The English Bride. Margaret Way

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      He nodded. “A star of the first magnitude. It points to the South Pole. The aborigines have wonderful Dreamtime legends about the Milky Way and stars. I’ll tell you some of them one of these days. Maybe nights when we’re camping out.”

      “Are you serious?”

      A short silence. “I suppose it could be arranged.” His voice sounded sardonic. “Do you think it would be a good idea, the two of us camping out under the stars?”

      “I think it could be wonderful.” Francesca drew a breath of sheer excitement.

      “What about when the dingoes started to howl?” he mocked.

      “Mournful not to say eerie cries, I know—” she shivered a little remembering “—but I’d have you to protect me.”

      “And who’s going to protect me?” Suddenly he put a finger beneath her chin, turning up her face to him.

      “Am I so much to worry about?” She cut to the very heart of the matter.

      “I think so, yes,” he answered slowly. “You’re out of reach, Francesca.”

      “And I thought you were a man who aimed for the stars?” she taunted him very gently.

      “Aircraft are safer than women,” he countered dryly. “They don’t preoccupy a man’s mind.”

      “So that makes harmless little me a great danger?” Her voice was low-pitched but uniquely intense.

      “Except in the realm of my secret dreams,” he surprised himself by admitting.

      It was a tremendous turn-on, causing Francesca’s body to quiver like a plucked string. “That’s very revealing, Grant. Why would you reveal so much of yourself to me?” she asked in some frustration.

      “Because in many ways we’re intensely compatible. I think we knew that very early on.”

      “When we were just teenagers?” There was simply no way she could deny it. “And now we’re to assume a different relationship?”

      “Not assume, my lady.” His voice deepened, became somewhat combative. “You were born to grandeur. The daughter of an earl. Journeying to the outback is in lots of ways an escape for you, maybe even an escape from reality. An attempt to avoid much of the pressure from your position in life. I’d expect your father will confidently expect you to marry a man from within your own ranks. A member of the English aristocracy. At the very least a scion of one of the established families.”

      It was perfectly true. Her father had certain hopes of her. Even two possible suitors. “I’m Fee’s daughter, too.” She tried to stave the issue off. “That makes me half Australian. Fee only wants me to be happy.”

      “Which means I’m right. Your father has high expectations of you. He wouldn’t want to lose you.”

      Francesca shook her head almost pleadingly. “Daddy will never lose me. I love him. But he has his own life you know.”

      “But no grandchildren.” Grant pointed out bluntly. “You have to give him them. Such a child, a male child, would become his heir. The future Earl of Moray. Inescapably a fact.”

      “Oh don’t let’s take that all on yet, Grant,” Francesca burst out. She wanted them to be together, with no conflicts between them.

      But Grant had other ideas, seeing where it was taking them. “I have to. You know as well as I do we’re becoming increasingly involved. Hell what am I sacrificing here? I could fall in love with you then you’d go off home to Daddy, back to your own world, leaving me to profound wretchedness.”

      Somehow she didn’t associate him with becoming any woman’s victim. He was too much the self-contained man. “I think you have what it takes to resist me.”

      “Darn right!” Abruptly he bent his head and gave her a hard kiss. “I’ve seen these patterns before.”

      “So what’s the solution?” She was compelled to clutch him for support.

      “Neither of us allows ourselves to get carried away,” he said brusquely.

      “So much for your behaviour then. Why do you have to kiss me?”

      He laughed, a low, attractive sound with a hint of self-disgust. “That’s the hell of it, Francesca. Reconciling sexual desire with the need for good sense.”

      “So sadly there are to be no more kisses?” she challenged with a little note of scepticism.

      He looked down into her light filled eyes, aware of the complexity of his feelings. She looked so lovely, very much a piece of porcelain, a woman to be cherished, protected from damage. “Can I help it if I’m continually at war?” he asked ironically. “You’re so beautiful, aren’t you? You moved into my path like a princess from a fairy tale. I know dozens of eligible, available women. Wouldn’t I be the world’s biggest fool to pick on someone like you? A young woman who has lived a charmed life? Equally well I don’t think your father would get a big kick out of knowing you were dallying with a rough-around-the-edges man from the outback.”

      It in no way described him. “Rugged, Grant. Never rough. You’re a lot more edgy than Rafe, but he’s very much your brother and one of the most courteous men I’ve ever met.”

      “Free from my aggression, you mean.” Grant nodded in wry amusement. “It’s an inborn grace, Francesca, he inherited from our father. I’m nowhere near as simpatico.”

      Her normally sweet voice was a little tart in her throat, like citrus peel in chocolate. “Well don’t feel too badly. I like you. Temper and all. I like the way you hit on an idea and go for it. I like your breadth of vision. I like the way you make big plans. I even like your strong sense of competitiveness. What I don’t like is the way you see me as a threat.”

      He could see the hurt in her eyes but he was compelled to speak. “Because you are a threat, Francesca. A real threat. To us both.”

      “That’s awful.” She looked away abruptly over the moon-drenched home gardens.

      “I know,” he muttered sombrely, “but it makes sense.”

      Unlike a lot of men let loose at a barbeque, Brod cooked the steaks to perfection, each to their requirements from medium rare to well done. For all her whirring feelings Francesca enjoyed herself, eating a good meal, warming to the conversation, and afterwards offering to make coffee.

      “I’ll help you.” Impulsively Grant moved back his chair, willing the pleasure of the evening to go on. Brod and Rebecca had shifted seats and were now holding hands. The younger couple wouldn’t be missed for a while.

      In the huge kitchen outfitted for feeding an army, Grant thought, Francesca set him to grinding the coffee beans, the marvellous aroma rising and flowing out towards them. Francesca was busy setting out cups and saucers then assembling plates for the slices of chocolate torte she’d already cut. All very deftly, he noticed. She was very organised, very methodical, with quick, neat hands.

      “You’re managing very СКАЧАТЬ