The Man From Southern Cross Read online

  Mountford’s eyes moved past them to Annabel, in a very pretty dress the color of sunflowers. Her whole aura seemed overlaid with gold. She and Michael were standing arm in arm in conversation with their uncle, Drew Mountford, a federal senator, and Bishop Morcombe, who was to perform the ceremony. Michael must have finished some amusing story that made the others laugh, for Annabel raised her smiling face to him, her whole heart in her eyes.

  Let them be happy, he thought. God grant her a good life. They were going to miss Annabel’s sunny presence in the house.

  As for Roishin, it was taking all his effort not to go and seize her up, take her away from the circle of admiring males, including Matt, who was deeper in the throes of his devastating crush. When it was time to m was hummioff to the ceremonial grounds, he made his move, his voice clipped and very decisive. “Roishin’s with me.”

  “Who’d want to cross you, Mont?” Matt said with a grin.

  “You can lighten your grip now, David,” Roishin told him sweetly as they moved out onto the veranda.

  He looked down at her, some expression in his eyes causing her skin to flush. “Just so you know I’m not a man to ignore.”

  “That, David, is a positive understatement,” she answered.

  Tonight on Annabel’s wedding eve, Meenka the moon man held sway in the sky. He lit up the desert, drawing out all the fiery sun-baked ochers from the ancient landscape, washing it with radiant white light. Around him to the horizon glittered the attendant stars. They blossomed like water lilies, their aboriginal symbol. According to myth, when the moon man had been on earth, he’d been a great lover of women. Meenka had always featured largely in the cycle of life, the affairs of men and women. He would feature in tonight’s corroboree.

  Only the wedding party and a sprinkling of family had been invited to the ceremony. When they reached the dancing grounds, the didgeridoo boomed out a deep pulsing welcome. Mountford was greeted formally by Charlie Eaglehawk. Mountford, in turn, brought forward the promised bride and groom, who were presented with a splendid bark painting by the tribe’s finest artist.

  Greetings exchanged, Mountford and the promised couple moved back behind the wide circle of sacred fires, their smoke scented with special timbers. A big circle had been cleared in the sand, then smoothed over. The circle was defined by a ring of glittering gibbers that gave off a strange glowing light as if they were phosphorescent.

  Only men took part in the dancing. Women, the musicians, sat in the shadows with their tap sticks and possum-skin drums, and the bound rolls of tree bark they used to rhythmically pound the ground. The dancers had oiled and painted themselves; they wore elaborate headdresses of white cockatoo feathers, and their wrists and ankles were wrapped with the spent feathers of smaller birds.

  Mountford looked swiftly around, checking on his party. They were all seated on the rugs they’d brought with them for the occasion. Only Roishin remained standing beside him. Her face looked dazzled. When he touched her shoulder, he felt the shivers of fascination that ran through her body. The scene was riveting, powerful and primeval. It belonged perfectly to the wild desert heart.

  For almost an hour, they were part of a ritual as old as time. The quality of the dancing and the mime was extraordinary. The undulating chanting of the women had scarcely less impact. All through the ceremony the women continued to beat the drums with their thin long-fingered hands until, together with the rhythmic tapping of the clap sticks, the sound became hypnotic and curiously stirring. The performance was tender and triumphant in turn, passionate to the point of erotic, in keeping with the strong love magic and the intimacy of the subject. Marriage.

  Once when Roishin gave a soft involuntary shudder, he took off his jacket and slipped it around her shoulders, his hand brushing against her beautiful beasts. He wanted to cup them, take their tender weight. His thumbs ached to excite the sensitive nipples.

  God help him if the dance didn’t stop!

  She touched his arm. He found himself linking her slender fingers with his, holding her hand tightly. It was an admission. He knew that. In such a short time she had transformed his whole world.

  Yet hadn’t his father felt overwhelming desire for his beautiful Charlotte? Passion of this order could be the beginning of great pain. His very soul cried out for her, but why should the depth of his feeling be reciprocated? Why would she, such a beautiful and gifted young woman, be any more suited to the loneliness and isolation of station life than his own mother? Boredom had driven his mother into a disastrous love affair that had wrecked their lives.

