| Copyright © 2008,
Margaret Tanner Reviews For STOLEN BIRTHRIGHT by Margaret Tanner “The setting is Australia. Marcus Lindquist was forced to leave London, where he was falsely accused of rape. Georgina and cohorts were attempting to free Johnny Dawson from troopers. He was accused of being a bushranger. Georgina lured the troopers away, risking her own life. She took refuge at the inn. Marcus was surprised to find a young woman hiding in his room. She sensed he would not harm her. Margaret Tanner is a talented author. Stolen Birthright’s plot is spell-binding. She cleverly demonstrates what life was like during the Colonial Days of Australia. George and Marcus are delightful characters. Fans of romance will enjoy Stolen Birthright.” 4 Stars! Reviewed by Debra Gaynor for ReviewYourBook.com 5 out of 5 Books! “Action, danger, and strong emotions set Stolen Birthright in motion and continue throughout the novel. Margaret Tanner gives us a glimpse of the social disparities during the years after convicts from England were transported to Australia. The thread of mystery about Johnny Dawson’s secret is like a carrot-on-a-stick as the story unfolds while the many secondary characters add enthralling subplots. But, most of all the story pulses with the love that grows as Marcus and Georgina struggle to bridge the wide chasm between a child of an ex-convict and a lord of the English aristocracy. I didn’t want the story to end. I hope a sequel is in the making. Superb reading!” – Camellia, The Long And Short Of It Reviews Sample Chapter For STOLEN
BIRTHRIGHT by Margaret Tanner
The Honourable Marcus Lindquist cursed inwardly as another bump almost unseated him. What did this idiot of a driver think he was doing? Bloody half-witted colonial. He had been forced to leave England to save the Lindquist name from being dragged further into disrepute; now he was exiled in this Godforsaken penal colony. Australia was only fit for convicts and destitute immigrants. Sylvia had ruined his life. She had betrayed him. Cast him aside to marry the heir to a Dukedom. He was just starting to think about marriage and settling down to produce heirs, when he had met and become infatuated with Lady Sylvia Hayworth. Just the thought of her full lips and lush, ripe body being given to another man almost destroyed him. “Youse have to stay the night here.” Their uncouth looking driver poked his head through the coach window. “Too late to travel on the road now.” “Road!” Marcus bit off an oath. Is that what they called it? Rutted track seemed more appropriate. He felt bruised and battered as he stepped stiffly from the coach and waited for the other occupants to alight. He stamped his feet to get his circulation moving again after eight hours in the cramped coach. They had stopped only to eat and change the horses; now he was forced to spend the night in some revolting, bug-infested tavern, undoubtedly run by villainous riff raff. Automatically, he offered his hand to help a middle-aged lady alight. A good night’s sleep would help. The voyage out from England had been nothing short of a bloody nightmare. Still, it did have a few lighter moments, including a troupe of eight painted, but pretty chorus girls who had kept him entertained. “This way.” The driver took charge of the lady’s bag, leaving Marcus to pick up his own. The roadside tavern looked anything but impressive, although the light spilling out on to the verandah offered some reassurance. A large, fat fellow in grubby pants met them at the door, and Marcus shuddered with distaste. Fastidious in his own habits, if this oaf’s appearance was anything to go by, he teetered on the brink of a hideous nightmare. Their driver, having dumped them like pieces of flotsam, disappeared without a word. Not even bothering to hide his disdain, Marcus stepped warily across the threshold. Bare wooden floors had been swept clean. The interior walls appeared to be made from white washed, pit-sawn logs. A number of men lounged at roughly hewn tables with tankards in their hands, and they nodded without much interest. He returned their greeting in a like manner. Another rowdy bunch dressed in dark uniforms caught his eye momentarily. The innkeeper, following his gaze, lowered his voice conspiratorially. “They’re police reinforcements coming to escort Johnny Dawson from Goulburn to the jail in Sydney.” He lowered his voice still further and leaned closer. His rancid breath blowing in Marcus’ face smelt so nauseating he nearly retched. Thank goodness he had eaten hours ago; otherwise he would surely have lost everything in his stomach. “Rumour has it some of his friends are planning an escape.” Marcus stepped back a pace. “Oh?” His eyes flicked towards the group again. Shrugging his indifference, he started to move away. His smelly tormentor tenaciously followed him, obviously loathe to lose his captive audience. “You’ve heard of Johnny Dawson?” “No, my good man, I have not.” “He’s a bushranger. Been running wild for a couple of years now, treats the troopers with scorn. Usually operates a bit further north, though.” The innkeeper scratched at his head. Marcus winced. Dear God, surely the oaf wasn’t lousy? “You don’t say. My