The Prince’s Outback Bride Page 6

  ‘Which way’s the dairy?’ he asked and Marc accompanied him to the edge of the veranda and pointed.

  ‘If you run you won’t get too wet,’ he said, so Max ran, his oversized gumboots squelching wetly in thick mud.

  The dairy was a dilapidated brick structure a couple of hundred yards from the house, with a long line of black and white cows stretching out beside it, sodden and miserable in the rain.

  Max walked through a room containing milk vats. The milk wasn’t going into the vats, though. It was being rerouted to the drain.

  Through the next door was the dairy proper. Pippa was working in a long, narrow pit, with cows lined up on either side.

  She had her handkerchief to her eyes as he walked in. She whisked it away the moment she saw him, swiping her sleeve angrily across her eyes and concentrating on washing the next udder.

  She’d been crying?

  He tried to think of this situation from her point of view. Surely help with the responsibility of raising three kids had to be welcome?

  But, he thought with sudden perspicacity, he was related to the children and she wasn’t. She loved these kids. Maybe he’d scared her.

  Hell, he hadn’t meant to.

  ‘I’m here to help,’ he told her, and she finished wiping the udder of the nearest cow and started fitting cups.

  ‘Stay back. Cows don’t like strangers.’

  ‘They can handle a bit of unease. Let me put on the cups.’ He stepped down into the pit before she could protest. ‘You bring them in for me. Once they’re in a bail they’ll hardly notice I’m not you.’

  She looked up then, really looked, blatantly astonished. ‘You do know how to milk?’

  ‘I don’t tell lies, Pippa,’ he said gently. ‘I’ve spent time on a dairy farm, yes. And our farm had an outdated herring-bone dairy just like this one.’

  Without a word she backed a little, then watched as he washed the next udder and fitted cups. The cow made no protest. Max was wearing familiar waterproofs and in this sort of weather one waterproofed human was much like another.

  Satisfied-but still silent-she headed into the yard to bring the next cow in.

  This would essentially halve her time spent in the dairy, Max thought. If Pippa had been forced to bring cows in herself, stepping out of the pit and back down time and time again, it’d take well over three hours, morning and night. Six hours of milking in this weather as well as all the other things that had to be done on a farm, plus looking after the children-and now the vats were contaminated and the milk was running down the drain.

  What the hell was she doing here?

  But he wasn’t the first to ask questions. ‘So tell me about this royal thing,’ she called as the next cow came calmly into the bail. She had a radio on as background noise, so she had to speak loudly. ‘What do you mean different parental names? Is that why Alice put a question mark against your name on the family tree?’

  ‘You’ve seen the family tree?’

  ‘Alice drew me one for us, a long time ago. It’s what she remembered and heard from friends back home, but it’s sketchy. You’re on there. So’s Thiérry. But there’s a question mark after you. Why?’

  ‘It’s a sordid family story.’

  ‘It can’t be any more sordid than mine,’ she said flatly. ‘If it affects Marc, then I need the truth.’

  He shrugged. He’d hated saying it, but then it had achieved what it was meant to achieve. ‘My mother was married to Edouard, the Crown Prince Etienne’s grandson. Bernard’s cousin. She and my father had Thiérry. Then my mother had an affair. She was still married when I was born but my father doesn’t appear on the birth certificate.’

  There was a moment’s silence while she thought that through. Then: ‘So you can’t inherit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you’ve had a lot to do with royalty?’

  ‘No. My mother had nothing to do with Bernard or his father. We’ve been in France since I was a baby.’

  ‘You speak great English.’

  ‘My Grandma on my mother’s side is English. She drummed English into me from the time I was a tot, refusing to let me grow into what she called a little French Ruffian. She’d be delighted you noticed!’

  ‘Right.’ She nodded, more to herself than to him. She hauled her handkerchief from her pocket and gave her nose a surreptitious blow. Then she put her shoulders back, as if she was giving herself courage. She ushered another cow forward, and then, astonishingly, she started to sing.

