Where Angels Hide: A Devils MC novel

(with prequel Stairway to Heaven)

Tanya Nellestein
Visit to download the full and correct content document:
https://ebookmass.com/product/where-angels-hide-a-devils-mc-novel-with-prequel-st
airway-to-heaven-tanya-nellestein/
 Praise for The Devil Within

“Alex and Sarah are exciting, easily to fall in love with characters, their chemistry is off charts. Excellent book jammed packed
with lots of action and fun. Characters were amazing and the storyline was superb .”

“It's intriguing, gritty, dangerous, exciting and fast paced. There's never a dull moment and from the very beginning this story
pulls you in and holds on tight, right to the very end. Alex and Sarah are great characters. The Devil Within is definitely a wild
ride!”

“This author knows how to do suspense. Absolutely perfect.

5 star Amazon reviews

“I loved this book. The action hooked me in from the start and as the characters and plot kept twisting and turning, I couldn’t
put it down. Nellestein has delivered a hot, action-packed, romantic thriller and I can’t wait for more!
HM Hodgson
 WHERE ANGELS HIDE

with prequel Stairway to Heaven

A Devils MC Novel
Book 2

TANYA NELLESTEIN
Copyright © 2024 by Tanya Nellestein
All rights reserved.

First Edition February 2024

Developmental editing by Kelly Rigby
www.writewithkelly.com
Copyediting by Michelle Montebello
Cover Design by Tanya Nellestein
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written
permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is for all of my extremely patient readers,
thank you x
 Acknowledgement of Country

I acknowledge the Traditional Custodians of the lands on which I write, the Dharawal people of the Darug Nation, and pay my
respect to the Elders, past, present and emerging.
I acknowledge the continued and deep spiritual relationship of the Australian Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples’ to
this land, and their unique cultural and spiritual relationships to the land, water, seas and community.

Always was, always will be.

 Contents

STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN
Untitled
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Untitled
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Tanya Nellestein
STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN
 STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN

She wants to dance with the devil.

Becca has been trapped in a void created by grief and her aunt’s religious zeal, until a chance meeting with an outlaw
motorcycle biker. Following Zep into the dark and dangerous criminal underworld of The Devils MC frees her from a life of
treading water, and unleashes a side of herself that’s been hidden. But how long can Becca linger in the shadows before their
darkest desires consume her?

Content warning: Stairway to Heaven contains adult themes and scenes which may cause trigger reactions for some readers
including, but not limited to, consensual sadomasochistic sexual acts, domestic violence, murder, violence and blackmail.
 Chapter 1

1992 - Sydney, Australia

CHRIST, why can’t this damn thing stay hidden?

Skipping down the steps of the cafe, I push the gold crucifix back inside my collar. I only wear it to please my aunt and
uncle. The smooth links tangle against my finger. As I try to pull my finger free, I smash head first into what feels like a brick
wall covered in hard leather. The milkshake I hold in my unchained hand erupts between me and the leather-clad wall while
the sketch pad and pencils in my open backpack clatter to the ground.
“Shit, sorry,” says the brick wall, who has arms and legs and is now squatting in unison with my own downward trajectory.
My forehead collides with his leather-jacketed torso for the second time, sending me straight back on my ass.
The palms of my hands burn from the contact with the concrete pavement and I’m covered in chocolate milk, but the sun
glinting off the crucifix around my neck grates the most. I stuff it back inside my shirt then touch my hand to the dull ache in my
forehead. What a mess.
“Here, let me help you up.” A hand appears in front of my face and I decide I’d do better with a guide to get back on my
feet than attempting to navigate it myself.
“Thanks.” I grimace as my grazed palm meets a firm grip.
“Fuck, are you hurt?” Brown eyes scan my face before dipping to below my chin, clearly eyeing the crucifix. “Um, sorry
for swearing.”
I push the crucifix inside my shirt again. Why can it not stay hidden today!
“It’s fine.” I examine my hands and find the skin unbroken, just reddened from the fall. I hold them up for the stranger to see.
“No blood.”
“Good.” The man holds a handkerchief out to me. “It’s clean, I promise.”
A handkerchief? I lean back and look at him properly. He is shorter than my uncle, so less than six feet tall, and a leather
vest covers his broad shoulders, accentuating his tapered torso. Black jeans are held in place by a belt with a big silver buckle
shaped into a skull with wings and words I can’t quite make out. He wears a Metallica t-shirt under the vest, and big black
boots on his feet. And the man was offering me a clean handkerchief…
“Thanks?” It comes out as a question rather than a statement as I take the cotton square.
He smiles for the first time and his brown eyes turn into liquid chocolate. He ducks back to the ground and begins
collecting my belongings, hopefully missing the sigh that rushes from my lips.
I blot the handkerchief on my t-shirt. Who is this guy? He looks like a biker with the leather vest and biker boots, but his
short black hair and handkerchief don’t really fit the profile. Tattoos peek out from beneath the sleeves of his t-shirt as his
well-defined arms reach to pick up my scattered pencils. On the back of the vest is a patch with the same skull and wings
design of his belt buckle, perched above the name, Devils MC.
Devils MC? Never heard of them. Maybe he’s just wearing some expensive wannabe vest and playing at being tough?
“I think I got everything.” He is back on his feet and holding up my backpack. He glances at my chest and then clears his
throat. Is he actually blushing?
I look down and realise my lacy red bra is on full display beneath my drenched white t-shirt.
“Shit!” I cross my arms across my chest.
He chuckles. “Here, wear this.” He places my backpack on the ground at his feet and slips the leather vest off. Before I can
refuse, he drapes the vest around my shoulders, holding the sides out for me to push my arms through. “It’s already got
milkshake spilled on it.”
The leather is heavy and smells warm and earthy and like a very bad idea.
“Where’s your car?” he asks.
I restrain another sigh - this one laden with frustration - threatening to escape. “Don’t have one.” Thanks to my aunt and
uncle withholding my inheritance. “I’m on the bus.”
“When that milk dries, it’s going to reek,” he says. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride.” He picks up my backpack and starts
walking in the direction he is facing.
What? I can’t just get in a car with a stranger who may or may not be a member of an outlaw motorcycle gang. But he has
my backpack, and I’m wearing his vest. I almost have to jog to catch up as he strides down the street and around the corner.
He stops in front of a big black and silver motorbike with really tall handlebars, pushing my backpack into the left-hand
side saddle bag and holding out a helmet. My stomach flips and my bladder threatens to release. Guess I needn’t have worried
about getting into a car with a stranger.
Then he flashes me a smile that lights up his whole face and sets my heart fluttering like a bunch of butterflies. I haven’t
done anything this crazy in years, which suddenly feels like way too long.
 Chapter 2

I recite my address and climb on. I haven’t been on a motorbike since I was a kid, clinging to the back of my dad as we
manoeuvred through traffic in Ho Chi Minh City. Thankfully, my would-be saviour has tightened the straps on the helmet he
placed on my head. If he left it to me, I’d probably be wearing it backwards.
The bike roars to life beneath me and despite the ferocity of the engine starting, we glide into the traffic as serenely as a
ballet dancer. The helmet is open-faced and the wind makes my eyes water. I close my eyes and tighten my grip around his
waist, my body pushing firm against his. The bike throbs underneath me. It is both exciting and unnerving, and I can’t hear
anything except the ricocheting of my heart and the thundering engine.
This is surreal. I must have hit my head harder than I thought. How did I end up on the back of this motorbike with this guy,
heading towards my aunt and uncle’s house?
Oh fuck, Aunt Trudy will be home.
She’ll insist on an exorcism when she sees me ride up on the back of a motorcycle with a wet t-shirt and the devil himself,
according to the back of the leather vest I’m wearing. And she’s not even Catholic. It will become one more reason to withhold
my money.
I squeeze my eyes shut and tighten my arms around him. We come to a stop at a set of traffic lights and he runs his hand
along my arm until his fingers meet mine. He laces our hands together, his thumb gently rubbing the top of my thumb.
The sudden throbbing need between my legs matches the idling engine and leaves me breathless. I imagine what it would
be like to ride off into the sunset with this guy, let him ravish me on some distant beach, or in a cabin in the woods, or
anywhere that isn’t here.
Leave Aunt Trudy and Uncle Bob and their cult-like religious beliefs behind.
Except they would still have my money. Damn it.
The bike rides over a speed hump and I open my eyes. Who was I kidding? I don’t even have the guts to take this crucifix
off, let alone openly rebel against my family and ride off with some guy on a motorbike. I don’t even know his name, but for
some unknown reason, I am on the back of his motorbike - trying hard not to grind against him. You’d think I was sixteen years
old, not two months from turning twenty-one. My life is such a mess.
The bike slows and he turns his head and yells, “Number forty-three?”
We’re already home?
“Yeah,” I shout back.
The bike shudders to a stop right in front of the house. I unlatch my arms from his waist and ease my way over the side of
the bike until my foot touches the ground. With the grace of a new-born giraffe, I swing my other leg off and totter about, trying
to find my balance.
“Whoa there.” Strong hands grip my forearms. Our eyes lock as I clutch at his arms. His hair is windblown from riding
without a helmet, his fringe falling forward instead of swept back. His nose is a little too big and his lips a little too thin. But
his jawline is strong and those eyes… When he smiles, as he is now, his whole face transforms, lit up by those chocolate eyes.
What am I thinking? My imagination has gotten the better of me and I need to get inside the house before Aunt Trudy
discovers me with this guy and reigns hell down on earth. I reach for the helmet buckle but somehow manage to pull it tighter.
“Here, let me.” His tongue touches his top lip as his fingers brush against my neck and he focuses on undoing the latch.
Electricity ripples across my skin sending a lightning strike to my groin.
“Rebecca, what is the meaning of this?” A voice shrills from above. Aunt Trudy stands on the front balcony, glaring down
at us.
“Rebecca,” he repeats softly, as if tasting my name.
“I prefer Becca,” I mutter, turning to face my aunt. “Hi, Aunt Trudy.”
“What are you wearing?”
I glance down at the leather vest. “Oh, I spilled a milkshake all over me and my t-shirt was a bit too see-through so…” I
turn back to the man standing beside me. I guess I hope his name might appear or something.
“Zep,” he says.
“What?” Is he actually reading my mind?
“My name is Zep.”
“That’s not a name,” says Trudy, leaning over the railing and clutching her own crucifix around her neck.
Zep shrugs. “It’s what I answer to.”
Trudy rolls her eyes. “Take that ridiculous vest off and get inside this house immediately, Rebecca.”
Indignant heat spreads up my neck and over my cheeks. I’m not a child, and I’m certainly not her child. I hate how she has
this power over me.
“Don’t just stand there.” Her voice is like a drill boring into my brain. Hot tears prick the back of my eyes.
“Becca? Now please.”
My nails dig into sore, red palms. I am not a child! I cringe at Zep witnessing my humiliation. I squeeze my eyes closed,
hoping it might erase this nightmare.
“Come with me.”
The air seems to still. Did Zep really say that? Surely, it’s my cowardly imagination running away with itself again - I
mean, it's not as if I’d actually leave with a relative stranger.
I open my eyes just as Zep lowers the helmet back onto my head.
I gasp. “No, I⁠—"
“This is bullshit,” he says. “That woman is off her tree.”
I can’t argue with that. I look back at Trudy, who is still issuing demands and threats from the balcony. My arms and legs
feel made of iron, too heavy and clumsy to lift. I can taste the sour stench of my aunt’s vitriol entwining with the rapidly drying
milkshake and I just want the ground to open up and swallow me whole.
Instead, I find myself being led back to the motorbike. Zep swings onto the seat and kick starts the engine, drowning out
Trudy’s protests. He looks at me and nods for me to get on.
Fuck it.
 Chapter 3

