A Bride At Birralee. Barbara Hannay
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down that tucker last night without any problems. He frowned. That was how his sisters had been when they’d been expecting. Fine one minute, then suddenly dizzy or racing to the bathroom.
Was she pregnant? No, surely not.
His head shot back. She damn well could be pregnant.
The more he thought about it, the more he was sure he’d hit on the truth. Of course she was pregnant. That was why she’d hightailed it all the way from Sydney looking for Scott. That’s why she’d been so upset.
Damn and blast you, little brother. What have you gone and done now?
If Stella was pregnant…If she was carrying Scott’s child…If she was planning on heading back to the city…disappearing again as quickly as she’d appeared…taking Scott’s baby with her…
He slapped his palm against the rough trunk of a bloodwood tree and stared blankly into the distance, while tumultuous thoughts raged. Thoughts of Scott, of his family, of his own guilt and grief, his parents’ heartbreak.
Thoughts of Scott in Stella’s bed.
Groaning, he kicked another loose stone. Distasteful as it was, he had little choice; he had to ask her. If Scott was leaving behind a son or daughter, he needed to know.
Fists clenched, he turned reluctantly and marched towards the house.
Stella was in the kitchen, hovering in front of the stove and squinting at the dials. She was wearing denim cut-offs and a simple white T-shirt and her feet were bare except for the silver ankle chain with its blue glass beads.
She turned and smiled at him warily. ‘Good morning.’
He nodded. ‘Morning. Did you sleep well?’
‘Like a log, thank you. I didn’t realise how tired I was.’ She pointed to the stove. ‘I thought I’d make a cup of tea, but I haven’t quite worked out how to drive your stove.’
‘It’s fairly straightforward,’ he muttered.
‘Uh-uh.’ She shook her head. ‘An electric kettle is straightforward. A stove this size requires a licence to operate. I’m surprised you have something so complicated way out in the bush.’
‘We needed it when all the family lived at home.’ He reached past her to flick appropriate switches. ‘My mother takes her cooking seriously.’
Stella gave a wry grin as she shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I’m a victim of the microwave era. If it doesn’t light up with little messages telling me what to do, I’m lost.’
She ran slim fingers through her shiny black hair. Her hands, like her feet, were elegantly shaped, although her fingernails weren’t painted. The movements of her fingers in her hair made the silky strands shift and fall back into place. To Callum, the gesture seemed as natural and pretty as a jabiru stretching and folding its glossy wings.
‘What would you like for breakfast?’ he asked, unhappy to find himself still thinking about her hair, her hands, her feet.
She grimaced. ‘I’m not sure. I thought I’d just try a cuppa to start with.’
‘You’re not hungry?’ he challenged.
‘Not really. Maybe some dry toast.’ She looked away.
He took a deep breath. ‘You were sick—just before.’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Nothing? Are you sure it’s nothing, Stella?’
Her head swung back quickly and her grey eyes were defensive as she stared at him. ‘Of course I’m sure.’
He knew she was lying.
‘I can’t let you head off on the long journey back to Sydney if you’re not well. And if you can’t manage more to eat than dry toast—’
She turned swiftly away from him again. He couldn’t be sure but he thought she seemed to be trembling.
‘Stella.’
She shook her head as if she wanted him to leave her alone. Then her chin lifted and he saw again the same haughty strength that he’d sensed in her yesterday. Or was it just stubbornness?
When he stepped towards her, she continued to keep her back to him, but he settled his hands firmly on her shoulders and forced her to turn around, too tense to take his time searching for delicate ways to pose his question. ‘Stella, are you pregnant?’
‘No!’ she snapped and she tried to jerk her shoulders out of his grasp. ‘Anyway, it—it’s none of your business.’
He kept a tight grip on her shoulders. ‘If you’re carrying my brother’s baby, I consider it my business.’
Her eyes blazed with sudden anger. ‘Why? What would you want to do about it?’
‘Are you telling me it’s true?’ His breathing felt suddenly constricted. ‘You are pregnant?’
He let go and she jumped back quickly, like a trapped animal escaping.
‘I’m telling you it’s got nothing to do with you. I don’t want you or your family trying to take over my life just—just because—’
‘Just because you’re having Scott’s baby,’ he finished for her. Out of the blue, he felt his eyes sting and his throat close over. Spinning on the heel of his riding boot, he marched away from her, clear across the room, kicking a chair out of his way as he went.
Bloody hell! He mustn’t lose it and make a complete fool of himself in front of this woman, but the thought of Scott’s seed blossoming inside her made him feel damn emotional.
Scotty Roper was gone for ever, but he’d left behind a part of himself. And, God help him, Callum couldn’t block out the thought of his brother and Stella together—making that little baby—making love.
Whirling around again, he found that she was close behind him, standing with her hands clasped in front of her, as if she’d been thinking about touching him and hadn’t dared, or hadn’t wanted to.
‘Are you quite certain it’s Scott’s baby?’ he asked coldly.
The way she closed her eyes and compressed her lips told him she hated the question and hated him for asking. ‘It’s definitely his,’ she said, matching his cold tone. ‘And if you plan to stand there and make moral judgements about me, I’m going straight out that door and taking off for Cloncurry without even thanking you for your reluctant hospitality.’
‘OK. OK.’ He raised his hands in a halting action, then let out a long breath. Steam was pouring out of the kettle on the stove and he grabbed the opportunity to change the subject. ‘I’ll get you that cup of tea.’
In a weird way Stella felt better now Callum knew about the baby. It felt as if at least some of her burden was lifting from her shoulders.
Sharing the news with someone, even Callum, after keeping it to herself for so long brought instant relief. But she would have to make him promise not to tell the rest of his family—certainly not his father. Not the Senator!
He handed her a bright red mug and she took a seat at the table. Snatching the chair he’d kicked aside, he turned it back to front and straddled it. Stella tried not to notice the very masculine stretch of his jeans over his strong, muscular thighs. He propped his elbows on the top rung of the chair’s ladder back and held his mug in both hands.
She took a sip of tea. It was hot and sweet, just how she needed it. And her stomach seemed to accept it. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘this is my problem, Callum. You don’t have to worry about it.’
He eyed her thoughtfully. ‘Did Scott know about the baby?’
She shook her head.
‘And you came out here to tell him.’
‘Yes.’