after all. Hell, wasn’t he too damned busy to commit. Nothing should be on his mind but work. Building up the business. He had such ideas.

A branch of Cameron Airways was now carrying mail and freight but he’d had recent discussions in Brisbane the state capital a good thousand miles away, with Drew Forsythe of Trans Continental Resources regarding building a helicopter fleet for use in minerals, oil and natural gas exploration.

He’d met the very high profile Forsythe and his beautiful wife, Eve, on several occasions but that was the first time they’d ever got into really talking business. And he had Francesca of all people to thank for that.

Never one, apparently, to let a good public relations opportunity go by, Francesca who had struck an immediate chord with the Forsythes when they had all been seated together at a charity banquet had brought up the idea in the course of an enjoyable evening.

Beautiful blue eyes sparkling she put it to Forsythe: “Doesn’t this make good sense to you? Grant knows the Interior like the back of his hand and he’s absolutely committed to the big picture, isn’t that right, Grant?” She had leaned back towards him then, so heart stoppingly graceful in her strapless satin gown, her lovely cool, clear English voice, full of support and encouragement. Ah, the bright aura of breeding and privilege!

And she was clever. If some sort of a deal ever came off, and he was working on it right now, he owed her. A glorious romantic weekend away together, he fantasised. One of those jewel-like Barrier Reef islands that had those luxurious little self-contained bungalows down near the beach. Though he would have to watch her in the hot Queensland sun. She had the flawless porcelain complexion that so often set off Titian hair. How strange she should want to fit into his background on the fringe of the great desert heart. It was almost like trying to grow an exquisite pink rosebush on the banks of a dried-up clay pan. For all his deep and immediate attraction to her they were an impossible match. And he better not lose sight of it.

He lost sight of it less than two minutes later when Francesca herself appeared, running down the side verandah and leaning over the white wrought-iron balustrade wreathed with a prolific lilac trumpeted vine that gave off a seductive fragrance in the golden heat.

“Grant!” she called, waving happily. “How lovely to see you. Of course I heard the chopper.” A singing sweetness showed in every line of her body. Sweetness and excitement.

“Come here,” he ordered very gently as he came alongside, reaching up a long arm to pull her lovely head down to him. Despite all the little lectures he gave himself, despite all natural caution, every atom of his being was focused on kissing her. He even murmured her name unknowingly as he put his mouth over hers, sensation beating through him like the powerful whoosh of a rotor. What in hell made him do it? But he was a man and keenly physical.

When he let her go she was breathless, trying not to tremble, a deep pink colour running across the fine skin of her cheeks, sparkling lights in the depths of her eyes. Her beautiful flame-coloured hair had come loose from its clasp and spilled around her face and over her shoulders. “That’s some greeting!” Her voice was little more than a soft tremble.

“You shouldn’t look at me that way,” he warned, still feeling ripples of pleasure moving down through his body, pooling in his loins.

“What way?” She gave a shaky laugh, feeling enslaved by his enormous dash, moving back along the wide verandah as he resumed his journey to the front of the house.

“You know, Francesca,” he half growled, half mocked. “Lord are you a sight for sore eyes!” He ran his gaze over her, from the tip of her radiant head to her toes. His hazel eyes, which could turn grey or green according to his mood, were now a clear green beneath the brim of his black akubra. They scanned her face, her swan’s neck, the slender body with its willow waist, her light limbs, a muscle in his hard jaw lightly flicking.

It was impossible to cast his glance away so caught up was he in her feminine beauty, the soft ravishing prettiness he found irresistible. She was wearing riding gear. Such riding gear! The aristocratic young English lady from the grand stately home and one of the most egalitarian young women he had ever known.

Her short-sleeved cream silk blouse lightly skimmed her delicate breasts and was tucked into tight-fitting cream jodhpurs. Highly polished, very expensive, tan coloured riding boots adorned her small feet. There wasn’t an ounce of excess weight on her. She had the neatest, sleekest little butt and good straight legs. It nearly mesmerised him just to see her move along the verandah, near dancing to keep up with him. To his overheated mind, and body, make no mistake about it it thrummed like electricity, she appeared to be floating, so lightly were her feet touching the timber floor-boards.

“A hard day?” Francesca asked him as he mounted the short flight of stone steps to the verandah, excited, not her usual calm, contained self at all.

He leaned against the rail with slouching elegance, smiling at her with the unblinking cat’s eyes she found so wildly attractive. “I’m over it now I’ve seen you,” he drawled. He was, too. “What have you been doing with yourself all day?”

“Come and I’ll tell you.” She indicated the comfortable white wicker furniture. “I expect you’d like a cold beer? Brod always does.”