My mind is a hurricane of noise and thoughts without anchors, as the bike roars away from my aunt’s house in the inner
suburbs. What have I done? What am I getting myself into, and who the hell is Zep? My aunt and uncle are sure to make good
on their threat to keep me from my inheritance now.
Maybe I’m in shock at my quest for freedom. Maybe I’m frightened that I’ve just made the biggest mistake of my life. But by
the time I begin to take notice of our surroundings, we appear to be in the middle of nowhere. The occasional tree breaks up the
barren looking paddocks on either side of the dirt road we are on. There are no houses and it certainly isn’t farming country. I
have no clue where we were.
The bike slows as an enormous corrugated iron fence comes into view. The skull with wings is crudely painted on the front
of the red gate that is being dragged open from the inside. I look up and notice two men standing in some kind of look-out post
overhead. What the hell is this place?
Zep rides through the gate and at least one of my earlier questions is answered. He is clearly part of an outlaw motorcycle
gang.
Motorbikes and pick-up trucks are parked around what looks like a warehouse. A couple of guys are working on their
bikes, beers at the ready. Zep pulls up and cuts the engine. I quickly scurry off the bike, grabbing the back of the seat to steady
myself. I start to shrug out of the heavy vest. Somehow, I don't think the other bikers would appreciate me wearing this.
“Leave it,” says Zep, coming to stand beside me. “If you’re wearing my cut, no one will mess with you.”
I open my mouth to speak but all my questions collide into each other, leaving me gasping like a fish out of water. He
unbuckles the strap and removes the helmet from my head.
“Come on.” He takes my hand and pulls me into step beside him. “This is The Devils clubhouse. It’s where I live.”
“Oh,” is all I can muster by way of response.
A few heads nod as we stride towards a narrow doorway. As soon as we step inside, I’m plunged into darkness and trip
over my own feet. Zep pulls me against him to stop me crashing onto the floor.
“Jesus, you two smell like a dead cow’s tit.” The booming voice comes from somewhere in front of us.
My eyes adjust as a ridiculously tall and well-built man with long, dirty blonde hair, crazy eyes and plenty of tattoos looms
before us.
“Settle down, Luci,” says Zep, his shoulders straightening. “We’re just on our way to get cleaned up.”
We are? I don’t have anything to get changed into. Because I rode off into the sunset with a complete stranger!
The tall man looks me up and down while pushing his tongue across his teeth as though he has stored food in them. “Is this
one for sharing?”
Zep drops my hand and steps into the tall man’s space. “No, she’s not.”
The man chuckles. “Two months ago, you wouldn’t have had any say in the matter.” He pushes Zep aside, holding out his
hand to me. “Name’s Shane Riley, but you can call me Lucifer.”
Is he for real? Then again, I can see why they call him Lucifer. He does look like the devil, or the grim reaper or something
just as evil.
“Um, Becca,” I mumble, shaking his hand with my fingertips as my heart tries to hack its way out of my chest. My legs
threaten to give out from under me.
“She doesn’t need to call you anything, Luci.” Zep places his hands on my shoulders and guides me away from the giant of
a man.
Catcalls and laughter follow us as we walk through what looks like a bar towards a hallway. I don't see any other women
around. I lick my lips, suddenly desperate for water.
Zep leads me down a hallway with closed doors on either side. He stops about halfway down and opens the door. A kid -
no more than six or seven - springs up from the double bed that takes up most of the space in the room.
“Alex! What are you doing in here?” hisses Zep.
 “Nothin’, just hanging out.” The kid is skinny with dark hair and big round eyes.
“Go and find your mother”—Zep stands aside to let him out the door—“and stay out of your father’s way.”
Zep closes the door as the kid escapes, locking it behind him. My face must mirror the question in my head. “It’s to keep
others out,” he explains.
“Oh.” I collapse my hands together and look around the room. The bed is neatly made except for the imprint of where the
kid has been sitting. Next to a built-in cupboard is a chest of drawers that holds a collection of books on top. A bar fridge hums
beside it.
“Bathroom’s through there.” Zep is pointing to a second doorway. “Towels are clean.”
“Okay.” What else can I say? Everything about this day is surreal. I shrug out of the leather vest, or cut as he called it
before, and lay it on the bed. “Thanks for letting me wear this.”
He nods, then turns his back and opens a drawer.
Not much is making sense to me right now but one thing I know is I need to get these clothes off and wash away the smell of
milk gone bad. I walk into the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I collapse against it and take a long, slow breath in. What
the hell am I going to do?
A knock sounds on the bathroom door and I jump, shrieking like a baby.
“Sorry, I found you a shirt you can wear after you shower.”
I suck in another breath, hoping it will settle my hammering heart, and open the door. Zep holds a neatly folded shirt out.
“Thanks. Um, sorry about the screaming.”
He shrugs. “It’s not uncommon around here.”
I shut the door. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Exactly what kind of hell have I walked into? I take another deep
breath and decide to get cleaned up and then talk to Zep about taking me home. This was a crazy idea.
The bathroom is just as clean and tidy as the bedroom. And just as sparse. The shower has only one tap and on a hunch, I
pull it straight up without adjusting the temperature. Holding my hand under the spray of water, I wait as it changes from cold to
lukewarm to absolutely perfect.
“Huh,” I murmur to myself. I strip off my clothes and step under the shower. Milk has dried in patches across my skin and
in my hair. A three-in-one hair and body wash sits in the rack hanging from the shower head. That will do.
I lather up and soon the smell of sour milk is replaced with a fresh, citrusy, if somewhat chemically produced, fragrance.
Being unsure of the hot water situation, and what I might be keeping Zep from, I wash and rinse as fast and as thoroughly as I
can.
I shut the water off and reach for a towel. It smells of sunlight and soap, with an undertone of Zep. I take an extra sniff and
bite my bottom lip to keep from sighing out loud. I might have escaped one hell for another, but at least this one has some
benefits. The last time I had sex was months ago and the earth did not move.
I shake my head. I need to go home, regardless of what’s waiting for me, which means I need to stop having these lust-filled
thoughts about Zep and ask him to take me back.
As soon as I’m dry, I reach for the t-shirt. It’s faded and black with tour dates for Faith No More on the back, and the logo
from The Real Thing album on the front. My t-shirt, bra and jeans are filthy, but my underwear has not copped any of the
milkshake - thank God. I slip them on and pull the t-shirt over my head. It covers my backside - just.
I comb my long blonde hair out with my fingertips and then fold my soiled clothes into a neat pile. Grabbing my sandals, I
open the door to find Zep stripped down to his jeans, lounging on the bed. Tattoos adorn his upper biceps and a smattering of
dark hair trails from his belly button to beneath his jeans. He isn’t built like Luci, but he is toned and his stomach is washboard
flat. My mind goes blank and I cannot remember what it is I want to ask Zep.
“Here, give me your clothes and I’ll throw them in the wash.” He scoots up from the bed with an agility that makes me
wonder what else he could do with that energy.
“Okay.” I hand them over, suddenly very aware that I am staring at the man while wearing nothing but a t-shirt and knickers.
Zep seems along the same line and I catch the flash of a smirk before he heads for the door, shutting it behind him.
Who is this guy? Now he’s washing my clothes. The memory of his handkerchief pops into my mind and I wonder what I
did with it? On the chest of drawers sits his cut, a soft cloth and a bottle of leather cleaner. If I hadn’t walked through an actual
biker gang’s clubhouse and shaken hands with a dude called Lucifer, I’d be starting to doubt that Zep is a member of this gang.
He really is an oddity.
The door opens and Zep steps back inside the room.
“I’m gonna shower.”
I nod, moving out of his way. He goes into the bathroom and I hear the shower start. Steam begins billowing out of the open
door. Oh my god, he didn’t close the door. Naked Zep is on the other side of this wall, and the door is wide open. Heat
immediately pools between my thighs. I sit on the bed and cross my legs.
Shit, where’s all my stuff? The thought is a somewhat welcome distraction. The last time I saw my backpack with my purse
and my sketchpad and pencils was when Zep put them in the saddle bag on his bike. I deliberately don’t have a cell phone; one
less way for my aunt and uncle to keep track of me. I really hope today is not the day I have a reason to regret that decision.
The water stops and my mind goes straight back to my groin. Great. A moment later Zep appears, a towel wrapped around
his waist. Oh. My. God. My mouth falls open as those butterflies go to town in my belly again. My heart beats between my ears,
blocking any other noise.
My eyes focus on his chest, the drop to the towel again. When I look up, Zep’s eyes are smouldering and he steps toward
me. I’m breathing hard, my own desire going into overdrive. He runs a finger along my jaw and over my collarbone until he
reaches the gold crucifix I forgot is hanging around my neck.
“Is this important to you?”
I shake my head, unable to make words form.
With one hard yank, the chain breaks and he pulls the crucifix from my body. “Then you shouldn’t wear it.”
 Chapter 4

