The Australian Heiress (22 page)

Nicholas spoke up. “Why don’t we all sit down?” He began to arrange some chairs.

“I’ll get Desley to make tea, shall I?” Camille offered.

“I’d
love
some tea,” Clare cooed at Nicholas.

“Gimme a beer.” Jack gave a deep rumbling laugh. “All right, sweetheart?” He looked at Clare for approval,
watching her grimace. “Where’s the little one, Nick? Young Melissa.”

“She’s inside practicing the piano.” Camille inclined her head toward the house.

“Ah, good for her,” Jack boomed.

“I’ll join you in a beer,” Nicholas said. “You’re looking well, Jack. Rested.”

Jack beamed at his blond companion. “You’ll have to thank Clare for that. She’s taught me how to relax.”

Camille could hardly bear to hear more. There was a knot in her stomach of apprehension and disbelief. People like Clare Tennant were utterly beyond her. It struck her, too, that the eagle was back in the sky, circling, its great wings extended.

Somehow the afternoon wore on without their guests making a move and Nicholas felt compelled to ask them if they would like to stay to dinner. The invitation was accepted with alacrity. Jack Martell was clearly enjoying the company, and was anxious for Clare to be accepted as the new woman in his life.

Happily married for more than twenty years, Jack was one of those men who desperately needed a wife. Although his appearance would never have rated a second glance, he was a highly successful businessman, an acknowledged multimillionaire. Which had to be Clare Tennant’s favorite draw card, Camille thought.

“Look I’m sorry about this.” Nicholas took the opportunity to catch up with Camille in the corridor when she went to check on Melissa. “It would be rude to turn Jack out.”

She longed to close her eyes. Rest against him. Instead, she lowered her head. “I understand. Jack is a
nice man. What I don’t understand is why he’s mixed up with Clare Tennant.”

Nicholas took a long cascade of her hair in his hand, its silkiness a balm to his frazzled nerves. “Jack’s lonely.”

“And I feel for him, but he deserves a lot better than Clare. She couldn’t possibly step into Helen’s shoes.”

“It mightn’t actually
mean
anything.” Nicholas drew her to him, totally uninterested in Jack’s budding relationship. “Clare has always had some man in tow.”

Maybe it’s sunk in finally she’s not going to get you,
Camille thought

At dinner Camille felt like a spectator at a play. Either Clare was a superb actress or she was genuinely fond of Jack Martell. She couldn’t have been more charming, coaxing Jack to tell some of his fund of funny stories, losing herself in the role of warm companionable guest.

“D
O YOU BELIEVE
in God?” Melissa asked as Camille tucked the little girl into bed.

“You know I do, darling,” Camille searched the large dark eyes. “What about you?”

“I’m not a saint like you are.”

”
I’m
not a saint!” Camille laughed in amazement.

“Desley says you are.”

“Desley was having a little joke.”

“I’d really believe in God if he sends Clare away,” Melissa said.

“She’s only staying the night, pet.” Camille sought to dispel the bedtime gloom.

”
I
wouldn’t have asked her.” Melissa tucked her old furry kangaroo beside her. “I don’t mind Mr. Martell. He’s got a big funny laugh, but Clare doesn’t ever
feel
right. I don’t like her eyes, do you?”

“My goodness, you don’t think she’s the big-eyed Evil One, do you?” Camille joked.

“She might act happy,” Melissa replied, “but she’s mad at you, I can tell.”

The following morning Clare came down to breakfast saying Jack was miserable with a stomach upset.

Desley, busy setting down covered dishes on the long sideboard, turned around anxiously.

“Oh, it’s not
your
fault, Mrs. Sutherland,” Clare hastened to assure her. “Jack suffers from these stomach upsets. He’s got gallstones or some such thing.”

“Then it ought to be checked out.” Nicholas frowned.

“I quite agree. The poor man hasn’t been looking after himself. I’m so sorry, Nick. We intended to be off this morning, but it looks like you might have to put up with us for another day.”

“No problem at all.” Nicholas hid his dismay, although seeing how well she treated Jack, his attitude toward Clare had changed entirely. “If Jack’s condition worsens in the next few hours, we’ll get onto the Flying Doctor.”

