The Secret Rose (22 page)

“There’s Ian,” Thomas announced. “Ian, man! Over here!”

The man called Ian came toward them with the listing gait
of a sailor. “I won the ringer’s prize, Tom! Damn ye for not competing!”

“Against ye, Ian? A man’d be a fool to do so,” Thomas answered with a chuckle and offered his hand, which the other man grasped so tightly he winced. “Mind the hand. I’ll not come against ye, but even a squatter has a need for his shearing hand.”

“Aye, I hear ye’ve no need of prize money these days. Jack’s claiming half the sheep in New South Wales as yers. All the same, there’re those who remember when ye took the grand prize and set the record which stood six seasons. They’d have the others believe ye’re still the better man.”

Thomas grinned. “
Musha
,
I
am
the better man!”

“Is that a fact?” Ian’s gaze ran warmly over Aisleen, “Then why are ye hiding the lass?”

Thomas turned her and urged her forward with a hand on her waist. “Lass, I’ll have ye meet Ian Rafferty. Ian, Mrs. Gibson.”

“Gibson, is it?” Ian turned a surprised stare on Thomas. “Never tell me ye’ve gotten yerself married, lad?”

At Thomas’s nod, Ian returned his widened gaze to Aisleen. “There’s little enough to be seen under that wake bonnet.” He reached out and tipped the brim back from her face with a flick of his forefinger.

“That’s better!” he continued over her gasp of indignation. “Tom, man! She’ll be a handsome one, for all she’s wearing a pinched expression. She’ll do me the honor of a kiss, I’m thinking.” He swept her up in an arm and crushed her to his chest.

Startled out of her self-possession, she cried, “How dare you! Put me down!”

Thomas intervened with a smile but a firm hand on Ian’s arm that demanded her release. “Ian, man, ye’ve frightened me lady.”

“Lady?” Ian repeated, squinting down into Aisleen’s
flushed face. “Marrying
ye
,
I’d have thought her a girl of some spirit.”

Aisleen backed out of his embrace. “You are impertinent, sir, and quite disgustingly drunk!”

“I dearly hope so!” Ian answered fervently.

“And here I’ve not had so much as a thimbleful,” Thomas said regretfully, smoothly steering Aisleen behind him and out of Ian’s reach. “Will ye be pointing out the direction of the kegs, Ian?”

Ian frowned, trying to focus his rum-glazed eyes. “Ye’ve truly wed, Tom?”

Thomas nodded. “Aye, I have. Now if ye’ll be forgiving us, me wife has not yet met the other folk. Can’t have her sweating and stinking before she’s made the acquaintance of the others, can we? Evenin’, Ian.”

“I seldom perspire,” Aisleen said in a horrified voice as Thomas hurried her away. “And I never stink!”

“Of course ye don’t,” he agreed pleasantly, “but I say there’s no harm in Ian thinking it’s possible. He’s harmless enough except when he’s spied a woman he fancies. When he’s the whiff of a lass in his nostrils, he’s little put off by sweat or odor, come to that.”

Aisleen did not know how to answer the indelicate statement and so concentrated on righting her bonnet as he led her between the next tents.

Thomas sniffed the air. “The smell of stew has me belly rumbling. Same with you, lass?”

“What I should like is—is…” Aisleen stammered to a stop.

“The privies are yonder,” he offered with a knowing grin. “When ye’re done ye’ll be finding me with Ian.” He nodded toward the group of men who had gathered by kegs of rum stacked nearby. “I’ve yet to pay me respects to the lads.”

“You don’t intend to drink whiskey?” Aisleen asked,
anxious not to face a drunken husband for a second time. But he only waved at her as he walked away, and she could do nothing but watch him with misgiving.

She turned toward the tents behind which he had said she would find the necessary facilities. As she rounded the corner the stench of feces and urine rose up to meet her, halting her in her tracks. Clamping a gloved hand over her nose and mouth, she peered into the darkness. Where was the outhouse? Without the light from the dozen campfires, she could see nothing. And then she realized that there was nothing to be seen. The “facilities” were nothing more than a gash in the ground.

Immediately her imagination conjured up vivid images of what the scene must be like in daylight, and she began backing away. No need was so pressing that she could not find a better place than this.

Weak with hunger and slightly nauseated from the swaying wagon, she hurried back toward the center of the encampment.

She did not notice the man’s approach, but suddenly she was lifted from behind, spun about, and set down. Expecting to encounter Ian’s rummy gaze, she looked up in annoyance. A broad canvas shirtfront was where she expected a face to be. Her gaze rose and rose until at last she stared up into the rough-featured face of a seven-and-a-half-foot Goliath whose bright red hair and beard blazed in the lantern light. With a deliberateness that bore no glimmer of respect, the man’s gaze moved down over her and then came back to her face, at which he stared in insolent silence.

“I beg your pardon,” she said in what she hoped was a daunting voice, “but certainly you have mistaken me for someone else. Kindly allow me to pass.”

Instead, like Ian before him, the giant tipped her bonnet back from her face as though he had every right to touch her familiarly. This time Aisleen held her temper, but her golden brown eyes reflected anger held in check. If this
were an example of the frontier manners which her husband hoped that she would amend, it seemed that she had her work before her.

The man stared at her a moment longer, his craggy features as immutable as stone, and then turned without a word and walked away.

“Mercy!” she murmured. “Insufferable man!”

“Jack Egan? Nae, only a bit rough for most tastes.”

Aisleen spun about to see that Thomas had come up behind her. “Do all your acquaintances paw the women to whom you introduce them?”

Thomas shrugged. “He’s a man whose respect ye’ll nae easily win.”

“It’s an acquaintance I’ve no desire to further.” Aisleen spied the cup in his hand and guessed the contents. “You’re drinking rum.”

