The Secret Rose (10 page)

This declaration silenced Aisleen’s intended remark about her lack of interest in a husband. “Surely you do not refer to the man who saved my property?”

“I do, Miss Fitzgerald,” he continued. “Many a bushman and jackeroo is the descendant of convicts. He may be an ex-convict himself.”

Aisleen glanced back at the deserted alley. The man was an Irishman. Had he once been a rebel transported for crimes against the English Crown? The thought both appalled her and piqued her curiosity, but it was not the major’s business what she thought.

“Well, Major, I can say I’ve survived my first adventure in the colony,” she declared with a sense of humor the major had not suspected.

“Indeed you have, miss,” he answered with an arched brow. He had misjudged her in more matters than one, it seemed. “We should return to the quay. I must collect my wife, and you have your bags to look to.”

As they retraced their steps Aisleen could not forget that pair of mocking eyes of brilliant blue. Was it admiration that shone in the bushman’s gaze? Was it because she had given chase to the thief or merely because she, a lady, had spoken to him?

Aisleen smiled. The major’s declarations about wife-hungry bushmen were beginning to influence her reasoning. The bushman had been amused by her disheveled appearance. And yet, she remembered with surprising pleasure, he had paid her a careless compliment about her hair; and she had been flattered. That in itself was remarkable enough to make him memorable.

The remembered scent of heather stirred briefly m her
mind. “Is there a flower garden nearby, Major?” she asked absently.

Major Scott burst into laughter. “How could one tell when the air reeks of the docks?”

Aisleen did not answer. She was mistaken, of course. It was the Irishman’s brogue that had brought back memories of rolling green hills spiked with fragrant wild flowers. She was homesick and more than a little unsettled by the events of the last minutes. The reminder of home had been welcome. As for the bushman himself, he was no doubt the rogue Major Scott pegged him as. Only a fool or a pitiable spinster would allow herself to dwell on the hollow flirtations of a stranger.

When Major Scott had led her to her baggage Aisleen realized that she did not even know which step to take next. She knew nothing about the people for whom she had come eleven thousand miles to work. She had only a name and an address, thanks to the bushman’s quick action. “I have an address here,” she said crisply as she pulled the letter from her purse. “If you will find a hansom cab for me—oh, dear, there is such a thing, isn’t there?”

“Indeed there is, Miss Fitzgerald,” the major assured her.

“Miss Fitzgerald?” repeated a middle-aged woman who stood nearby. She turned to Aisleen. “Are you Miss Alice Fitzgerald of Dublin?”

“I am,” Aisleen answered.

The woman extended a gloved hand. “My name is Mrs. Freeman. I am from Hyde Park Barracks. Welcome to Sydney.”

Aisleen shook the woman’s hand. “Thank you. Did Mrs. Britten send you?”

The woman nodded. “You are to come with me until arrangements can be made for you.”

Before Aisleen could question her further, Mrs. Freeman
signaled a young boy to begin loading Aisleen’s baggage onto a cart. “Come along now, we’ve kept the others waiting.”

Aisleen looked up at the wagon onto which her bags were being piled and recognized one of her cabin mates from the ship. The girl smiled and offered her hand, but the major suddenly grasped Aisleen about the waist and lifted her up.

Aisleen looked back at the major with a slight frown. “I was quite capable, but I thank you, Major Scott, for everything. Give my farewells to your lady wife.”

“Righto!” Major Scott answered with a wave. As the wagon rolled away he brought his hands together as he had around Aisleen’s waist and grinned at the narrowness of the span. Nineteen inches and not a fraction more, with hair the color of flame; surely he had misjudged the young woman.

*

Sally Wilks smiled warmly at the man who entered the Cross and Crown, one of Sydney’s more notorious drinking establishments. Amid the cluster of sailors and dock workers who filled the tavern, the man in moleskin britches and broad-brimmed hat struck a definite contrast. Anyone watching would have known instantly that he was in from the bush. But for her the sight had a special significance. After two years’ absence, Tom Gibson was back in town.