As the chain breaks, something inside of me jolts back to life. For the past three years I’ve existed in a void; going through the
motions of living but barely cognisant to it. Aunt Trudy gave me the crucifix the morning of my parents’ funeral and I’d
accepted it as a token of support rather than the prison it would come to represent. Zep has opened that cage in one decisive
moment. And I am ready to break free.
I rise to my feet and place my hand on his. He is still holding the chain and the look on his face is one of curiosity and a
certain watchfulness. In this moment I know Zep will never hurt me. In this compound I am completely at his mercy and yet he
has only been a gentleman. I wonder if he is like that all the time. I hope not.
I keep my eyes on his and smile, my fingers working the chain and crucifix free from his hand. He lets it go without any
resistance. We stand so close that only a breath separates our bodies. With my eyes locked on his, I toss the chain to the side.
Every nerve ending is on fire and I’m aching to feel his hands on my body. I want to stretch onto my toes and brush my lips
against his, but Zep still has that curious expression on his face. Am I the only one feeling this intense need? My core clenches
and I know my knickers are growing wetter by the second.
Just as I’m about to take matters into my own hands, Zep tangles his fingers into my hair, holding the nape of my neck. My
breath catches and he smirks. I become aware of the bulge beneath his towel and instinctively my hips push forward and our
bodies connect. Now I stretch up to capture his lips with mine; a groan escapes as our mouths meld and I don’t know if it came
from me or him.
His hand slips from the back of my neck to my throat; his grip is gentle. Molten lust explodes inside me and I push against
his hand, willing him to tighten his hold. His tongue runs along his bottom lip as he tilts his head; a question in his eyes.
“Felix,” he growls.
I shake my head, not understanding.
“The safe word,” he explains. “Do you know what that is?”
Comprehension brings a fresh wave of desire. I nod.
“If this is what you want, say Felix.”
I’ve never wanted anything more. “Felix.”
“Good.” He lets go of my throat and steps back. “Take your clothes off.”
I swear I can see the flames of hell dancing in his eyes as I do as I’m told, wanting this dance with him. Zep looks me up
and down as though I’m his next meal and I respond by pulling my shoulders back, and pushing my chest out. He pushes me
back so I fall onto the bed and drops the towel. His cock stands at attention, looking dangerous. My legs fall open with an
invitation to plunder and destroy.
“Not so fast, little girl.” He kneels before me on the bed and I thrust my hips forward, desperate to feel him inside me.
“You’re playing in my world now, by my rules.”
His words awaken a fire inside and I swear I’m ready to come here and now.
He runs his hands down my inner thighs, his thumbs pressing hard enough to make me gasp. I watch him as he holds my legs
far apart, assessing my pussy. I can’t move my hips because his grip is so firm. He leans in and inhales my scent. I whimper,
feeling manic for his touch.
Finally, he looks up again, our eyes locking. He begins to descend between my legs, his head moving towards my pussy.
My breathing is raw and shallow. I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want to fuck this man right now.
His eyes are still trained on mine as he hovers just above my soft curls; his breath is warm against my open folds.
“Please,” I beg. Right now, I would sell my soul to the devil to feel Zep’s mouth working my clit.
A chuckle echoes through my body and I can’t be sure it isn’t the devil answering my plea as Zep’s tongue runs the length of
my wet and wanting slit. The sound I make is strangled, primal. He licks me up and down, his tongue working from my ass to
my pussy, over and over. I grasp the sheets, trying to anchor myself.
His tongue plunges inside me with fast, hot jabs and I cry out in rapture. My hips are still locked in place, rendering me
incapable of helping bring about the climax I’m craving. I clench my inner walls, trying to drag Zep’s tongue in deeper. He
responds by withdrawing and I want to sob in protest.
He raises his head and slowly licks his lips. Fuck. I can’t take this anymore. I reach between my legs but he grabs me
before I can touch myself.
“I don’t think so, little girl.” He straddles me across my tummy and reaches across to the small bedside table and opens the
drawer. A second later he reveals a long length of fabric. Holding my wrists together, he wraps them up tight and then ties the
fabric to the iron bedhead.
“No touching unless I say so.”
Before I can respond, Zep’s mouth covers mine and I taste my own juices. My tongue devours his mouth and face while his
hands move to my breasts. An exquisite pain thrums through me as he squeezes each of my nipples. I try to buck against him but
his weight keeps me in place. I’ve been circling this abyss for what feels like an eternity and I’m ready to swear homage to any
deity if it means I can come.
His mouth leaves mine and Zep works his way down my body with licks and bites that make me gasp and moan. His hands
spread me wide once more and I am rewarded with his tongue against my clit.
“Yes,” I hiss, grinding against his face. When he begins to alternate between sucking and licking me, I just about lose my
mind.
One hand creeps up to my breast, tugging on my engorged nipple and making me shout with ecstasy. My body writhes and
contorts as I edge closer and closer to coming. One finger slides inside me, followed by a second and I’m pretty sure the whole
clubhouse can hear me screaming. He pushes a third finger inside and pumps me, his mouth working my clit. As the orgasm
takes hold, I arch back against the pillow and call his name over and over. My entire body convulses with wave after wave of
pleasure. He removes his fingers and licks my opening as I squirt into his mouth.
Eventually, my body goes limp as the orgasm continues to reverberate through me. My heart is hammering against my ribs
as though it would burst. I’ve never come like that in my life. Zep rises onto his knees between my legs, his lips swollen and
glistening from my cum.
He watches as I catch my breath, stroking the length of his cock. When my breathing evens out, he moves up until he is
straddling my chest, his cock bouncing on my face. I stretch my tongue and lick the salty cream from its tip.
“Open wide.”
He holds his cock at my lips and I comply. He pushes himself inside, coming up on his knees so he can angle himself into
my mouth until his cock touches the back of my throat. I gag but he doesn’t withdraw.
“Relax.”
I close my eyes and concentrate on breathing through my nose as his cock moves in and out of my mouth. My tongue licks as
he thrusts, spit sliding down my chin. As he speeds up, I start to suck and Zep grunts his approval. I can’t help but gag and
choke as he fucks my mouth but I also kinda like it. I feel his cock thicken even more and I know he’s close. He pulls free,
panting hard.
I open my eyes, wanting to taste him as he explodes in my mouth. Instead, he’s reaching back to the drawer, pulling a
condom out. He rips the packet and quickly sheathes himself. Anticipation lances my core.
He shuffles down, once again kneeling between my open legs. He lifts my hips onto his thighs, his cock hovering at my
entrance. He leans forward and the tip nudges my folds. His thumb rubs across my mouth before his hand snakes down and
grabs my throat again. As his grip tightens, he thrusts inside me.
All at once my body is on fire with need. I can barely force the air in and out of my throat as his cock drives into me,
building in speed and depth. My hands are still bound above me and I grasp the length tying me to the bed. My orgasm tips over
the edge and I can’t even scream. I’m coming harder than I’ve ever come before and feel like I might just slip into a black
chasm of pleasure.
Zep starts to moan and swear, his thrusts becoming more desperate. I can no longer breathe and it crosses my mind to use
the safe word, but I don’t want to stop coming. Zep throws his head back and yells incoherently. His hand releases my throat. I
cough and struggle to drag in oxygen as my body bucks beneath him. He withdraws and drops to his back beside me, leaving
me to grieve the loss of his touch and wonder if I’ll ever be the same again.
 Chapter 5

Over the next two weeks, I stay with Zep at the clubhouse. During the day, we go out on his bike. He says he wants to show me
his favourite places around Sydney and beyond, but I’m pretty sure he wants to keep me away from the clubhouse when his
brothers - as he refers to the other men in The Devils - are going about their business. I don’t know what The Devils are into
exactly, but I know it isn’t anything legal.
I was also keen to avoid any more interactions with Luci. That guy makes my blood freeze. Sometimes I hear him yelling
and a woman crying. Zep told me that Luci and his wife have problems but it seems to me the problem is Luci and his temper.
They don’t actually live at the clubhouse; however, something happened and they have been staying there, along with the little
boy I met on the first day. I tried not to think about it too much. For the first time in a long time, I feel free and I want to make
the feeling last.
When Zep and I aren’t riding or fucking, we talk. He told me about his mum. She loved to drink and get high. And she loved
Led Zeppelin, which is how he came to be named Jimmy Page. Everyone calls him Zep for obvious reasons. He never knew
his dad and has no idea if his mother is alive or dead. He said he lost track of her when he was about seventeen but he’d
already started hanging out with The Devils by then, so she knew where to find him if she wanted to.
“Does that make you sad?” I ask as we lay on the grass overlooking the waves at Kiama. I just finished sketching Zep with
the ocean behind him. Drawing is my passion and I indulge every chance I get.
Zep shrugs and takes a swig of his beer. “Dunno. I never really think about her.”
“I think about my parents every day.”
He brushes some hair from my forehead, watching me. I like how he always gives me time and space to speak. It’s a luxury
I’ve not had while living with my aunt and uncle.
“My parents were very different from most people, I guess. Mum was a journalist working for a local paper when she met
my dad. He was a photographer.” I smile and let the memories wash over me. “Neither enjoyed the nine-to-five grind, so they
took their trades on the road and made a living traveling.”
“Like travel writers?”
“Exactly.” I lean across and kiss him, because I can.
“Did you travel with them?” he asks when I settle back beside him.
“Yes. I was born in Tennant Creek in the Northern Territory.”
“Isn’t that like, the middle of the outback?” Zep cocks his head, his dark hair lifting in the breeze.
“I was actually born in an Aboriginal camp. The local women helped my mum through the birth.”
“Seriously? That’s kinda cool.” He shakes his head.
“Hard to believe compared to where you found me?”
“Shit, yeah.” He chuckles. “Does that make you part Aboriginal or something?”
I pick at the grass as I answer. “No, but it does give me an appreciation for their culture and customs. I mean, they are the
longest continuing culture on the planet and they are partly responsible for my safe arrival.”
We talk about my life on the road. My parents and I traveled around Australia and the world until I was sixteen. I guess you
could say I was homeschooled. But my parents decided I should probably experience some kind of formal education - not to
mention socialisation with peers for more than a few weeks.
“So, we came home to Sydney.” I return to picking at the grass, pulling the shoots from the ground. “I was supposed to go to
a public high school but my aunt and uncle intervened and insisted I go to a private school. They thought it would give me more
credibility once I graduated, after spending so long gallivanting around the world like gypsies.” I channel Aunt Trudy when
speaking that last part.
“Why did your parents listen to your aunt and uncle? Did they need their help paying for school?”
I laugh. “Not at all. Travel writing and photography was a very lucrative career for Mum and Dad; plus they made good
investments. They definitely didn’t need anyone else’s money.” My heart aches as I think about my parents. “Trudy and my
mother are sisters, and Mum wanted to try and have a relationship with her because we had no other family.”
“Sisters? They sound like polar opposites,” says Zep.
I nod. “They were. And Dad and Bob, Trudy’s husband, never got on either. They wanted to save us and we were pretty
clear, we didn't need saving.”
Zep takes my hand in his and laces our fingers together. “What happened to them?”
I swallow back the bile that rises whenever I think about the day they died. “Car accident.”
He squeezes my hand and for the first time I feel a sense of comfort. I squeeze back. “Of course, Trudy declared it was an
Act of God. I didn’t know which way was up and Trudy and Bob took me in and immediately surrounded me with others from
their church, insisting I would find solace there.”
“Did you?” His tone is gentle and without judgment.
“I was numb. I found nothing but heartache.”
His thumb gently rubs my hand. I take a shuddering breath in.
“When I started to surface from the fog, I was eighteen and thought I’d take the money Mum and Dad left me and hit the road
again.” I stop speaking; the memory carving my heart into pieces.
Zep’s curiosity clearly gets the better of him. “Why didn’t you?”
I shake my head. “I couldn’t. They took it.”
His eyes widen and his tone is menacing. “What? Your aunt and uncle took your money?”
I bite my lip to keep the tears at bay. “They said they put it into trust or something until I was mature enough to manage that
kind of money.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“When the will was read, the sum was $3.8 million.”
Zep whistles. “That’s a decent chunk.”
“God knows how much is left. I know they paid off their mortgage. Probably donated a ton to the church.” I know I sound
bitter but I can’t help it.
“Fuckers,” spits Zep. “Explains why they haven’t come looking for you.”
“Yeah.” I take a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. It makes me sad and I don’t want to feel sad when
I’m with you.”
He smiles and pulls me closer, his lips claiming mine in a slow, passionate kiss that chases my memories and melancholy
back into the shadows.
 Chapter 6