  History could not be allowed to repeat itself. Unlike his father, he lacked the capacity to turn the other cheek. He wouldn’t sit idly by if his wife spurned him. He knew he had within himself the potential for ruthless action. For vengeance.

  Chapter Five

  SOME THIRTY MINUTES before the ceremony was to begin, Mountford presented himself outside the bridesmaids’ dressing room.

  At his knock, his cousin Tiffany, a dark honey blonde, came to the door looking resplendent in her gown of mauve shot with blue. A matching coronet, embroidered, beaded and beribboned with a medieval look about it, completed the outfit. He looked briefly over her shoulder, saw the other bridesmaids scattered around like so many roses in full bloom. The light gleamed on their magical dresses. The whole atmosphere of the room was redolent of perfume, romance and excitement.

  “Talk about knock-’em-dead handsome!” Tiffany went up on her toes to kiss him full on the mouth, something she’d been doing since she’d turned sixteen. “If ever a guy can wear formal gear, it’s you, Mont. Boutonniere and all!”

  “Thanks, Tiffany,” he said wryly. “You haven’t left lipstick all over me, I hope?”

  “Only the normal amount.” She grinned. “Just kidding, Mont.”

  “You look ravishing!”

  She closed her eyes. “Oh, God, Mont, do you mean that?”

  “I certainly do.”

  Vanessa, a vision of soft beauty in her rose pink gown, hurried over. “I love that silver gray vest and cravat.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t tell me it matches my eyes.” That had been Sasha’s first comment.

  “I’ll only think it.” She smiled.

  “May I come in for a moment, Van? I have a little memento for all the bridesmaids.”

  “Why do you have to be my cousin?” Tiffany moaned. “You’ve done so much already, Mont!” Vanessa, used to Tiffany’s antics, ignored her.

  “It’s only a commemorative thing, Van, and it will give me great pleasure.”

  “Girls,” Tiffany called over her shoulder, “gather round.”

  He set the box he was carrying on a table. Four smaller boxes were inside, all bearing a well-known jeweler’s crest. He had commissioned these items many months ago and was pleased with the results.

  He presented a box to each of the four smiling women. Three blondes and one with gleaming dark hair sliding down her back. With the small presents went a kiss on the cheek, which the irrepressible Tiffany professed to enjoy immensely.

  “Mont, how beautiful!” Vanessa said with a delighted cry that was taken up by the other bridesmaids. She held a commemorative pin of the Southern Cross constellation to the light. Fashioned in eighteen-carat gold, the points of the constellation were represented by precious stones. Diamonds formed the upright of the cross, a ruby to the east, an emerald to the west, a sapphire for the smaller star tucked in under the cross beam.

  “I hope you can find someplace to pin them. Annabel’s gifts are exquisite.” They were already around the bridesmaids’ necks—circlets of fine-quality pearls with the clasps sitting perfectly in the hollow of their throats. Each clasp was a large semiprecious stone chosen to enhance their dresses. A garnet for Vanessa, a topaz for Roishin, a tourmaline for Leith and an amethyst for Tiffany.

  Now, pins in hand, the four made a rush for the full-length mirrors that had been set around the room.

  Mountford made a move toward Roi
shin, acting on the strongest compulsion. She looked up at him with stars in her eyes. “This is lovely, David. I’ll treasure it all my life.”

  As I’ll treasure the sight of you. Her beauty dazzled him like a shaft of sunlight. Where was all his precious hard-won detachment? He felt like a stranger to himself.

  “Pin it on for me,” she invited, and passed the small adornment to him.

  He noticed Vanessa pinning hers to her headdress, but he caught the band of Roishin’s low curving neckline midway between her shoulder and the cleft between her breasts.

  “I think here.” His fingers touched her warm skin. Desire came rushing at him like a great wave. An exquisite scent, half floral perfume, half her own essence, tantalized his nostrils. “You should be painted in that dress.” He turned her so she was facing the mirror, his own tall frame reflected behind her.

