Night in Eden (21 page)

Bryony gave one mighty, useless heave, then lay still. Slowly it began to dawn on her that nothing more was going to happen. The man who sat on her just kept saying, "Ba-eel, ba-eel. No good cry to cooly and get cooly to kill everybody." She glanced over at the huts, but the men who had been standing there were gone, melted into the afternoon shadows, the dogs with them.

The man who was sitting on her turned his head, as if he heard something. But he waited for several more minutes before he finally rolled off her and ran for the river.

Hayden saw the black man running away from his homestead and knew a moment of pure terror. He'd always managed to have a pretty good relationship with the Aborigines in the area, largely because he respected
the people and their culture in a way that few Europeans did. But he also knew that when hurt, both whites and blacks had a tendency to strike back at whatever member of the other race happened to be near at hand. More than one innocent settler in the area had had his head bashed in for some rape or other transgression committed by a neighbor up the river.

And Bryony and Simon were alone at the homestead.

He spurred his horse into the yard at a wild gallop, reining in hard when he saw Bryony picking herself up out of the dirt in front of the house.

"Where's Simon?" he demanded, still on his horse, ready to give chase if needed.

"He's in the house." She had her head bowed and was whacking her skirts in an effort to shake the dust off them.

"Thank God for that." Hayden slid to the ground beside her. "What the hell happened here? Why was that black man running away?"

"There were six of them, with their dogs," she said, still thumping her skirts. "One of the dogs tried to bite me, so I hit it. Then one of the men knocked me down. After that I thought they were going to kill me, but I think they were just scared I was going to run and tell you. What does
ba-eel
mean?"

She looked up then, and he saw her face for the first time. She was as white as one of her buckets of milk, except for the ugly bruise that was forming on her temple.

"Bloody hell." She swayed slightly, and he swept her up into his arms and carried her into the house. He kicked open the door to the parlor and laid her on one of the silk-covered settees. She tried to struggle up, saying something about her dirty dress, but he just shoved her back down again. "Lie still," he said. "I'll be right back."

For once she seemed content to do as she was told,
lying back and closing her eyes. She didn't open them again until he knelt beside her and laid a cool, damp cloth on her forehead.

"Thank you." She gave him a tremulous smile and raised her hand to her forehead, but what she touched was his hand, holding the cloth there.

It was the simplest of accidental touches, but it sent a frisson of fire jolting through him. He realized how close he was to her. He smelled her scent, a mixture of warm earth and warm woman, and it seemed as if it entered his very blood and went pounding through his body. Her lips were open, still trembling slightly from the shock. His gaze fastened on her mouth. It would be the easiest thing in the world to lean forward and taste that mouth.

Swallowing an oath, he stood up and moved to the far side of the room, putting distance between them. Christ, all he'd done was touch her, and his entire body had grown hard, taut with the urge to mate. "You shouldn't have hit their dog," he said, leaning against the doorjamb to stare through the glass at the leaden sky. "Aborigines don't like people touching their dogs."

Bryony struggled up on her elbow. "Well, I'm glad you told me that. Next time, of course, I'll let the mangy cur bite me."

He looked at her over his shoulder and regretted it. She was sitting up now. She looked dusty and disheveled and as sensual as hell. He remembered the way she'd felt in his arms when he carried her into the house, her head resting confidingly on his shoulder. It was all he could do to keep from crossing the room and sweeping her up into his arms again. Only he'd take her to his bed.

"There won't be a next time." His voice was harsher than he meant it to be. "I'll take care you're not left at the homestead alone again. It's not just the Aboriginals you need to worry about. You've probably more to fear from
bushrangers than you do from the blacks." He studied her for a moment, frowning, then said, "Do you know how to handle a gun?"

"Yes," she said, eyeing him with surprise. "Why?"

He straightened up. "Get an old tin cup from the kitchen and meet me by the outcropping of rock on the hillside behind the house."

"But—why?"

Bryony watched as he set the cup on a tree stump in front of a pile of boulders and pulled a small, elegant pistol from his waistband.

"I keep it loaded and primed in the chest beside my bed," he told her. "It doesn't have the range of a rifle, but it's easier to aim and fire, and it has the advantage of having two barrels, which means it'll give you two shots. If you're ever in trouble, all you need to know is how to aim it and how to pull the trigger."

She met his gaze squarely and took the pistol from his hand.

It was heavier than she'd expected. She lifted it with both hands and aimed it carefully at the cup. It wasn't far away—no more than fifteen paces. She took a deep breath, squeezed the trigger...

And missed.

Her eyes swiveled to Hayden. He stood off to one side, his arms crossed at his chest, his hips cocked forward, watching her. His eyes were narrowed to two blue slits, his mouth hard. She was still shaken and scared, and desperately in need of some comfort. But he had never seemed more cold or distant, and she couldn't understand why.

"Try again," he said.

She turned back to the cup and raised the pistol. She missed the cup, but hit the tree stump. "You missed again."

She thought she'd done pretty well. She turned to glare at him. "It's getting dark."

"Not that dark."

She put her hand on her hip. "A man is bigger than a tin cup."

"But a tin cup isn't moving, and it sure as hell isn't shooting back or throwing spears at you." He strolled forward and reached out to take the gun from her slack hold. His fingers just brushed the back of her hand, but she felt the impact of that touch all over, like a flash of fire.

His whole body seemed to stiffen, and she thought she heard him suck in his breath. Then she decided she must have imagined it, for he was turning away, his attention focused on the gun before returning it to his waistband. "You'll need to practice," he said, going to retrieve the tin cup. "I'll send Will Carver in from the fields early tomorrow to help you."

