Lily's Leap Read online

  Cover Copy

  To the victor go the spoils.

  Born into privileged society, Lilibeth Dungarven finds herself married, widowed, and much to her distress, back under her father’s rule, all before her twenty-first birthday. But this feisty and independent young woman has a dream: she is determined to breed the perfect racehorse and restore the family’s flagging fortunes. An accomplished rider, she takes matters into her own hands and sets out to restore the Dungarven horse farm to its former glory.

  When the devastatingly attractive Captain Tom and his mismatched band of bushrangers stumble across a mob of the best horses they’ve ever seen, and the daughter of the famed Dungarven horse farm, they know their fortunes have changed. Their catch is worth a king’s ransom. Surely it can’t be too difficult to contain this beautiful young woman with violet eyes and skin-tight riding breeches for seven days?

  A Lyrical Press Historical Romance

  Highlight

  “I suggest you put your guns down. I believe I have you covered.”

  Thomas Roscomon wheeled his overworked nag around, peering through the sudden dust haze stinging his eyes.

  Bloody hell. What was it? Something wraith-like from a dreamtime story filled his vision.

  A horse and rider?

  Against the harsh sun, the silhouette shimmered on the deserted road.

  Where had it come from?

  “Dismount gentlemen, please.” The dulcet tones washed across his consciousness and his eyes widened to match his grin. Not what he expected.

  “God’s truth, a woman.”

  She most definitely was a woman and could ride if the way she dismounted was anything to go by. Long athletic legs were enhanced by tight riding breeches. Expensive boots too.

  “Good afternoon, madam.”

  She stepped forward and leveled her pistol at his chest as a mass of dark mahogany curls flicked in response to his greeting.

  He stared into her eyes and took in a deep breath, preparing to intimidate her.

  Saddle soap and lavender.

  His nostrils twitched in appreciation. Standing almost toe-to-toe, violet eyes blazing, head held high she returned his challenge. Defiant and statuesque without a quiver of apprehension or fear.

  Lily’s Leap

  By Téa Cooper

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  Dedication

  To my friends in Wollombi who make every day a new adventure.

  Acknowledgements

  Writing is supposed to be a solitary occupation. It’s not the case - there are so many people who have helped Lily come to life!

  First and foremost Carl Hoipo–Wollombi’s very own historian who painstakingly listened to my ideas, admittedly with a slightly quizzical look, and then kept me on a straight and narrow timeline. Romance isn’t his preferred genre but I’m hoping I may have converted him. My thanks also to Priscilla Lawrence of Emu Gully Heritage Stock Horse Waler Stud for her invaluable advice about Hunter horse history and Michelle Nichols of Hawkesbury Library Service for her Windsor knowledge. And special thanks to my long-suffering critique partner Eva Scott for her never ending advice and friendship, and last but not least my patient and incredibly meticulous editor Ann-Marie Smith.

  Foreword

  Lily’s Leap is a work of fiction. The characters and events live only in my mind but Wollombi really does exist. It is a small time-warp village in the Lower Hunter district of New South Wales and it is my home. When you have read Lily and Tom’s story, look at a map–the Coolawine Trail exists as does Narone Creek and the convict road. You can still drive along The Great North Road built by convict gangs between 1826 and 1836. If you take a turn to your right and follow the road to St Albans you’ll go across the Common and you can stop and take refreshments at The Settlers Arms. The road leads you to Wiseman’s Ferry where you can cross the mighty Hawkesbury River and follow the road to Windsor and thence to Sydney. All that’s missing are the characters, but if you are lucky enough to catch the sunset over Mount Yengo, you’ll understand that nothing much has changed in this part of the world in a long, long time.

  Chapter 1

  Hunter Valley, Australia 1848

  Hot and sweating from her madcap gallop, Lilibeth Dungarven drew the feisty black stallion to a shuddering halt. She pushed the damp curls back from her forehead and tried to ignore the erratic pounding in her breast while she grappled with two conflicting emotions–exhilaration and dread–and dread was winning hands down.

  A prickle of anxiety trickled down her spine as she tried to make sense of the muffled noises reverberating through the dry Australian bush. She cupped her gloved hand behind her ear and leaned forward, straining to make sense of the sounds and voices. She should have listened to the repeated warnings of her father, displayed a little more sense and stayed on the road. Clenching her knees against the horse, she edged Nero closer to the shelter of a stand of spotted gums when a glint of reflected sunlight drew her eye.

  A mounted figure stood in the middle of the dirt road waving a pistol. Despite the hat pulled low shadowing his face, the stock-whip crack of his words registered deep in her belly.

  “Bail up! Guns down and off the horses.”

  “What do you think you…?” Her words died, constricted by the tension in her throat.

  Wait. Think. The commands ran through her mind.

  Surely no one would dare steal such a valuable mob of horses? They were branded. Everyone in the colony knew the Dungarven brand. To lose the horses was unthinkable. Her father had poured his life and soul into the famed cattle and horse stud. Years of breeding–the first pure Wordsworth bloodlines. Then months spent convincing her father she was capable of managing the sale and the trip to Sydney. And now a hold up!

