Swift Runs The Heart (7 page)

“Please,” she whispered.

“Sweetheart, with all my heart. Your skin is so fine.”

“No, don't.” But the plea was too half-hearted. His mouth quirked again, then his head lifted from her hand and descended upon her mouth. His warm lips took hers, any protest she might think to attempt dying forgotten.

She had known too few men to have been kissed often, but there had been the odd, fumbling trial. Nervous forays of untrained adolescence. This kiss was not that. His mouth moved gently, then more urgently across hers. Teasing, tempting, his tongue seeking entrance and bringing a promise of warm delights. The men outside, forgotten. This man, this night, this was all her world.

Dazed, she fell deeper and deeper into the spell he wove. His arms moved urgently across her, kneading her back, then lower, circling her breasts and wandering in slow exploration down her abdomen. Then down…

“Damn it!” Suddenly, she was free. He had wrenched back as he spoke, rearing up on his elbows and one hand, barely visible in the gloom, could be seen dragging through his bright hair.

Still dazed, she shook her head, then suddenly came to herself. Scarlet rushed over her cheeks and she sat up in dismay.

“It seems you were right. I must be more drunk than I thought. My apologies.”

“No. Don't apologise.” Her voice seemed to be strangled somewhere in her throat; the barest whisper was all she could manage. Embarrassment ruptured her into pieces. Untried, untaught. He didn't want her, was all she could think. That wasn't right, she was sure of it. She ought to be horrified, frightened at such attention. But all she could feel was a desperate physical loss.

Then her voice came back and she drew herself rigidly upright. “It is for me to apologise, I think. I forced you to bring me with you and perhaps led you to believe I expected something like this to happen. Which would have been foolish, given my inexperience. I'm sorry I was such an inadequate partner.”

“Inadequate?” The word was gasped as if on a breath suddenly thrust out. “Inadequate!”

He had flopped backwards, his shape barely discernable in the shadowy pile of blankets. How she wished for a light; anything to see his face. Then she heard it, the unmistakeable gurgle of choked laughter.

“Must you do that? You may not want me, but to be forever laughing at me as you do is cruel.”

The dark mass of him rolled over and she could just see that his face was turned towards her as he propped himself up on one elbow.

“Oh God, sweetheart, if you only knew.” Amusement corded every word. “Not want you? You have driven me nearly mad these last days with the urge to tip you up on the ground and take you where you lay. Not want you! I can't remember when I wanted a woman as much as I do you.”

Her cheeks were a roaring furnace now. What to say to that?

“It's still no laughing matter.”

“Believe me, it is. I can think of a string of women who would be thoroughly delighted by my current predicament. You see, my dear, despite the fact that you would be about as at home in my sister-in-law's drawing room as one of your prickly matagouri bushes, you are a lady and unwed, and I have not yet descended to the ravishing of unmarried ladies. No matter how much they may suggest they would wish it.”

“Oh.” Geraldine felt small, and somehow soiled. She drew the blanket tighter around her shoulder, subsiding tentatively to the ground again and rolling away from him.

There was a moment of strained silence, unbroken finally by any sounds of amusement from him. She had managed to stop that at least. Then—

“Oh, Hell.” He drew her back into his arms. She pulled back, but his arms were firm.

“I'm sorry, sweetheart. Please don't worry. You are safe tonight, if it kills me. As for tomorrow, I'm taking you back to the Dunstan. It seems I can protect you better there after all—from everyone, including me. Black Jack has interrupted our lives quite long enough.” His arms held her close, soothing and gentle this time, and his hands began a rhythmic stroking down her back. Surprisingly, within a few moments she felt herself relax and sleep claimed her. Still she knew a last, regretful thought.
I don't want to be safe tonight.

Next morning was different. She argued with him till her mouth hurt with dryness. Josh told him why he should not. The rest of the camp joined in, telling him he was an idiot. Nothing would change Bas's mind. Back to Dunstan they went.

