Cry of the Curlew: The Frontier Series 1 by Peter Watt Page A

her, Daniel,’ he said quietly. ‘You watch and see.’
    Daniel groaned and rolled his eyes to the sky. ‘Michael, Michael, Michael . . . It cannot happen.’
    ‘Yes it can, Daniel. You just watch,’ he answered with quiet determination and his grey eyes were set with the hardness of gun metal. It would not be easy! But he was sure that he and the girl with the green eyes would meet again. And how would this happen? He had already formulated a plan.
    Fiona giggled as she walked away. Although it was a childish thing to do, the tension of the moment needed release. ‘Isn’t he magnificent, Penny,’ she said. ‘He is like a Greek god.’
    Penelope had to agree, but she did not want to encourage her cousin in her admiration for the handsome young man. ‘He certainly is handsome, in a rough sort of Irish way. I grant you that,’ she grudgingly admitted. But there was no future in allowing one’s feelings to be drawn by such a man, Penelope thought, as her cousin prattled on with the deep sigh of a young woman in love for the very first time.
    ‘Oh . . . You should have seen those eyes of his,’ Fiona sighed. ‘So gentle.’ Penelope had seen those eyes, the broad shoulders and the slim waist and was duly impressed. Yes, she thought. He was like a Greek god. And she found herself imagining his hard body pressed against her own naked flesh in a sweating carnal and erotic embrace.
    The thought caused her to shudder with a sensual fantasy. But she felt lust where Fiona imagined a romantic interlude. Penelope had no illusions about a man like Michael Duffy. He was extremely dangerous to women and, from his slightly scarred face, dangerous to men. Yes, she would have given much to have him naked in her bed and at her mercy. But that was unlikely as the young Irishman was not a man of their social circles. He was just another handsome Paddy from the wrong side of Sydney.
    ‘I feared that I may have lost you two ladies,’ Granville White said as he took Fiona’s elbow and guided her to the end of the jetty. Granville’s attention to Fiona was more than attentive. It had a touch of possessiveness about it. He held a cane picnic basket and spoke with an unmistakable educated English accent which was not surprising as he had lived all but two years of his life in England, managing the considerable family estates there. He was three years older than his sister, Penelope, and had the physical appearance of being ‘aristocratic’; pale, with a thin face and delicate hands. His eyes were blue like those of his sister and his prematurely thinning hair was a brown colour.
    Ladies in the upper circles of Sydney’s gentry found him very attractive, not only for his wealth, but also for his genteel style. He had impeccable social manners and was what was termed a ‘true gentleman’ in colonial society.
    ‘I was frightened by the thunder,’ Fiona said. ‘But a gentleman came to my assistance to save me.’ Granville considered her explanation rather extravagant.
    ‘And who was this gentleman who saved you?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘Someone we know?’ He was peeved at the way she had lavished the praise on her ‘saviour’. A gentleman did not show his emotions which were the property of the common working-class Irish.
    ‘No, he is no one we have met before. It was that young gentleman standing over there,’ she said, turning her head to glance in Michael’s direction, and Granville followed her gaze to where a tall and broad-shouldered man stood. It was obvious that he was the one she referred to as he was intently watching her. Michael flashed her a smile when she caught his eye and she looked away shyly.
    ‘I am afraid the man is no gentleman by his appearances,’ Granville sniffed dismissively. ‘Probably one of those uncouth Irish navvies.’
    ‘He is certainly Irish,’ Penelope said with a hint of mischief in her voice. ‘But he is not uncouth. In fact, he is rather charming from what I have briefly