room, if you please. I’m in need of a wash, food and bed, in that order.” Scrubbing his hand wearily across his chin, Marcus felt the rough stubble of beard. He badly needed a shave. It would have to wait until the morning because he couldn’t be bothered now. God, how he missed having servants catering to his every whim. You never knew what you had until you lost it. How true. He hadn’t eaten in hours; food, however unpalatable, was now a necessity. “We have a private sitting room where you could eat, Sir, when you’ve refreshed yourself.” “Thank you.” Marcus followed the innkeeper down a hallway until they came to a door standing slightly ajar. A lantern resting on a wooden dresser partly lit the room. There was a matching wardrobe, large brass bedstead and nothing else. “I’ll bring you some hot water if you want to shave tonight, Sir.” “Thank you, but the water in the jug will suffice for now. I’ll shave in the morning.” He dismissed the man after ascertaining where the private dining room was situated. As he put his bag inside the cavernous wardrobe, Marcus grimaced at his travel worn clothes and dishevelled appearance. His once immaculate trousers were shockingly creased, his white silk stock almost grubby. Thank heavens his swell London friends couldn’t see him now. It would be too humiliating. He spent a fortune on clothes; his tailor, one of the most exclusive in London, numbered royalty among his select clientele. Later, as he ate roast beef, washed down with several glasses of wine, he once more brooded on his misfortune. His own exploits were mild compared to those of his father, he thought morosely. Only one thing worse than a reformed drunk—a reformed rake. His chances of making a suitable marriage in England were almost negligible now. Not that he particularly wanted to marry if he couldn’t have Sylvia. Still, being an only son he did have certain responsibilities, and a large dowry would help finance some of his excesses. How could he have been so stupid and reckless? It was Sylvia’s fault, damn her to hell. He had gone quite mad for a time. Normally, he acted with discretion when dealing with women, particularly married ones, but he had crossed the line between acceptable philandering and common decency. Getting caught in bed with a fellow officer’s wife had been bad enough, having her cry rape proved disastrous. It had taken his own family’s considerable influence and that of his Godfather, Earl Darrington, plus large sums of money, to hush the affair up and keep him out of jail. He had been left with no option but to resign his Commission in the army and flee England immediately. * * * * “George, we can’t let you do it. It’s too dangerous,” Johnny said frantically. “God, if you get caught they’ll hang you.” Three horses, still breathing heavily from their headlong flight, stood close together. The night was black and thick with menace as the riders argued. “It’s the only way,” George said. “I’ll lead them off in the opposite direction. If we split up we’ll confuse them.” The sounds of pursuit came once more, a sudden pounding of hooves echoing in the stillness. George heeled her horse into motion. She gave a reckless yell that resounded loudly in the darkness. The road pounded beneath the hooves of her chestnut mare. The others must get away and separation was their best chance. If she got caught, even dressed in men’s clothing, she could bluff her way out by weeping or even throwing a fainting fit. The local authorities knew her as George, a girl who never wore anything but men’s clothing. There were a number of options open to her that weren’t available for the boys. It had been foolish getting involved, but Johnny was her brother and she couldn’t let him down. She had to keep Billy under control, too. His reckless bravado bordered on dangerous. Please, God, let them get away safely, she prayed desperately. As the gap between her and the police troopers narrowed, she concentrated on outrunning them. Crouching low in the saddle, she suddenly veered off the road and galloped straight into the forest. It was sheer bad luck that a low hanging branch unseated her, and before she could scramble up, her mare bolted. The sounds of horses sent her diving for cover in the dense undergrowth. She lay still, hardly daring to breathe, willing her heart to stop its frantic pounding. Her pursuers came so close she could have reached out a hand and touched them. She gritted her teeth to stop them chattering from fear and cold. As she waited for the horsemen to disappear into the night, George debated what to do for the best. Undoubtedly, they would find the mare then they would return. It would not take much backtracking on their part to find her trail, even in the dark. She had blundered about like a stampeding herd of cattle, flattening bushes, breaking off small branches and leaving a trail anyone but a blind man could follow. In some ways it was a pity she hadn’t ridden her own horse because Molly would make for home, but it was too risky riding their own mounts in case someone recognized them. When they last visited Johnny in jail and hatched their escape plans, he had been optimistic about success. He didn’t