Swift Runs The Heart (14 page)

He would have none of it. His hand caught her chin and lifted it, bringing her eyes back to his. They were still. A deep glow lit the light-filled depths. Not the sparkling glint of laughter that usually resided there; this was something else, deeper and more abiding. Geraldine suspected a similar warmth shone from her own. There was truth here, and a suggestion of a promise. Then his head descended, lips lightly brushing hers. For an instant, they caught hers, searching deeper, then withdrew. So, he had not completely forgotten where they were.

He said nothing yet, only taking her arm in his as he began to guide her towards the refreshment tables. She was glad. Right now, she was not certain what speech would reveal.

She knew how she felt though. Never had she been surer of anything in her life. As a young child, she had watched her parents, seen the love that bound them. Now, she had found her own love. Her father had never lost his love for her mother, despite all, and nor would she stop loving this man till the day life left her.

But what of Bas's feelings?

No, she dare not speak yet. Not while her feelings threatened to spill into her voice. Instead, she concentrated on the crowd about her. She was shielded by the strength of his arm and the vigour of his will, but even so it was a bustling torrent of bodies they made their way through. The odd elbow jostled her, and with her free hand, she carefully guarded the fullness of her skirts, wary of the rough boots of the miners. She was lifting her hem clear of the clumsy tread of one when she failed to notice another stepping back towards her.

“Oof,” she gasped as the full bulk of the man shoved her into Bas's side. Immediately he caught her back out of the way of trouble.

“Are you all right?” Bas demanded urgently, both arms pulling her further away just as the stranger swung about. Then the other man had turned towards them.

”My pardon …
Mokri
! I mean, Miss MacKenny,” he exclaimed, stumbling over his words.

Geraldine looked up, startled. She knew that voice. Then realised she knew the face. The young Maori native was staring at her in consternation. She dare not look at Bas to see what he made of it, quickly breaking into the Maori tongue of her childhood playmates—of whom Tipene here had been her chief co-conspirator.

“Tipene Smith, don't you dare tell anyone who I am.”

“Mokri MacKenny, what are you up to now?” he demanded as urgently as she, using their youthful diminutive of her mother's endearment,
mo chroi
. He was staring at her belligerently, hands on hips and so like the young boy she used to lead into her worst scrapes that part of her felt like laughing. The part, that is, that wasn't shockingly aware of the curious Englishman at her side. Fortunately, even if he had picked up some of the native tongue of New Zealand, he would not be able to follow her rapid, fluent speech.

“Nothing really, Tip. Or not what it looks like anyway, but no one here knows about my father, and I don't want them to.”

“Why? In case they send you straight back home where you belong? What are you doing with that man? I've heard of him. Your father wouldn't like his reputation – and nor would your mother have, God rest her.”

“That's the problem. I wouldn't be sent home, but to Aunt Shonagh in Dunedin. I've just spent two years with her, and I don't ever intend to spend another day there. You wouldn't wish that on me, surely?”

The young man looked slightly less belligerent. “Hoo, Aunt Shonagh.” From his grimace of distaste, he clearly recalled his own run-ins with Geraldine's aunt as a child. Aunt Shonagh had thoroughly disapproved of the relationships between the whalers and their Maori wives, treating their children, Geraldine's only childhood friends, with curt disdain. Tipene stared hard at her a moment longer, then shrugged. “Your father's new wife had enough of you outshining her?” he guessed.

Geraldine grinned in relief. He was still her old childhood ally. “Funnily enough, you're the second person to put it like that.”

“Maybe,” he grunted, “but that don't make it right, your being here. Especially not with the likes of him, and with you looking like that.” His hand swept over her dress, eloquent in its message. Geraldine drew herself up sharply.

“It's not like that at all,” she huffed, just as Bas decided he'd had enough of being ignored.

“Is this man bothering you?” he demanded, stepping forward threateningly.

“No, no. He's an old childhood friend,” she said swiftly. “I've known Tipene since we were babies. We always ended up squabbling” Then she could have bitten her head off as a sudden gleam shot across his face.