At a little above average height, he was not the biggest man in the room, and he suffered from time to time with a gimpy leg; but he was as tough as any of them. She had known him to drink a roomful of seamen under the table and still complete a twelve-hour shift on the shearing floor of Parramatta, fifteen miles away, the next day.

Sally’s gaze traveled over the solid muscles clearly outlined beneath his soft gray trousers. A clean plaid shirt clothed the upper portion of his work-toughened body. As he lifted his
broad-brimmed hat, revealing a head of thick glossy black hair, her stomach jumped nervously. He had not changed. He was handsomer than ever.

She waited for him every shearing season, wondering if he had married or died during the intervening year. When he had not returned last spring, she had canvassed the few drovers and swagmen who came to the Cross and Crown for news of him. From them she had learned that he now owned a station in the north near Armidale. Some said he would soon be as wealthy as any man in the colony. Most important of all, he had not yet wed.

Anticipation tingled through Sally. She did not care. She would marry him be he swagman, sundowner, or shearer. She had been a child when they met, and because of him, she had never given herself to any of the men who frequented the public house. From the first, her heart had been fixed on Tom. This year she meant to have him.

“’Ere! Sally! There’s a swab dyin’ o’ thirst!” shouted one of the sailors at a nearby table.

“Shove off!” Sally called back, but she moved to draw the man a fresh pint. “’E’s a two-pot screamer, that one,” she muttered. Couldn’t hold his liquor worth tuppence, but he was a steady customer.

When she had delivered the order, she saw that Tom had propped his feet on the table. His chin had dropped forward against his chest, and she knew he had fallen asleep.

A few moments later, she was beside him with a tumbler of ale and a plate of stew. “Long season, luv?” she questioned softly and gently shook his shoulder.

At the unexpected touch, Thomas reached automatically for the pistol he kept tucked in his waistband. An instant later, he eased back in his chair. “Hullo, Sally! Didn’t see ye when I came in. Thought ye’d deserted me for another man.”

“Evenin’s young,” she answered in the thick Cockney
accent which betrayed her origins. “A girl must earn ’er keep.” She leaned forward to set the stew before him and then curved her hand against his cheek to stroke his beard. “Ouch! Ye’re as prickly as a porcupine, ye are. ’Twould give a girl a rash.”

As she bent forward to place his meal before him, her full-swelling breasts snagged Thomas’s attention. Her skin was as white as goose down, and the edge of one ruby crest peeked over the edge of her low-cut bodice. She had been a scrawny child when they met, and he continued to think of her as a mere lass. As she straightened, his gaze moved first to her narrow waist, then her gently flaring hips. That was no longer true. A sudden stirring in his loins reminded him of how long he had been without a woman.

A secret smile softened the corners of his mouth. He had nearly forgotten the grazier’s wife up on the Lachkan River. They had had a single night; but she had been as lonely as he, and the sleepless night had seen him well-satisfied…until now.

His gaze met Sally’s and he saw that she was aware of the drift of his thoughts and, more, was not averse to them. Reaching up to scratch his jaw, he drawled, “Could be I’m willing to shave this off—for a proper reason.”

Desire surged through Sally, tingling in her breasts and loins. Long ago, her mum had told her that the Black Irish—with their black hair and blue eyes—were the best company a woman could want. She meant to find out for herself. “For tuppence, I’ll rid ye of the itch.”

“Certain ye know how to treat a man?” he asked doubtfully.

“I know a trick or two,” Sally replied, but she did not meet his eyes. If he laughed at her blatant invitation, she was certain she would die.

“Surprise me,” Thomas answered and reached for his fork.

Sally’s gaze lit upon his hands, the palms horn-hard with
calluses, and a jab of jealousy dug at her. The men of the Outback were notoriously high-spirited, playing fast and loose with the women of the settlements and then disappearing into the bush. She would have to find a way to keep Tom from going walkabout. That was why she had saved herself. Once he knew for certain that she was a good girl, he would have to do right by her.