realise that she would be helping Billy instead of Dave Gleeson, who couldn’t come at the last minute. Getting to her feet, George dusted down her close fitting moleskin trousers and overlarge man’s shirt. She decided to head north in the direction of home, a distance of about fifteen miles across country. Just thinking about the arduous journey in front of her made her shudder, but it had to be better than being dragged off to gaol for helping a bushranger escape his captors. She shivered in the freezing frosty air. The excitement of the chase when the three of them were together was a whole lot different to being stranded out here alone. Pull yourself together, she scolded, stop dithering. She set off running at about half pace. Her boots crushed the ferns and ground-hugging wild flowers so ruthlessly it would have pained her at any other time, but escape was paramount. After what seemed like hours, she saw lights up ahead. Her heart pounded; her breath came out in long tortured gasps and she started to get a stitch in her side. Sheer desperation gave her the strength to force her wavering limbs onwards. Jewell’s tavern, thank goodness. Sam Jewell was a friend of her uncle, O’Rourke. An ex-convict, Sam hated the authorities with a passion, so he would hide her for the night then loan her a horse in the morning. Lady luck seems to be with me, she thought, giving a choking laugh of relief, only hope it’s travelling with the boys, also. It was over a mile to the hotel, but she set off with renewed vigour, keeping to the scrub as much as possible in case the troopers returned. There would be quite a heavy frost here tonight. By morning, the ground would be white and it would be perishing cold. She pulled her jacket even more closely around her and hunched her shoulders in an endeavour to keep warm. Strange how still it was, but this stillness could prove an ally because any sounds of pursuit would carry on the night air. A mopoke crying out caused her to shiver and hunch deeper into her jacket. If only I’d been born a man I could have joined up with Johnny and roamed the bush with him. All her life she had lived in a male household. She couldn’t remember her parents, Maryanne and Jake. O’Rourke had reared her after Aunt Libby died about twelve years ago. No one outside the family knew that Johnny was her brother. Safer that way, O’Rourke always said. Whenever she asked him about the mystery, he promised to tell her when the time was right. Surprisingly, Johnny agreed with him. In fact he was even more insistent than O’Rourke that his true identity be kept secret. A matter of life and death he always said. She couldn’t understand O’Rourke’s
logic, but it never entered her head to defy him. Danny stole a few head of cattle as most poor farmers did, but there had been no need to shoot him down like a rabid dog. O’Rourke, like most of the locals, helped the bushrangers whenever they could. Many of them had been persecuted and hounded into crime. She stoked her anger to counteract her fear. Sons of convicts or poor farmers got little chance to make anything out of life with the justice system biased towards the wealthy landowners. O’Rourke supplemented their income with a bit of cattle stealing on the side. She had helped him change brands sometimes or watched as he branded stray clean skins they found wandering in the scrub. His philosophy had been simple. If they belonged to someone they wouldn’t be left wandering around, so any man who rounded them up should be entitled to keep them. George gasped in shock when she arrived at the hotel. Police horses were tied up outside. Probably the reinforcements from Sydney Johnny spoke about. She bit her lip to stop it trembling. It wasn’t easy being brave on your own. Her teeth started chattering with cold and she could barely feel her toes. Were they frost bitten? She remembered hearing somewhere that frost bitten limbs turned black and had to be amputated. Could you walk without your toes? she wondered frantically, trying to control her terror. Edging along the verandah, she peeped through the window and saw several troopers sitting at a table drinking. By the looks of them they had settled in for a long stay. A sudden pounding of hooves intruded on the stillness. Her mouth dried up, her hands shook even though she clenched them tightly. Her pursuers were hot on her heels. Oh God. If she went in through the main entrance, the drinking troopers would see her; if she waited out here, she would be discovered. Of course, her pursuers had not seen her clearly in the darkness, but loitering near a hotel in men’s clothing so late at night would arouse suspicion. Several rooms opened up off the verandah, so she made a dive for the nearest one. Once inside, she closed the door and slumped against it, feeling weak and exhausted. When her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, she saw that the room was empty. Obviously lady luck still smiled upon her. I’ll stay the night here, better than sleeping outside in the bush and perhaps freezing to death. In the morning, she would ask Sam for some food and a fresh horse to make good her escape. Feeling her way to the bed, George leaned against