The banging on the door vibrates through the grey light of early morning.
“What the fuck?” Zep throws back the bed covers and reaches for his jeans.
“Club meeting. Get out here now,” someone yells from the hallway.
My heart is hammering. “What’s going on?”
Zep pulls a shirt over his head and shrugs into his cut. He grabs his boots, leaning across the bed to plant a kiss on my
mouth. “Stay put. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
The door closes behind him as he steps into the chaos outside.
A minute later, the hallway falls silent. Fear needles my spine, forcing me from the bed. I grab some clothes and head into
the bathroom. I quickly dress and wash my face and teeth. Whatever is happening, I know I don't want to be sitting in bed
naked.
I pace the narrow path between the door and the wall, waiting for Zep to return. I’ve been a guest of The Devils MC for
nearly six weeks. The president took it to the club to vote and it was agreed I could stay if I kept out of everyone’s way. That
suits me just fine. But now I feel trapped in this room. I can’t go into the common area; I wouldn’t be welcome. Hurry up, Zep.
Shouting erupts in the distance and footsteps make their way up the hall. A moment later, Zep appears.
“Pack your stuff, we gotta go.” He pulls out my backpack and the few clothes and toiletries I’ve accumulated in the time
I’ve lived here.
I reach for my sketchpad and pencils. “What’s going on?”
Zep spins around and faces me. “Do you trust me?”
“I…”
“Becca?”
“Yes,” I gasp. “I trust you.”
He nods. “We need to leave. I’ll explain everything once I get you somewhere safe, I promise.”
“Okay,” I stammer. The familiar sense of numb settles around me. What is happening?
I move as if underwater out to Zep’s bike. We ride through the predawn streets for about forty minutes until we reach
Parramatta. We pull into the driveway of a fancy hotel and Zep parks his bike at the front doors. As he raises his fist to knock
on the glass, a harried staff member appears and swipes a card to open the doors. It seems we are expected.
“Thanks Harry,” says Zep.
“Room 926,” says Harry, handing over two keycards.
Zep grabs my hand and pulls me across the lobby to a bank of elevators. The doors open immediately and Zep waves a key
card and pushes a button. We don’t speak, but he holds my hand tighter. It takes all of my self-control not to ask again what is
going on. I know he’ll tell me when he can.
Room 926 is more like a suite than a hotel room. Zep places my backpack on the coffee table before pulling me into his
arms.
“I have to leave again but I won’t be long.” His lips move against my hair. “Order room service but stay put until I get
back, okay?”
My arms are wrapped around his waist and I want to beg him to stay with me. But I say nothing, only squeeze him harder. I
know how fierce Zep’s loyalty is to the club. I lift my eyes to meet his gaze.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
I nod and accept his kiss.
Once he leaves, I explore the suite and take a shower. Wrapped in a thick white robe, I order room service, sinking into the
sofa and flicking the television on. There is a rerun of the season finale of Murphy Brown playing. I have watched the show off
and on over the last few years, when Trudy and Bob were out, and decide it has a chance of occupying my mind for half an
hour. Murphy decided to keep her baby - the result of a brief liaison with her ex-husband - at the beginning of the season and
now she is giving birth.
A thought niggles at the back of my mind. I pick at my banana bread and sip my coffee. The thought takes hold as I think
back over the last few weeks, counting them out on my fingers. My stomach begins to churn and my chest feels tight. No matter
which way I add it up, the truth remains the same. It has been two months since my last period.
The door clicks open, admitting Zep into the suite. Panic seizes me and I spill the coffee over my robe.
“Hey, did I startle you?” Zep moves through the room and sits on the coffee table in front of me. “I’m sorry.”
I shake my head, unable to speak.
“Becca, what’s wrong?” Zep’s eyes are wide with concern.
“I think I’m pregnant.”
Zep stares at me, and I stare back. Shit.
He takes my face in his hands, kneeling before me. “Are you sure?”
“I don’t know.” My mind is a blur. “I think so.”
A smile forms and he presses his lips to mine. “I gotta take care of one more thing.”
I start to protest, I don’t want to be alone, but he shushes me with another kiss. He gets to his feet and leaves once more.
My robe is wet from the coffee and I strip it off then move to the bed. I pull back the covers and slip between the cool,
crisp sheets, curling into a ball and start to cry. What the hell am I going to do? An outlaw motorcycle club is no place for a
baby. Could Zep leave it all behind to be a family? I cradle my tummy and let my tears carry me to sleep.

I DON’T KNOW how long I’ve been sleeping when gentle hands rouse me. I wake to Zep’s warm gaze.
“Hey,” he smiles. “Come on, get dressed and I’ll tell you everything.”
I find the clothes I discarded earlier and throw them on. I don’t want to risk Zep disappearing again before we talk. Spread
across the coffee table is what looks to be one of everything from the room service menu, along with fresh coffee.
“It’s after lunch and you didn’t look like you’d eaten,” explains Zep, gesturing at the food.
I smile and wonder if I am the only person in the world who sees this side of him. I sit beside him and dip a crispy potato
wedge into aioli sauce. As soon as I take a bite, I realise I’m ravenous. We dig into the food, speaking only to recommend the
other tastes something.
With a full belly, I lean back against the sofa to better see his face. Zep wipes his mouth with a serviette and takes a deep
breath.
“The sonofabitch killed her.”
My stomach drops. “What? Who are you talking about?”
“Luci. He killed his old lady. Beat her then strangled her.” Zep stares straight ahead, his jaw tensing. “That’s why I needed
to get you out of there. The cops were on their way to question everyone and I didn’t want you caught in the middle of it.”
I think of the little boy Zep chased from his room. “What about their son?” I whisper.
“Alex? Social services have him.”
The kid’s alive. My hand drops to my tummy.
Zep glances at me and sighs again. “The Devils is no place for a kid, no place to raise a family.” Heat pricks my skin and a
wave of nausea washes over me. Where is this going?
Zep turns his body to face me, taking my hands in his. “Becca, I don’t want this life for you or our baby. You’re finally free
from your aunt and uncle, I can’t let you walk straight back into another cage.”
I shake my head. “Of course, I can’t stay at the clubhouse but we could get a place of our own. I’ll get a job and pay my
share⁠—”
“No, Becca. It doesn’t matter where we live. As long as we’re together you’re a part of The Devils. And once you’re in,
the only way out is in a coffin.”
My heart feels like it’s ground to a stop. “What are you saying?”
“I love you Becca, and that’s why I have to let you go.”
I wanted to scream, I wanted to hit him. But I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak.
“You can go anywhere, do anything,” Zep said. “Just like you planned.” His voice wobbled ever so slightly. “Check your
bank account. Your money is all there.”
“What? How?”
His smile was sad. “I paid your aunt and uncle a visit with one of the brothers. You won’t have any more trouble from
them.”
My heart kickstarted painfully and my alarm must have been obvious.
“They’re okay - alive and breathing.”
 I nodded, not sure I wanted to know any more than that. Another thought struck me. “Come with me! We have enough money
to disappear. We can be together, raise our baby together.”
He leaned forward and captured my lips with his. His kiss was soft and tender. It felt like a goodbye.
“Becca, I knew the stakes when I took this patch. We all know what we are signing up for. That hasn’t changed. It won’t
ever change for me.”
Tears choked my words and streamed down my cheeks.
“Go and raise our baby and live the life you were meant to. I’ll always know where to find you but don’t ever come
looking for me. And never tell our child who I am.”
He kissed my forehead and I clung to his arms as he rose. He gently pulled his arms free, and walked away. Taking my
heart with him.
 Could the devil be her salvation?

Abby Sloane is strong, independent and in control of her own destiny. Raised by her single mother on the idyllic North Coast of
NSW, in a community that she loves like family, despite their expectation that she hurry up and marry her long-term boyfriend.
Abby doesn’t mourn the absence of a father she’s never known.
Zep is the President of outlaw motorcycle gang, The Devils MC. He lives, and would die, for his brothers. Zep’s world is
violent and dangerous - which is why he sent the love of his life far away when she fell pregnant with his child.
Nearly thirty years later, a gang war is set to ignite and Zep’s secret family becomes the target for his enemy’s retribution.

Content warning: Where Angels Hide contains adult themes and scenes which may cause trigger reactions for some readers
including, but not limited to murder, violence and cancer.
 Chapter 1