  It would not happen.

  Not if she had anything to do with it.

  * * * *

  “I suggest you put your guns down. I believe I have you covered.” The honeyed tones broke the silence and Thomas Roscomon wheeled his overworked nag around, peering through the sudden dust haze stinging his eyes.

  Bloody hell. What was it? Something wraith-like from a dreamtime story filled his vision. He pushed his hat back on his head.

  A horse and rider?

  Against the harsh sun, the silhouette shimmered on the deserted road.

  Where had it come from?

  “Lower your gun, Will.” He shrugged his shoulders at his accomplice. “We’ve been trumped.” A shoot-out was not an option on the open road; any passing trooper or traveler could be injured.

  “Dismount gentlemen, please.” The dulcet tones washed across his consciousness and his eyes widened to match his grin. Not what he expected.

  “God’s truth, a woman.” His accomplice’s cry broke the stunned silence. He stifled his splutter of laughter. Will was right. She most definitely was a woman and could ride if the way she dismounted was anything to go by. Long athletic legs were enhanced by tight riding breeches. Expensive boots too.

  “Good afternoon, madam.”

  She stepped forward and leveled her pistol at his chest as a mass of dark mahogany curls flicked in response to his greeting.

  He stared into her eyes and took in a deep breath, preparing to intimidate her.

  Saddle soap and lavender.

  His nostrils twitched in appreciation. Standing almost toe-to-toe, violet eyes blazing, head held high she returned his challenge. Defiant and statuesque without a quiver of apprehension or fear.
r />   By God! She was tall for a woman.

  “Sir, you are threatening our progress and jinxing the horses. Brandishing a gun constitutes robbery under arms.”

  Impressive.

  “Captain Tom, at your service, Miss Dungarven.” He executed a slight bow.

  Her start of surprise at his use of her name gave him the opportunity he’d hoped for.

  Now or never.

  His hand shot out, fast and fluid, and grabbed her wrist. The fragility of her bones startled him but he clamped her pistol arm to her body and pulled her hard against him. He encircled her tiny waist with his arm.

  The warmth of her filled him, her ragged breath was moist against his neck and the softness of her breasts pressed against his body. A shiver of anticipation slithered through him. Unable to hold back, he pulled her closer as desire ignited his blood.

  Her slim, lithe shape softened and molded to his. It was too much. He fought to ignore the rush of blood to his groin and realized how he could gain control of the moment, and himself. He flexed his hand and ran it down from her waist and over her taut buttocks. Her muscles flickered in response.

  One quick twist and her pistol fell. He was a fool, breaking a basic law of the road–an errant loaded pistol could cause untold damage. It took an eternity to skitter across the sandy roadway and he waited, dread sitting like a hard lump in his stomach, for the blast.

  Her body strained against his and he envisaged the devastation the random bullet could create.

  Finally the pistol came to rest with a shuddering sigh against a pile of tinder-dry leaves. Before he could react, the rumble of her relieved laughter resounded against his chest.

  “Check,” she said and strained against his grasp.

  He released her reluctantly. She took one step back and removed her glove.

  “Lilibeth Dungarven.” She held her hand out to him. He grasped her long sculptured fingers and marveled at the sight of the fine delicate bones and blue veins of her wrist. Her purple eyes studied him closely and the warmth of her flesh seeped into his bones.

  “You seem to have an advantage. I don’t believe we have met.” Her determined handshake, as firm as any man’s still managed to convey a femininity belied by her unconventional dress.

  “A lucky guess,” He cleared his throat irritated by the dry dust of the road and desire. He attempted to swallow it down. “Your father’s brand is renowned in the colony. There are few who can lay claim to such magnificent horse flesh.”

  “Almost as good as hers.”

  “Jem.” Tom shot a deliberate look of fury at his tracker. “That’s enough.”

  Struggling, he forced himself to drop her hand but maintained eye contact. Her clear uncompromising stare and vitality provoked and infuriated him. Desire had already clouded his judgment and turned his mind to potage. He sucked in a deep breath.

  “Bring the others over here, Will. I am certain Miss Dungarven would prefer to be with her travelling companions.”

  Will dismounted and waved his pistol nonchalantly at the other two riders. Tom waited impatiently, his foot drumming in the dirt as the disheveled men dismounted and doffed their cabbage tree hats. He muffled a snort of derogatory laughter behind his hand.

  “Beggin’ your pardon missus we thought best to sit tight until I could work out what was happening.”

  “Particularly chivalrous,” Tom muttered with amusement as he bent down to retrieve her pistol from the dusty road. “You. Down.” He waved the pistol at the third rider. “Will, sort him out and settle the horses before they spook each other.”

  “God’s truth, a woman.”

  “You’re repeating yourself, Will.”

  His foot beat an irritated tattoo as the lanky young man covered the ground to the bay horse in three quick strides. He shook his head in disbelief as Will gallantly offered his hand. It was worse than a bloody circus.

  A second woman, dressed in matching breeches and boots dismounted and Tom listened as Miss Dungarven tried once again to wrest control from him.