But Jack, when Nicholas went to the guest bedroom to see him, wouldn’t hear of it. “Clare’s right. I have to watch my diet. I drank a little too much at dinner. I don’t want to cause any fuss, Nick. I just need rest.”

Nevertheless he wasn’t entirely well the next day, although he refused to remain in bed.

“It’s this damned
burning
sensation,” he told Camille.
“As soon as I get back to town, I’ll make an appointment to see my own doctor.”

To her credit Clare did her level best to be an easy and accommodating guest. She sat with Jack for hours, as devoted and charming a companion as any man could wish for.

Perhaps I’ve been too hard on her,
Camille thought. Yet her apprehension remained. There was one piece of cheering news. Linda had rung to say she and Stephen were off to Hong Kong for Christmas; they’d
be
staying at the Regent, one of the world’s great hotels. “A second honeymoon,” Linda said, “and it neatly solves having to spend Christmas with the family.”

On the second night of Jack and Clare’s enforced stay, Camille retired earlier than usual on the pretext she had Christmas cards to write. The freight plane was due in the morning. It was a plausible enough excuse. In reality Clare Tennant’s determined charm was wearing her nerves thin. Even as she walked up the staircase, Camille heard yet another delighted peal of laughter at something Nicholas had said. Jack still hadn’t recovered fully from the stomach troubles that had plagued him, though he thought the antacid mixture Clare was giving him was helping.

In her own room, with Melissa sleeping soundly next door, Camille wrote her Christmas cards at the bureau, then ran a bath, pouring in a generous measure of herbal oils. A good soak might soothe her jangled nerves. Afterward she slipped on a satin nightgown and matching robe and padded out onto the large veranda lured by the blossoming stars and heavenly scent of the native boronia.

By day and by night the desert sky had a rare magic.
There was no veil of pollution, no smog.
Jirrunjoonga,
the Southern Cross, hung above the homestead, the Milky Way, the resting place of the ancestral spirits, a dazzling river of diamonds streaming across the sky. As ever, the heavens were crowded with stars, all glittering with that unearthly brilliance so unique to the desert. As she watched, a large star flashed across the sky, and spontaneously she made a wish. It came straight from her heart, free of the mind’s complications.

Let him love me.
Really
love me.

Unable to settle for bed, she hung her clothes in the armoire, then took out her mother’s jewel box, feeling the familiar sense of comfort at handling it. Some ten inches long and six inches deep, it was made of rosewood with stained wood inlays and marquetry of a very high standard. The hinges and lock were of gleaming pierced brass, which she never allowed to become tarnished.

Inside were four compartments, with rings, necklaces, earrings and brooches nesting in the emerald green silk. She gathered up her favorite piece of jewelry, her mother’s pearls, each lustrous globe perfectly matched. The clasp was handmade, interlocking leaves of diamonds and rubies like the earrings that went with them.

As she handled these pieces, she thought of her mother wearing them.
Natalie.
Sometimes she seemed so near. Camille even glanced over her shoulder once, almost expecting to see her there. Then she placed the necklace around her neck, fixing the clasp. How warm it felt! As if it had just been resting against someone’s skin.

What happened to you, Mama, that dreadful day? Did you tell him you were pregnant? Did you tell him you no longer loved him? That you were going to Hugo? Did you drive him to madness as Nicholas believes?

The other pieces, she discovered, were all warm, too. How odd. She slipped a square-cut yellow-diamond ring on her finger. It fitted perfectly. The set of four gold bangles, set with precious stones, she wore frequently. Her mother’s jewelry would fetch a lot of money, but she couldn’t bear to sell any of it, so great was her emotional attachment to it. She would part only with what she absolutely had to.

Feeling like someone in a dream, Camille clipped the diamond-and-ruby earrings into her ears, then got up quickly from the bed to judge the effect in the mirror. As she moved, the box slid down the silky damask quilt and fell on the floor.

“Oh, no!” she cried in dismay. She moved quickly to pick up the box and gather the contents. How careless! Had she damaged the box she’d never have forgiven herself.

But it was quite intact. It was only as she set the box down on the table that she realized another compartment had sprung open like a secret drawer. She looked at it in amazement. She’d handled the box countless times, yet she had never known about this.