Outskirts of Broulee, South Coast of New South Wales, Australia

ZEP EYED the older man sitting across from him in the kitchen of The Devils MC makeshift headquarters. It was an older
house, built in the seventies, but the interiors had undergone some renovations ten years ago, making it comfortable enough.
They were making do with this beachside property while their clubhouse, which had been burned to the ground by an
undercover cop, was being rebuilt in Sydney. With his thinning grey hair slicked back across his scalp and elongated jowls,
Peter Isobel looked every day of his seventy-three years, and then some. The head of the Isobel crime family had been out of
prison for almost a year after a twelve-year stint, and he was pissed.
“Again, you have my deepest sympathies for the passing of John and his family—” Zep began.
“Fuck your sympathy. My son was murdered, along with his wife and my grandson. And that’s on you.” Isobel pointed his
tobacco-stained finger in the face of The Devils MC president.
Zep swallowed his frustration, smoothing his thumb and forefinger over his handlebar moustache. “Peter, you weren’t so
concerned with John’s death a year ago.”
“He wasn’t dead though, was he?”
“You didn’t know that,” he countered, tired of the old man’s bullshit. His youngest son, John Isobel, had faked his own
death with the help of The Devils’ enforcer, Alex “Hollywood” Riley, in order to escape the criminal underworld and start a
new, secret, life with his pregnant wife overseas.
Isobel leaned back in his chair and chuckled, folding his hands over his well-padded, blue tracksuit-clad belly. “Who do
you think you’re talking to? Of course I knew your boy Hollywood let him go.”
Zep snorted and rolled his eyes at Connor, who was watching on from the side of the room. Hollywood had fooled
everyone, right up until the moment he disappeared on a plane headed for London—and Sarah Darcy. Why Isobel thought he
knew things no one else had was beyond Zep.
“Oh, you don’t believe me?” Isobel’s lip curled menacingly. “Hollywood’s still alive, isn’t he?”
In the corner, Connor shifted on his feet. Zep shook his head. He should’ve known something was up when John’s older
brother, Brian, hadn’t raised a fuss when he’d reached out to him before ordering the hit.
“Stella’s beside herself,” Isobel continued, referring to his wife. “Your thug executed her baby and her grand baby.”
Zep felt an internal shudder of disgust. There’d been no need to kill Alison and the baby.
“Jesse’s dead, your vengeance has been served,” said Zep of the enforcer he’d sent after Alex Riley, who had then taken it
upon himself to kill John Isobel and his family.
“No,” said Isobel, leaning his elbows onto the table. “You don’t seem to understand. This is my blood, my family. It’s more
than business, more than a casualty of war.”
Isobel was staring hard at Zep. This was leading somewhere, he could feel it deep in his bones.
“Or perhaps you do understand,” Isobel continued. “Perhaps you could imagine the horror of losing a child.”
It was a statement, not a question. Beneath the stoney facade that he’d schooled his face into for the last thirty years, Zep’s
blood turned to ice.
“My father taught me to follow the money.” The glint in Isobel’s eyes was menacing. “Always follow the money.” He
touched his finger to his bulbous nose. “That’s how I knew Hollywood was up to something, and when two and two made four,
I realised he’d taken a leaf out of my John’s book.”
“You’re full of shit, Isobel.” Zep had never thought to track the money trail of his enforcer. Why would he when Hollywood
appeared loyal to the club?
“When people disappear, I always make a point of following the money.” Isobel slid his pink tongue across his lips. “Been
doing it for decades.” He emphasised the last word with a gleam in his eye.
Zep didn’t take his eyes off the mob boss. “Fuck you,” he growled. The ice in his veins cracked painfully beneath his skin.
 “What’s he talking about, Zep?” asked Connor. He’d been around long enough to know men like Peter Isobel didn’t bluff.
Isobel started to laugh, a deep loud belly rumble that bounced off the walls.
Connor took a step towards the table. “What the actual fuck are you laughing at?”
Isobel’s henchman, who’d been watching silently from the opposite side of the room to Connor, also took a step forward,
his hand on his side arm.
“Settle down trigger, you don’t want to shoot yourself in the leg,” Connor said to the younger man, earning himself a glare.
“Ooh, scary.”
Isobel kept laughing while Connor and the other guy squared up from across the room. Zep was breathing hard, a red haze
settled over everything. If all he was talking about was Hollywood’s money trail, he didn’t give a fuck. But if this was him
referring to… No. How could he know? No one knew. He’d made sure of it.
There was too much noise in the room, too many people. He felt hot. Why would Isobel follow the money of a woman who
belonged to a foot soldier of an MC? It made no sense. He slammed his fists onto the table.
“Enough!” he roared.
All three men stopped and stared at him. Connor and the bodyguard wore shocked expressions. Isobel looked like the cat
that got the cream.
“What do you want? Your son and his family are dead and I’m sorry for that. Their killer is also dead. There is nothing to
be gained from more bloodshed.” Zep had regathered his composure, on the surface. Isobel was playing games and he was sick
of it.
Isobel narrowed his eyes. “I want to bring bloody vengeance down on this club and all who ride with you.”
Zep shook his head. “You want to start a war over this, old man?” What the fuck was Isobel thinking?
“I want the world to remember who I am,” he spat. His chair scraped against the tiled floor as he rose. Isobel stood as tall
as his aged posture would allow. “And you and yours can fade into oblivion.” He began to shuffle to the door while his
bodyguard hovered, as if waiting for him to fall.
“Prison’s done your head in, Isobel,” shouted Connor at the mob boss’s departing form.
“I’ll give Becca your regards, Zep,” Isobel threw over his shoulder as he left.
Zep froze, the ice in his veins spreading to encase him. Connor kept yelling but the words were lost on Zep as he tried to
make sense of what had just happened. Peter Isobel had appeared at his doorstep, all the way from Melbourne, to declare war
over his dead son. A son who had left the fold, left the life–and his father–behind. And somehow, he knew about Becca. And
now the animal was threatening her.
It took every ounce of self control he had not to follow Isobel and kill him where he stood—one in the head and one in the
heart.
Connor returned to the kitchen, his long grey hair flying around his red face. He went to the sink, took a glass from the shelf
and filled it with water. He gulped it down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he was done.
Zep hadn’t moved from the kitchen table. He knew the time had come, he couldn’t keep his secret any longer. As he
searched for the words to begin, Connor spoke.
“Becca, that’s the girl you kept stashed in your room until Luci lost his shit.”
Lost his shit. Such a vague way to recount the day Luci—Lucifer—the club enforcer, had killed his old lady in a fit of rage.
“You always had a memory for details,” said Zep.
Connor nodded. “Long blonde hair and big blue eyes. Only time I ever saw you pussy-whipped.” He turned to face his
president. “Amongst all the madness, you took off with Johnny and paid a visit to her family.”
Of course, he knew that. Not much got by Connor. Not then, not now.
“They owed her money,” he said. “I made sure they paid it back.”
“Good of you,” said Connor, taking the seat Isobel had sat in only minutes before. “I thought she scarpered when Luci went
rogue, couldn’t take the heat.” He watched Zep with curious eyes.
That was what Zep had wanted everyone to think. In reality, he’d moved Becca out before the cops descended. Kept her
clear of trouble. He took a deep breath. The memory of Becca was still fresh in his mind, as if what they’d shared had occurred
last week. It had sustained him all these years.
Zep studied Connor. “If that’s what you saw, how the hell did Isobel figure it out? How would he know to follow her
inheritance?”
“Figure what out, Zep? You gotta tell me what’s going on if The Devils are going to war with Melbourne’s number one
crime family. What exactly are we fighting for?”
His gut churned as acid burned the ice from his veins. For thirty years he’d kept this buried in a box he thought he’d never
have to open. “The morning Luci knocked his old lady, Becca found out she was pregnant.”
There was a sharp inhale as Connor put the pieces together.
Zep placed his hands on the table, spreading his fingers wide. “Becca wasn’t cut out for this life, and I didn’t want a kid
hanging around my neck like a beacon for assholes like Isobel to use against me.” He studied the faded tattoos on the back of
his hands. “I knew she’d be set up for life if I got her inheritance back from her fucked up aunt and uncle. So I did, then I cut her
loose.” He could still feel the slice of that blade.
“You loved her.” Connor saw right through him.
Zep gave a shaper nod in response, not able to look him in the eye.
“Aaah, you still love her.”
Now he looked at Connor. There was no need to confirm it with words.
“And the kid?”
“A daughter,” said Zep. A beautiful, strong, independent daughter. Just like her mother.
“You’ve kept tabs on them, obviously.” Connor didn’t wait for a response. “Are you going to warn them?”
“That’s just it,” said Zep. “I don’t think Isobel knows as much as he makes out.”
“How so?”
“He called her Becca. She hasn’t gone by Becca in nearly thirty years.” He was hanging onto this thread. It was the only
card he had to play. He couldn’t sit still any longer. Pushing the chair back, he began to pace the length of the kitchen.
Connor scrubbed his hand across the stubble on his cheeks, before stroking the silver beard that covered his double chin
and grazed the top of his gut when he sat. “He doesn’t know where she is?”
“Maybe not,” said Zep. “I fuckin’ hope not.” He didn’t believe in God but he was prepared to pray that Becca and their
daughter’s location were still unknown to everyone but him.
“You want me to send someone to watch them?”
Zep shook his head. “Nah, that’ll play right into Isobel’s hands. Send someone to watch him. Not her. I wanna know where
he goes, who he talks to and where he sends his boys. I wanna know when Peter Isobel takes a shit and who wipes his ass.”
Connor nodded. “Done.” He rose, ready to relay the message to the brothers waiting outside.
Zep stopped his pacing and came back to the table. “And Connor?”
The older man halted.
“Get Brodie back from Europe. I need him here.”
Zep placed his hands on the table, leaning forward. His heart was pounding inside his chest. He’d given Becca up to keep
her and their child safe and it was a decision he’d never regretted, not once. Who the fuck was Peter Isobel to threaten him or
them? To threaten The Devils? He didn’t care what it took, but no one was fucking with what was his. Not his woman, not his
daughter and not his club.
 Chapter 2

Lennox Head, North Coast of New South Wales, Australia.

ABBY SLOANE RUSHED up the ramp of the Jumping Rock Café, smiling and waving. The outside tables were full, and she
knew most of the people who were indulging in a late breakfast or morning tea on a Wednesday morning. It was autumn but the
sun was out in force, and everyone was making the most of this final burst of warmth.
“Oh Abby!” called Margaret Muller. “I heard about your new client. How exciting!”
Exciting was an understatement. This client was going to put her on the map as an interior designer and stylist. Abby had
scored a bonafide Hollywood superstar, and she knew the locals were desperate for the lowdown on the waterfront mansion
she and her husband had just purchased on the outskirts of Byron Bay. The British couple planned on raising their family in the
area and everyone was buzzing with the news that yet another celebrity had taken up residence in their little corner of the
world.
“Hello, Margaret.” She waved at the café regular. She was at the Jumping Rock café every day at 11am for coffee and cake.
“I love that shade of mauve on you!”
Margaret beamed as she glanced at her blouse. “Thank you, darling. I saw your mother pop inside a few minutes ago.”
Abby nodded her thanks without breaking stride and entered the café.
“Morning, Emma.” She greeted the brunette who was hard at work behind the coffee machine. “How’s the weather?”
“Hey, Abby. I know! This sunshine is amazing.” Emma and her husband Brett had owned the Jumping Rock Café for five
years and it was popular with locals and tourists alike. “Soy cap?”
“You’re the best!”
Rachel Sloane was deeply engrossed in conversation with her friend, Jenny. Both heads were bent over an iPad and Rachel
was exclaiming while Jenny nodded on.
“Hi, Mum.” Abby brushed her lips across Rachel’s cheek, inhaling the familiar scent of vanilla and jasmine. “Hello,
Jenny,” she said, taking the seat across from Rachel.
“Hello darling, did you order a coffee on the way in?”
“Emma has me covered.”
Rachel beamed and returned her attention to the iPad. “Jenny is just showing me some photos from Holly’s wedding in Bali
last week.”
“Lovely,” said Abby, swallowing her internal grimace.
“It really was the perfect day,” Jenny gushed. “I know Holly and Matthew were several years below you, Abby, but they
were high school sweethearts. Do you remember how cute they were?”
Jenny kept up the chatter and Abby kept the smile plastered on her face, determined not to react to the all-too-frequent jab
at her unmarried status at the grand old age of twenty-nine. Wasn’t it enough for these people that she and Scott had moved in
together? Not everyone wanted to drop a small fortune on a wedding and put their career on hold so they could have children
and fulfil the nuclear stereotype of happiness. She almost wished someone would bring up her new client—anything to save her
from this conversation.
“Oh, here’s Janelle now,” said Jenny, waving to Matthew’s mother. “We’re going to compare photos from the ceremony.”
“What a good idea,” said Rachel. “It takes so long for the professional photos, doesn’t it?”
“Yes! And the price we paid for the photographer…” Jenny rolled her eyes. “Honestly, you’d think it would be a faster
process.”
Air kisses blew through the space between them as Jenny left to find a table with Janelle. Abby released a deep breath.
“Now darling, don’t rain on Jenny’s parade,” Rachel said playfully.
“I’m not,” she said, rolling her shoulders back and pushing her long blonde hair to sit on one side of her neck. “I’m just not
keen on hearing about the wedding of someone who was ‘several years below me at school.’” She used air quotes to make her
point.
Rachel chuckled and took a sip from her coffee. Abby noticed the dark rings under her mother’s eyes and the hollow
beneath her cheek bones. Streaks of grey had started to appear in her blonde hair that sat in layers around her face and neck.
“Have you lost more weight, Mum?”
Rachel replaced her coffee on the table. “Not that I’ve noticed.”
“You look tired.” Abby wasn’t prepared to let it go. Her mother had always been trim, but these days her skin seemed to
hang from her bones. “Are you sleeping alright?”
“I’m fine, darling. Don’t fuss.” Rachel leaned across and squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Menopause affects us all
differently.”
Emma arrived at that moment with Abby’s coffee. Rachel drew back to make room for the mug on the table and abruptly
changed the subject. “Tell me all about your exciting new client?”
“Ooh, yes,” said Emma. “Is she really a diva like all the tabloids say?”
“You know I don’t breach the confidentiality of my clients,” said Abby loud enough for the curious ears around them to take
the hint. Thanks to the influx of Hollywood stars to the area, she’d picked up some high-profile clients in recent times. Abby
leaned in and whispered to Rachel and Emma. “Not at all, she is so lovely, and her hubby is bloody gorgeous.”
The women laughed.
“Maybe he’ll have some single brothers that will visit regularly,” said Emma.
“Don’t let Brett hear you talking like that.” Rachel gave her a conspiratorial wink.
“Purely for eye candy.” Emma laughed again and returned to her place behind the coffee machine.
“How big is the job?” asked Rachel.
Abby filled her mother in on the size and style of the house and what the client hoped to achieve. It would be an excellent
promotional opportunity for Abby, if she managed to pull off the brief.
“I’m sure you will, darling. There’s a reason she hired you.”
“Thanks Mum. I am excited about this job. It’s a huge opportunity to make a name on the international market.”
“Is that what you want? To work internationally?” Rachel asked, draining the last of her coffee. As much as she tried to
hide it, Abby caught the sadness that flashed across her face.
“I won’t need to work overseas the way the film industry is growing in Australia. More and more big movies are being
made here and that means more actors are relocating—even if only for the interim—to Australia.”
“Well, you certainly have the talent and the drive to succeed, and I’m sure Scott is relieved to know you won’t be spending
great chunks of time overseas.” The look on her face suggested it might be her mum who was secretly relieved.
Abby shrugged. “I’m not sure it’s an issue.”
Rachel’s eyes flared with concern. “Why’s that? You two aren’t having problems, are you?”
“No.” Abby waved her mother’s concerns away. “Scott is always away on various cases for work and is hardly in any
position to insist I stay at home.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant, darling.” Rachel tilted her head and gave her daughter an assessing look. “Scott could
easily request a transfer from his squad and be based permanently at Ballina Police Station if you both decided you wanted to
have more time together, or God forbid, start a family.”
“What about the wedding? I thought that was what everyone was waiting for,” said Abby with a sarcastic undertone.
“You don’t need to marry to have children, darling.”
Children were not something she’d given much thought to; and it wasn’t a subject she was in any hurry to examine. “Oh
Mum, can’t we just be happy as we are?” She took the spoon and scooped some of the milk froth from the top of her coffee.
“I don’t know, darling. Can you?”
Abby raised her eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Rachel shrugged. “Only that I know how important family is to Scott. You keep saying you’re both focusing on your careers,
but it seems both of your careers are doing very well. If having a family of your own is something you want, perhaps the time is
ripe to make a start? Eggs don’t stay fertile forever.”
“Oh God, I think Jenny and her wedding photos have addled your senses!” Abby hoped she sounded nonchalant even though
she was seriously pissed on the inside. Why was everyone so interested in seeing her shacked up with Scott and some kids in a
house with a white picket fence? Even Scott had been hinting at moving their relationship forward. “Anyway, I’ve got to get
back to the office. I’ve got a tonne of work to do.”
Rachel sat back in her seat, giving Abby her best you think you know, but you don’t know look. “Alright darling. Is Scott
joining us for dinner on Friday night?”
Abby fished around for her purse in her handbag. “Not sure, actually. He’s been in Sydney all week on a case. I’ve got to
run.” She stood and kissed her mother on the cheek. “I’ll pay for the coffees on the way out. Love you.”
“Thank you, darling, love you too. See you Friday.”
She paid and hurried from the café, keen to bury herself in work and put the conversation with her mum out of her mind.
Abby had her head down as she returned her purse to her handbag and walked straight into another person. He placed his hands
on her arms to steady her.
“I’m so sorry.”
“My fault.” The man had a thick accent Abby couldn’t quite place. The stubble on his face looked permanent, and matched
his thick eyebrows and dark hair. He stared at her face as if trying to memorise her features, holding onto her a little longer than
was comfortable. “Please, excuse me.” He let go, then stepped to the side to allow her to pass.
Abby gave him a brief smile and walked on, turning to glance back as she reached the footpath. A shudder spasmed across
her shoulders when she saw the man was still watching her.

