He carried the bulk of the provisions in and he wasn’t even puffing. Sometimes it must be good to be a man. There were quite a lot of cardboard boxes. Obviously Gilly had stocked up for her visit. She never did remember Bronte didn’t eat nearly as much as she used to as a child when she’d been unfillable. Not that she’d ever put on an extra ounce. Of course as a child she’d been in touch with her legs. The modern child rode in cars and sat cross-legged in front of the television. She and Gilly had tramped the forest. Every morning, except in the rain, she had walked the track to catch the school bus. Every afternoon the bus driver left her at the same spot.
Yes, she was ideally suited to a Spartan existence.
“So, why don’t you freshen up while I put these away?” he suggested.
What a cheek! She swept her long wavy hair off her nape. “Go to the devil!”
He raised a mocking brow. “Do you mind! You’re a prickly little thing, aren’t you? Not a bit like our Gilly.”
“I’m not little at all,” she flashed. “And she’s not your Gilly. I just look little beside you. What are you, six-six?”
“Not even in high heeled boots. It’s a good thing you’re not in search of another husband, Bronte.”
More insults. “You don’t think I could get one?” She was amazed to see a man in Gilly’s kitchen. A man so at home there.
“Easily, for the pleasure of looking at you. But…”
She bristled at what he left unsaid. “Well, you don’t have to worry. Or are you married?”
“Married, no. But I’ve been Best Man.” His eyes swept over her. The high-bred face, so touchingly haughty, the delicate height, the silky masses of her long hair, curling up in the heat, the wonderful colouring. “I’m a committed bachelor at the moment. I have to notch up a few achievements before I’m ready to ask a woman to marry me.”
“Really?” She raised her brows. “I’m surprised you haven’t lots of achievements under your belt already?” The odd part, she actually was.
“I’m sorry the answer’s no. I have a law degree. Not much else.”
“Then why aren’t you practising?”
“I can make a lot more money as an entrepreneur,” he said bluntly.
She found herself pulling a face. “I hate men whose main aim in life is to make money. Seeing you’re so entrepreneurial you might like to make me a cup of tea. Much as I love Gilly I can’t drink her home grown, home roasted coffee. It tastes like the mud at the bottom of the lily pond. By the way, you shouldn’t take the eggs out of the carton. In the carton is the best way to store them not in the egg rack. What happened to Gilly’s chooks?”
He gave a surprisingly graceful shrug of his wide shoulders. “The things one learns!” He started to put the eggs back in the cardboard carton. “The chooks didn’t have much of a show with the snakes. Especially with the chook house fallen down. That’s one of the reasons I and my trusty workers got stuck into cleaning up the grounds.”
“You’re a saint!” said Bronte, giving him a little salute before disappearing down the hallway. “Saint Stephen. I can’t remember what happened to him.”
CHAPTER TWO
“WHAT did you think of Steven?” Gilly asked, looking with the greatest interest into Bronte’s face.
“What was I supposed to think of him?” Bronte parried, deadpan.
“Tell me, you little tease!” Gilly seized her hand. They were sitting in the kitchen over a cup of coffee. Gilly had only been home ten minutes, most of the conversation taken up with Gilly’s visit to the eye specialist. The problem could not be cured but thank goodness it was manageable. “Not as nice as mine!” Gilly sniffed critically at the rich fragrant brew beneath her slightly hooked nose.
Bronte had to laugh. “Which says a lot for your cast-iron stomach. Actually they’re very good Italian beans. I put them through the grinder.”
“I expect Steven was thinking of you,” Gilly said, quite fondly for a woman usually incapable of finding a good word for a man. “I must have told him you didn’t like your coffee as full bodied as my home grown roast. He’s nothing if not thoughtful.”
Bronte set down her near empty cup, with a feeling of astonishment. She stared into Gilly’s much loved face. It was seamed, the skin tanned to the texture of soft leather, stretched tight over the prominent cheek bones. Gilly’s eyebrows were still pitch-black making a piquant contrast to the abundant snow-white hair she had always worn in a thick loose bun. It was a very much out of the ordinary face, Bronte decided. “In love with him, are you?” she jibed.
Gilly responded with an unexpected sigh. “I’m ever so slowly realizing I could have wasted my life, Bronte, girl. Just because I burnt my fingers once, I shouldn’t have let it put me off men for good.”
“Gosh I thought you loved being a recluse,” Bronte looked at her great-aunt with as much surprise as if she had just expressed regret at not reaching the summit of Everest. “Why, you’re famous around here.”
“And I deserve to be. Every bit!” Gilly harrumphed. “Didn’t I clear up Hetty Bannister’s terrible leg ulcers when her doctor couldn’t? I’ve cured dozens of cases of psoriasis, eczema, rosacea, you name it, over the years. I’ve got a home remedy for everything.” Gilly leaned down to whack a mosquito that had the temerity to land on her ankle. “I hope you’re not interested in becoming a recluse yourself?”
Bronte grimaced. “I might have to, seeing I dumped the love of my life a week from the altar.”
“You’re not regretting it, are you, lovie?” Gilly’s black eyes sharpened over Bronte’s face. She was wearing new lenses in her old spectacle frames. Now she re-adjusted them on her nose.
“I’m regretting I was nuts enough to get mixed up with him in the first place,” Bronte confessed.
Gilly looked at her great-niece with loving sympathy. “That was your mother pushing you every step of the way. It was a wonder you didn’t have a breakdown. You always end up trying to please her.”
“She is my mother,” Bronte put her elbows on the table, resting her face in her hands. “You’re my fairy godmother. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Gilly. You’re my haven.”
“You bet your life I am!” Gilly frowned ferociously. “It’s not as though you were going to marry Prince Charming anyway. You can’t be too upset about it?”
“Gilly, I’ve had hell,” Bronte said simply. “I vow here and now I can’t go through it again. I’ve had to listen to Miranda’s rages—” Miranda had long since banned the word Mum “—then Carl’s, sometimes both together. It was like the start of World War III. A woman is a fool to marry for love, Miranda told me. A woman should marry for security.”
“And wasn’t she just the girl to arrange it. Though they do use the two words together,” Gilly attempted to be fair. “Marriage. Security. I think you were very brave getting out in time. The suicide rate is high enough!”
