The Bridesmaid's Wedding

“I want you, Rafe,” she said.

Her whole body quivered with nerves and desire. “I want you to hold me close.”

This nightmare of Ally’s could be no more than trickery, he thought with sudden anger. “I see.” Rafe’s voice was harsh. “We make love until dawn, then you fly off to Sydney and your brilliant career.”

“How can you be so cold to me?” Ally implored, holding his hand to her breast so he could feel the chaos inside her. “I know I did something dreadful, but can’t you try to understand?”

“Ally, please, no more. I’ve spent years killing off my feeling for you. Roll over and go back to sleep. I’m not even tempted.”

“You’re in as much pain as I am.” How could he not be aware of the passion that had always been between them? “I want you, Rafe.” Her lips parted on a shaky breath. “I need you.” It came out as a quick sob. She needed to tell him how much she loved him. How she had always loved him. Always would….

Dear Reader,

Ever since I can remember, our legendary Outback has had an almost mystical grip on me. The cattlemen have become cultural heroes, figures of romance, excitement and adventure. These tough, dynamic, sometimes dangerous men carved out their destinies in this new world of Australia as they drove deeper and deeper into the uncompromising Wild Heart with its extremes of stark grandeur and bleached cruelty.

The type of man I like to write about is a unique and definable breed—rugged, masculine and full of vigor. This Outback man is strong yet sensitive, courageous enough to battle all the odds in order to claim the woman of his dreams.

The Bridesmaid’s Wedding is the second of three linked books where I explore the friendships, loves, rivalries and reconciliations between two great Australian pioneering families. They are truly LEGENDS OF THE OUTBACK.

The Bridesmaid’s Wedding

Margaret Way

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

BRISBANE in June. Sky meets the bay in an all-consuming blue, glorious in the sunshine. Brilliant flights of lorikeets dart in and out of the blossoming bottlebrushes, drunk on an excess of honey. Chattering parties of grey and pink galahs pick over the abundant grass seeds on the footpaths, not even bothering to fly off as someone approaches. The twenty-seven larkspur hills that surround the river city glow with wattles, the national emblem, a zillion puffballs of golden yellow flowers drenching the city in irresistible fragrance.

In the parks and gardens, the ubiquitous eucalyptus turn on an astonishing colour display as do the bauhinias, every branch quivering with masses of flowers—bridal white, pink, purple and cerise—like butterflies in motion, a foil for the pomp of the great tulip trees with their scarlet cups. All over suburbia, poinsettias dazzle the eye while the bougainvillea, never to be outdone, cover walls, fences, pergolas and balconies with sweeping arches of pink, crimson, purple, gold and bronze, but none more beautiful than the exquisite bridal white. A surpassing sight.

It was on just such a June afternoon, beloved by brides, Broderick Kinross, master of the historic cattle station Kimbara, in the giant state of Queensland’s far southwest, was married to his beautiful Rebecca in the garden of the graceful Queensland colonial Rebecca’s father, a retired airline captain, had bought when he and his second family returned home from his long-time base in Hong Kong. The wedding ceremony and reception were deliberately low key in accordance with the bride’s and groom’s wishes, with family and close friends, but a huge Outback reception was planned on Kimbara when the couple returned from their honeymoon in Venice.

Now in the rear garden bordered by the deep, wide river, some seventy guests were assembled, revelling in the sparkling sunshine and the stirring uplift of emotions. Even the breeze gave off soft tender sighs, showering blossom out of the trees like so much confetti. All faces wore smiles. Some like the bridegroom’s aunt, the internationally known stage actress, Fiona Kinross, superbly dressed in yellow silk with a marvellously becoming confection on her head, registered transports of rapture. This was a wonderful day; the family wedding, the culmination of a great romance.

As the hour approached, everyone looked expectantly towards the house when quite suddenly the bride’s four attendants, three bridesmaids and one little flower girl, the bride’s enchanting little stepsister Christina, appeared, moving down the soaring palm-dotted lush sweep of lawn to some wondrous floating music by Handel.