THE PHONE VIBRATED on the dining table beside her open laptop. Abby saved the document she was working on and
answered the call.
“Hey, babe.” She grabbed her glass of wine and moved to the sofa.
“Hey, beautiful, how was your day?” Scott’s deep voice sounded in her ear, its timbre resonating down her spine and
creating tingles deep inside. One thing she did miss when Scott was away was the sex.
“Busy, productive. How was yours?” She lay back against the plush cushions and wondered if she could talk him into
phone sex.
“Same. We’ve had some developments in the case which might actually crack this thing wide open.” Scott was a detective
in the Robbery and Serious Crime Squad, a promotion he’d worked solidly towards ever since he became a cop. He was
based in Ballina but could be called onto a case anywhere in the state. This latest job had something to do with extortion,
according to the bits and pieces of information Scott had shared.
“That’s good news.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t look like I’ll be heading home any time soon.” He sounded doleful. “Sorry, babe.”
Abby pouted. “Guess I’ll have to take my physical needs into my own hands.”
“You’re killing me, Abby,“ Scott groaned. That was the point.
“Wanna switch to FaceTime?” She took a quick sip of her wine and put the glass down.
“I wish I could.”
The sudden lift in her mood fell flat.
“I’ve got a video call in five minutes.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound anywhere near as fun as FaceTiming me.” She sat up straight. “Do you think you could take a
night off over the weekend? I could fly down, book a fancy hotel on Saturday night?”
“Let me see what I can do.”
She smiled. “Excellent.”
“I’d better run. Love you, Abby.”
“Love you, bye.”
They ended the call and the silence echoed around the cottage. She glanced around their home with a sigh. Cottage was
probably an understatement. The house was a fully renovated four bedroom, two bathroom home with an entertainer’s kitchen
and dining area leading out onto a generous deck with ocean views. With Rachel’s help, she’d bought the property three years
ago—just before she’d met Scott—and used it as a canvas on which she could experiment and perfect her skills as an interior
stylist.
The result was an absolute masterpiece, even if she said so herself. It was eclectic, luxurious and comfortable all at once.
“A bold statement of individuality,” Belle Magazine had called it when they’d featured her business and her home almost a
year ago. Abby had gotten a lot of work from that feature. Her attempts to pay Rachel back had been declined; her mother
insisted it was her right to support her daughter’s career in the same way her own parents had supported her. Albeit from
beyond the grave.
Abby had no family aside from Rachel. Her grandparents died in a car accident when her mother was seventeen, and she’d
lost touch with her only surviving family before Abby was born. Her grandparents had left their only child a considerable
fortune, which meant Rachel had been able to pursue a career as an artist without having to worry about a stable income to
keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. It had also meant her mum was around when she needed her.
She sent a quick text to her mum confirming it would be just the two of them for dinner on Friday. Abby brought the glass to
her lips and took another sip.
Her mind wandered to her friend, Demi. She really needed to check in and see how she was coping without her rat-bastard
husband who’d walked out on her and their son. Abby and Demi met on the first day of kindergarten and had been the best of
friends ever since. Abby had been there through Demi’s parents’ divorce when they were in high school, had been her maid of
honour when Demi married Jake three years ago, and was godmother to their son, Flynn. And now she was holding Demi’s
hand through her own divorce.
She found Demi’s number and hit call.
 Her friend picked up on the second ring. “Hey, Abby,” she whispered.
“Shit, did I wake Flynn?” She should have thought to text first.
“No, I just got him down and my phone’s on silent. Exiting his room ninja style, as we speak.”
Abby breathed a sigh of relief. At eleven months, Flynn was a pretty good sleeper but since his parents’ separation, he’d
become extra clingy and preferred sleeping in his mother’s arms.
“All clear.” Demi spoke at her normal volume.
“How are you?”
“Ready for a glass of wine. How was your day?”
Abby filled her in, giving Demi a chance to pour a glass of wine and recalibrate now that Flynn was down for the night.
“It really doesn’t bother you that Scott is away so much?” Demi asked after Abby explained he wouldn’t be home this
weekend.
“I miss him, sure, but we’ve never been that way.” Abby rose from the couch and headed to the kitchen, intent on refilling
her glass.
“What way is that?” There was a hint of accusation in Demi’s question.
“I don’t know.” Abby knew she needed to tread lightly here. It had only been four months since Jake had announced he was
done and walked out on his wife and child without a backward glance. “Dependent on each other.”
“And what’s so wrong with depending on someone, Abs?” Demi sighed into the phone. “It’s alright to lean on someone and
know they’ve got your back.”
“I lean on plenty of people,” she protested, opening the refrigerator and grabbing the bottle of sauvignon blanc. “I know
you’ve got my back, just like I will always have yours.” More than that dropkick husband of yours. Removing the cap, she
poured herself another full glass.
“Absolutely, but Abs, it’s okay to need more.”
Abby put the bottle back in the refrigerator, then leaned her head against the closed door. “I really thought you, of all
people, would spare me the push towards marriage.”
“Who said anything about marriage? I just mean that if you keep holding Scott at arm’s length, one day he might slip through
your fingers all together.”
“Scott and I are fine.” How did this conversation become about her relationship?
“I thought Jake and I were fine,” Demi whispered.
Abby’s heart hurt for her friend, who was such a kind and decent human being and didn’t deserve what was happening to
her. “Not everyone is cut out for fatherhood. Jake could have done you a favour and worked that out before Flynn came along,
like my darling daddy did.” She took her glass and went back to the living room.
“But then I wouldn’t have Flynn. Besides, you never knew your father–”
“And if Jake never shows his face again, neither will Flynn.” Abby took a breath, settling back onto the sofa. “Look, I know
it’s not what you planned, but in all honesty, I don’t feel like I’ve missed out in any way by not having a father.”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure I’m cut out for single parenthood. I mean, Rachel is amazing.” Demi’s voice caught.
“So are you, Dee! You’re not in this alone. Mum certainly didn’t raise me all by herself. She swears it takes a village to
raise a child and I completely agree. I wouldn’t change anything about my life.”
Throughout her childhood, Abby had watched many of her friends’ parents separate, divorce and cause each other pain, and
she’d been secretly happy never to have lived through her family being torn apart. Her mother never spoke of her father and
Abby could only assume he’d been some fleeting love interest. Rachel had never bothered with relationships beyond the
physical, and nothing that had stood the test of time. But their home and their hearts had always been full.
“We’re all here for you, and for Flynn.” She could hear Demi crying softly and her heart broke for her friend. They had a
tight knit circle of friends who would continue to rally around Demi and her son.
“What if Jake comes back?”
Abby bit the inside of her cheek, swallowing her initial reaction to that scenario. Demi didn’t need a man like Jake in her
life. “So, he comes back. I’ll still be here for you. If you two figure it out, excellent. If you don’t, it’s all good too. I’ve got you,
Dee. Always.”
They talked until Demi’s tears stopped and Abby was satisfied she wouldn’t crawl inside a bottle of wine and wake with a
raging hangover. She ended the call, her mind turning over the conversation. It had been Abby and Rachel from the beginning. A
strong, inseparable mother-daughter team. That hadn’t been Demi’s experience, nor was it Flynn’s start in life.
Deep down, Abby got it. Demi had had certain expectations—dreams even—about how her life would be. She just wished
she could give Demi the certainty of knowing that her life would still be wonderful, even if it had taken a dramatic turn in the
opposite direction.
Demi’s pain had been caused by men who’d left and hadn’t looked back. First, her father. When her mother remarried,
she’d moved to Brisbane with her new husband, assuring Demi she should get on with her own life as she was then eighteen.
And now Jake had left her.
 Watching her friend’s devastation was awful, but it also showed the exact problem with depending on a man as some kind
of security blanket in life. It was an illusion, and one Abby would not be buying into. She never wanted to experience that level
of pain and heartbreak.
 Chapter 3

