The English Bride. Margaret Way
share his hopes and dreams, his profoundest inner expectations. A woman he belonged with as surely as she belonged with him.
The first time he met Francesca de Lyle when he was in his teens he had felt an instant click, a deep rapport, now years later he was well into fantasising about her. Why then was he so persuaded an intimate relationship with Francesca could only bring danger to them both? Maybe he wasn’t ready for any deep relationship after all. Hell, wasn’t he too damned busy to commit. Nothing should be on his mind but work. Building up the business. He had such ideas.
A branch of Cameron Airways was now carrying mail and freight but he’d had recent discussions in Brisbane the state capital a good thousand miles away, with Drew Forsythe of Trans Continental Resources regarding building a helicopter fleet for use in minerals, oil and natural gas exploration.
He’d met the very high profile Forsythe and his beautiful wife, Eve, on several occasions but that was the first time they’d ever got into really talking business. And he had Francesca of all people to thank for that.
Never one, apparently, to let a good public relations opportunity go by, Francesca who had struck an immediate chord with the Forsythes when they had all been seated together at a charity banquet had brought up the idea in the course of an enjoyable evening.
Beautiful blue eyes sparkling she put it to Forsythe: “Doesn’t this make good sense to you? Grant knows the Interior like the back of his hand and he’s absolutely committed to the big picture, isn’t that right, Grant?” She had leaned back towards him then, so heart stoppingly graceful in her strapless satin gown, her lovely cool, clear English voice, full of support and encouragement. Ah, the bright aura of breeding and privilege!
And she was clever. If some sort of a deal ever came off, and he was working on it right now, he owed her. A glorious romantic weekend away together, he fantasised. One of those jewel-like Barrier Reef islands that had those luxurious little self-contained bungalows down near the beach. Though he would have to watch her in the hot Queensland sun. She had the flawless porcelain complexion that so often set off Titian hair. How strange she should want to fit into his background on the fringe of the great desert heart. It was almost like trying to grow an exquisite pink rosebush on the banks of a dried-up clay pan. For all his deep and immediate attraction to her they were an impossible match. And he better not lose sight of it.
He lost sight of it less than two minutes later when Francesca herself appeared, running down the side verandah and leaning over the white wrought-iron balustrade wreathed with a prolific lilac trumpeted vine that gave off a seductive fragrance in the golden heat.
“Grant!” she called, waving happily. “How lovely to see you. Of course I heard the chopper.” A singing sweetness showed in every line of her body. Sweetness and excitement.
“Come here,” he ordered very gently as he came alongside, reaching up a long arm to pull her lovely head down to him. Despite all the little lectures he gave himself, despite all natural caution, every atom of his being was focused on kissing her. He even murmured her name unknowingly as he put his mouth over hers, sensation beating through him like the powerful whoosh of a rotor. What in hell made him do it? But he was a man and keenly physical.
When he let her go she was breathless, trying not to tremble, a deep pink colour running across the fine skin of her cheeks, sparkling lights in the depths of her eyes. Her beautiful flame-coloured hair had come loose from its clasp and spilled around her face and over her shoulders. “That’s some greeting!” Her voice was little more than a soft tremble.
“You shouldn’t look at me that way,” he warned, still feeling ripples of pleasure moving down through his body, pooling in his loins.
“What way?” She gave a shaky laugh, feeling enslaved by his enormous dash, moving back along the wide verandah as he resumed his journey to the front of the house.
“You know, Francesca,” he half growled, half mocked. “Lord are you a sight for sore eyes!” He ran his gaze over her, from the tip of her radiant head to her toes. His hazel eyes, which could turn grey or green according to his mood, were now a clear green beneath the brim of his black akubra. They scanned her face, her swan’s neck, the slender body with its willow waist, her light limbs, a muscle in his hard jaw lightly flicking.
It was impossible to cast his glance away so caught up was he in her feminine beauty, the soft ravishing prettiness he found irresistible. She was wearing riding gear. Such riding gear! The aristocratic young English lady from the grand stately home and one of the most egalitarian young women he had ever known.
Her short-sleeved cream silk blouse lightly skimmed her delicate breasts and was tucked into tight-fitting cream jodhpurs. Highly polished, very expensive, tan coloured riding boots adorned her small feet. There wasn’t an ounce of excess weight on her. She had the neatest, sleekest little butt and good straight legs. It nearly mesmerised him just to see her move along the verandah, near dancing to keep up with him. To his overheated mind, and body, make no mistake about it it thrummed like electricity, she appeared to be floating, so lightly were her feet touching the timber floor-boards.
“A hard day?” Francesca asked him as he mounted the short flight of stone steps to the verandah, excited, not her usual calm, contained self at all.
He leaned against the rail with slouching elegance, smiling at her with the unblinking cat’s eyes she found so wildly attractive. “I’m over it now I’ve seen you,” he drawled. He was, too. “What have you been doing with yourself all day?”
“Come and I’ll tell you.” She indicated the comfortable white wicker furniture. “I expect you’d like a cold beer? Brod always does.”
He nodded and took off his hat using it like a Frisbee to skim unerringly onto the head of a wooden sculpture.
“Rebecca will be here in a moment,” Francesca slid into the chair he held out for her. Rebecca was mistress of Kimbara, Brod’s new wife. “We’ve been organising a picnic race meeting for most of the day. We thought it would be a change from the usual polo. Rebecca worries about Brod when he plays. He’s such a daredevil. For that matter so are you.” She actually shivered at some of her recollections. Polo was a dangerous game. Especially the way these fellows played it.
“So you worry about me as well?” He held her with his eyes.
“I worry about you all,” she returned lightly before she drowned in his expression. It struck her more than ever how physically alike Grant and his brother Rafe were. The rangy height, the golden good looks, though Grant was tawnier.
Both had great presence. Both wore achievement like a badge. If there were a difference, Rafe had a kind of courtliness about him. There was no other word for it. Grant showed more “temper” a high mettled energy and determination that didn’t sit all that comfortably with everyone. To put it in a nutshell Grant Cameron could be difficult. Add to that, he had a habit of speaking his mind, without holding back. He was full of energy and had a macho quality, an absolute manliness that characterised these men of the outback. In some respects he even seemed like a creature from another world. A creature of vast open spaces with no boundaries. The image of a splendid young lion sat easily on him. He was her first taste of a thrilling excitement that contained a kernel of caution. She knew her feelings for Grant Cameron were getting right out of hand.
Now he knit his dark golden brows together, staring across at her, his strong brown arms on the circular glass-topped table steely with muscle. He was wearing the uniform of his company in serviceable khaki the blue and gold logo on the breast pocket. He looked great, the afternoon breeze ruffling his thick tawny hair with its pronounced deep wave.
“So what’s the verdict, my lady?” He came closer to grasping her hand. Never letting her go.
She laughed and blushed at the same time. “Was I staring? Sorry. I was just thinking how much alike you and Rafe are. Growing more so as you—”
“Mature?” he cut in swiftly, his relaxed easy drawl taking on a faint glittery edge.
“Oh, Grant,” she said in gentle reproach. Francesca knew the brothers