Now, tucked away in this, hidden compartment, she found pressed flowers that still gave off a sweet scent—and a few letters tied with a narrow satin ribbon. It was minutes before she could unpick it. These were love letters. She was certain of that, though she didn’t know why.

Her face pale, Camille moved to an armchair, tugging the ribbon loose. Even then she hesitated. These letters weren’t meant for her eyes, yet she was compelled to go on.

She read them chronologically, with tears running down her cheeks at the tenderness and passion, the desperateness of lovers, the terrible obstacles they had to overcome. She, Camille, was mentioned frequently. Her mother and Hugo were determined to have custody of her. To show her what a loving family was really like.

“What kind of monster is he that he can’t show love to his only child?” Hugo had written. A monster indeed. A heartless one.

Finally she knew that her mother’s marriage had been a prison, but at the end of her short life Natalie had found the courage to make a bid for escape. She had decided to leave her husband, but she never got the chance. Prophetically Hugo had written: “Keep silent, my darling, until you and Camille are safe with me. Never give him an inkling you’re pregnant with our child. That would drive him over the edge.”

Hadn’t Nicholas always believed it?

In a bemused state Camille closed the rosewood box and placed it back in the armoire. She had to show these letters to Nicholas. It couldn’t wait.

The house was quiet, the main lights off with only wall sconces to show the way. She was rounding the end of the staircase, one arm on the curved banister, when someone reached for her. She made a small stricken sound, but then was folded into a warm embrace.

Nicholas,

Cushioning her head against his shoulder, he brought his hands up under her breasts, cupping them tenderly. His mouth moved against the side of her neck, her ear, his teeth nipping gently.

“Nicholas, you startled me!” A whole range of emotions washed through her.

“Who else were you expecting?” His voice was a deep purr.

“No one.” She pressed her body closer. “I was coming to find you. I have something quite extraordinary to show you. Something that might move you, ease your pain.”

“Nothing could move me more than you.” Slowly he trailed his mouth down the sensitive column of her neck, making every pulse race.

It was difficult to distance herself from the intense passion rising in her, but she tried. “Nicholas, it’s important. I—”

She was silenced by his mouth. “Come to bed with me. I want to make love to you. I need to convince you beyond all doubt your destiny lies with me.”

She couldn’t move, couldn’t think, not with his hands and mouth consuming her. It was an explosion of longing that billowed around them like smoke.

“Marry me,” he begged. Even in the dim light his black eyes blazed.

She sobbed with the joy of it, but he was kissing her again, transmitting his passion so powerfully it was almost more than she could handle.

“Nicholas!” She gave a little abandoned gasp, moving her mouth fractionally from his.

At once he drew back. “God, my love, not tears?”

She didn’t realize she’d shed them. Not tears of pain or sorrow, but with rapture.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” His anxiety was manifest. He was intoxicated with her. He was a strong man, when she was fragile in comparison.

“No, no. I glory in the pleasure you give me.”

“It’s because I feel so
starved”
He shook his head a little as though struggling for control. Somehow he had to stop this headlong reckless rush, but his yearning for her increased with each passing moment.

She reached up, took his face between her hands and gave him a soft sweet kiss as if to calm them both, when calm was light-years away. “Did you really ask me to marry you, or was that just a voice in my head?”

He gave her his heart-wrenching smile.
“Both,
my love. Heed your inner voice, too.”

“It’s been speaking to me all along.” She curled her arms around his neck, amazed and terrified at how much she loved this man. “Am I no longer alone, Nicholas?” she asked huskily, her whole being electrified.

“You
know
you’re not.” His voice was deep with emotion. “I’ve found you. You, in turn, have shown me the way.”

“So God has a grand design, after all?”

“My darling, it’s working in our lives.”

She stood on tiptoe, kissed his beautiful mouth. “I believe that, as well. That’s why I came to find you. I’ve discovered some of Hugo’s letters to my mother. They were hidden in her jewel box. Remember how lovely you thought it?”

For an instant he felt an acute sense of dislocation.
The jewel box. The rosewood box. With beautiful marquetry and ornate brass fittings. He clearly remembered remarking on its beauty. But Hugo’s letters? How could they have remained hidden all these years?