Australia: In Bed with a King. Emma Darcy
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couldn’t be called a song. There was no melody. Yet the interplay of sounds touched some deep soul chord that suddenly reminded Miranda of what Nathan had said earlier about his life being bound up in this land—ancient land—where survival reduced everything to basic needs.
She hadn’t comprehended the full context of what he was saying but she had a glimmering of it now…the stark simplicity of choices laid out by nature, a cycle to be followed…birth, growth, mating, reproducing, death…an endless replenishment as long as the earth kept feeding it.
No romantic gloss.
Just life as it really was, underneath all the trimmings that civilisation had manufactured to sweeten it.
The playing ended on a long, deep, mournful note, which seemed to reverberate through Miranda, making her tingle in a shivery way. The Aboriginal man shouldered his didgeridoo. The group of six applauded, their enthusiastic clapping sounding totally wrong to Miranda, somehow trivialising an experience that should have been savoured in silence.
She was frowning over it when Nathan turned to look at her, his eyes hard and cynical. “The performance not worth your applause?”
She stared at him, feeling his contempt for the lack of understanding that connected what they’d just heard to a performance to be clapped. “Not everyone has your background, Nathan,” she excused.
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to show some mark of appreciation?”
She struggled to express what she’d felt. “To me it was a communication, not a concert.”
“Oh? And what did it communicate to you?”
His eyes were a pitiless blue, scorning any sensitivity from her. His challenge was a deliberate ploy to con-firm the place he’d put her in—a woman without soul, a woman who cared only for herself, disregarding the hurt she might give to others.
Miranda’s gaze bored straight back at him, resentment goading her into flouting his superficial and insulting reading of her character. “It gave me an insight into your life. And the life of those who have inhabited this land. How it must have always demanded they be attuned to its heartbeat.”
Her reply visibly jolted him. His chin butted up as though hit by a punch of disbelief. His eyes flared as though she’d done serious violence to his feelings. For a few nerve-shaking moments, she felt caught in a fiercely questing force that tore at everything she was. Then just as suddenly it was withdrawn, Nathan turning away and walking on.
Denial? Frustration?
Feeling as though she’d been pulped and tossed aside, Miranda had to recollect herself again before following. The deep drifts of sand made walking heavy going, but clearly the cavern was their destination so there wasn’t far to go now, and at least she wouldn’t be alone with Nathan here.
Having consoled herself with this thought, she was dismayed to see the group of six getting to their feet and gathering up their bags. They trailed after the Aboriginal man who was skirting the pool and heading towards her and Nathan. Then she realised he was dressed in a tour guide uniform and had obviously been hired by these people to give them the benefit of his specialised knowledge.
“G’day, Nathan,” he greeted familiarly, his face wreathed in a welcoming grin.
“G’day to you, Albert,” came the warm reply, a tone of voice Miranda hadn’t heard for some time. “You’ll be haunting the tourists if you keep laying that on them.”
The Aboriginal laughed as though it was a great joke. He patted his didgeridoo. “Only calling up good spirits.” He flicked a twinkling glance at Miranda before adding, “Maybe you need them.”
“Maybe I do,” Nathan said with a nod of appreciation. “This is Miranda Wade. She’s taken over management of Tommy’s resort. Albert’s a tribal elder around these parts, Miranda.”
She offered her hand. “Thank you for playing. That was quite magical.”
He shook it, his dark eyes shining happily at her comment. “Always good magic, Miss Wade. You staying on for a while?”
“Yes.”
He released her hand and tipped his hat to Nathan. “Could be the right spirit for you, oldfella.”
He strolled off, chuckling to himself. Nathan threw her a look that simmered with scepticism, then trudged on towards the pool. The sand firmed as they neared it, much to Miranda’s relief. Albert’s group passed them, breaking their conversation to say “Hi!” Miranda smiled and returned their greetings. Nathan merely nodded, though Miranda noted he drew long appraising looks from the women in the group.
Physically he’d have an impact on any woman, she thought, though he probably wouldn’t expend his en-ergy on many. An extremely self-contained man, she decided, watching him stride forward around the pool to the flat rocks which would undoubtedly serve as their resting place for refreshment. Everything about him seemed to shout elemental male, and it was true what he’d said, she couldn’t deny his effect on her.
In a primitive society, he’d be the prize mate to get. No denying that, either. She had no doubt he could and would endure anything from this land, and still make it work for him. In some quintessential way, he belonged to it…as hard as these rocks, and just as unforgiving.
Maybe she was a fool to pass up an intimate involvement with him. Not that he was likely to give her a second chance after this morning’s contretemps.
Might it have developed into something very special? Some wanton core in her pulsed yes and it was difficult to argue away. Nevertheless, she worked hard at it.
Sexual attraction was no assurance of anything working out well. And why should she believe what Nathan King said about himself and his relationships with other women? He’d undoubtedly bedded the woman who’d chosen to marry another man. What did that say about him?
He dropped his bag onto a large flat rock. Miranda settled for one about a metre short of his. Since the cavern shaded them from the sun, she took off her hat, welcoming the cooler air here. In an attempt to ignore the tension of having to share some inactive time with Nathan, she emptied her bag, placing the plastic container of melon, which she’d sliced into finger-size pieces on the rock between them, then taking a long drink from the bottle of mineral water everyone had told her to take, warning of dehydration.
“I have a thermos of coffee. Would you like some?” he asked.
“Yes. Please.”
He used the same “table” rock to set out mugs and fill them, then produced two plastic containers of sandwiches. “Bacon, lettuce, tomato and cheese,” he informed her. “You’ll need something more substantial than melon. Help yourself.”
“You, too,” she invited.
They sat, munching and drinking in a loaded silence.
Eventually Miranda decided to settle a harmless point of curiosity. “Why did Albert call you ‘oldfella’? I wouldn’t call you old.”
“It relates to my family having been linked to this area for more years than Albert has lived. Longevity is counted in generations. Five generations here makes all of the Kings ‘oldfellas.”’
“I see,” she murmured, mentally kicking herself for even momentarily regretting her earlier rejection of him. A member of the King family would never seriously link himself with her, any more than a member of the Hewson family would, as Bobby had finally spelled out to her.
“What do you see, Miranda?”
She shrugged, meeting the searing question in his eyes with the inescapable fact she’d known from the beginning. “That I don’t belong and you do.”
“Where do you belong?” he asked.
She broke into laughter, shaking her head over the emptiness of that question. “Nowhere. That’s part of why