  “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day,’” he recited, holding his voice to a light sardonic tone. Unaccountably he saw attached to her gleaming coronet a veil. A traditional bridal veil. It fell to the floor and stood out around her in a cloud of finest tulle. An illusion, of course, created by his imagination and the quality of the light.

  “David, what is it?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Nothing,” he said dismissively. His vision had overwhelmed him, but he knew better than to tell her what he’d seen, what he felt. The French had a term for it, as they had a term for everything. Coup de foudre. A lightning bolt. It had struck him with relentless force.

  When he turned around, Sasha was in the room for her final inspection of the bridesmaids. She murmured aloud with pleasure, announcing that they looked as if they’d stepped from a medieval garden. Vanessa pointed to the jeweled pin in her coronet.

  “I know, darling. Aren’t they lovely? Mont is so thoughtful.” Sasha was looking exceptionally chic herself in a stunning two-piece suit with a fitted jacket and a long straight skirt. The color was her favorite powder blue, and she was wearing a magnificent diamond-and-sapphire brooch with matching earrings, very valuable family jewelry Mountford had seen only rarely.

  Sasha’s small fingers fluttered. She made minute adjustments, primping a billowing sleeve here, twitching the opulent folds of a skirt there.

  “We’ll have to scoot back to Belle, Mum,” Vanessa reminded her.

  “Bye, bye, my angels!” Sasha called. “This is one of the happiest days of my life.” She blinked back tears. “A little bit sad, too.”

  LATE AFTERNOON saw them all gathered in the ballroom, which had drawn gasps of pleasure and admiration from family and guests. Sasha had taken her place. Bishop Morcombe, Michael and his attendants were in position.

  Mountford looked down at his stepsister’s small beloved face. Love was a bloom on a woman. An illumination. Annabel looked radiant, though her blue eyes glistened with suppressed tears. Because of her small stature—she was barely five foot three—she wore a short flaring veil attached to a pearl-and-gold crown that gave her height and reflected the design on the embroidered bodice, long sleeves and hemline of her beautiful silk gown. The bridal bouquet had been scaled so as not to overwhelm her, but the flowers in it were many. Roses abounded, extraordinarily beautiful, as were the floral arrangements that had been placed all around the ballroom. He had to admit Colin and Darren had been worth every penny.

  “Be happy, Belle,” he murmured. “This is your big day.”

  She swallowed what was obviously a lump in her throat and gave him a melting smile.

  The entrance music began and Annabel took his right arm. They began their slow procession with the bridesmaids walking behind them in pairs, Vanessa and Roishin, Leith and Tiffany. As many weddings as Mountford had attended over the years, as many times as he’d been best man, this wedding was very, very special. The first in the family. Everyone had expected he himself would marry long before this, that he, the elder, the brother, would be the first. He saw now his prized bachelor state hadn’t been a question of not getting involved. No woman had moved him. Until Roishin. No other woman ever would. Not like this. She had possessed him from the very first moment. Did she know it? She was highly intelligent, intuitive. She knew that his curious attitu to her revolved around an old tragedy. She had made him think about his mother. She had created fleeting confusions about his parents’ marriage. About the whole business.

  He had to decide how to respond.

  When Bishop Morcombe asked the traditional question, “Who gives this woman to this man?”, he pressed his thumb against his sister’s soft palm, offering her in an unspoken gesture his love and support. For life. Whatever life held in store for his sisters, they knew they could always count on him.

  A full two minutes into the ceremony, with Sasha beside him trying unsuccessfully not to cry, the sunset came pouring through the soaring casements in such a rich tide of color it embellished everything it touched. Audible gasps of delight rippled around the room, as though the visitation of the sunset was a most significant and happy omen. A few feet away from Mountford, Annabel smiled ecstatically. He touched Sasha’s hand, looked into her dissolving eyes. At that moment, too, he remembered his father. Neither could he escape a momentary vision of his mother, a memory of the two of them standing side by side.

