Her Galahad (15 page)

"I know that. None of it was your fault. Please, just tell us what happened."

Jean sighed. "I felt so sorry for you. Poor little thing you were, so white and silent—just a baby to have gone through so much." Again her gaze flicked to Jirrah's face, battered and bruised from the car bombing, with a strange incomprehension in her eyes. "That's why we agreed to keep the details quiet."

"About the adoption, you mean?" She held her breath—

The woman nodded. "Normally there must be a professional witness to sign adoption papers—but we allowed the lawyer your family brought with them to sign them. After what happened to you, we could understand your fear and distrust of strangers."

For the third time, the midwife gave that puzzled glance at

Jirrah: searching, wondering, unsure.

Tessa said, "This is the baby's natural father—"

The woman gasped and stepped back, her face convulsed with terror. "He's out of prison?"

They jerked backward in shock. Tessa tripped over a metal ashtray on the floor and landed hard on the thinly padded seats. Jirrah helped her up. "You okay, Tess?"

"What are you doing with him? Why are you letting him touch you? I can't believe you're here with him!" Mrs. Whitlow's cry attracted the curious gaze of the receptionist and a volunteer worker in the reception area. "That man
raped
you!"

Tessa didn't notice the interested looks from the staff; she stared at the midwife in half-stunned horror. "Is that what they told you?" she asked, in a slow, shocked whisper.

The woman sat abruptly, taking deep, harsh breaths. "Oh,

Lord. Oh, Lord." She dropped her head between her knees, and spoke in a mumble. "I knew something was wrong with those people—but they were so kind and loving with you, I didn't trust my instincts." She dragged in a breath and lifted her face. "Your family said you were pack-raped by four Aboriginal boys who beat you and left you for dead."

Tessa gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth, half afraid she'd he sick.

"What else did they tell you?" Jirrah asked quietly. Mrs. Whitlow sighed. "They said abortion was against your religion, being Catholics, so you and your husband had decided to adopt the baby out. They told us you wouldn't go to the police—understandable, we thought. They said you didn't want to talk about it, or see the baby. It tied in for us, because you never made a sound all the way through labor, but afterward you became hysterical. Thinking it was the baby's dark skin upsetting you, we got her out, but you only got worse, screaming for someone—David—over and over. The doctor diagnosed you as catatonic and injected you with a strong sedative. Then we left you with your family."

"And they gave me the adoption papers to sign." She looked at the shaking midwife. "They told me my baby died."

The woman's eyes closed. "Oh, dear God in heaven." Flicking a glance at Jirrah, she added in a voice heavy with irony, "I guess it doesn't take a fool to work out why they did all this."

But Tessa wasn't listening. She all but fell into the seat, tears falling down her cheeks. She rocked back and forth, racked with grief, anger, and at last, a sweet, blessed joy.

"Tess?" Jirrah crouched before her, his face creased with concern.

"I couldn't let myself believe—even when I'd seen the papers," she whispered. "I didn't dare let myself hope for too much. But Emily's alive. My baby's alive!"

"I know. I feel the same." His hand lifted, and stopped halfway. "Our daughter's out there. We just have to find her."

Caught in the magic of the moment she lifted her hand, twining her fingers through his. "I'm so glad we found out together." She whispered, scared that loud speech might shatter the moment.

"Me, too." He smiled at her, and, lost in sweet wonder, she lifted their linked hands to her mouth, cradling the scraped knuckles of his calloused carpenter's hand against her cheek.

Then she looked at the midwife, her chin high, filled with pride. "This is my husband, David Jirrah McLaren, the baby's father. We came for proof that our daughter's alive. Are there any records at all of our baby's adoption?"

Jean Whitlow met Tessa's eyes, a weary apology in hers. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Bel—McLaren. Because the adoption was legal, it's private. Unless your daughter puts her name on a list to find you on either the JigSaw program or the LinkUp program for Aboriginal adopted children, you have very little chance of finding her."

The truth hit her like a physical blow. She felt the blood drain from her face as she turned her head to look at him.

But to her surprise, Jirrah nodded. "I expected that. I've already called the JigSaw and LinkUp offices in Sydney. We have appointments on Monday." He looked at her and smiled, gently squeezing the hand he still held. "Our daughter's alive, Tess, and that's more than we've known or hoped for the past five years. Don't give up now. Emily's alive, and we'll find her."

Tessa felt the warmth of a long-dead hope touch her heart. After six years alone in cold darkness, she had a miracle she'd never dared hope for. Emily was alive. No matter where she was, her daughter was alive.

Even if she could never be her mother, she knew her child lived; and she knew, deep inside, that she and Jirrah would see Emily at least once before Cameron found them.

And looking into Jirrah's eyes, seeing the deep, heated need he tried to hide for her sake, she knew they'd be lovers soon. They'd make love at least one more time before they said their final goodbye.

He might even want to stay with her—for a little while.

She couldn't let that happen. She'd met him, loved and lost him once before, and it turned her into a coldhearted zombie, unable to love. This time, it had to be different. She didn't need love and promises and rings. Lovers for a day, a week, was all she wanted, to wash away the bitterness of her time with Cameron. Then Jirrah would leave to find the life he deserved, with the woman who would give him what she no longer could.