it to pull off her boots, which she shoved out of sight. After slipping off her jacket, she put it under the bed with her boots, turned down the covers and thankfully, crawled in. It could not be more than about nine o’clock. She was famished, having not eaten for hours, but food was one luxury that would not be forthcoming tonight. It would be madness to risk capture because of hunger. Sleeping in trousers and a shirt didn’t appeal to her much either, but by the sounds of activity going on outside, this room was going to be a haven. The troopers, who had dismounted and were now making their way on to the verandah, spoke loudly. “Can’t have gotten too far on foot.” “Let’s have a drink and some hot food,” another said. Their voices faded as they disappeared inside. The minutes ticked slowly by and George started to relax. The bed felt comfortable, quite warm even, so she stretched her legs out straight for a moment, wriggled her toes then curled back into a little ball, which was the way she always slept. It had been an anxious, emotion filled day. The warm comfort of the bed lulled her gently, her eyes started growing heavy and her last thoughts were of Johnny. He had only come back into her life a couple of years ago, but she loved him as if they had spent their whole lives together. He was brave, kind hearted and resourceful, and the mystery surrounding him only added to his aura. George would never know what wakened her, the lamplight or the man’s savage oath. “What the hell do you think you’re doing in here, boy?” The aristocratic Englishman looked very tall, she noticed fearfully. His blue eyes, contrasting starkly against his dark wavy hair, were so full of such cold fury, she trembled. “Get out.” “Please, the troopers are after me.” “Too bad. I don’t share my bed with pretty boys.” He strode towards the door. His hand reached for the key, before she could dive out of bed and stop him. “Please.” Her headlong flight loosened the pins holding back her hair, and it tumbled over her shoulders in a tangled mass of red gold curls. “They’ll shoot me.” She clutched at his arm. His mouth opened and closed in amazement. His eyes narrowed speculatively. “What do you think you’re playing at? Ah!” He snapped his fingers. “You come with the room.” “No. No.” Her frantic hands fluttered against his chest. “I thought the room was empty. I hid here because the troopers were after me.” Fear forced her confession. “Don’t let them find me.” He glowered at her. “I’ll leave as soon as they go. I promise” A fist pounded against the door. “Open up in there.” “Please.” With tear filled eyes she silently begged the man not to betray her. His mouth compressed, his nostrils flared, and George knew she was doomed. He hesitated for a moment before barking out, “I’m in bed. What do you want?” He stepped away from the doorway, dragging her with him. His fingers bit so deeply into the flesh of her arm she wondered whether they would leave a hole. “We want to search the room for Johnny Dawson, the bushranger. Unlock the door.” “Like hell, I will. There are no outlaws in here. What do you take me for?” Even though he spoke in anger, George recognised his upper class English accent. Oh God, what could she do? The rattle of a key turning in the lock caused her heart to almost catapult out of her chest. She frantically prayed for a miracle. Even if this English gentleman did not betray her, she had no place to hide. “They’re coming in,” she whispered fearfully. He grabbed her before she could even utter a protest and flung her on the bed. Diving on top of her, he somehow managed to pull the bedclothes over them both. The weight of his body pinned hers to the mattress. Her skin burned as if it had suddenly caught fire. His breath, smelling slightly of whiskey, lifted the loosened strands of hair at the side of her throat. The door swung open. The Englishman stifled her cry of terror with his mouth. His lips felt warm and firm. The bristles on his unshaven cheeks rasped against her soft skin. Her breasts were flattened against the hard wall of his chest. His arms were strong, well muscled like the rest of his body. She could feel his hardness. His strength. The sheer animal magnetism of him. She felt a swirling warmth deep within her feminine recess. When he released her lips, she felt strangely bereft. Turning his head, he said casually. “Can’t you see I’m, er, busy?” Propping himself up on one elbow, he kept her hidden with his body. The troopers snickered. “Search the room if you have a mind to,” the Englishman invited. “I don’t think you’ll find any outlaws here. I never, well, let’s say, entertain a lady in my bed in front of an audience. Bad for one’s concentration.” The trooper laughed and his bawdy comment made George squirm. When he left the room with a final snicker, the Englishman shifted his body away from hers. Shockingly, wantonly, she wanted him to hold her again. Was she mad? He stood up, forking his fingers through his hair. “Right, who the hell are you?” “I’m George.” “Don’t lie to me.” “I’m not lying.” She couldn’t move. The heat of his body had somehow fused her to the mattress. “Georgina’s my name really, but everyone calls me George.” “All