“Perhaps he can tell me where your home is then, so I can see you safely there?”

“No – er, his English is not very good,” she hastily dissembled, with a warning shake of her head at Tipene. Who unfortunately took umbrage, breaking forth in voluble Maori.

“My English not good! With my own father a native of Bristol?”

Geraldine had also spent a childhood switching effortlessly between English, Maori and the Gaelic of her parents – both Irish and Scots. “Tipene, please, just play along. I promise I have done nothing that would have caused shame to Mama. I work here as a cook and cleaner, that's all, and if you don't believe me, then I've obviously changed more since childhood than I thought. When was I ever anything but straight with you?”

Tipene stood, obviously undecided on one side of her, while on the other Bas glowered, impatient for her attention.

Then Tipene nodded. “All right, I'll play along with you. Don't I always?” he added wryly. “But just you remember I'm here if you need it, me or one of the family.” Then he was gone, skilfully inserting himself between two jostling miners and disappearing into the crowd before Bas could do more than stretch his hand out ineffectively to grab at him.

Frustrated, he swung round on Geraldine. “What was that all about?”

“Merely an old friend,” she said airily. It didn't satisfy him. She eyed him warily, seeing the lean face drawn in sharp angles and the glint of his eyes nearly as bright as his hair. “He's one of your ‘whaler's by-blows' as it happens. Though I would think twice before calling him that before his mother. Auntie Mene is not the kind of woman to take lightly any insults to her children.”

“A whaler's by-blow who can't speak English?”

“Not as well as his own tongue,” she lied, fingers tightly crossed behind her back. “I told you I was born in this country. White settlers were few and far between and all the children spoke Maori together. It was the first tongue for most of them.

“Then why so anxious to get rid of him? Afraid I would send a message that would get you packed off on the next stage home, or do you fear I may demand some reward for my care of you?”

She shook her head, but his face said he did not believe her.

“You forget where you are, Miss MacKenny,” he grinned maliciously, “or who I am. This is a goldfield. All anyone here cares about is how to make enough money to realise their dreams. Particularly money grubbing, ne'er do well saloon owners,” he added, and she didn't imagine the touch of bitterness in his voice.

“How does that affect what I might think you would do? You tried to get me to go back to Dunedin the first day we met, remember?”

“Because I knew then you would be trouble,” his voice suddenly changed, “and by the looks of it, I was right.”

He was looking across at the far side of the crowd, and in his face there was both wariness and a sudden wicked glint of excitement. Puzzled, she followed the direction of his gaze. She gasped, and instinctively moved behind him, making herself as small as possible. She knew that coarsely bearded face as well as he. It was the face of her nightmares. Black Jack MacRae had joined the party.

“You said he was long gone,” she muttered, looking for a way to edge back to the safety of her kitchen.

“Relax. The Sergeant is here tonight and he's not about to let any real trouble start. But you're right to disappear. Black Jack hasn't forgotten you in your rags, let alone that gown. No man would forget the sight of you tonight. Certainly not Black Jack – nor I,” he added softly, turning to take her arm and lead her away.

She clung to him, conscious of a need to feel the hard muscles under the jacket sleeve. ‘Ne'er do well', he may label himself, but certainly not shiftless. His body spoke of a restless energy, frequently exercised. If it came to fighting, he would be well capable of keeping her safe.

Nevertheless, she was pleased to reach the door of the saloon and turned her head gratefully towards her kitchen.

They said luck always came in threes, but surely not bad luck? Staring at her in horror as she pushed past a body in her way was yet another face she knew. What was it about tonight? She didn't remember his name, but she did remember the last time she had seen the thunderstruck young man. He had been bending solicitously over her hand in her stepmother's drawing room, professing his undying affection for her. It had been her rejection of his proposal that had been the cause of her being sent to Aunt Shonagh's. Her stepmother had declared that she could no longer be responsible for a young Miss who refused to consider any of the perfectly respectable offers that had been made her.

Geraldine ducked her head quickly, hoping the man would think he was mistaken as she thrust her way past, literally dragging Bas after her.
Please let him not have seen anything.