“It's too exposed out here,” he said. “If Black Jack wants to kill me, an isolated spot like this would be ideal. Old Dunstan Town is the safest place, right under his nose and that of every other miner and trooper. It's only a matter of weeks before he moves on. There are fields opening up further inland. Time both of us moved on, for that matter. I'll wait to see where he goes, then I'll go in the opposite direction.”

And what about me
, Geraldine wanted to ask. But she kept her mouth closed for fear of the reply. Despite everything, she still had no intention of climbing aboard any conveyance heading back to Dunedin.

As it happened, they did not march boldly back into the makeshift collection of dusty canvas erections that constituted the township of Dunstan that December of 1862. Thankfully, Deverill's streak of practicality overrode the jaunty air of cocksure confidence he carried all through the trek back to town. They came down from the hills late at night and some way to the east of the settlement, slipping into a group of celebrating miners raucously making their way into Dunstan. Just after the first of the canvas shanties had passed, Deverill snatched at Geraldine's elbow, pulling her abruptly through a gap in the tents to quietly slip through to the insalubrious backside of the township. Soon they came to a new building; mud brick and canvas walls with a plain door set into the rear. He pulled her through it.

“We'll stop here tonight. The owner is a friend of mine. There's a bed in the back room for you.” He indicated a makeshift curtain covering a small alcove. “I'll doss down in this room after I find out what's been happening in town since we left. I don't want to be seen in any place that MacRae might expect us till we're better prepared. Don't worry, you're safe enough here and I'll be back soon.”

Then he was gone. Geraldine moved back into the shadows, keeping out of sight and conscious of a prickle of irritation. She was beginning to feel like a piece of stray baggage, forever being stowed out of sight as Bas went on with his life. He was gone long enough for her to start wondering how safe this refuge in which he had dumped her was. She began to explore.

The back room contained little more than a bed and table, but the main room was an office of some kind. In the sparse light filtering through the blinds from the flaming brands lighting up the main street, she made out a desk covered in orderly stacks of papers and a set of cabinets. The stacks looked to be legal and financial papers, much as she has seen on her father's desk at home. For want of something to distract her from her worries, she idly picked a bundle up, huddling down below the window where it was lighter so that she could read the contents without being seen through the panes. Then she began to take in the details and her interest grew. Soon she was avidly picking up sheet after sheet. She had spent sufficient time going over accounts with both her father and aunt to gain some understanding of their contents, and was starting to feel decidedly cross. Then a creak of a door sent her scurrying for safety under the desk.

“You there, sweetheart?” The familiar whisper calmed the thudding of her heartbeat. She crawled out from her refuge, but still kept low.

“What took you so long?”

“Things to organise,” he replied, and even in the poor light she just knew he was grinning unrepentantly at her. “Comfortable?”

He watched her come fully into the open, moving away from the window before standing up to meet his brimming eyes. It was all that was needed to turn the spark of annoyance into a full-blown blaze of outrage. She waved the clutch of papers in her hand at him.

“A petty saloon owner, you let me think! Living hand to mouth and about to lose your sole source of income if we did not hurry back here. Yet by the looks of these, you have interests in every part of the goldfields, and not just selling grog and your arrangements with Molly and her girls. Though the records show that her trade is quite separate from your saloon, despite what you tried to make me believe.”

He shrugged. “We have a mutually beneficial agreement. She makes money her way, and I make mine my way.”

“Quite a lot of money, by the looks of it. It's no wonder you're so worried about Black Jack. You wouldn't last a day if he had any idea how much you're worth, not to mention all the other riff raff who would be after your blood,” she finished heatedly.

Then suddenly she realised what she had been caught doing. A red flush invaded her cheeks and she moved to replace the papers on the desk.

“Will you ever cease to amaze me?” he asked, without the least hint of anger in his voice at her unpardonable intrusion into his private business. She looked up, trying to read his face in the gloom. “It never occurred to me that you would be able to make head nor tail of these papers. Or if you did, that you would realise this is my office and not Marcus Brown's, whose name I would like to point out is written clearly on the desk there. Most of Dunstan thinks I'm one of his clients rather than his employer. How did you figure it out?”