“Just because none of Isobel’s crew have left Victoria, doesn't mean he hasn’t sent in other associates.” Zep sat at the head of
the table in The Devils’ makeshift boardroom in the shed at the back of the property in Broulee. Thirty brothers, all wearing
their cuts, sat around the table, hobbled together with twenty-foot timber planks screwed into concrete besser blocks. He hated
that this meeting was taking place—that the hidden details of his life were now exposed.
“I still can’t believe you’ve got a kid, Prez.” Dodge, nicknamed for his ability to dodge the cops, had been with the club for
over fifteen years, and part of the inner circle for ten years. There was an aggrieved undercurrent in the question.
“And I bet you’ve got cousins I’ve never heard of,” Connor growled.
Dodge raised his hand in surrender, leaning back in his fold out chair.
“Peter Isobel wants to start a war with us.” Zep looked around the table. “When he threatens one of us, he threatens all of
us.”
A cacophony of curses and fists thumping timber rang out in agreement.
“He thinks we’re weak, with Hollywood out of the club and Jesse and Ray dead.” Zep shook his head.
“And now he's trying to cut the head off,” Connor added.
Zep grunted. “We’ve got some decisions to make. Hollywood left us exposed when he was in the wind. Made Jesse the
perfect substitute for enforcer in case anyone was in the mood to take a shot at us.”
“Jess was unhinged,” said Tosh. Short and athletic with jet black hair, he’d been patched for almost ten years and was
handy with a blade and got off on spilling other people’s blood.
“Which was the point. We needed someone who could rip the throat out of his grandmother and smile while he did it. The
cops were breathing down our neck and we couldn’t risk anyone else moving in on our enterprises.” Zep nodded at Tosh. “And
Jesse provided in spades.” Until he fucked with Isobel’s family and gave the old man an excuse to come after the club.
Tosh nodded in agreement, along with most of the other brothers. “When’s Brodie getting back?”
“He’s been delayed in Paris,” Connor answered. “Caught up in that terrorist attack.”
Zep smoothed his moustache over and waited for the murmurs to die down. He needed to get his house in order, which
meant making some big decisions today. “Brodie knows this club inside and out and has a good head on his shoulders for the
business.” He looked at Connor. “You’ve been Club Secretary for decades.”
Connor inclined his head. “That’s right. Nothing’s changed.”
Zep nodded and sat back. As president, he couldn’t nominate or vote, unless he had to make a tie vote or break a tie vote.
But he was clear on the outcome he wanted, as was Connor.
“Brodie has been acting as our Sergeant at Arms.” Connor looked around the table. “Any reason we shouldn’t make that
permanent?”
No one spoke.
“Any other nominations for the position?” asked Connor.
More silence.
“All in favour of Brodie as Sergeant at Arms?”
A resounding chorus of aye’s echoed around the shed.
“Against?”
Silence.
“Good.” Zep clasped his hands on the table in front of him. “We need an enforcer. Hollywood’s left big shoes to fill. He
made killing an art form and he was the fucking best in the business.”
Disgruntled murmurs filled the air. Alex Riley had been the best enforcer The Devils—or any club in recent times—had
known. But him leaving the club had left a bad taste in many of the brothers’ mouths. For all of them, their loyalty began and
ended with the club.
Zep tapped his hands on the table, making sure he had the attention of everyone in the room. “Our enforcer needs to be
smart. He needs to know who the players are, and how they interact. You can’t just kill someone without considering the
consequences.” That was where Jesse had not been suited to the role at all. “He needs to follow orders while thinking for
himself.”
Zep looked at his brothers gathered round the table. Most were watching him, others kept their eyes downcast. It was a
coveted role, but one with enormous responsibility. Everyone knew Hollywood had never gotten drunk or lost control. He was
always ready. Always willing. Always able. Until he wasn’t.
“You want nominations from the floor now?” Connor asked.
Zep spread his hands wide. “Let’s hear from the floor.” He knew exactly who he wanted as his next enforcer, but he was
keen to see what the boys thought.
“Mick’s a fucking top shot, at any range.”
“Not Coop. He’s more likely to shoot himself in the face.” Laughter roared around the table.
“Yeah, fuck off, Dodge,” Coop sneered.
“What about Tosh?” All eyes turned to Gillie at the other end of the table. He was the newest member, earning his patch
only a year ago. Zep had a lot of time for him. He was quiet but not much got past him.
Gillie craned his neck so he could look Tosh in the eye. “I’ve learned a lot from you, about the club, the business, networks.
And I’ve never seen anyone get the better of you.”
Tosh nodded his gratitude at the younger man.
“Gillie makes some excellent points,” said Connor.
There was a murmur of around the table.
Zep waited for silence, watching as Tosh stared at the space in front of him. He hoped the vote of confidence from his
brothers would convince Tosh he was right for the job.
“I agree with all your suggestions. Mick is a top shot, an excellent sniper.” He looked at Mick. “Which is where I need you
most.”
Mick nodded his agreement. You couldn’t run an operation from a sniper’s nest.
“And Coop probably would shoot himself in the face.”
More laughter while Coop sulked.
“Tosh.” Zep directed his attention back to the man in question. “Knowing you, you’ve never thought about taking the role
on.”
Tosh scratched the side of his neck. “Yeah, nah.”
“Which is why I propose we hold the vote over until tomorrow.” Zep glanced around the shed. “Give everyone a chance to
have a good think about what’s best for the club. Agreed?”
“Aye.”
“Meeting adjourned.”
The brothers began to file out of the shed until only Zep and Connor were left. Zep leaned back against his chair and waited
for Connor to say what was on his mind. He may not want any official role in the club, but Connor’s opinion carried more
weight than anyone else’s.
“You still happy to sit and wait for Isobel to show his hand about Becca and your girl?” Connor eyed his president.
“Nah, but I ain’t gonna lead him to them either.”
The older man glanced around the shed before speaking. “You know where they are?”
Zep straightened his spine. In the last few days, he’d revealed more about his secret than he’d ever thought possible. In no
way had it felt freeing, or whatever other new-age garbage the internet might come up with. It was a secret he had intended to
take to the grave.
“Lennox Head.” The words tasted wrong.
“You mean up north? Near Byron Bay?” Connor squinted at him.
“Yeah.”
“Nice part of the world.”
Zep shrugged. He’d never been there.
“You don’t think you owe it to them to warn them? Give ‘em a chance to disappear?”
“And lead Isobel straight to them?” Zep shook his head. That was what the bastard wanted.
Connor pursed his lips as if he was about to let words escape that he didn’t want out in the open. “If Isobel knew Becca
existed and still meant something to you … if he followed her money, it stands to reason he’d know where she lives.”
Red hot venom ignited inside Zep. He had considered this but needed to believe it wasn’t true. “She hasn’t been Becca
Walton in three decades and Isobel is only guessing we had a kid.” He looked Connor in the eye. “Otherwise, he would have
named her.”
“Would he?” Connor shrugged. “Seems to me he’s got you by the balls either way.”
Zep frowned. “What the fuck does that mean?”
 “You do nothing and Isobel kills them, that’s on you. You try to warn them and tip off their location,” Connor spread his
hands, “Isobel kills them, and that’s still on you.”
He rubbed his face, then smoothed over his moustache. He hated that Connor had a point.
“You ever met your kid?”
The sudden change in direction threw him. “Nah.”
“Know what she looks like?”
Heat blistered beneath his skin. Connor’s questions were picking at things he’d walled away, deep inside himself. “I’ve got
an idea.”
“What’s that mean?” He was like a starving dog with a dried-up old bone.
“She did an internship in the Blue Mountains.” Zep swallowed down the sudden burst of emotion. He remembered that day
as clearly as yesterday.
He’d been on a ride to Lithgow and had stopped at Blackheath for something to eat. Sitting at the open window at the pub
with his counter meal and a beer, he’d heard her laugh. Becca’s laugh was seared into his memory. She’d once told him she
couldn’t remember the last time she’s laughed before she’d met him.
Her hair was shorter, but not much else was different. It was cool in the mountains that day, and Becca had worn an
oversized knitted jacket over jeans and a shirt that had hugged her body. If he closed his eyes, Zep could still remember the soft
curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts. Her blue eyes sparkled as she laughed, her smile almost brought him undone.
She sat at a crowded café with another woman. A moment later, the woman turned in her chair to look at something Becca
was pointing at. The beating of his heart had deafened him to all other noise. Her hair was long and blonde, the way Becca’s
had been when they’d first met. The woman was much younger than he’d thought, barely in her twenties. She was the spitting
image of her mother, except for her eyes. She had his eyes.
“What kind of internship?” Connor pulled him from his memories.
“She’s an interior designer.” And a bloody good one. He’d read the article in Belle Magazine. Studied her face for over an
hour, experienced a cyclone of emotions at how well she’d done for herself, then tossed the magazine into the trash.
“And Becca?”
“Artist.” She had so much talent and Zep was glad she’d turned her dream into a career.
“I seem to remember she was always drawing in her sketchbook,” Connor said.
Zep nodded, wondering if she’d kept those sketches she’d made of him.
“What’s your girl’s name?”
“Abby.” He couldn’t remember ever saying her name out loud. “And Becca goes by Rachel.”
“You ever regret not knowing her?”
Zep almost laughed. “No.”
“Never?” Connor persisted.
He looked his old friend in the eye. “I never knew my father and I barely had a mother. What the fuck do I know about
raising a kid? Biology made me a father, but I’ve never been one. Neither of them have ever needed me, and I’m good with
that.”
“Prez,” Connor scraped his chair back and stood, “I reckon they might need you now.”
His words were a sucker punch to the gut. Zep loved the club and he loved this life, but it was no place for a family. He’d
kept Rachel and Abby safe all these years by staying away. And now it seemed he’d failed.
 Chapter 4

