Master of the Outback Read online

  “I remember.” Genevieve sat quietly. She knew all about the Trevelyan family.

  “The cattle station is vast—on the Simpson Desert fringe,” Maggie continued. “Djangala, they call it. Aboriginal. No idea what it means. You don’t pronounce the D. They also own a chain of cattle and sheep stations across Queensland, New South Wales, the Northern Territory and the Kimberley. So they’re super-rich and very proud of their heritage.” Maggie sat back, intrigued by Gena’s initial reaction. It was almost as though she had thrown a switch. “Miss Trevelyan is well into her seventies, but apparently still in good health.”

  Genevieve concentrated on breathing in and out gently. She hoped she didn’t look as perturbed as she felt.

  She had first overheard the name Trevelyan in a conversation between her maternal grandparents when she was twelve. Her grandparents had returned home on one of their periodic visits to celebrate her birthday. She had been about to enter the room to tell them lunch was ready when she was stopped in her tracks by the sound of her grandmother’s voice. It had literally throbbed with pain. Even at that tender age she had known the pain sprang from a deep well of anguish—as if the event Nan spoke of had straddled her life and caused her the deepest torment.

  Genevieve had since come to realise what was the past for some people was as yesterday to others.

  Nan had been speaking of a tragic event in her youth, the trauma of it still fresh in her mind. Genevieve had hung back, a strange jangling in her ears. She hadn’t been deliberately eavesdropping. She couldn’t have moved even if she had wanted to. One peek had revealed tears pouring down her grandmother’s face. The grief she’d suddenly felt had—incredibly—been a variation on Nan’s own.

  Afterwards, she hadn’t dared ask who the Trevelyans were. She’d had to find out for herself years later. She wasn’t about to tell Maggie the story now. She would be agog. But Genevieve knew beyond doubt that she would take on the role of ghostwriter for Hester Trevelyan. It was the only opportunity she would ever get.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Two weeks later.

  HER nightmares came for her by night. Unlike most dreams, they didn’t vanish on awakening; they stayed with her. She knew what caused them. The shock entry of the Trevelyans into her life.

  Her maternal grandmother’s first cousin, Catherine Lytton, had died in tragic circumstances on the Trevelyan family’s Djangala Station in the late 1950s. It reassured Genevieve to know any family connection of hers would be difficult to trace. She wrote under the pen-name Michelle Laurent, and she was going to Djangala as Genevieve Grenville. She had insisted Maggie did not mention her blossoming literary career, let alone her pen-name. Maggie hadn’t been altogether happy about it, but had given in to Genevieve’s adamant request. It was essential she go incognito. Everything was organised for her trip.

  Djangala had escaped being contaminated by scandal. Catherine’s death had been deemed a tragic accident. A city girl, she had stepped too close to the crumbling edge of an escarpment the better to admire the stupendous view. The ground had abruptly crumbled beneath her, hurtling her to her death on the plain below. The Trevelyans and the police officer who had headed the investigation had been in total agreement—an accidental death that had devastated them all. A beautiful young woman with her whole life before her!

  Not a word of the marriage proposal Catherine Lytton had received from Geraint Trevelyan ever surfaced. Only Catherine had written ecstatically about it to her favourite cousin.

  Trevelyan had later gone on to marry Patricia Newell, long stuck in the wings as his future wife. Catherine had been on Djangala as companion for her friend Patricia. The two young women had gone to boarding school together and had kept up their friendship.

  Once again the wheels of fate were set in motion.

  Geraint Trevelyan was Bret Trevelyan’s grandfather.

  Genevieve’s father, who had torn strips off Mark and Carrie-Anne, had given his approval of her new assignment, thinking it would hasten the healing process and that the Trevelyans were a splendid pioneering dynasty. He had no idea of Genevieve’s true motivation. The Grenville side of the family had never learned Nan’s secret. But Genevieve, given such an unforeseen opportunity, was determined on learning the truth about the final days of Catherine’s life. She’d had a burning curiosity since the age of twelve—both because she was family and, it had to be said, due to her nature as a budding writer—to solve this mystery. Mysteries cried out to be solved.

  Had Catherine’s death simply been a disastrous accident? Or was there more to it? Had the Trevelyan family buried the truth, as Catherine’s family had had to bury her broken body? The “accident” might well have revolved around the eternal triangle. People did terrible things for love.

  Old faded photographs of the two young women revealed they had been physical opposites. Catherine tallish, very slender, with strawberry blonde hair, deep blue eyes and porcelain skin; Patricia petite, a little on the stocky side, with fine dark eyes and an abundance of dark hair. The photographs, all of them taken between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two, showed two young and untested girls.

  Derryl Trevelyan, the younger son, was picking her up at her front door. They were to drive to the commercial airfield when the Trevelyan King Air was on standby to fly them to Djangala.

  It was almost time to leave. She took one last look in the pier mirror.

  Portrait of a serious-minded, bookish young woman, capable of taking on a challenge with no thought whatsoever of being on the lookout for an Outback millionaire.