Each bridesmaid was a natural beauty. Each had fabulous long hair, sable, titian and blonde, left flowing over bare shoulders, with tiny braids at the sides and back woven with seed peals, miniature silk roses in the same shade as their gowns with flashes of gold leaves. Their ankle-length sheath gowns of delustred satin showed off their willowy figures to perfection, the strapless bodices decorated with delicate pearl and crystal beading that glittered in the sunlight, the precise shades of the gowns chosen to be wonderfully complementary, rose pink, jacaranda blue, a delicate lime green.

In their hands they carried small trailing bouquets of perfect white butterfly orchids on a bed of ferns. The little flower girl dressed in lilac silk organdie with a wide satin sash, was smiling angelically, scattering rose petals from her beautifully decorated flower basket. All four of them shimmering in the radiant light, irresistible in their youth and beauty.

“Oh, the magic of being young!” Fee whispered with a catch of emotion to the tall, distinguished man standing next to her. “They might have stepped out of a painting!”

A sentiment apparently shared by the other guests who broke into cries of delight and a great wave of “Aahs.”

Only one person felt strangely alone, almost isolated, but no one would have ever guessed it. Rafe Cameron, best man, with his golden leonine mane, fine features and air of authority and pride. Rafe had his own thoughts, far-ranging yet fiercely close. Thoughts that stirred an unwelcome rush of bitterness that had no part in this wonderful day. But Rafe was human. A strong man of correspondingly strong emotions who had known rejection and heartache and never got used to it.

Now he stood rooted, staring up at the ravishing tableau, his eyes drawn hypnotically towards the chief bridesmaid in her beautiful rose gown. Ally Kinross. Brod’s much loved younger sister. The girl who had stolen his heart and left him with a bitter dark void in exchange. It was an agony to him how beautiful she looked, a smile of utter luminosity on her face, her magnificent curly dark hair—cosmic hair he had once labelled it in fun—hair with a life of its own, tracking down her back, the sun striking all the sparkling little gems woven into the long strands. Her perfect olive skin was pale but high colour burned in her cheeks, a sure sign of her inner excitement.

Oh, Ally, he mourned deep inside of him. Have you any idea what you did to me? But then, they never had used the same measure. Ally’s protestations of undying love were like tears that quickly dried up.

Brod and Rebecca. It should have been Ally and me. He could scarcely credit it now, but this joyous occasion could have been for them. Hadn’t they planned on getting married, even when they were kids? It was almost something they took for granted. The two great pioneering families, Kinross and Cameron, were surely destined one day to be united? Even Stewart Kinross, Brod’s and Ally’s difficult, autocratic, late father had wished it. Except it didn’t happen. Ally had turned her back on him, running off to Sydney to make a name for herself as an actress just like her extraordinary aunt Fee, who now stood smiling brilliantly, looking fantastically nowhere near her age. Ally would look just like that when she was older. Both had the same marvellous bone structure to fight the years. Both had that laughing, vibrant and I-can-do-anything nature. Both knew how to take men’s hearts and break them. It was in the blood.

Determinedly Rafe pushed the thought from his mind. This wasn’t the day for self-pity, God knows. He rejoiced in his great friend’s good fortune but he was beginning to feel his practised smile stretch on his mouth. It was this first sight of Ally that had thrown his hard-won detachment into uproar. He only hoped no one would notice, not realising how very successful he had become at masking his emotions. But hell, he was supposed to be tough. A Cameron which counted for a lot in this part of the world A Cameron respected by his peers. A Cameron brought unstuck by a Kinross woman.

And it wasn’t the first time. But they were old stories. Everyone at the wedding would know them.

Rafe wrestled down the old anguish, rewarded by a moment’s powerful diversion as right on cue the bride, on the arm of her proud father, appeared on the upper terrace moving from the shade of the wide verandah into the sunburst of light. She was wearing a lovely smile, posing for a time as though exquisitely conscious of her impact.

Rafe for all his hurt felt his own mood lifting, hearing Fee exclaim, “Magic!” above the great wave of spontaneous applause.

