The Prince's Outback Bride. Marion Lennox

      ‘Pippa, I’m family and therefore I have the right to make sure you—or at least the children—are warm and well fed,’ he said, gently but firmly. He fielded and stacked another bundle. ‘Please. Get the fire lit and then we can talk. Oh, and the fish and chips will be here in fifteen minutes. Home delivery.’

      ‘Home delivery?’ she gasped. ‘When did they ever…’

      ‘They’d run out of potatoes at the pub,’ he said apologetically. ‘But Mrs Ryan says Ern can go out and dig some and she’ll have fish and chips here by three.’

      ‘I bet he paid her as much as he paid me,’ Duncan said cheerfully and he winked at her. ‘You’re on a winner here, love.’

      She stared, open-mouthed, at them both. She couldn’t think of a thing to say.

      ‘Light the fire,’ Max said—and Pippa stared at him wordlessly for a full minute.

      Then she went to light the fire.

      It seemed she had no alternative.

      She might not like it—well, okay, she liked it but she might not trust it—but he was right; she had no choice but to accept. He was related to the children, which was more than she was.

      So she unpacked and as the kids whooped their joy she felt dizzy.

      ‘Sausages,’ they shouted, holding each item up for inspection. ‘Eggs. We haven’t had this many eggs since the fox ate our last chook. Marmalade. Yuck, we don’t like marmalade. But there’s honey. Honey, honey, honey! And chocolate. More chocolate. Lemonade!’

      Distrust it or not, it was the answer to her prayers, and when Max appeared at the kitchen door, dripping wet again, she even managed to smile.

      ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘I can’t believe you’ve done this.’

      ‘My pleasure. Do you have a laundry? Can Duncan and I have access?’

      ‘To our laundry?’ He was dripping wetly onto the linoleum. ‘Do you both want to strip off?’

      ‘I don’t have any more clothes,’ he told her. ‘Donald’s waterproofs weren’t quite as waterproof as I might have liked. But we now have a clothes dryer.’

      ‘A clothes dryer.’ What was he talking about?

      ‘I know. I’m brilliant,’ he told her, looking smug. ‘A little applause wouldn’t go astray.’

      ‘Where did you get a dryer?’

      ‘MrsAston and MrAston paid for their daughter Emma to install central heating just last week,’ he said, and his voice changed.

      ‘Those nappies were too much, I said to Ern, I said. They’ll be the death of her, with those twins, and young Jason’s only just out of nappies and none too reliable. We didn’t have any money when we had kiddies but we have now, what with superannuation and all, so the least we can do is pay for central heating. So we did, and now…what does my Em want with a great hulking tumble-dryer when there’s a whole new airing cupboard that can take three times as many nappies? You’re very welcome to it.’

      Max’s accent might be French, but he had Mrs Aston’s voice down to a T. Pippa stared—and then she giggled.

      ‘You bought us Emma’s tumble-dryer.’

      ‘Applause?’

      She smiled and even raised her hands to clap—but then her smile died and her hands dropped. ‘Max, this is crazy. We really can’t accept.’

      ‘My clothes go in first,’ he said. ‘That’s the price I’m demanding. Oh, and I need something to keep me decent while they dry. Can you find me something?’

      She gave up. ‘I…sure.’

      ‘Two minutes,’ he said. ‘Me and Dunc are hauling this thing into your laundry and then I want another hot shower. I’ll throw my clothes out; you put them in your brand new tumble-dryer and Bob’s your uncle.’

      ‘Bob?’

      He frowned, intent. ‘Bob’s your uncle? I don’t have that right?’

      ‘It’s not a French idiom.’

      ‘I’m not French.’

      ‘You’re from Alp d’Estella?’

      ‘Let’s leave discussion of nationalities until I’m dry. I only brought one change of clothes and now everything’s wet. Can you find me something dry to wear in two minutes?’

      It was more than two minutes. Duncan helped Max cart in the dryer, but as Max disappeared towards the shower Duncan headed for the kitchen and a gossip.

      ‘Who is he?’ he wanted to know.

      ‘He’s a relation of Gina’s from overseas,’ she told Duncan. ‘Gina never heard a word from that side of the family and they surely didn’t help when Gina and Donald were killed. If he’s being generous now then maybe it’s a guilty conscience.’

      ‘You didn’t tell Mr Stubbins that Max might be a prince,’ Marc whispered as Duncan finally departed with as much information as she was prepared to give.

      ‘Rain or no rain, if I said that we’d have every busybody in the district wanting to visit.’ Pippa lifted a packet of crumpets from the table and carried it reverently to the toaster. ‘And I’m not feeling like sharing. There’s crumpets and there’s butter and honey and I’m thinking I’m having first crumpet.’

      ‘Max says there’s fish and chips coming.’

      ‘I have crumpets right here,’ she said reverently. ‘Food now—or food later? There’s no choice.’

      ‘Don’t you want fish and chips?’

      ‘You think I can’t fit both in? Watch.’

      ‘Don’t you have to find Max some clothes?’ Marc said, starting to sound worried.

      ‘Yes,’ Pippa said, popping four crumpets into their oversized toaster. ‘But crumpets first.’ She handed plates to Sophie, butter to Claire and a knife to Marc. ‘Let’s get our priorities straight.’ She chuckled, but she didn’t say out loud her next thought. Which was that she had a hunk of gorgeous near-to-royalty naked in her bathroom right now—but what she wanted first was a crumpet.

      Priorities.

      A crumpet dripping with butter and honey and the arrival of fish and chips later, her conscience gave a sharp prod. She did a quick search for something Max could wear, but came up with nothing. She’d kept Donald’s waterproofs because the oversized garments were excellent for milking, but the rest of his clothes had gone to welfare long since. She hesitated, then grabbed a pair of her oversized gym pants—and a blanket.

      The bathroom door was open a crack.

      ‘Mr de Gautier?’

      ‘It’s Max if you have clothes,’a voice growled. ‘If not go away.’

      ‘I sort of have clothes.’

      ‘What do you mean sort of?’

      ‘They might be a bit small.’

      A hand came out, attached to a brawny arm. It looked a work hand, she thought, distracted. These weren’t the soft, smooth fingers of a man unused to manual work. She thought back to the deft way Max had caught and loaded the wood. Royalty? Surely not. She’d seen bricklayers catch and stack like that, with maximum efficiency.

      Who was he? What was he?

      She stared for a moment too long and his fingers beckoned imperatively. She gasped, put the clothes in his hand and the fingers retreated.

      There