  Maggie had allowed her to read Miss Trevelyan’s curt letter.

  Please don’t send me some glamorous young woman. Someone imagining she’s going to have a good time along the way. Such young women annoy me. I want someone dedicated, serious about their work. I will possibly keep odd hours, depending on my health. There will be free time, but this is first and foremost a job. Not an Outback holiday. I don’t need anyone, either, who will run off home when she realises just how isolated we are. A plain young woman would suit, as long as she’s not dull and she knows what she’s about.

  Given such parameters, Genevieve had deliberately played down her looks. Her Titian mane was drawn back tightly from her face and pinned into a thick coil at her nape. She wore the lightest make-up. She wore a silk shirt, but the colour was a subdued chocolate, and not her usual skinny jeans, but comfortable tan trousers and tan boots. To further enhance the scholarly look she’d had clear glass put into bookish frames.

  She would have laughed at herself, only she felt anything but lighthearted. She was going into the Trevelyan desert stronghold where Catherine had been trapped.

  A young man struck a languid pose against the passenger side of a late model hire-car. He was wearing casual clothes, but managed to look the very picture of sartorial elegance.

  “Ms Grenville?” He looked her over. No smile. Clearly she was a big disappointment.

  “That’s right,” she responded pleasantly. “Would you mind giving me a hand with my luggage?”

  A slight hesitation, as though he was above such things. “Certainly.”

  She was grateful for that small mercy. Taking charge of the smaller suitcase herself, she pushed the large suitcase through the front gate.

  “That the lot?” he asked, as though his back had seized up.

  “It’s not exactly a lot.” For the first time she looked directly into his face. He was handsome. Thick dark hair, clear tanned skin, eyes neither brown nor green but a mix of the two. “If I need anything else it can be sent on.”

  “Nice place you’ve got there.” He was looking back at her contemporary single-storey home. It had great street appeal. She had lived in it, furnished to her tastes, for the past three years. Her father had given her the substantial deposit. He would have bought the house for her but she had
insisted she pay it off. “Is it yours?” he asked, as though she were renting.

  “It will be when I pay it off,” she answered dryly.

  During the drive to the airport he made little attempt at conversation. He did, however, deign to ask what she did.

  “I’m a schoolteacher.”

  “Schoolteacher, eh?” He made it sound jaw-crackingly dreary.

  “Well, up until fairly recently. I enjoyed teaching, but now I want to concentrate on my writing.”

  “That won’t bring you in much,” he commented, with droll disdain.

  “Perhaps not.” She was struck by his young-man arrogance. “And what about you? You’re a cattleman?” He didn’t look it. He might have been a male model. He didn’t look tough either, in the way she imagined a man of the land would look.

  “Bret’s the cattle baron,” he offered, all sarcasm now. “I’m the second son—the off-sider.”

  He made it sound like a drop-out. “Does that bother you?”

  He shot her a sharp sideways glance, as if reassessing her. “I wouldn’t change my life. Bret is the boss. I lag a long way behind. I wouldn’t want the job anyway.”

  Most probably he couldn’t handle it.

  “Too much hard work, too much responsibility. No down-time. We all know all work and no play makes for a dull guy. I wouldn’t want to handle the business side of things either. Bret is the brain.”

  Which let him off the hook. His brother Bret wasn’t a dull guy, Genevieve was prepared to bet. Despite Derryl’s claim he didn’t want the job, and his feigned nonchalance, she had an intuitive grasp on the nature of the brothers’ relationship. Bret Trevelyan would be the strong one—Master of Djangala.

  “And you have a sister? Romayne?” She got off what she recognised as a touchy subject. “Such a beautiful name. One doesn’t hear it often.”

  “Ah, I see you’ve read up on us.”

  “A little. I am coming to live on the station for some months.”

  “Working for dear Aunt Hester.” Sardonic emphasis on the dear. “She’s got it into her head she wants a history of the Trevelyan family. Only problem is she’s not a writer. That’s where you come in. She used to be a very good pianist. Studied here and in London. Can’t play now, which I count as a blessing. She used to go on and on for hours. Mercifully she has arthritis in her hands.”

  “That’s a shame,” Genevieve said with genuine sympathy. “Her playing would have given her great pleasure and comfort. Music has such power to soothe. You’re fond of your great-aunt?”

  He gave a theatrical sigh. “Impossible! Aunt Hester is a real old tartar. I’m not surprised no one wanted to marry her, for all the dowry she could have brought to a match. You’d think she was the Grand Duchess Anastasia, the way she acts. The only one she loves and listens to is Bret. He’ll get her money as well—not that he needs it.” His tone couldn’t conceal a raft of hidden resentments.

  She knew she was deliberately trying to draw him out. “Surely she loves you and your sister?”

  “Yes. Romayne’s married. Happily, thank God. Not much happiness in our family. Aunt Hester never took any notice of Romayne and me. Romayne is the image of our mother. Know about her?”

  She answered with care. “Not really, Derryl. I know your father is dead. I know your parents were divorced. Is that right?”