The bride remained on the terrace a short time longer so everyone could look at her, her great sparkling eyes dominating her face, her hands clasped loosely on her beautiful trailing bouquet of white roses, tulips and orchids. Like her bridesmaids she wore a slim-fitting gown, an overlay of gossamer-thin silver lace, over an ice blue satin sheath that reached to her delicate ankles and showed off her exquisite handmade shoes. She didn’t wear the traditional veil. Her thick glossy hair was drawn back into the very fashionable “Asian” style, a little reminiscent of Madame Butterfly, decorated high on the crown with tiny white orchids and little cascades of seed pearls and crystals. She wore no jewellery except for the dazzling diamond studs in her earlobes, a wedding present from her adoring groom.

For the shortest time, something she couldn’t possibly indulge on such a day, a kind of broken-hearted sadness swept over Fee. Memories she had learned to suppress. Her two failed marriages, all wrong really, right from the start, but she had her child, her beautiful Francesca, more precious to her with every passing day. In retrospect it seemed she had failed though she had been judged highly successful in the eyes of the world as an acclaimed actress; a countess for almost twelve years until the terrible divorce when she had been out of her mind with a short-lived passion for her then lover, an American film star more famous than she. The lunatic years, she thought of them now. Lust never becomes love. And she had had to say goodbye to her lovely little daughter who remained in the custody of her father.

“Fee, darling, you’re looking very sad.” Her companion bent his pewter-coloured head. “Is anything the matter?”

“Memories, Davey, that’s all.” Fee turned slightly to squeeze his arm. “My mind was wandering like a bird in the breeze. I’m an emotional creature at the best of times.”

Lord wasn’t that the truth! David Westbury, first cousin to Fee’s ex-husband, Lord de Lyle, the Earl of Moray, smiled down on her wryly. The bold and bewitchingly beautiful Fee. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t found her captivating, for all the family had never wanted de Lyle to marry her. They feared what his own ultra-conservative mother, sister to de Lyle’s mother, had called her “gaudiness,” her palpable sex appeal, the richness and “loudness” of her voice, which was really her training, the resonance that could reach to the back seat of a theatre, the terribly foreseeable conflict of interests. The family turned out to be right but David knew for a fact Fee had given his cousin his only glimpse of heaven for all it came with a heavy price.

“Here comes the bride,” Fee began to hum, doing her best to forget her own deep regrets. “Be happy, my darlings!” she breathed.

“Amen!” David seconded beneath his breath, feeling enormously proud of his own young relative, Francesca, the titian-haired bridesmaid in the lovely blue gown. He was so glad Fee had kept up the family ties, inviting him out to Australia for the wedding and the promise of a long luxurious holiday in the sun. Four years now since he had lost his dearest Sybilla, the nicest woman he had ever known. Four sad rather empty years.

Even from as far away as Australia Fee had shown her concern. “You want a bit of mothering, Davey,” she had announced over the phone in that still wildly flirtatious voice. Even steeped in depression that had made him laugh. Fee had never known how to “mother” anyone, least of all her own daughter Francesca.

The focus of all eyes, Rebecca and her father began to move down the short flight of stone steps flanked by golden cymbidium orchids in great urns, smiling at the guests in front of her. It was all dreamlike in its perfection, Fee thought, her eyes stealing to the Gothic arch-way specially erected for the wedding ceremony. It was decorated with masses and masses of fresh flowers and beneath the arch stood her adored nephew, Brod, looking wonderfully handsome, his traditional male attendants by his side; the splendid Cameron brothers, Rafe, the best man, then Grant, the sun flaring off their golden heads. Next to Grant, a six-footer-plus like the rest of them, Brod’s long-time friend and fellow polo player, Mark Farrell, all four, lean, rangy bodies resplendent in long-jacketed slate blue suits with white, pleated, front-wing collared shirts.

The bridegroom wore a royal blue Italian-style cravat, his attendants, silver. It was all dreamlike in its perfection, Fee thought. As one’s wedding day should be.

Now the ceremony was due to begin. The celebrant was waiting, moved by the atmosphere of reverence that settled over the assembly like a veil….

Throughout the marriage ritual, Rafe stood fair and square beside his friend, smoothly handing Brod the bridal ring at just the right moment, his heart deeply touched by the obvious happiness of the bride and groom. Rebecca had changed greatly from the ice-cool young woman he had first met. Secure in Brod’s love she had blossomed like a closely furled bud into radiant flower, the warmth that had always been in her, quenched by a disastrous first marriage, bubbling to the surface. Nowadays Rebecca was brimming with life, a wonderful transformation with Brod beside her.