He glanced at his cup and then offered it. “Ye would nae care for a nip, now would ye?”

“Certainly not!”

“I thought as much,” he replied in a regretful tone.

“Drunkenness is a sin,” she said righteously.

“A sip never hurt any of God’s creatures,” he maintained. “Ye do nae drink, but I do, and that’s the way of it.”

“Does that mean that you will—?”

To her vexation, he turned away and headed after Jack Egan. Because she would not lower herself to shout after him, she was effectively silenced once more.

Two women passed her, smiling and nodding. She smoothed her face into an unreadable expression and nodded in turn, her smile a frozen monument to civility.

“Aisleen, aren’t ye coming, lass!”

She turned her head to see Thomas waving at her from a distance.

“Newlyweds,” she heard one woman say in a carrying voice

“Aye, she’s a lucky lass to be claiming Tom Gibson for a husband.”

Aisleen cringed inside as she walked toward him. She knew what the women were thinking, that he must be anxious to get her away from the prying eyes of others, to be alone to kiss and cuddle and—oh, all those things that made her squirm inside just to think of them.

“What’d be the reason for yer frowning now?” he asked as she reached him.

She stopped short. Was she frowning? If she was, the reason for it was too personal to be dealt with comfortably, and so she said derisively, “It would seem that some women believe you’re quite a catch.”

Thomas’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he reached for her hand and inclined his head to whisper in her ear, “And a fair number of lads are wishing they were in me place tonight.”

Aisleen felt her face catch fire and tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it tight.

“Ah, well, I’ve done it again—insulted ye when I meant to please ye,” he said mournfully. “Now why do ye think that’s so, lass?”

“I would prefer that you address me as Mrs. Gibson when we are in public,” she answered coolly.

“And what would ye be having me call ye when we’re in private?”

Startled and embarrassed by his question, she did not know where to look and so chose a spot above his left shoulder. But his hand moved to her chin to bring her eyes back to his. “Tell me,
colleen
,
what does a man say to a lady like yerself that’d put a smile on her pretty face?”

Aisleen stared up at him in mute surprise. He was the one with the handsome face. Absently she wondered what other women saw when they looked at him. Did they respond to
his attractive exterior in the belief that it made him a kinder, bolder, more romantic male than the men in their lives?

“Aisleen, lass, we should be friends,” he said huskily.

He was so close that she could see the lights from the campfires reflected in his eyes…and feel his warm, rum-laden breath—a sudden, sharp reminder of the night before.

She turned abruptly from him. “You smell of the brewery, Mr. Gibson. I hope that does not portend a repeat of last night’s humiliation.”

Thomas heard the demise of his hopes in her frigid voice. “I’m nae drunk, lass,” he said as he reached for her arm, but she jerked free.

“No, you’ve only consumed enough rum to drown your memory,” Aisleen retorted. “Well, I have not! I remember everything!” including the fact that he had left with Sally and been absent more than an hour, she added in her thoughts.

“Everything?” he repeated softly, but she turned away, and he did not know whether or not she had heard him.

He watched her cross the clearing to their wagon, wondering when she would realize that there was nowhere else to go. She stood a while by the wagon, her head erect and her arms folded tightly across her bosom.
Let her stew, then
,
he thought. He had tried his damnedest to please her.

The call of nature that had momentarily receded had become too much for Aisleen to bear. She could no longer wait. In desperation, she sought the concealment of the trees that edged the clearing.

He waited, watching the place where she had disappeared, but she did not return. Frowning, he started toward the wagon.
Damn!
She must have gone into the bush. Trust a city lass not to have more sense than to leap into danger.

Ferns and bushes snagged the hem of her gown, but Aisleen did not stop until she had waded into the densest portion of the underbrush, where the lights from the clearing
did not penetrate. Close by she heard the lap and gurgle of flowing water. When she turned toward the sound, she saw that the river was only a few feet away, its blue-black surface gleaming under the stars.

As she tried to maneuver her voluminous skirts into manageable handfuls she began to envy the colonial women who wore fewer petticoats and simpler clothing than she. At last, she reached the waistband of her drawers and pulled the drawstring to release them. They dropped to her ankles, but she could not squat without bracing her feet wider apart than the garment would allow. With a sigh of exasperation, she stepped out of them and squatted down.

She saw the intruder too late. For an instant, she thought the glow was the reflection of starlight on wet stones, but then it changed color, becoming the eerie green glow of predatory eyes only two feet from where she crouched.

Her muscles locked in spasms of fear. She had never seen a bear or a wolf or a lion; but this was a wild country, and surely the wild creatures who inhabited it must be very dangerous.

“Aisleen!”

She heard her name called in relief. “Thomas?”

“Aisleen!”

His cry accompanied the thrashing of the bush as he made his way toward her. The sudden noise startled the animal and it leaped forward, right at her.

With a scream of terror, Aisleen flung herself to one side. Arms caught in the fullness of her skirts, she fell forward onto the riverbank with a force that knocked the breath from her and slid, headfirst, into the river.

Thomas broke through the bush just as he heard a splash and, without seeing her, he knew what had happened. Shucking his coat, he paused long enough to pull off his boots before he flung himself into the inky water.

Immediately he came to the surface, effortlessly treading
water. To his dismay Aisleen was nowhere in sight. Where was she? Why had she not surfaced at least once? Frantically he craned his neck about, swearing at the cloaking darkness. With creeping dread, he wondered if she had been caught in the strong currents that carried the Parramatta River for miles to Port Jackson.

Aisleen broke the water beside him, gasping and clutching the air blindly as she fought the weight of her soaked gown, which dragged her under again almost at once.

He reached for her as the water closed over her head and was enveloped in a morass of cold, wet wool and petticoats as he drew her close. The weight dragged them both under as she grabbed him about the neck.