The English Bride. Margaret Way

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      “I have a full social life.” She flashed him a blue, sparkling look. “But it’s not an obsession.”

      “No love affairs?” He found he couldn’t bear the thought of her with another man.

      “One or two romantic involvements. Like you.” Grant Cameron didn’t lack female admirers.

      “No one serious?” he persisted as though the thought was gnawing away at him.

      “I’ve yet to meet my perfect man,” she answered sweetly.

      “Which brings me to why you have designs on me.”

      His effrontery took her breath away. “You can haul yourself out when the going gets tough. Because I’m only following my own instincts. You do have a certain emotional pull and physically you’re extraordinarily attractive.”

      He gave a mock bow, surprisingly elegant. “Thank you, Francesca. That makes my heart swell.”

      “As long as it’s not your head,” she retorted crisply.

      “My head has the high ground at the moment,” he drawled. “But I’ve enjoyed tonight. Brod and Rebecca are such good company and you are you.”

      It was so disconcerting, the swings from sarcastic to sizzling emotion. An acknowledgment, perhaps, that their connection was powerful, though he was going to fight it all the way.

      “That’s good I’ve done something right,” Francesca said in response, trying to keep her tone light, but she was utterly confounded when tears came into her eyes. Being with him made her more sensitive, more womanly with a much bigger capacity for being hurt. For all the calmness of her voice, Grant was instantly alerted. He glanced up swiftly, catching her the moment before she blinked furiously.

      “Francesca!” Heart drumming with dismay and desire he reached for her, pulling her into his arms. “What is it? Have I hurt you? I’m a brute. I’m sorry.” He could see the pulse beating in her creamy throat answering the pulses that were beating in him. “I’m trying to see what’s best for both of us. Surely you can understand that?”

      “Of course.” Her voice was a husky whisper. She dashed her hand across her eyes. Just like a little girl. Grace under fire.

      An immense wave of passion tied to a deep sense of protectiveness broke across him, causing him to mould her into him more tightly, achingly aware of the feel of her delicate breasts against the wall of his chest. He was on the verge of losing it. It was terrible. But good. Better than good. Ravishing.

      She attempted to speak but he was seized by the urgent need to kiss her, to take the crushed strawberry sweetness of her mouth, to find her tongue, to move it back and forth against his in the age-old mating ritual. This incredible delight in a woman was something new to him. Something well beyond his former sexual experiences. He wanted her. Needed her like a man needs water.

      There was tremendous passion in his kiss, a touch of fierceness that thrilled her because she knew she meant more to him than he dared acknowledge. His hand held her nape, cupped it, holding her head to him. She was almost lying back in his arms, allowing him to take his intense pleasure, and something deep, deep inside her started to melt. She was almost fainting under the tumult of sensation, her own ardent response. She had never known such intimacy, never before revelled in it, knowing it could be a cause of much unhappiness but she was too needy or too stupid to care.

      What bright spirit impelled towards delight was ever known to figure out the cost?

      They broke apart, both of them momentarily disorientated as though they had been beamed down from another world. Grant, for his part, was profoundly conscious his moods, attitudes and thoughts about this woman were vacillating wildly like a geiger counter exposed to radiation. She set his blood on fire, which greatly complicated their relationship. How could one think calmly, rationally when he was continually longing to make love to her? She might even see his masculine drive as excessive, a kind of male sexual aggression. She was so small, so light limbed, so fragile in his arms, the perfume of her, of her very skin, a potent trigger to desire.

      By contrast she seemed shaken, deprived of speech, unusually pale.

      “I’m sorry, Francesca.” Remorse was in his voice. “I never meant to be rough with you. I got carried away. Forgive me. It’s as you say, I lack the courtly touch.”

      She could have and perhaps should have told him how she felt, how she welcomed his advances with all her heart, but the tide of emotion was too dangerously high. She stood away, putting a trembling hand to her hair, realising a few long, silky strands had worked their way loose. “You didn’t hurt me, Grant,” she managed to say. “Appearances can be deceptive. I’m a lot tougher than I look.”

      His low laugh was spontaneous. “You could have fooled me.” He watched her trying to fix her hair, wanting to pull it free of its braided coils. What fascination long, beautiful hair had for a man. He could even imagine himself brushing it. God he had to be mad! He forced a grin, the smile not going with the look in his eyes. “I suppose we’d better take the coffee out. It’ll be getting cold.” He reached around and set the glass plunger on the tray. “I’ll carry it out. You relax. Get the colour back in your cheeks.” A tall order when he had reduced her to a breathless quivering receptacle of sensation, naked in her clothes.

      CHAPTER TWO

      FRANCESCA woke with a start knowing before she even looked at the clock she had slept in. She had set the alarm for five in the morning, now it was six-ten.

      “Damn!” This was too awful. She wanted to go with Grant. Francesca flung herself out of bed, glancing through the open French doors that gave onto the verandah. Sun-up four-thirty. The sky was now a bright blue, the air redolent with the wonderful smell of heat. She had even missed the morning symphony of birds, the combined voices so powerful, so swelling they regularly woke her at dawn. Sometimes the kookaburras started up their unique cackling din in predawn and she was awake to hear them, lying in bed enjoying their laughter. But she had slept deeply, exhausted by the chaos of emotion that was in her.

      Still she planned to go with Grant and he’d agreed, if somewhat reluctantly. Grant had told them all before retiring he intended to wait an hour for a message to be relayed in from Bunnerong. All stations operated from dawn. Perhaps his pilot had already called in or Bunnerong had notified Kimbara of his arrival? That was the way they did it in the bush.

      Hastily she splashed her face with cold water to wake herself up, cleaned her teeth and dressed in the clothes she had laid out the night before to save time. Cotton shirt, cotton jeans, sneakers. She put the brush through her hair, caught up a scarf to tie it back and rushed out into the silent hallway, padding along it until she reached the central staircase. She was almost at the bottom, when Brod came through the front door, surprise on his handsome face. “Fran? We thought we’d better let you sleep in.”

      Dismay hit her and she sent him a sparkling glance. “You don’t mean to tell me Grant has gone without me?” Her emotions were so close to the surface she felt betrayed.

      “I think he intends to go without you,” Brod admitted wryly. “He has the firm idea you’re not really up to it. Bunnerong has called in, as expected. Curly still hasn’t arrived. Grant has delayed taking off for as long as he can. He’s down at the airstrip refuelling.”

      “So he hasn’t taken off yet?” Hope СКАЧАТЬ