He nodded and took off his hat using it like a Frisbee to skim unerringly onto the head of a wooden sculpture.

“Rebecca will be here in a moment,” Francesca slid into the chair he held out for her. Rebecca was mistress of Kimbara, Brod’s new wife. “We’ve been organising a picnic race meeting for most of the day. We thought it would be a change from the usual polo. Rebecca worries about Brod when he plays. He’s such a daredevil. For that matter so are you.” She actually shivered at some of her recollections. Polo was a dangerous game. Especially the way these fellows played it.

“So you worry about me as well?” He held her with his eyes.

“I worry about you all,” she returned lightly before she drowned in his expression. It struck her more than ever how physically alike Grant and his brother Rafe were. The rangy height, the golden good looks, though Grant was tawnier.

Both had great presence. Both wore achievement like a badge. If there were a difference, Rafe had a kind of courtliness about him. There was no other word for it. Grant showed more “temper” a high mettled energy and determination that didn’t sit all that comfortably with everyone. To put it in a nutshell Grant Cameron could be difficult. Add to that, he had a habit of speaking his mind, without holding back. He was full of energy and had a macho quality, an absolute manliness that characterised these men of the outback. In some respects he even seemed like a creature from another world. A creature of vast open spaces with no boundaries. The image of a splendid young lion sat easily on him. He was her first taste of a thrilling excitement that contained a kernel of caution. She knew her feelings for Grant Cameron were getting right out of hand.

Now he knit his dark golden brows together, staring across at her, his strong brown arms on the circular glass-topped table steely with muscle. He was wearing the uniform of his company in serviceable khaki the blue and gold logo on the breast pocket. He looked great, the afternoon breeze ruffling his thick tawny hair with its pronounced deep wave.

“So what’s the verdict, my lady?” He came closer to grasping her hand. Never letting her go.

She laughed and blushed at the same time. “Was I staring? Sorry. I was just thinking how much alike you and Rafe are. Growing more so as you—”

“Mature?” he cut in swiftly, his relaxed easy drawl taking on a faint glittery edge.

“Oh, Grant,” she said in gentle reproach. Francesca knew the brothers were devoted to each other, but Grant a couple of years younger must have chafed often under Rafe’s authority. With both parents dead Rafe had had to take on almost a parental role from an early age. Grant still had a tendency to chafe if only because of his driving ambition to prove himself, to be the man his father always said he would be. Grant fairly pulsed with raw ambition, undischarged energy. “Actually I was going to say, as you grow older,” she told him mildly, watching his tall, super lean body with its athlete’s muscles relax.

“Of course you were,” he agreed with his charming, slightly crooked smile that revealed perfect white teeth. “Sometimes, Francesca, I’ve got a perverse devil in me.”

“Yes, I know,” she told him gently.

“I love Rafe as much as any brother could.”

“I know you do,” she said with understanding, “and I know what you mean so don’t bother explaining.” The best of relationships were fraught with little tensions. Like mother and daughter. She turned her head as footsteps sounded in the front hall. “That’ll be Rebecca.”

A moment later Rebecca appeared like a summer breeze, all smiles, touching Francesca affectionately on the shoulder before speaking directly to Grant who came swiftly to his feet. “Don’t bother to get up, Grant,” she said, realising he must be tired. “All over for the day?”

“Thank the Lord.” He gave a wry grin.

“Then you could probably do with a cold beer?”

He laughed aloud and resumed his seat. “Brod sure has his womenfolk trained. Francesca has just offered me one, too. That’d be great, Rebecca. I have to admit it was long, hard and dusty. I’m parched.” He was struck again at how much Rebecca had changed from the enigmatic young woman who had first come to Kimbara to write Fee Kinross’s biography. Fee, Francesca’s mother, had had a brilliant career on the London stage. The biography was due out any day.

Since her marriage to Brod, Rebecca was all friendliness and warmth, happiness and contentment shining out of her quite extraordinary grey eyes. This was a marriage that would work, he thought with great satisfaction. God knows Brod and Ally had one hell of a childhood with their arrogant bastard of a father. Such was Rafe’s persona even Stewart Kinross had approved of Rafe, though he hadn’t lived to see Rafe and his only daughter, Alison, married.

Grant was certain Kinross would never have approved of him. “Too much the hothead!” Kinross had once described him, “with the intolerable habit of expressing his quite juvenile opinions.” Opinions, of course, that ran counter to the lordly Kinross. Still the two families, Cameron and Kinross had always been entwined. Almost kin. Now they were.

When Rebecca returned with his cold beer, just the one—he was too responsible a pilot to consider another—and an iced tea for herself and Francesca, they talked family matters, their latest communications from Rafe and Ally, local gossip, what Fee and David Westbury, the visiting first cousin to Francesca’a aristocratic father, were up to. The two had become inseparable to the extent Francesca told them she wouldn’t be surprised to get a phone call to say they’d popped into the register office that very day. Which would make Fee’s third attempt at making a go of marriage.