  “Bonnie, don’t panic. Come here with me. I don’t believe these gentlemen intend to harm us. George, see to the other horses if you would.”

  He scratched his head in disbelief, the woman’s audacity, or perhaps courage astounded him. Then his body tensed and his skin prickled as he registered the mutinous look passing between her and her overseer. A flash of steel and the sudden movement proved him right. His voice rang out over the confusion, “Stay where you are. Every one of you.” He had to maintain the upper hand. “Lower your pistols now.”

  With his eyes trained on the two men, Tom slid his pistol up from the indent of her waist over the swell of her breast until it caressed the side of her neck. He knew the barrel bruised the soft flesh under her tumbled mass of curls but she stayed perfectly still. “No more tricks or someone will regret it. Will, take his pistol. Jem, swap the bridles and saddles. Secure the Dungarven horses in the trees over there. Give them ours.” He jerked his head toward the overseer.

  What in God’s name was happening?

  He didn’t trust either of the women, especially Madam, Lady of the Manor, Dungarven. He forced aside the disconcerting reactions of his body and allowed his anger to blossom. What she needed was a lesson or two on how a woman should behave. Riding around the countryside dressed like a… like a vision… a vision from… He lowered the pistol from her neck and pushed her gently aside, impatient with his own reaction.

  Drumming the barrel against his tensed leg he shouted at Will. “Get me something to write on. I’m going to pen a note to Edward Dungarven Esquire. I think we hit the jackpot today. Quality bred horses and something, or rather someone, very precious. The payback I’ve been waiting for.”

  Her voice intruded into the ensuing silence. “My father will have you behind bars. You’ll have every trooper between here and Patrick Plains down on you.” She stood defiantly with her hands on her hips, tight fists clenched, knuckles white. “Why don’t you just let us go on our way? I’m quite prepared to hand over the cash I have on me…” Her lashes fluttered. For a moment she looked almost demure. “And my rings.” Her left hand flashed in front of his face.

  He blinked rapidly at the spark of sunlight reflecting from her third finger and his stomach lurched unexpectedly. Ah, so she was a married woman, with the face of an angel and a body capable of tempting the very devil himself.

  “I’m not interested in your jewelry, Madam, nor am I interested in harming you. I’m only interested in the value of your person. What your father is prepared to pay for your safe return will be fine compensation.” Tom brushed his hand over the back of his neck watching a shadow mar her perfect features and her gaze flicker away for the briefest of instants before returning to his.

  “My father will be more interested in getting his horses to Sydney than worrying about getting me back to Wordsworth.”

  “I doubt that very strongly.” How could any man not be interested in having her close to him, where she belonged, safe and sound? “Will, where’s the paper?”

  A crumpled piece of paper appeared from Will’s breast pocket and Tom took it from the young man. Supporting himself on his forearm, he leaned against the smooth trunk of the gum tree and licked the stub of the pencil. His breath caught in anticipation at the thought of the red-letter day for the parish when he handed over the ransom money. He would demand five hundred pounds–more than two years’ wages for most people. She was worth far more, but five hundred pounds would suffice.

  “Your companions will return to your father with our horses and my note,” he announced as he finished writing. She shot him a derogatory look and the corners of his mouth twitched. By God, there was fire in this one’s belly, a fire he would more than enjoy quenching. What a great shame she was spoken for.

  “I’m not leaving without Miss Dungarven.”

  Tom’s brow creased and he let out an exaggerated sigh encompassing the entire group. Now the other woman was sticking her nose in.r />
  What is wrong with them? Don’t they understand the situation?

  “Miss Dungarven can’t travel alone without a companion,” the woman insisted. “Her reputation would be ruined.” She stood with her hands on her hips, obviously something else they had in common in addition to their choice of riding attire.

  “Bonnie, I will be perfectly alright. You return with George and explain the situation to Father.” Her pink lips tilted and the tip of her tongue traced her smile.

  “In this circumstance I believe you are correct.” Tom nodded his head toward the older woman, Bonnie, and concentrated on his words and not the tip of Lily’s very delicate tongue as it traced her luscious lips. Unaccompanied and consorting with bushrangers would not enhance her reputation. “We can’t have Miss Dungarven’s name besmirched in polite society, can we?"

  “Polite society doesn’t interest me; nevertheless I appreciate your concern for the social niceties.” Her jaw tightened. It was the only movement marring the perfection of her golden skin. “Personally I have more concern for the horses. They are intended for export from Sydney in a matter of days. You won’t find better horseflesh anywhere.”

  He had no doubt she was correct. The horses made a mockery of the half dead nags the majority of people had. It was obvious these horses were worth a pretty penny. He was sure she would also be imagining the reception her man would receive when he reached the Dungarven property. “I certainly appreciate the quality of the horseflesh, Madam. However I am sure your father will be far more interested in seeing you home safe and sound.”

  Surely, she must be worth more than a bunch of horses, no matter how fine their breeding. Edward Dungarven was going to be delightfully out of pocket, and with his daughter accompanying them, they couldn’t be accused of horse theft. “The horses will be of more use to us than exported. Trust me. They will put us way out in front of any overzealous troopers. Let’s make a move.”