  An old pop song was playing on the radio. Max recognised it from years ago. Many years ago. His grandmother had liked this song. ‘Tell Laura I Love Her’ was corn at its corniest, but Pippa was suddenly singing as loud as she could, at full pathos, relishing every inch of tragedy.

  The cows didn’t blink.

  He did. He straightened and stared. Pippa was a wet, muddy, bedraggled figure in a sea of mud and cows. Five minutes ago she’d been crying. He was sure she’d been crying.

  She was singing as if the world were at her feet.

  He went back to cleaning, putting on cups, taking cups off. Listening.

  ‘Tell Laura’ was replaced by ‘The Last Waltz’ and she didn’t do a bad rendition of that either. Then there was Olivia Newton-John’s ‘I Am Woman’ and she almost brought the house down. He found himself grinning and humming-but a lot more quietly than Pippa.

  ‘You don’t sing?’ she demanded as she sang the last note and gave her next cow an affectionate thump on the rump.

  ‘Um…no.’

  ‘Not even in the shower?’

  ‘I’m admitting nothing.’

  She chuckled. ‘That means you do. Why don’t you sing along?’

  ‘I’m enjoying listening to you.’

  ‘So sing with me next time.’ But the next song was one neither of them knew, which was clearly unsatisfactory.

  ‘I’ll write to their marketing manager,’ she said darkly. ‘Putting on newfangled songs I don’t know the words of is bad box office.’

  ‘So what do you have to sing about?’ he asked into the lull.

  ‘I can’t find anything to sing about with this song.’

  He glanced at the source of the music-a battered radio sitting at the end of the bales. ‘You want me to change the channel?’

  ‘There speaks a channel surfer,’ she said. ‘Men!They spend their lives looking for something better and miss out on the good stuff.’

  ‘Good stuff like “I Am Woman”?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So what’s put you off men…exactly?’

  ‘Life,’ she said theatrically and gave an even more theatrical sigh. ‘Plus the fact that no one finds my fashion sense sexy.’

  Fashion? He could hardly see her. She was a diminutive figure in waterproofs that were far too big for her. Her boots were caked in mud and there was a fair bit of dung attached as well. She was a shapeless, soggy mass, but she was patting the cow before her with real affection, waiting for the next song to start before launching herself into her own personal theatrical performance.

  Was she sexy? Maybe not but here it was again, a stirring of something that was definitely not unsexy interest.

  Which was crazy, he told himself again, even more severely than the last time he’d told himself. He’d come here for one reason and one reason only. He expected to put Marc on the plane to Alp d’Estella-with or without attachments-and then get the hell out of this mess. He’d thought this through. He could fit the requirements of the regency in with his current work. He’d install Charles Mevaille as administrator. Charles was more competent than he’d ever be. Sure there’d be times when he needed to inter-vene personally, but for the most part he could get himself back to the life that he loved.

  Did he love his life?

  Whoa. What was he thinking? He surely loved his life better than a life of being in the royal goldfish bowl-and he liked his life better than the one this woman was leading.

  But she sang. She sang
straight after she cried.

  So she was better at putting on a cheerful face than he was. The singing must be a part of that, he realised. It was a tool to force herself away from depression.

  Why was she here?

  He washed the udder of a gently steaming cow, and attached the cups with skills he’d learned as a kid. Despite her singing, Pippa hadn’t relaxed completely. She was watching him, he knew, uncertain yet that she could trust him with cows that were her livelihood.

  What had she been facing if he hadn’t turned up this afternoon? What would they have eaten? Maybe Pippa would have figured some way to feed them. She looked like a figuring type of woman.

  But the house had been freezing, and she hadn’t figured out a way to stop that. Surely this farm wasn’t a long-term proposition?

  It couldn’t be, and that must make a proposition of another life welcome. But he wasn’t sure. She’d obviously been told enough of Alp d’Estella’s royal family to react with disgust.

  That wasn’t surprising. Alice-Gianetta’s mother-had fled to Australia for much the same reasons as his own mother had fled to France. Alice had done it much more successfully though, living her life in relative obscurity.