right, Georgina, start explaining.” He hovered over her like a giant hawk mercilessly waiting to swoop on its prey. “I thought the room was empty.” She bit her lip. “I wanted to spend the night here and get a fresh horse in the morning. Mine bolted on me.” “You live near here?” “No, about twenty miles away,” she told him, giving a vague wave of her hand. “Your parents know what you’re up to, I suppose?” “I don’t have any parents, only my Uncle. We, that is Billy and I came to help Johnny escape from the troopers. They wanted to take him to Sydney.” She barely paused for breath. This Englishman had her life in his hands. She must make him understand the peril waiting for her outside. “They started shooting; it was awful.” She shuddered dramatically. “I thought they would kill us.” “Johnny?” “Yes, Johnny D…Dawson,” she said, stumbling over his name. “Dawson, the bushranger? You’re mixing with an outlaw, a common criminal?” “He isn’t a criminal. They persecuted him, drove him to crime. The troopers were transferring him from Goulburn to Sydney. You’re an Englishman,” she went on passionately. “You don’t understand how things are here. We have to help each other. It’s the only way we can survive against the landed gentry and the police.” “All right, I’m not really interested. I have too many worries of my own.” Why had he bothered hiding her? “You’d better find somewhere else to hide. This is my room, and my bed, for tonight at least. I certainly don’t propose sharing it with riff-raff like you.” His cold eyes surveyed her contemptuously. “Please.” She levered herself up on the pillow. “Let me stay here until morning; there’s going to be a snow white frost tonight. I’ll freeze to death outside.” “You should have thought of that before getting yourself into this mess,” he said unsympathetically, taking a bag out of the wardrobe and placing it on the bed. “I’m not leaving.” She tossed her head in defiance, watching as his eyes narrowed. Would he hear the frantic pounding of her heart? They shared a fraught silence for a moment. As if suddenly making up his mind, he gave an indifferent shrug. “The bed is big enough for both of us. If you don’t mind, why should I?” What kind of place was this Australia? Were all its women whores? He had associated with many different women in his time, but never come across anyone willing to give herself to a stranger just to sleep in his bed. Of course, she was mixed up with that Johnny Dawson creature, probably his mistress. Her startling emerald eyes darkened almost to jade. “Please, Mister, don’t take your clothes off.” He watched in surprise as her lips trembled, two fat tears dropped from her eyes and dribbled down each cheek. She knelt on the bed now, her hands clasped together as if in prayer. Wearing tight fitting breeches and a man’s shirt, she could easily pass for a youth, except for the long hair. “You happen to be in my bed. I pride myself on being a gentleman, but I have endured hours in a bumpy, cramped coach and need a good night’s rest, so I’m afraid I cannot offer to sleep on the floor.” “I’ll sleep on the floor.” Slithering off the bed, she faced him. No wonder she could masquerade so successfully as a youth he thought, running his gaze over her fine build. The shapeless man’s shirt hid her girlish—no, womanly, he corrected himself—attributes. He had felt the swell of her breasts and the thrust of her nipples against his chest. Her hair in the lamplight shimmered like burnished gold. She looked exquisite. Her tremulous mouth had tasted as sweet as honey, and her soft feminine curves had moulded themselves into his hard male contours. “Could I have a blanket to wrap myself in?” George deliberately made her voice humble. Those tears had been a nice touch, too. Johnny always said men could never stand watching women cry, and she had been desperate enough to break into heart rendering sobs if the first couple of tears failed to win him over. The floor would be hard and cold. Still, a blanket in a nice warm room was better than sleeping out on a frosty night. It would be beneath an English gentleman’s dignity to sleep on anything but a bed. His shirt was of the finest linen. He had quality written all over him. She had never met such a handsome man before, six feet in height at least, strong and lean, powerfully male. His cheeks and jaw were covered with dark stubble, his vivid blue eyes a striking contrast to his dark brown hair. He didn’t have the lily white complexion of most newly arrived Englishmen; his skin was tanned to a sun kissed, golden hue. His blue eyes raked her thoroughly, scrutinising, speculative, as if trying to see inside her head. Embarrassed heat crawled across her cheeks. His anger was tanglible as he fought some inward battle with himself. She should be frightened of him, wary at least, but strangely she wasn’t. When he wrenched a blanket off the bed and threw it at her, she almost toppled over trying to catch it. “Good night. Thank you for letting me stay.” He grunted something incomprehensible before snuffing out the lamp, leaving her to fumble around in the darkness until she found a suitable corner in which to sleep. With the blanket wrapped tightly