He didn't sound angry, more like entertained. It did not help. She gestured vaguely at the desk. “There was a sheaf of title deeds there, along with the legal papers to a company owned solely by a Mr Sebastian Deverill.”

“Not Mr. The Honourable Mr Sebastian Deverill, at your service.”

She took it as another frippery, and waved her hand dismissively. “Whatever you want to call yourself, you can't deny that this building, the saloon, the wagon trains and I don't know how many other properties and businesses in this town and others belong to you.”

He laughed, quietly in the circumstances, but yet completely amused by her. “As you say, whatever. No, of course I don't deny it, my absurd Miss. Why you think I should is beyond me. You are in no position to be spreading my secrets, after all. Not with Black Jack as interested in finding you as he is me.”

“Don't be silly. You said he wants to kill you.”

“Kill me, yes, not kidnap as you seem to think. He's got a vicious temper, MacRae, and right now would shoot me in an instant. Kidnap and ransom? Well, that takes planning and MacRae is not stupid. Few know this is my office or the exact nature of my holdings, but most know I have my fingers in enough pies that it's better not to aggravate me. As for you, though? Word is he's on fire with the memory of as pretty a ladybird as ever graced the goldfields. He's hunting you hard.”

That utterly silenced her. He studied her face for long minutes, though there was no way he could read the desolation she felt in the shadows of the room. Then he drew her fingers slowly to his lips and brushed them lightly. “Don't worry so, sweetheart. I will keep you safe. You have my word on it,” he whispered.

Why, she could not say, but she believed him and felt something in her give way. She was not safe, it was stupid to think so, but one thing she had learned in these last few tumultuous days; his word was good. He would try, and what more could she ask?

There seemed little else to say, yet when she retired to the bed in the small alcove shortly after she found herself dropping readily into untroubled sleep. It's been a long day, she told herself defensively, sighing once, then knew no more.

Someone was shaking her. “Go ‘way,” she mumbled, burrowing under the blanket.

“Time to move, sweetheart.”

She opened an eye, peering out. “It's still dark.”

“Sun's not even up yet,” he agreed, in far too cheery a tone for the hour. “Best time for us to move around if you are not to be seen.”

She opened both eyes cautiously, blinking slowly, then realised she was awake enough to realise the good sense of his words. Grumbling under her breath, she eased herself up, clutching at the blanket even though she had slept fully clothed. She may have trusted him last night when he had said he would keep her safe, but that did not mean she intended to relax her guard. Not in a town where a man meant to kill him and molest her.

He was holding out a package, she now saw. “That boys' garb of yours is too easily seen through,” he said.

She took the packet and pulled out a gown and petticoats, holding the dress up in surprise. It was brown serge, modestly cut with a severely buttoned up neckline. Accompanying it was a large matching bonnet, slightly dated in style but as severely cut as the dress. She looked up in question.

“Sometimes the truth is the best disguise of all,” he said with a wry twist of his mouth. “I'll wait in the outer room while you change. You can put your boys' garb in here, along with your swag.” He picked up a carpetbag from the floor beside the bed, and then walked out, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Dazed, she did as ordered. He had been busy last night! Soon after, she emerged looking, as she put it to herself, decidedly schoolmarmish. The look in Bas's eyes agreed with her assessment.

“What a waste,” he murmured. Then a hand reached up to tuck away a stray curl beneath her bonnet brim.

She was not sure if she imagined the lingering touch of his fingers on her cheek, but knew it made her whole body came alive. She ducked her head to hide the confusion in her eyes and could only blame the strange state of her emotions for the words that came next.

“Is this how you see me?” she said softly, and something impelled her to raise her head again, searching his eyes. She had not imagined the lingering of his fingers, but it lasted only a moment longer before his hand abruptly retreated, along with the hint of vulnerability she glimpsed in his eyes.