  ‘Excuse me, but Peculiar’s cups need taking off,’ Pippa called, hauling him back to the here and now. He’d been wiping teats and putting on cups without paying attention to the end of the queue. But…

  ‘Peculiar?’

  ‘The lady with the white nose and the empty teats at the end of the line. She was first in and now she’s ready to leave.’

  ‘You call a cow Peculiar?’

  ‘You want to know why?’

  ‘Yes.’ He removed Peculiar’s cups and released her from her bail.

  She didn’t go.

  ‘See,’ Pippa said.

  ‘If I had the choice I wouldn’t want to head out into the dark and stormy night either.’

  ‘She never wants to go outside. And when she’s out she doesn’t want to come in. The other cows look at her sideways.’

  ‘So you gave her a nice reassuring name like Peculiar.’

  ‘I could have called her Psycho but I didn’t.’

  He gave the cow a slap on the rump. ‘Out.’

  Peculiar retaliated by kicking straight back at him. But Max had spent years of his life in a dairy and he was fast. He sidestepped smartly, just out of range of the slashing hooves.

  ‘Neatly done,’ Pippa said. ‘But see? Psycho. I always milk her first and get her out of the way.’

  ‘You could have called her Psycho then.’ Peculiar was ambling out now, content that there was no more opportunity to wreak havoc. ‘Peculiar gives warm connotations of a mildly eccentric aunt.’

  ‘I’m a nice person. I’m giving her leeway to reform.’

  He stared out at her through the rain. Pippa was nice? She definitely was, he thought. Nice, and very, very different.

  ‘What the hell are you doing on a dairy farm?’ he demanded.

  ‘Same as you. Milking cows.’

  ‘But you’re a nurse.’

  ‘That was my first job. I have better things to do with my life now.’

  ‘Since Gina and Donald were killed.’

  ‘What do you think? Should I say, Ooh, my career in nursing is far more important than taking care of my best friend’s orphaned children? Don’t stop now, Mr de Gautier. Big-bum’s waiting for her cups.’

  ‘Big-bum.’

  ‘The next cow,’ she retorted. ‘Do what I do for a bit, Mr de Gautier. Do what comes next and don’t look further.’

  She turned her back on him, ostensibly to bring in the next cow, but he suspected it was more than that-a ruse to bring the conversation to an abrupt end.

  Which suited him. He had enough information to assimilate for the time being.

  Marc’s voice came back to him. ‘This is our Pippa.’ It had been a declaration of family.

  Would Our Pippa agree to accompany the kids?

  Do what comes next and don’t look further. He attended to Big-bum. She was indeed…Big-bum?

  He shook his head, trying to clear emotions that were strange and unwelcome. He was here to give a message and go. He was not here to learn by heart a hundred and twenty cows’ names.

  Pippa looked about fourteen, Max thought. And then he thought: She looks frightened.

  She ushered in half a dozen more cows and he milked in silence. There were a couple of soppy songs on the radio but she’d stopped singing.

  ‘You’re here to take the children to Alp d’Estella,’ she said into the stillness and he raised his head and met her challenging look head-on. Not for long though. Her eyes were bright with anger and he was starting to feel…ashamed? Which was crazy. This was a fantastic opportunity he was handing these children. He had no reason to feel ashamed.

  ‘And you,’ he admitted. ‘If you want to go.’

  ‘When did you arrive in Australia?’

  ‘About nine hours ago.’

  ‘From France?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you’ll have jet lag,’ she whispered, so softly he barely heard. ‘You’ll not be making sense. We’ll leave this discussion for later. Meanwhile turn the radio up, would you? It’s not loud enough.’

  ‘You don’t want to talk any more?’

  ‘Not now and maybe not ever,’ she snapped. ‘Our life is here. Meanwhile let’s get these ladies milked.’

  ‘You need to think about-’

  ‘I don’t need to think about anything,’ she snapped. ‘I need to sing. Turn the radio up and let me get on with it.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ There was nothing left for him to say.