around, she settled down to what was undoubtedly going to be a long night. Creaking springs and rustling bedclothes indicated he was making himself comfortable. She heard him punch the pillow several times. Within a short time she dozed off, but her sleep became peppered with nightmares, and she finally woke up shivering with fright and cold. Climbing stiffly to her feet, she started walking up and down on the one spot trying to get warm. By the regular breathing coming from the bed, the Englishman slept soundly. Who wouldn’t in a comfortable, warm bed? Selfish beast. Her teeth started chattering; her whole body trembled with a cold that seeped into her bones and gnawed at them like a hungry dog. She was in a dangerous situation, which called for desperate measures. The hard floor felt damp, and the cold wind sweeping in through the crack under the door would give her pneumonia. She couldn’t get sick, not yet at least. How would she ever make it back home? For a king’s ransom she couldn’t explain why, but she trusted the Englishman not to violate her. A man like him would have no need to force himself on any woman. They would eagerly come to him. As silently as a ghost, she crept towards the bed and climbed in, keeping near the edge, as far away as possible from the Englishman. Even though there was a distance between them, she could still feel the warmth emanating from his body. Wait until the others heard about this. They would never believe it. She could hardly comprehend it herself. Sharing a bed with a man? She had never been romantically interested in men, in fact, had always been wary of any emotional entanglements whatsoever. Billy clumsily tried to kiss her a few months ago and she had boxed his ears, but this Englishman’s kiss had not been unpleasant. In fact, she liked it, more shockingly, never wanted it to end. It felt nice being warm again. Snuggling into the mattress she fought against the temptation to touch the Englishman who slept with his back towards her. He was not a restless sleeper, in fact, lay quite still. His breathing sounded regular and even, as if nothing troubled him, which of course it didn’t. What worries could a rich handsome man like him have? On this thought, sleep claimed her once more. * * * * Marcus stirred and blinked his eyes. Damn that wretched moon shining right in his face. Why hadn’t the drapes been drawn? Of course, this was Australia. Probably didn’t have such things as window coverings. He stretched out his legs and came in contact with warm flesh. Rolling over on to his side, he was amazed to find Georgina asleep beside him. The moon lit the room up so brilliantly, he could see her quite clearly. He grinned to himself. Being cold or sharing a bed with him, she must have chosen him as the lesser of the evils. Gently, he traced the lines of her face with one finger. He put his lips to the hollow of her throat, and his nostrils filled with the perfume of her hair. Never had he seen such a glorious colour. It looked as if the rays of the sun had gotten trapped in the tangled waves and curls. Her milky white skin felt smooth, soft as the petals of a rose and just as fragrant. A knot of desire began to grow within him as he brushed his hand across her firm young breasts. Her shirt had somehow got caught up, stretching so tightly he could see the outline of her nipples. He could barely restrain himself from drawing one of the tiny pink rosebuds into his mouth and suckling it into life. “Georgina,” he whispered, hoping she would wake up so they could make love. She stirred slightly. Giving a little wriggle, her body curved itself trustingly into the contour of his, and with a contented sigh, she lay still. He felt a sudden unaccustomed shame at his carnal thoughts. Whatever she was, Georgina couldn’t be classed as a common harlot. For a few moments, he dared not move in case he broke the spell. An almost ethereal beauty surrounded her as she slept like a child, with one hand bunched up under her chin. Her hair splayed out in all its glory across the pillow, and when the moon sailed away from the window, plunging the room into blackness, Marcus felt bereft. The blankets slipped away, so he drew them back carefully around her. With one hand resting on her waist, to keep her soft warmth close to him, he let himself drift back into a contented sleep. * * * * George woke up as tentacles of pink streaked the dawn sky. No wonder she felt so warm and snug, she was wrapped up in the Englishman’s arms. Carefully, she extracted herself from him and slid out of bed. Hurriedly, she pulled on her boots, retrieved her jacket and pushed her hair up inside her hat. Gazing at the Englishman for one last time, she couldn’t believe how hard it was to leave him. What kind of idiot was she? He had obviously given no thought to her, hadn’t even bothered to tell her his name. You fool, she raged at herself for even giving him a second thought. She decided to borrow a horse from the stables. Stealing a police horse, what a lark that would be, but she squashed this reckless idea—no point asking for trouble. Could one hang for horse stealing? She did not know for sure and vowed not to find out either. Dawn