The Prince's Outback Bride

‘Why didn’t you go back to the house instead of waiting here in the truck?’

Until now Marc had stayed silent, watching him with wariness. But now the little boy decided to join in.

‘We’re going to get fish and chips,’ he informed him. ‘But the cattle-grid broke so we’re stuck. We have to wait ’til it stops raining. Then we have to find Mr Henges and ask him to pull us out with his tractor. Pippa says we might as well sit here and whinge ’cos it’s warmer here than in the house. We’ve run out of wood.’

‘The gentleman doesn’t need to know why we’re sitting here,’ Pippa told him.

‘But we’ve been sitting here for ages and we’re hungry.’

‘Shh.’

Marc, however, was preparing to be sociable. ‘I’m Marc and this is our Pippa and this is our dog, Dolores. And over the back is Sophie and Claire. Sophie has red hair ribbons and Claire’s are blue.’

Sophie and Claire. Over the back. He peered through the tiny slot of wound-down window. Yes, there were two more children. He could make out two little faces, with similar colouring to Marc. Cute and pigtailed. Red and blue ribbons. Twins?

Sophie and Claire. He hadn’t heard of any Sophie and Claire.

Were they Pippa’s? But they looked like Marc. And Pippa had red hair.

No matter. It was only Marc he needed to focus on. ‘I’m pleased to meet you all,’ he said. This was a crazy place to have a conversation, but he had to start introductions some time. ‘I’m Max.’

‘Hi,’ Pippa said and put her hand on the window winder again. Dismissing him. ‘Good luck. We may see you tomorrow.’

‘Can’t I help you?’

‘We’re fine.’

‘I could tow you.’

‘Do you have a tow-bar on your car?’

‘Um…no.’ It was a hire-car—a luxury saloon. Of course he didn’t. ‘Can I find Mr Henges and his tractor for you?’

‘Bert won’t come ’til the rain stops.’

‘You’re planning on sitting in the truck until then?’

‘Or until it’s time for milking.’

The thought of milking cows in this weather didn’t bear considering. ‘You don’t think maybe you could run back to the house, peel off your wet things, have a hot shower and…oh, I don’t know, play Happy Families until milking?’

‘It’s warmer here,’ Marc said.

‘But we want fish and chips,’ one of the little girls piped up from the back seat.

‘There’s bread,’ Marc said, in severe, big-brother tones. ‘We’ll make toast before milking.’

‘We want fish and chips,’ the other little girl whimpered. ‘We’re hungry.’

‘Shh.’ Pippa turned back to Max. ‘Can you move away so I can wind up the window? We’re getting wet.’

‘Sure.’ But Max didn’t move. He thought of all he’d come to say to this woman and he winced. Back home it had seemed simple—to say what needed to be said and walk away. But now, suddenly, it seemed harder. ‘Isn’t there anything I can do for you first?’

What was he saying? The easiest thing to do right now would be to walk away from the whole mess, he thought. Someone else could tell these people what they had to know. But then, he’d have to remember that he’d walked away for a long time.

‘We don’t need anything,’ Pippa told him, oblivious to his train of thought, and he dragged his attention back to the matter at hand. Truck stuck. Fish and chips.

‘I’m thinking I should talk to Marc about this,’ he said, focusing on food. ‘This is, after all, men’s business. Hunting and gathering. You were heading to the shops when your truck got stuck. Looking for fish and chips.’

‘Yes,’ said Marc, pleased at his acuity, and Sophie and Claire beamed agreement, anticipating assistance. ‘We’ve run out of food,’ Marc told him. ‘All we have left is toast. We don’t even have any jam.’

Right. He could do this. Jam and fish and chips. But not drowned like this.

‘I have a car that’s not stuck in a cattle-grid,’ he told them. ‘But I’m soaking wet. You have a house where I can dry off, and I’ve come a long way to visit you. Let’s combine. You let me use your house to change and I’ll go into town and buy fish and chips.’

‘We can’t impose on you,’ Pippa said. But she looked desperate, and he wondered why.

First things first. He had to persuade her to let him help. ‘I’m not an axe murderer,’ he told her. ‘I promise. I really am a relation.’

‘But…’

‘I’m Maxsim de Gautier. Max.’ He watched to see if there was recognition of the name, but she was too preoccupied to think of anything but immediate need—and maybe she’d never heard the name anyway. ‘I’d really like to help.’

Desperation faded—just a little. ‘I shouldn’t let you.’

‘Yes, you should. You don’t have to like me, but I’m definitely family, so you need to sigh and open the door, the way most families ask rum-soaked Uncle Bertie or similar to Christmas lunch.’

She smiled in return at that, a wobbly sort of smile but it was a welcome change from the desperate. ‘Uncle Bertie or similar?’

‘I’m not even a soak,’ he said encouragingly and her smile wobbled a bit more.

‘You have a great accent,’ she said inconsequentially. ‘It sounds…familiar. Is it Italian or French?’

‘Mostly French.’

‘You’re very wet.’

‘The puddle around my ankles is starting to creep to my knees. If you leave this decision much longer I’ll need a snorkel.’

She stared out at him and chewed her lip. Then she seemed to make a decision. ‘Fine.’

‘Fine what?’

‘Fine I’ll trust you,’ she managed. ‘The kids and I will trust you, but I’m not sure about Dolores.’ She hugged the dog tighter. ‘She bites relations who turn out to be axe murderers.’

‘She’s welcome to try. How will we organise this?’

‘My truck’s blocking your way to the house.’