  It took them just under two hours. Pippa saw the last cow amble back down to the paddocks with relief. She closed the gate and turned to fetch the hose but Max swung out of the milking pit and reached the hose before her.

  ‘I’ll sluice the dairy,’ he told her. ‘You go in and get warm.’

  ‘I need to clean the vats.’

  ‘Why? We haven’t used them.’

  ‘I have to figure what caused the contamination.’

  ‘Old tubing?’

  ‘Maybe, but I can’t afford new so all I can do is scrub.’

  If the tubing was corroded no amount of scrubbing would help and from the despair etched behind her eyes he thought she knew it. ‘Pippa, don’t worry about it tonight,’ he said gently. ‘You look exhausted.’

  ‘You’re the one with jet lag.’

  ‘You’re the one who looks like you have jet lag.’

  She flushed. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me that another hot shower won’t cure.’

  He smiled at that, thinking of how many hot showers had been enjoyed today. ‘Lucky you have a decent hot water service.’

  ‘If we ran out of hot water I might be tempted to walk away,’ she told him. ‘But don’t worry. I won’t. Regardless of your plans for our family.’

  ‘Pippa…’

  ‘I’m going,’ she said and cast him a darkling look. ‘I don’t have a clue what’s going on, so I’ll take a shower and leave you to my dairy.’

  She left him to it. By the time she reached the door he was already working methodically with the hose, sluicing from highest level to lowest. He knew what he was doing.

  Which was more than she did.

  She knew so little of this royal bit-only what Alice had told Gina. But: ‘We’re best out of it,’ she’d said. ‘Gina needs have nothing to do with them, and neither do I. They’re corrupt and they’re evil. It’s a wonder the country hasn’t overthrown them with force. Anyway I refuse to look back. I’ll only look forward.’

  Alice had died too young, Pippa thought sadly-a lovely, gracious lady who’d made Pippa’s life so much happier since Gina had brought home her ‘best friend from school’.

  Pippa owed them everything. She and Gina had been so close they were almost sisters. They were both only children of single mothers, but Gina’s mother had cared, whereas Pippa’s… />
  ‘Gina and Alice were my family,’ Pippa told herself as she squelched through the mud on her way back to the house. ‘And Gina’s kids are now my kids. If Max What’s-His-Name thinks he can step in and take over…’

  She shook herself, literally, and a shower of water sprayed out around her. Dratted men. Men meant trouble and Maxsim de Gautier meant more trouble than most. She knew it.

  But right now he was back in the dairy and she’d reached home.

  She poked her nose through the back door and warmth met her and the smell of the makings of her pie simmering on the stove and the sound of Sophie and Claire giggling. They were sitting in front of the fireguard playing with their dolls. Dolores had nosed the fireguard aside and was acting as a buffer between twins and fire, soaking up all the heat in the process.

  She was a great watchdog, Pippa thought fondly, and then she thought: Max has done this.

  But if he thinks he can seduce me…

  Wrong word, she thought, suddenly confused. It was a dopey word. It should have been if he thinks he can influence me with money…

  The seduce word stayed in her mind, though, refusing to be banished.

  Marc had been setting the table-with their best crockery, she noted with astonishment. When he saw Pippa alone in the doorway his face drooped in disappointment.

  ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘He’s coming after me. He’s sluicing the dairy.’

  The droop turned into a grin. He laid cutlery at the head of the table-a position they never used. ‘Have a shower and put something pretty on,’ he told her.

  ‘I don’t have something pretty.’

  ‘Yes, you do. The stuff you wear to church.’

  ‘The pink cardigan,’ Sophie volunteered.

  ‘It’s a bit old,’ Claire added. ‘But it’s still pretty.’

  But he’s dangerous, she thought.

  But she didn’t say it. She couldn’t. She was being ridiculous.

  She was the children’s legal guardian. Max had no rights at all where they were concerned.

  And he had no right to make her feel that he was…dangerous…where she was concerned.