As bride and groom were pronounced man and wife, he couldn’t control the pressing desire to look towards the young woman who had beguiled then betrayed him, though it showed him danger. Those laughing green eyes, witch’s eyes, forever promising and cajoling, were glittering with tears.

Tears?

His jaw was sore from clenching it. Where was his strength? He wasn’t going to share any tears with her though her glance locked with his at precisely the same moment, as though reminding him openly. It perturbed him there was so much anger left inside him, so much misery he had shoved into a dark corner. She had hurt him that badly. But she wasn’t going to know about it. The tenderness towards her that had been so much a part of him at least had vanished. Ally might be a superb actress but he wasn’t too bad at acting a part himself. God knows he’d had plenty of practice.

His tanned, golden face wearing a masterpiece of a smile, Rafe congratulated his friend, clamped him affectionately around the shoulders, and kissed Rebecca’s satin cheek, wishing her all the happiness in the world. He told the bridesmaids, Francesca, Fee’s beautiful daughter, and Caroline, Rebecca’s long-time friend, they looked absolutely perfect before turning to Ally, who was unashamedly wiping the few spilt tears from her cheeks.

“It must be fantastic to marry the woman you love,” he remarked as though there wasn’t a single dark corner left in him. “I’ve never seen Brod so happy or so utterly at peace.”

His voice was deep and relaxed, yet Ally winced as if from a sharp sting. Knowing him so well, she was aware of the fires that burned deep inside him, the feelings of betrayal so smoothly hidden but a hundred times worse since the last time she had seen him at her father’s funeral. The message behind his words told her very clearly he would never take her back again. She wanted to go into his arms. Hug him. Beg his forgiveness, his understanding. But she knew she couldn’t.

Instead she answered gently, “It was a beautiful ceremony. Perfect. I’m going to miss my big brother.” Her expression turned nostalgic. “Motherless, and with the way Dad was, Brod and I were so close.”

Rafe tried to deal with a stab of pity. He wanted to stretch out a hand to her. Stroke her sumptuous wild hair. Wind it around his hand like he used to. Just the slightest breeze and it ruffled into a million curls.

“You haven’t lost him, Ally,” he managed.

“I know.” Ally felt the same old powerful tug towards him. “But Rebecca is the number one woman in his life now.”

“And rightly so.” Rafe’s tone was crisp. “You want it that way, don’t you?” He looked across the throng of guests to the radiant bride and groom happily receiving kisses and congratulations and a little bit of warm teasing.

“Of course I do!” She lifted her face to him in her spirited way. “I’m thrilled. I love Rebecca already. It’s just that…”

Of course he knew. He was just trying to stir her up a little. “The family has regrouped,” he relented. As a Cameron, Brod’s best friend, and Ally’s once-taken-for-granted future husband, he knew just how dysfunctional the Kinross family had been. The late Stewart Kinross had been a hard, complex man, barely hiding his resentment of his charismatic son, subtly making Ally suffer. Brod and Ally had had to look to one another for understanding and support all their young lives. “Brod is married now,” he continued, “life goes on. But you haven’t lost your brother, Ally. Just gained a sister.”

“Of course.” She gave her beautiful smile. “It’s just that weddings are serious times, aren’t they? Full of happiness, but a little sadness, too. Days when none of us seem to be able to tuck our emotions safely out of sight.” She allowed herself to look into his eyes. They were so beautiful. Gold-flecked, neither grey nor green but an iridescent mix of both.

“Is that a shot at me?” he challenged.

At least they were talking, she thought gratefully. “Will we ever be friends again, Rafe?” she asked, avoiding an answer.

He chose to ignore the traitorous twist of his heart. Friends? he thought grimly. Was that what we were? He wasn’t going to permit this blatant appeal to his senses, either. “Why, Ally, darling,” he drawled, “I can’t remember a time when we weren’t.”