Thomas looked up, surprised to find her still gazing intently at him. “Can’t a man finish his meal first?”

Sally flushed a deep shade of pink that made her pretty face even more attractive. “I wasn’t waitin’ on account o’ that.” She glanced back toward the noisy room before whispering, “There was a bloke name of O’Leary in ’ere asking questions a couple of months back. Looked every bit a bushranger, let me tell ye! ’E was seeking an ex-convict by the name of Gibson from County Cork.”

“Gibson’s a common enough name,” Thomas murmured

The mild reply did not surprise Sally. Tom was not the sort of man who showed his feelings. “Just thought ye should know,” she mumbled and turned away.

Thomas watched appreciatively as she moved away, but she was immediately forgotten when he glanced back down at his plate. For a man who made his living among sheep, beef stew was a far more tempting item than even ripe and eager barmaids. Potatoes and carrots were even rarer delights, and he cleaned his plate.

Afterward he contented himself with a slow but steady succession of tankards of ale. Only then did he ponder Sally’s news. Strange, he had not thought of Sean O’Leary and the others in years. For thirteen years, Australia had been his home. Thirteen years was a long time. During that time, he had changed more than his convict status. He had become first a shearer and now a squatter with vast holdings. There was nothing to be gained by dredging up the
past. He would not seek out the man. He wanted only to forget the past.

He had come to Sydney against his better judgment, yet he could not stay away. So here he would remain until he found the source of the whim that had impelled him to come to the port city. He had lived by his hunches too long to deny them now. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. When the moment came, he would know the reason why he was here. If it was that he must face part of his past, then so be it. He would not shy from it, but he would not seek it out.

More than an hour later Thomas opened his eyes to find Sally standing over him, her apron tucked under her arm.

“Ye were sleepin,’” she said unnecessarily.

“Resting up for me shave,” he shot back with a grin. Then his face sobered. “What’re ye charging, Sally? A man must be certain he can afford his pleasure.”

Sally caught her lower lip between her teeth as her face flooded with color. “I’d never charge ye, Tom,” she whispered, her eyes averted from his face.

The bashful whisper surprised Thomas. After all, she must have been with many men. “Come, lass, ye’ll never earn enough to keep ye in silks and tucker if ye give so generously of yer favors.”

Sally pinkened to the tips of her ears, but she was afraid to contradict him. If he guessed her secret too soon he might change his mind. “Whatever ye say, then, Tom.”

*

Thomas turned away from Sally and sat up on the narrow cot to pull on his trousers. After a moment Sally’s soft weeping made him turn back, acutely aware of his part in her distress. “There, there, lass,” he said gently, awkwardly patting her trembling shoulder

Sally lifted her tear-smeared face from tile bed “Why, Thomas? I—I don’t…Am I not pleasin’ to ye?”

The sheet shifted as Sally twisted toward him, revealing her breasts with the crimson nipples which he had held between his lips moments earlier.

“Cover yerself!” he ordered and stood up. He moved to the window and braced himself with an arm above the casement.

Almost at once he was sorry that he had been sharp with her. It wasn’t her fault he was frustrated. Dear Lord! She had eagerly offered him the ultimate prize of her womanhood. The realization that a barmaid was a virgin had startled him; and then cold, hard reason had had a chance to make him think of what he was about to do.

“’Tis sorry I am, lass. But it’s better so.” They were friends. He couldn’t simply bed her, then forget her, and that is exactly what he would do. He had come to Sydney to set in motion events he did not fully understand. When they were over, he would leave. “’Tis better so,” he repeated. His voice carried slowly and with tender pity across the short expanse. “Ye want to marry, ye’ve told me so before. ’Tis yer husband who should have the gift ye offer me.”

Sally sat up, looking more childlike as the tumble of honey-blond hair framed her naked shoulders. “Don’t ye see, Tom? ’Tis ye I want.”

Thomas shook his head firmly, his gaze focused on the field of ships’ masts visible above the rooftops of the shops across the way. “I’m nae the one for ye, Sally, lass.”