They were still talking about Fee and the important cameo role she was to play in a new Australian movie, when they were interrupted by the shrilling of the phone, the latest miracle for the outback that had depended for so long on radio communication. Rebecca went to answer it, returning with an expression that wiped all the laughter from her luminous grey eyes. “It’s for you, Grant, Bob Carlton.” She named his second-in-charge. “One of the fleet hasn’t reached base camp or called in, either. Bob sounded a bit concerned. Take it in Brod’s study.”

“Thanks, Rebecca.” Grant rose to his impressive lean height. “Did he say which station?”

“Oh I’m sorry!” Rebecca touched her creamy forehead in self-reproach. “I should have told you at once. It’s Bunnerong.”

The station was even more remote than they were. About sixty miles to the north-west. Grant made his way through the Kinross homestead, familiar to him from childhood. It was amazingly grand in contrast to the Cameron stronghold with its quietly fading Victorian gentility. Ally, of course, would change all that. Ally the whirlwind but for now his mind was on what Bob had to say.

Bob, in his mid-fifties, was a great bloke. A great organiser, a great mechanic, well liked by everyone. Grant relied on him, but Bob was a born worrier, a firm believer in Murphy’s Law, whereby anything that could go wrong, would. Equally Bob was determined no harm would come to any of “his boys.”

On the phone Grant received Bob’s assurance all necessary checks had been made and the chopper had passed the mandatory 100-hour service. The helicopter was to have set down when the stockmen were camped at Bunnerong’s out station at approximately four o’clock. The pilot, a good one with plenty of experience in aerial muster had not arrived by four forty-five when Bunnerong contacted Bob by radio. Bob in turn had not been able to contact the pilot by company radio frequency.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” Grant wasn’t overly concerned at that point.

“You know me, Grant, I’m going to,” Bob answered. “It’s not like Curly. He runs by an inbuilt timetable.”

“Sure,” Grant acknowledged. “But you know as well as I do things can go wrong with the radio. It’s not all that unusual. It’s happened to me. Besides it’s almost dusk. Curly would have put down somewhere and made camp for the night. He’s got all he needs to make himself comfortable. He’d resume again at first light. If he’s anything like me he’s dog-tired. Besides, he’s not actually due to start the muster until morning anyway.”

All of which was true. “There’s an hour or so of light left,” Grant said at length breaking in on Bob. “I’ll take the chopper up and have a look around, though I’m coming from another direction. I need to refuel on Kimbara, if I’m going to get close in to Bunnerong.”

“I suppose we might as well wait for morning,” Bob sighed. “Curly could still turn up. Bunnerong can get a message to us and I’ll relay it to you.”

So it was decided. “Curly” to all because of a single wisp of hair that curled like a baby’s on his bald patch, was a pro. He had food with him. A swag. He’d probably put down near a bush lagoon and set up camp for the night. Nevertheless Grant felt the responsibility to take his chopper up. Initiate a bit of a search before night fell.

Bob’s mood had affected him, he thought wryly. Experience told him Curly, though obviously having problems with his radio was most likely safe and sound setting up camp on the ground. Still he liked to know exactly where every one of his pilots and helicopters in service were.

Grant walked swiftly back through the house, telling the two young women of his intentions the moment he set foot on the verandah.

“Why don’t you let me come with you?” Francesca asked quickly, keen to help if she could. “You know what they say, two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

Rebecca nodded in agreement. “I was able to help Brod once on a search and rescue. You remember?”

“That was from the Beech Baron,” Grant told her, a shade repressively. “Francesca isn’t used to helicopters. The way they fly, the heat and the noise. She could very easily get airsick.”

Francesca stood away from her chair. “I don’t suffer from motion sickness at all, Grant. In the air. On the water. Please take me. I want to help if I can.”

His response wasn’t all that she hoped. The expression in his hazel eyes suggested there was a decided possibility she could become a liability. But in the end he nodded in laconic permission. “All right, lady! Let’s go.”

Minutes later the rotor was roaring and they were lifting vertically from the lawn, rising well above the line of trees, climbing, then steering away for the desert fringe. Francesca like Grant was strapped into her copilot seat, wearing earphones that at least made the loud noise of the swishing blades tolerable. Still she found it a thrilling experience to be up in the air looking down at the vast wilderness with all the rock formations undergoing another change in their astonishing colour display. Even when they flew through thermal cross-winds over the desert she kept her cool as the winds took hold of the small aircraft and shook it so it plunged into a short, sickening dive.