She didn’t have to touch her cheeks to know they were on fire. She supposed she deserved this. His distinctive strong-boned face with the Cameron cleft chin, looked forged in gilt. He was a splendid creature full of power and energy, beautiful really with that mane of gold hair, another Cameron hallmark. There was an enormous guardedness in his expression, yet a glimmer of something even he couldn’t control, the powerful physical attraction that had once dictated their lives.

Oh, God. I need you, Ally thought. I want you. I love you. I bitterly regret running away from you and bringing about my own destruction. She realised with hidden grief the strength of her feelings far from abating over time had become more desperate. Only Rafe was a proud man like all the Camerons. A man who placed an immense value on loyalty and she had betrayed him. One of those false steps in life when she had placed self-fulfilment or how she had thought of it then, above a love so strong and deep it had all but taken possession of her. Love isn’t always safe. At twenty years old the force of it had panicked her. Against everyone’s wishes, she had fled. Now this. Lifelong estrangement from Rafe. It made her want to weep.

“Why look so heartbroken?” He cocked a golden brown eyebrow.

“You forget how well I know you.” Though she smiled, Ally kept her telltale eyes veiled. “You’re even more remote since the last time I saw you. I’m fearful you’ve totally shut me out.”

“For good, darling,” he assured her without apparent regret. A dark wing of her hair with its decorated little braid fell forward onto her cheek and despite himself he found he was tucking it back.

Fool! Only Ally always had been too much to handle. When he spoke it seemed imperative he make his position perfectly clear. Now his eyes were trapped by the wide beautiful shape of her mouth. The eager, ardent mouth he had kissed a thousand times. And never enough. “I’ve got my life together,” he said by way of explanation. “I’d like to keep it that way. But don’t think I’m not grateful for what we had. The bond between us will last. It’s just I’m not your willing captive any more.”

She gave a low sceptical laugh. “Captive? I could as easily capture an eagle. In my memory it was the other way round.”

“You were always one-eyed,” he said in his deep seductive voice. “Who was the girl who at age fourteen told me she adored me. That she wanted to live with me all her life. You were going to marry me the day you turned eighteen. Remember, Ally? You the born seductress. Remember how you told me you belonged to me? Remember how you drove me crazy with desire when I’d made a sacred vow I wouldn’t touch you until you were old enough to handle our relationship. Poor me,” he mocked, “it was my duty to protect your vulnerable innocence.”

Her eyes flickered, moved away. “You were always very gallant, Rafe. A gentleman in the grand manner.”

She gave a passing guest that incandescent smile that somehow flooded him with anger. “But you changed all that, didn’t you?” He looked down into her face. “And maybe that was the big mistake. When it came right down to it, the fire you thought consumed you couldn’t match the fire in me. You were the candle to the inferno, or something like that. A reckless child to the man. Is that what frightened you away?”

Because there was a hard kernel of truth in it, Ally tossed back her head, causing her long hair to bounce along her back. “You didn’t find fault with me when I was in your arms,” she retaliated, her heart swelling with emotion. She had a vivid flash of the way it was, an experience so momentous, like nothing else that had ever happened to her, their bodies bonding passionately in the great front bedroom at Opal. A bedroom not slept in since Sarah and Douglas Cameron, Rafe’s and Grant’s parents, had been killed in a light aircraft crash returning home to the station. But Rafe had wanted it that way. Wanted their first mating in the immense ancestral bed. A night without sleep. Delirious making love.

Rafe. Her first love. Only love. There had been other relationships since, a very few; the ones she had settled for a second best, none with that tremendous significance. None who could make her soar. Mind, body, spirit. No one. Rafe was her past, her present. Life without him in the future was unimaginable. He was the missing piece of the jigsaw of her life without which the whole design could never be resolved.

She should have married Rafe years ago when she’d had the chance, instead of fleeing his powerful aura. Rafe, like her brother Brod, had inherited wealth, power, responsibility. A life of service to the land. She understood it, bred to the same heritage, but she couldn’t pretend she had the same dedication. Now years later she would give that dedication gladly. Her career had brought her public admiration, the respect of her peers, but it hadn’t brought her either happiness or fulfilment. It had brought her a good deal of hard work, terrible hours, and increasingly a level of anxiety she had never remotely anticipated. There was a high price to pay for fame.