renewed her strength even though she was starving, and once more she felt brave, ready to cope with anything. With some hard riding across country on the little known bush tracks she could be home by nightfall. As stealthily as a thief, she departed the room and crept along the verandah. All seemed still in that interval between pre-dawn darkness and not quite daylight. Giant gum trees and thick bush surrounded three sides of the hotel, with only the laugh of a kookaburra breaking the eerie silence. Around the back, towards the kitchen area George went, her hunger pangs drawing her there against her will. It added to the risk, but her stomach would not be denied. The back door to the kitchen area, which was separate from the main building, would be open. Sam or his wife might even be up and about by now. I’ll scrounge some food, borrow a horse and leave a note saying I’ve just passed through. Sam could always be relied on for help. His only son had ridden with bushrangers before being captured and incarcerated in the Goulburn jail. No one was about, but a fire still smouldered in the stove. A quick search brought to light some cold mutton and a loaf of bread. Hacking the bread in half, she filled her mouth, before gathering together a little store of supplies. She took a piece of cheese, a couple of apples, half the loaf, and a hunk of cold mutton and stuffed these into an empty flour bag. It seemed unlikely that the troopers would have recognised her in the darkness. She had waited a little distance away with the horses while Billy worked on the chains imprisoning Johnny. They had manacled him like some wild beast to a wagon wheel. She fed her fury and hatred of the police by thinking of this. It would make what she was now attempting easier to carry out. Had there been time, she might have written the Englishman a note. His assistance, though grudging, nevertheless saved her from being arrested or, at least, having to answer some awkward questions. Johnny should never have got mixed up with the bushrangers. What was left for him now except years on the run? He would probably end up being killed in a hail of bullets like Danny, or worse still, dangled from the end of a rope. Why hadn’t he stayed in America where he was safe? She wrote a quick note to Sam saying she had just dropped in on passing, and at the bottom of the page signed it ‘George O’Rourke’. He would guess what the message conveyed and would know that the horse would eventually be returned to him. A quick glance out the kitchen window showed the yard to be clear. It did not take her long to make for the stables, saddle a horse and ride away. Several times, she nervously glanced back over her shoulder. There appeared no sign of pursuit, thank goodness. The police horses were in a holding yard near the stables so they had obviously decided to stay the night, too. It felt perishing cold. She shivered as her breath wafted on the frosty air in little steamy puffs, before disappearing. Her mount, a sturdy workhorse, had speed as well as stamina. It was springtime now and the bush overflowed with flowers. Blue native flax contrasted starkly with the buttercups nodding their heads in the gentle breeze. The golden wattle bloomed brightly and little balls of yellow fluff floated down onto her hat and shoulders as she brushed against low hanging branches. Nothing broke the silence except for the brightly coloured parrots calling out to each other. Mid morning, she stopped to rest the horse and eat some food. The sun shone now and warmth returned to her freezing limbs. She scrambled down into the creek. Purple sarsaparillas entwined themselves around the trees, which grew almost to the water’s edge. Here, too, dog roses grew in a tangled mass of pale pink flowers. The banks appeared quite steep, and as there was no time to find a safe place to bring the horse down to drink, George did the next best thing. Filled her hat with water and took it to him. Her hair dangled in a snarled mess about her shoulders now, her pants and jacket were grubby, her boots encrusted with sticky yellow mud. How strange, her appearance had never bothered her before. It was the wretched Englishman’s fault that she now felt conscious of her shabby attire. Even though he was tired, obviously travel worn, his clothes looked impressive. She shook her head trying to clear it of such foolishness, but the thought of never seeing him again made her feel sad. The hours passed by as she kept up a steady pace, stopping only now and again for a short rest. No signs of pursuit. Her luck seemed to be holding. She worried about Johnny and Billy, would they be safe? Hopefully Billy was home already, relaying with gusto their adventures to O’Rourke. Johnny could not spend even one night at the homestead now, as the police troopers would be waiting to pounce if he came within a mile of their place. He would be away in the ranges lying low at one of his numerous hideouts. None of them knew exactly where he holed up. Too dangerous, he always said, so they could never contact him in person. He knew the troopers were close by because of their signal. It was not an elaborate system, quite simple really. If the cock on