  He shrugged a shoulder. “You’re going to hear it anyway. A pretty shabby affair, but it happens—even with royalty. Mother ran off with a family friend. Apparently she longed for a different life. Our father got custody. Our mother allegedly begged for Romayne, her girl. Dad told her to push off. There was no question of Bret’s going to live with her. Bretton was the heir. Our father’s longed-for Number One Son. Even as a kid Bret knew what his life was going to be. His destiny, if you like.”

  “You don’t sound all that happy with your lot, Derryl?”

  His answer was a curl of the lip. “Not so easy to get away. Bret holds the purse-strings. He administers the family trust. Sometimes I feel trapped in a wasteland. At least Bret sent Romayne off with a splendid dowry, just like in the olden days. Not that her husband can ever get his hands on it. Bret saw to that. Romayne is financially secure for life, no matter what. Needless to say she worships the ground Bret treads upon.”

  To inspire such love Bret Trevelyan couldn’t be all that bad, Genevieve thought. She shifted the conversation on to more general topics. Derryl evidently liked wallowing in self-pity.

  Even at a distance, Bret Trevelyan radiated a powerful charisma. He broke away from a small all-male group as they pulled up, coming towards them. He was tall, very lean, but powerfully built, with straight wide shoulders and a body naturally endowed with virile grace. The group of cattlemen stood beside a very impressive twin turboprop she recognised as a Beechcraft King Air. One of her father’s most important clients was a retail magnate who had recently bought the eight-seater, and employed a regular pilot. The Trevelyans’ little run-about had cost millions.

  That wasn’t fair. She knew the King Air was the toughest aircraft in its class. It could take off from both major airports and short gravelled runways, which would be a big plus in the Outback. There was another important factor: it could operate effortlessly at high altitudes and under extreme weather conditions, which it no doubt would encounter.

  Up close, the Trevelyan lineage was apparent in both brothers. Only Bret Trevelyan appeared to be a man of a higher order. It was in the way he held himself, the way he moved. Indeed, it was hard to take her eyes off the man. She found him to be wonderful-looking. He had such an air of authority, such presence. Moreover, he had all the toughness she had found wanting in his younger brother.

  “Ms Grenville?”

  There was total composure in his voice, a self-assurance that would instantly inspire great confidence in him. He was inches taller than his brother—well over six feet. More disturbingly, he was looking down at her with the most brilliant dark eyes she had ever seen. She was someone who looked at eyes first. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, his gaze so powerfully searching she had the unnerving notion he was able to see right through her. In which case she might be sent packing. Only just thirty, he was an arrestingly handsome man, with an elegance about him and more than a touch of sensuality in the chiselled mouth and the strong, perfectly balanced bone structure. The air of command was that of a much older man. One seldom saw it in one so young, unless he was a truly exceptional person.

  It came as a complete shock to realise she was attracted to him—and all in a matter of moments. That couldn’t be. It rendered her vulnerable. On the reverse side of instant attraction lay the abyss. Catherine had found that out, if her claim of a serious love affair with Geraint Trevelyan were true. And why would it not be? Catherine hadn’t lied.

  She paused briefly to collect herself. “Genevieve, please. Or Gena, if you prefer.”

  They had extended hands at much the same time. Now a chain of little tremors ran down her spine as his long callus-tipped fingers fell over the soft skin at the back of her hand. Contact sparked a reaction akin to an electric thrill. She certainly felt a tingling right up her arm, and an odd thump of her heart. It was an extraordinary feeling, but nothing could be served by it. Whatever a woman felt for this man, she would just know it would be fathoms deeper than anything she had hitherto experienced.

  “Genevieve it is.” His brilliant eyes appeared to glitter for a single moment. Deeper, darker-toned than his brother’s, his voice was similarly cultured. No ordinary “bushies” the Trevelyans. “Have you travelled to the Outback before?”

  Derryl hadn’t asked that question. “Uluru and the Olgas, Katajuta—but that was years ago. An unforgettable experience I want to renew.”

  “I’m sure we can arrange it,” he said smoothly. “Now, I’d like you t
o come aboard.” He shot a look over Genevieve’s head to where his self-alleged badly-done-by brother was standing watching them—not with detachment, but with frowning interest. “Derryl, could you bring Genevieve’s luggage? We need to get away as soon as possible.”

  Derryl’s muffled reply held irritation, which his brother ignored. Obviously Derryl thought his position in the scheme of things put him far above hauling luggage.

  It was hard to stop herself from being thrilled. She was going on a journey that might take her to the brink of discovery. Potentially dangerous or not, she was on her way. Plenty of women would fall down in unabashed adoration before Bret Trevelyan. She was not going to be one of them. Every moment, every minute, every day she had to keep in mind her kinswoman Catherine, who had lost her young life on Djangala Station. Had she made a fatal mistake falling in love with Geraint Trevelyan, a man beyond any doubt the wrong man for her? Falling in love with the wrong man could be dangerous. Historically, there were mountains of evidence of that.