  Mountford lifted his head and glanced around the gallery. Every face looked serious and intent, acknowledging this as one of the greatest, most crucial and emotional moments in life. When he married, there would be no mother of the groom for him. No father. No parents. Only Sasha, who had shown herself to be a woman of great heart. He remembered he hadn’t wanted his father to remarry, but Sasha had won him over. It hadn’t been easy, because he’d been a wildly unsettled child. Barely a year later the twins had arrived. Amazingly he had loved them. They had become a family.

  THE USE OF THE GREAT HALL for the reception was an extravagant success. In the words of one guest, it looked like “a grand romantic fantasy,” which was exactly what Annabel had wanted. Guests gazed around in openmouthed delight. With the floral arrangements all in place and the candelabra glowing, the billowy ceiling hangings were shown off to magnificent effect.

  “You certainly know how to do things!” Trish Wright, the best-known society columnist, told them during the receiving line.

  The bridal dinner, chosen by Annabel, was a feast of flavors, skillfully presented and served. Honey-glazed duck or roast sirloin of beef followed cornets of trout or breasts of quail on wild rice. The main course came with a variety of vegetables. There were a number of desserts, including Michael’s favorites—soufflés, luscious tortes, strawberry shortcakes, chocolate-truffle tarts, all arranged on a fifty-foot-long dessert table dominated by a four-tier wedding cake, a work of art in itself.

  When it came time for Mountford to open the speeches, he kept his short. He didn’t need any notes. He knew what he wanted to say. From the looks on the faces turned to him he realized his simple words had struck a solemn chord, so he ended with a funny story about Annabel when she was growing up. The hall broke into laughter and he immediately proposed a toast to the health and happiness of the bride and groom.

  May they live happily ever after, he thought. I want them to be happy. Above all, now at this moment, he wanted to be happy himself. It was time for him to catch hold of his life. Live it. He’d struggled too long with a burden.

  IT WAS SEVERAL DAYS before the household could settle to anything resembling normal routines. Annabel’s wedding had been a great ceremony, marking a turning point in family life, and everyone felt deflated. Though she tried her best, Vanessa couldn’t hide the intensity of her feelings. She had lost her other half. The bond between the twins had been so very, very close that some of the life seemed to go out of Vanessa as she strove to make the adjustment.

  “It’ll take time,” Sasha confided to Mountford, “because of how close they were. Annabel, happy as she is, will feel the separation, too. You know what they were like, Mont. When Annabel hurt herself, Vanessa cried.”

 
; At the family’s request, Roishin had stayed on a few extra days, but it was time for her to return to her own world. “Why not let Van go back to Sydney with Roishin?” Mountford suggested. “For that matter, you could go, too, Sasha. Both of you need a little company right now. I have to admit there’s a certain melancholy in the air.”

  And so it was arranged.

  But what about him? He was a man and he was expected to manage on his own. For the first time in his life, he had doubts about his ability to do so. He’d become very used to having Roishin in his home. Her hold on him, no matter how short the time had been, was profound. Yet he had decided not to speak. Not yet.

  She had come to Southern Cross for a vast celebration—hardly a typical experience of life in the outback. Annabel’s wedding had been a brilliant and memorable occasion. “There’s never been a wedding like it!” Trish Wright reported in her newspaper. The homestead had been filled with people. Bright, intelligent, sophisticated people, who had made the house resound with their conversation and laughter. But there were long months at a time when the family scarcely saw a soul. Unless one coped well with isolation, knew how to use one’s inner resources, relationships could founder. It had happened before. It could happen again. He might glory in Roishin’s beauty and grace, in the ease and delight of her companionship, but what about her needs, her interests? Running Southern Cross and supervising the chain of Mountford pastoral properties was his life. Any woman he married would have to be self-reliant to survive. Often she would be alone. And loneliness was a time bomb waiting to go off.

  His thoughts made him so restless Sasha accused him of stalking around like a panther. He just hoped his eyes didn’t give out the same wild glitter when they fell on Roishin. He knew she was wary of him at some level. Maybe in love with him, too, but not liking him at all. He wrestled with the whole thing for hours. It wasn’t fair to Roishin, he thought. As a child he’d been infinitely betrayed. Why should he blame her for that? Just because she was beautiful in his mother’s fashion? Yet his fears wouldn’t fade.