the weather vane over her bedroom roof faced north, it was safe for him to come over, if it faced south there was danger. Unseen by anyone from the outside, a string had been attached to the cock, and passed through one of the roof shingles, so she only needed to pull it in the required direction. At night she flashed the lamp, twice for safe, three times for danger. O’Rourke hated the police. Not only because they had murdered his son, but Johnny had been with him on that fateful day, and from then on he became a wanted man. Two boys went out for a leisurely ride; one died, the other became a wanted man with a price on his head. Dusk had fallen by the time she reached the simple slab homestead that was weathered silver by the elements. Just seeing it standing silently surrounded by trees and mountains brought a lump to her throat. Wearily she watched the smoke drifting in a lazy spiral from the chimney, its woody smell seemed somehow welcoming. Nelson, a large black dog named after Lord Nelson for reasons she could not remember, bounded out to greet her, followed by O’Rourke. He was a huge bear of a man, with a thick thatch of iron-grey hair and matching bushy whiskers. His pale blue eyes were faded from years of squinting into a hot Australian sun, but he still retained a slight Irish accent even after so many years in the colony. Lowering the slip rails, he waited for her to dismount. “I’m glad you’ve arrived home safely. Where are the others?” “I don’t know.” He led the horse while she walked beside him explaining what had transpired. For some inexplicable reason that she didn’t dare dwell upon, she left out the Englishman’s involvement. “Bastards.” O’Rourke swore viciously on hearing how the troopers fired on them. He was not an uncouth man, just thought of her as one of the boys. Once this would have pleased her; now strangely she wondered what it would be like to be treated like a young lady, to wear pretty gowns, perhaps have young men court her. She pulled her thoughts up sharply. What’s wrong with me? I’ve always been quite happy with my lot before. I like being treated as one of the boys. I can’t remember ever owning a dress. Let alone wearing one. O’Rourke had been kind in his rough bushman’s way, most of the time he forgot her gender. Anything his sons did, she did also. The only concession she received was since the age of about thirteen, O’Rourke insisted she have a bedroom of her own. Admittedly, it was small, with barely enough room for a bed and a dresser, but it gave her some private space that the boys could never enter. “Are you hungry, girl?” “Starving, I can’t help worrying about the other two though.” She bit her lip to stop it trembling as they moved towards the house. “You go inside; there’s some stew warming on the stove. I’ll see to the horse. Tomorrow or the next day I’ll make arrangements to get him back to Sam.” She whistled the dog over and after receiving a pat, he wandered off. Fatigue started to set in now, so it took all her willpower just to drag one foot wearily after the other. Inside the kitchen, she made for a huge fireplace that took up almost the whole of one wall. This room was the main one in the house. One side of the fireplace was used for storing their cooking utensils, tin pint pots, several three legged cast iron boilers and a long handled fry pan. A bookshelf filled with a number of bound leather volumes, took up most of one wall. It always surprised her that they owned books of such fine quality. O’Rourke said they were quite valuable and had been left there by a teacher friend, who never came back to claim them. George and the boys could read and write, as O’Rourke insisted they all attend school regularly because Aunt Libby wanted them educated. Jake, her father, had gone to a university in America O’Rourke told her once. George sighed as she slumped in an old armchair and rested her booted feet over the stone fireplace. She felt exhausted, and would wait for O’Rourke to dish up the food. If only Johnny and Billy were safe. Johnny was a wanted man with a price on his head and she lived in dread that one day, someone would get desperate enough for money to turn him in for the reward. The sounds of booted feet on the verandah interrupted her sombre thoughts. “Worn out are you, girl? Hot food and a good night’s sleep is what you need. Don’t worry too much about those boys. They’ll be home in due course.” O’Rourke tried to reassure her by sounding cheerful, but nothing could disguise his anxiety. He had lost one son to a police bullet and didn’t want to lose another. They ate their wallaby stew in silence. Cooking was generally shared between the two of them, and she did any other household jobs. She had little interest in such pastimes, but as they lived simply, it did not take much effort to keep the place tidy. Sipping her tea, she once more thought of the handsome Englishman, inwardly cursing herself for not finding out his name. He was obviously newly arrived in the colony. What had brought him here? Where was he heading? He must be about thirty or so. Married? Probably—a man like him. Why this thought caused a terrible stabbing pain in her heart, she dared not admit. |