As she turned away, Jirrah turned to the midwife, allowing Tess her moment of private pain. "Are you willing to sign an affidavit about this, Mrs. Whitlow? Do you think Dr. Mahali will?"

"I don't know about Dr. Mahali, but I will." The woman's eyes glittered with determination. "What happened to you isn't right. You've been cheated of your child." She bit her lip. "But I can't give information on her adoption. Her adoptive parents seemed like nice people, and so happy to have—the baby."

Jirrah watched the midwife stumble over the word, and realized she knew Emily's new name. But asking speculative questions was pointless, because she was right If Emily's adoptive parents hadn't told her the truth, they'd have to back off—for their daughter's sake.

Flicking a glance at Tess's strained face and determined eyes, he doubted she'd give up without a strong fight Emily was her only child—and until Beller was out of her life for good, she wouldn't risk a relationship with a man to have another baby.

That man could never be him—even if he put Beller in prison—because it meant the exposure and possible criminal charges against Duncan and Keith Earldon. For them to be together, she'd have to lose her entire family.

He faced the facts without flinching. He and Tess were still as doomed as they'd been when they first saw each other.

He turned to the counter. "You don't need to have a legal form, Mrs. Whitlow. If you write a letter stating the facts, it's enough to start an investigation into what happened."

The woman slanted a strange, frowning glance at Tessa. He could see the woman's thoughts as clearly as Tess must.
What sort of woman has her own family criminally prosecuted, even after what they'd done to her?

Tess drew herself erect. Her eyes glittered. She made no plea, gave no reasons. "I'll meet you outside, Jirrah."

He nodded, and stood before the embarrassed, apologetic woman, waiting, holding out a pen.

He met her outside within ten minutes. He jumped into the van ten minutes later, and handed her three thin sheets of paper. "Her conscience must have been working overtime from the start. She wrote this a week after Emily's birth, with times, dates and names—including the drug Cameron requested Dr. Mahali give you. It was a sedative with a possible hallucinogenic side reaction. They could have told you anything and you'd have believed it, and signed anything."

He could have kicked himself when he saw the devastation on her face. "Let's go before Cameron turns up again." Her face turned to the window in her familiar manner of hiding pain.

"Tess—"

She kept her face averted. "I know, Jirrah. I
know
what they've done. After talking to Mrs. Whitlow, I can't hide from it now if I want to." The quiver in her voice belied her pose of studied calm. "But they came to my ballet concerts and school turnouts. They gave up university and workdays to be with me when I was sick. Dad could have made Queen's Counsel years before he did, but he scheduled court appearances, and Duncan, university courses, around my school hours. Duncan studied for exams with me on his lap. I can count on my hands the times they hired a baby-sitter for me, because I was shy and didn't like strangers. When I cried, they held me and kissed me and called me their little princess, and said how much they loved me." She turned back to him, her face intense with the twin emotions of love and betrayal. "Was all that a lie, as well?"

"No, mulgu, no." Seeing her intense vulnerability, he took her into his arms, holding her close. "I'm a bloody idiot," he murmured, caressing her silky plait. "Why you haven't gonged me over my thick skull with a hammer before now is beyond me."

She buried her face in his neck, shuddering. "I'm with you on this, Jirrah. I'll do anything I can to help you find justice. But I can't hate them. They're all I've got," she murmured huskily. "No one else in the world cares if I'm alive or dead."

Her voice sent deep shivers throughout his body even while her closeness affected his very soul with need: the need to slay those bloody dragons for her. "You've got me. I care."

She pulled away. "No," she said, frowning straight ahead. "I have you until you have them put in prison. You want to find Emily. You feel sorry for me. You want to heal me, to save me. You might even want to make love to me. But you don't want
me,
Jirrah. You're doing this because you used to love me, once—because you pity me—end because you hate my family. You want revenge. You want them to suffer for what they did to you—and you want me to see you win."

His heart jerked in painful acknowledgment of her words. If he knew her too well, she also knew him. "I thought you'd want me to win, too, after what they did to you, to me, to our child."

Then he kicked himself again. What the hell was wrong with him? Why was he trying to punish her? What crime had she ever committed but the one of loving her family?

Her eyes burned into his. "I want justice," she hissed. "I told you, I'll do whatever it takes to find Emily and clear your name. Don't you think I
want
to hate the people who hurt you, hurt me, and Emily, too? But every time I try to envision what Dad and Duncan have done—what I know they must have done—I see me on Duncan's lap while he read stones or helped me with algebra. I see Dad sleeping on a chair beside my bed at night when I had measles, mumps or the flu. If you could reconcile all that with what I've found out in the past two days, you're a better person than me. I just need time, all right?" she finished, in a forlorn little whisper.

His heart almost burst with sadness. "Ah, Tess." He drew her close, wishing their moments of tenderness didn't always have to be within the confines of a car, living on the run. His hands shook as he caressed her hair. "Maybe they're sorry now," was all he could think to say, cursing his unthinking bluntness in the first place. His obsession with clearing his name was eating at his soul so badly he'd infected the one person who shouldn't have to lance his poison.

She jerked out of his arms. "Don't patronize me," she said in a tone so cold he shivered with its icy blast. "I asked for time, not lies. I don't need fairy stories to comfort me. I know what they are, and what will happen when we get to Sydney. I might have nothing else left, but at least I have the truth."