She should have known she would be doomed to disappointment tonight. Just as they reached the kitchen door, the young man reached them.

He opened his mouth, but Bas quickly pushed her through the door, slammed it after her and turned to confront the young man. Geraldine didn't even dare to stay and hear what they said. She rushed past the workers in the kitchen and made for her tent.

What a disaster! The night had started so well, and now it couldn't end fast enough. But the ties holding the front flap of her tent closed snarled into a knot, delaying her for precious minutes. Then she was in, and began to tug at the buttons fastening the back of her gown. It was useless. Her fingers were trembling so badly she was forced to stop, breathing in deep, ragged breaths despite willing for slow, even ones to calm her down. Then a hand fell sharply on her shoulder, pulling her back out of the tent and swinging her abruptly round.

It was Bas, his face stripped of laughter – but not emotion.

“So, Miss MacKenny – of Strathdene and Loch Máire. A runholder's daughter, no less. How much do you think your father would give me for your safe return? Or for someone else to deal with me as he thinks I deserve?”

He was as angry as she had ever seen him. She would have liked to retreat, but that rigid pressure on her shoulder warned her that was not possible.

“Only in this case, that would not happen. Or rather, that stepmother of yours wouldn't let it happen. Not when she learns of my background. Turn down the brother of an English lord as a son-in-law? No, your stepmother would not let that happen. Would she?”

“What are you talking about?”
Has everyone gone quite mad tonight?
she wondered.

“My apologies for never introducing myself in full, though to be fair, I did try once.” He half bowed, but his eyes never left hers, and the lean hand holding her tight never changed. “May I
humbly
present the Honourable Sebastian Deverill.”

“Yes, I know. Bas Deverill.”

“No, the Honourable Sebastian Deverill,” Geraldine opened her mouth, “half-brother to the eleventh Baron Basinstoke.” She shut her mouth as hastily, and watched that crooked smile touch his face. She said nothing, and he continued. “It happens to be true, I'm afraid. What's more, I may have been sent out to the colonies to save the family the embarrassment of my presence in England, but brother Charles would not see me penniless if he knew I had a wife to support. Especially once he knows you are the daughter of a respectable landowner. Not that he would want me to bring you home – you're a touch unorthodox for my sister-in-law's drawing room, my dear.”

“Stop it. What has who you are got to do with me? And what do you mean, sent out here? You make it sound like you are a remittance man.”

There was no smile on his face now, however crooked.

“You can't be?” she said.

Shiftless young men packed off the to the colonies and living on comfortable stipends sent by families well-pleased to be rid of them, the remittance men were scorned by the hardworking settlers.

“Rather a far-fetched claim, surely?” said Geraldine, remembering the meticulous records she had found. “I've seen what you have made for yourself out here. That takes hard work. Why would you have done that if you were being comfortably supported by your family? Any remittance man that I have met has been only too glad to waste away his days or play at landholding, leaving any real work to managers. The English gentry do not go into business—especially not your kind of business.” She tugged at his hand, desperate to break his hold, but his fingers only dug deeper into her flesh.

“Why did I? It's simple, my dear. I dislike being kept. I like my independence, and it gave me a great deal of satisfaction to use brother Charles' precious money to finance an endeavour of which I knew he would thoroughly disapprove.”

She shook her head. It was all too much. An aristocrat, brother to a lord, now that she could believe. His voice and manners told the truth of the claim. But a remittance man? No! She had come across a few before; dissolute, sunk in despair and drink, whiling away their time in miserable resentment of their lot. Bas Deverill was nothing like them.

“I think you had better explain,” she said, one hand pushing fitfully at a wisp of hair dislodged in her flight and now straggling down her forehead. He watched her ineffectually shoving at it, then gave a silent curse and lifted his hand from her shoulder, gently drawing the strands back and catching them securely in the pins there. The ghost of a smile passed in fleeting shadow over his face. Then his anger suddenly dissipated, leaving him grim-faced and with an unfamiliar bleakness.