"No," she said without even thinking about it.

He swiveled back around and his smoldering gaze slammed into her. "What the hell do you mean, no?"

He looked so fierce, only her fear and dislike of Carver gave her the courage to say, "I mean I won't practice shooting with Will Carver. I don't like him."

He sauntered back toward her. "You will if I say so."

She sucked in a deep, shaky breath. "I won't."

He came right up to her. She could feel his heat, his anger, his raw, male power. "You forget yourself, Bryony."

Her heart was pounding so hard it seemed to be shaking her whole body, so that she could scarcely speak. "Couldn't you have one of the other men—"

"No." There was a kind of coiled tension about him, and he looked strained, as if the skin were pulled too taut across his high-boned face. "The other men are all convicts," he said. "It's a hanging offense for one of them to be caught with a gun."

"But
I'm
a convict."

One corner of his lips curled up. "Exactly. Which is why you'll do what you're told. You're going to come out here tomorrow afternoon and practice with Will Carver."

He had already started to turn toward the house when she quietly said, "I won't."

He swung slowly back around. "You will."

Her chest felt so tight it hurt, and her mouth had suddenly gone dry. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, and felt his gaze settle there. "Why can't you come back and do it yourself?"

A restless wind blew between them, fluttering the fine linen shirt that covered his hard chest. Desire flared in his eyes, naked and aching. His voice was hoarse, tortured. "You know why I can't do it."

She felt her stomach clench with a kind of wild excitement. She knew she was pushing him, but she couldn't seem to make herself back off. "Why?"

He came right up to her. Her nostrils filled with the scent of him. The scent of ripe wheat and sun-warmed fields and hot, aroused male.

And then all the self-control he'd been practicing since he'd first ridden in tonight—no, longer, she realized. Since the first, charged encounter between them in the Factory's yard—now snapped. "This is why, damn you." He snagged his fist in her hair and pulled her head back until she was staring up into his face. She opened her mouth, but her exclamation—of fear, of want—was smothered by his kiss.

It was a savage kiss, hot, hungry. He slanted his mouth roughly back and forth across hers, the breath coming harsh and searing from between his lips. It was a fierce kiss, made deliberately cruel. A kiss full of angry need and denied desires. A kiss full of months of watching and wanting. A kiss intended to punish, to intimidate.

She opened her mouth to protest, and he plunged his tongue between her lips, filling her, warning her.
This,
he seemed to be telling her,
this is what I want to do to you.

I want to fill your body with mine, to join your body with mine. I want to lay you down and take you, the way I'm taking your mouth.

And for one, wild, intoxicating moment, she lost herself in his kiss. She didn't—couldn't—pull away. Hot blood thundered through her veins, surging out of control. She leaned into him, her hands curling up around his waist to pull him closer to her aching, needing body.

A moan rumbled deep in his chest. He stroked her tongue with his, sinuously, insistently. He threaded his fingers through her hair, cradled her head in his palms as the kiss gentled, grew almost wondrous. She felt his warm breath against her face as he kissed her cheek, her brow, her eyelids.

His mouth moved slowly down her throat, licking, sucking, spreading fire. She shuddered as his hand closed over one of her breasts, kneading its fullness. Then his fingers fumbled impatiently with the fastenings of her dress. He swore softly, his hand tightening on the worn neckline, and she realized he meant to rip the thing off her.

She whimpered in panic, her fist tightening around his wrist, stopping him.

He lifted his head, his eyes narrow with lust, his breathing harsh with frustration as he stared down at her. She thought for a moment he meant to rip her dress and take her anyway, right there on the side of the hill. He shuddered. Then his lips curled into a snarl, and he let go of her dress to reach down with both hands and cup her buttocks, pulling her up against the long, throbbing heat of his erection. "This is why I need to stay away from you," he said, his breath coming ragged against her ear. "Because this is what you do to me. Do you
feel
what you do to me, Bryony?" He ground the hard ridge of his erection against her belly, and she trembled in his arms.

"I want you, Bryony. You know I want you. I want to feel you naked and beneath me. I want to fill my hands with your bare breasts and feast my eyes upon your flesh.

"I want to taste you, all of you. I want to lay you down in the grass and sink my body into yours, right here, beneath the open sky. Is that what you want, Bryony?"

She sucked in a deep, rasping breath and tried to answer him, but she couldn't.

"If that's what you want, Bryony, then tell me," he said against her ear, his voice low and suddenly gentle. "Tell me."

She stared up into the mesmerizing heat of his beloved blue eyes, and she almost said yes. She yearned for him. Her body throbbed with want of him, her heart ached with love for him. But it was her sense of who and what she was that had enabled her to survive this far, and the woman she was brought up to be would never consent to become a man's mistress. No matter how much she loved him.

"No," she whispered, her voice a raw agony.

She saw frustration rage in his eyes, his nostrils flaring with angry need. "Then, don't push me like this again, Bryony. Because if you're looking for me to overcome your pride and principles with force, I just might oblige."

Bryony stared at him in horror. Was that what she wanted? Is that what she'd tried to do here tonight? Hot with confusion and shame, she wrenched herself from his arms and ran blindly back toward the darkening homestead below.

She didn't stop running until she had slammed the door of her room behind her. And she didn't look back.

It was only later, when she lay empty and yearning in her lonely bed, that it occurred to her to wonder if the principles by which Sir Edward Peyton's niece had been raised had any real relevance to the life of a convict woman living in New South Wales.