Abby’s trip to Sydney was axed when Scott’s prediction came to fruition. The case broke wide open on Friday and by the
weekend they were tying up loose ends. The upside was that he was due home Sunday afternoon. Not that Abby even had time
to miss Scott. She was kept busy with work and checking in on Demi and Flynn. By Friday night, Abby was looking forward to
a home cooked meal and some down time with her mum. On the drive from a client’s property in Byron Bay to Lennox Head
where her mum lived, Abby had been treated to a spectacular autumn sunset. As the days got shorter and cooler, the skies
seemed to get brighter and bolder, with the colours turning from pink to orange, then purple as the darkest blues of the ocean
floor rose to the surface. She couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
“Hello, darling,” Rachel greeted her when she arrived a little after six. Bruce, her mother’s mini foxy cross chihuahua,
jumped at her feet, desperate for attention.
“Hi, Mum.” She kissed her mother’s cheek and held up the bottle of red.
“Perfect!” said Rachel as she headed down the hallway and into the kitchen. Abby picked up the ball of muscle and black
and white fur at her feet and received a grateful cheek licking.
Her mother had always wanted a little cottage overlooking the ocean and the perfect place had come up for sale at the same
time Abby purchased her home. Rachel’s cottage sat back several metres from a bedrock slope about twenty feet above the
tideline. The facade was glass, giving her studio perfect lighting. The studio carried onto an open kitchen and living space
where Rachel combined her art with her home life. The front of the cottage had two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a small office
where Rachel stored the more mundane aspects of her life, such as bills and paperwork.
Rachel’s eclectic taste was apparent in every inch of the cottage and while it was a style all of its own, to Abby it simply
felt like home. She hadn’t grown up in this house, but everything that reminded her of her childhood was here.
“That smells amazing. Did you cook a roast?” The gentle rumble of Abby’s stomach had become an all-out roar. She
returned Bruce to the floor and washed her hands at the sink. The little dog tore off in search of his chew toy, which landed at
her feet seconds later.
“I felt like lamb and veggies,” said Rachel, pulling down two wine glasses from the cupboard and placing them on the
massive island bench that also served as her eating area. Two places had already been set.
“I hope you weren’t counting on leftovers.” Abby uncapped the wine and left it to breathe for a moment. “I’m starving.”
Rachel laughed. “I’m sure I’ll manage.” She removed the baking tray from the oven, placing the lamb on a carving board.
“Here, you can plate up the veggies while I carve.”
Abby grabbed some tongs and began arranging the crispy potatoes, pumpkin, carrots and broccoli onto a serving platter.
Her mother had always baked everything in one pan when she cooked a roast, simply adding the veggies at the appropriate
intervals. A steaming jug of gravy and freshly made mint sauce already sat beside the salt and pepper. It was the Sundays of her
childhood on a plate.
As they prepared the meal, they shared the details of their day. Abby poured the wine and took her seat, salivating over the
feast in front of her. Bruce whined at her feet, clearly feeling the same way about the food.
“You start, darling. I just need to dash to the loo.”
Rachel was gone before Abby could say anything. She decided to serve herself while she waited. After staring at the food
on her plate with growing anticipation for a few moments, Abby realised her mother was taking what seemed a long time. She
popped a piece of lamb in her mouth and tried not to moan. Divine!
“Here you go, puppy.” She offered Bruce a generous cut. He snatched it between his teeth and ran for the safety of the far
corner, in case Abby changed her mind and wanted the meat back.
Peering down the hallway, Abby wondered what could be keeping Rachel. “Everything alright, Mum?”
The quiet vibration of the water pipes heralded her mother’s imminent return.
“Sorry darling, I hope you weren’t waiting for me?” Rachel headed for the sink and poured herself a glass of water from
the tap.
 “Are you feeling okay?” Abby silently berated herself for not paying closer attention to her mother when she arrived, too
busy thinking of her own stomach.
“Yes, yes. Just felt a bit off, you know how it is.” Rachel took her seat at the bench. As she reached for the serving tongs,
Abby noticed her hands shaking.
“Mum?” Her eyes widened with worry.
“I just need to eat something, darling.” She began piling food onto her plate. “I had a late breakfast and then skipped lunch.”
“You need to eat properly! You keep losing weight that you don’t need to lose.” Under the island lights, Abby noticed the
dark shadows under Rachel’s eyes as, the kind she’d noticed at the cafe two days earlier, and that niggling sense of panic
slipped under her skin again.
“Yes, Mum!” said Rachel, a smile brightening her face. “Now, enough of the lectures. Tell me, is it any good?”
Abby sliced through a potato that was perfectly crisped on the outside and fluffy on the inside. “It is delicious.” The
enthusiasm sounded false, but her mother ignored it.
Rachel beamed. “Let’s dig in.”
Despite her concerns, Abby didn’t need another invitation. They ate and talked, sipping at their wine. As Abby finished her
second helping, Rachel asked after Demi.
“Thank goodness for Flynn,” she answered. “I don’t think she’d get out of bed every day if it wasn’t for that baby.”
“My heart breaks for her.” Rachel placed her hand over her heart as if she could catch the pieces. “Has she heard from Jake
at all?”
Abby took a sip of wine and shook her head. “Not a word.”
“He seemed so happy when he found out they were pregnant, and when Flynn was born.”
“Demi and Flynn are better off without him.” Abby stood and took her plate to the trash to scrape the scraps before rinsing
it in the sink.
“Oh, darling, I don’t think Demi wants to hear that.”
“I wouldn’t say that to her.” She returned to take her mother’s plate and noticed she’d barely eaten a thing. This really
wasn’t a good sign. “Are you finished with this?”
“Oh yes, thank you, my eyes were bigger than my belly,” she said with a laugh.
Abby hesitated, should she push the issue with her mum? Perhaps she was simply feeling off and she’d be hungry later.
Instead, she stayed with the topic of Demi.
“I grew up without a father and I turned out just fine, even if I do say so myself.” Rather than scrape the plate into the trash,
Abby covered it in cling wrap and placed it into the refrigerator. Her mother would probably be hungry later. If not, Bruce,
who was currently snoring in his little bed, would appreciate it.
“You turned out perfectly.” Rachel kissed her on the cheek before running the water into the sink to wash the dishes. “But I
had always planned to raise you on my own. That wasn’t Demi’s plan, and with her mother in Brisbane and Jake’s family in
Adelaide, she must feel so alone and overwhelmed.”
Abby understood what her mum was saying, but she wished that she could fast-track Demi’s heartbreak so the pain would
be behind her. “She’s got me.” Abby picked up a tea towel to dry the dishes.
“Demi will have a lot of support, of that I have no doubt,” said Rachel. “But imagine Scott suddenly walking out of your
life? Imagine the hole that would leave.”
Abby snorted. “Yet, for some insane reason, you and everyone else keep pushing for us to marry and have children. Like
that ensures some kind of happy ever after.”
“Darling!” Rachel turned to face her daughter. “You can’t think that this is how all relationships end. It happens and it's
terrible when it does, but it can’t be the reason not to want it for yourself and Scott.”
“Scott and I are fine as we are.” Why did everyone think there was something missing from their relationship? It was none
of their business.
“But when are you going to prioritise each other?”
Abby stared at her mother, completely stumped by her question. “What?”
“You have both established yourselves in your careers, don’t you think it's time to make a little more time for each other?”
Her mother’s eyes shone with concern and kindness.
Abby took a breath, swallowing her exasperation. She didn’t want to fight with her mother. “Look, Scott will be home
Sunday afternoon. I plan on working all weekend so I can spend Monday and Tuesday with him. Happy?”
“That’s wonderful, darling.” She turned back to finish the dishes.” Have you got something special planned?”
“You probably don’t need to know the details of what I’ve got planned if you want to be able to look us both in the eye at
dinner next Friday.”
Rachel burst into laughter, and after a moment, Abby joined in. The tension that had crept into the cottage dissipated, but it
lingered in Abby’s mind. Between the badgering about her relationship, and her mother’s mysterious decline in health, she
couldn’t completely shake the unease in her belly.
THE MOMENT SCOTT walked through the door, Abby felt all her senses come alive. He was over six feet tall and built from
the time he put in at the gym. She found everything about the man sexy, from the freckle on his butt cheek to the blond stubble he
was currently sporting on his face.
“Hey,” he said.
“Detective.”
He dropped his bag as she threw herself into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist, finding his mouth as hungry as
hers. She’d missed him more than she’d realised. Their tongues danced together as they explored each other's mouths. Scott
groaned against her lips, his hard chest pressed against hers, hands sliding up and down her back. Abby felt his length pressing
against her stomach, making her wet in anticipation of what was to come.
Breaking the kiss, they stared into each other's eyes. His eyes were as blue as the ocean on the brightest summer day. Abby
could get lost in his gaze as easily as she could the view from their deck. Scott carried her into their bedroom and lowered her
onto the bed. His hands moved up her sides, cupping her breasts through her shirt, and she gasped softly at the sensation. She
arched her back, offering more of her flesh to him as he expertly undid the buttons on her blouse. Once it was open, he slid his
warm hands inside, massaging her ample cleavage as he peppered kisses along her jawline and neck.
Abby's fingers traced delicate patterns on his back, feeling the tension in his muscles release. Scott sat back a bit to remove
his jacket and tie and toss them aside. She helped him kick off his shoes, then kissed her way down his chest, stopping to tease
his nipples with her tongue through his shirt. Scott sucked in a breath and grabbed fistfuls of her hair, drawing her up to look
into her eyes. The intensity of the hunger in his eyes reflected her own. She pulled the fabric up and off him, revealing his
perfectly toned abs and chest, sprinkled with blonde hair. His skin was warm and smooth beneath her touch.
"Fuck," he muttered hoarsely, his hands immediately reaching for the hem of her skirt. He pulled it up over her hips in one
swift motion, and Abby gasped as the cool air hit her heated skin. Scott hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her underwear
and slid them down her thighs, tossing them aside. His eyes darkened as he took in the sight of her bare pussy, already wet with
desire.
He moved between her legs, pressing his lips against her swollen nub, causing her to moan loudly. His tongue flicked out,
circling the sensitive bud, and she squirmed under his touch.
"Please..." she whimpered, arching her hips towards him. He chuckled against her skin, his fingers finding their way into
her tight folds, teasing her entrance. She bucked against his touch, needing more.
Scott slowly worked two fingers inside of her, groaning at the tight grip she had on him. Abby felt it vibrate through her
body. She dug her nails into his back, holding onto him, trying to pull him closer. His thumb traced circles around her bud, and
she couldn't hold back any longer. Her body shook, her walls pulsing around his fingers, her juices dripping down his wrist.
"Scott," she panted, "I need you inside me."
He didn't hesitate, lining himself up with her entrance and pushing in slowly. She gasped at the feel of him filling her up,
her muscles clenching around him. He began to move, thrusting into her with a rhythm that matched her heartbeat. They both
moaned in unison as they found their stride, lost in the sensation of their union.
Hours later, they lay in a tangle of satiated limbs.
"I missed you," she whispered, running her fingers through his hair.
"I missed you too, baby," he murmured, his lips brushing against her earlobe. "And it's killing me being away from you like
this." He sighed, resting his chin on top of her head. "I've been thinking a lot about us lately, about our life… I think I might ask
for a transfer."
Her eyes snapped open, and she sat up abruptly, looking down at him. "What?"
"I want to spend more time with you. Be with you. It's not fair to either of us that I'm always gone, and you're here alone."
Abby took a moment to digest his announcement, her brow furrowing in confusion. This was not how she expected their
reunion to go. "What about your career? Aren't you worried about sacrificing that?"
"My career is important, but so are you," he said firmly, holding her gaze. "I can't keep living like this, running from
taskforce to taskforce all over the state, never having any time for us. We deserve more."
The room was silent except for the soft sound of their breathing as she processed his words. She leaned back in and kissed
him gently on the lips. "I love you," she murmured. "But, our life is... it's perfect. We have an amazing relationship, we're both
successful in our careers, and we have each other."
He returned her kiss, then watched her with thoughtful eyes. "I want more than that, Abby. I want to be here for you. I want
to come home every night to you, not for a week here and a week there." He caressed her cheek, his fingers trailing down to her
neck, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
She took a deep breath. "I don't know if that's such a good idea," she whispered. "Our jobs are so demanding⁠—"
"Being a cop is full on, wherever I’m based," he interrupted gently a tinge of hurt in his eyes. "But at least if I stay local,
we can make plans."
“Plans…” she breathed. Like the plans Demi had with Jake?
“We don’t have to decide anything now.” His hands slid lower. “I just wanted you to know that you are my priority, Abby.”
 Abby lay back down beside him. She felt like she’d stumbled into an alternate reality where she was clearly the odd one
out. Her life was perfect the way it was. Why did everyone, including Scott, think she needed more? Surely, once they spent
some time reconnecting, Scott would rethink his transfer. His job meant as much to him as Abby’s did to hers. Didn’t it?
A moment later, his fingers found her core, distracting her from the rising panic.
 Chapter 5

Zep scrolled through the posts on Instagram that Jacko had found. Zep wasn’t on any social media, had never felt the need.
Jacko was their tech guy, and he monitored all the groups and chats or whatever they were. Apparently, that was how people
communicated these days. Zep still believed in a face-to-face chat, or a phone call if necessary. Text for urgent stuff.
Abby’s business page was public, so anyone could see her design work. An unfamiliar sense of pride sat beneath the
surface. It felt out of place, so he pushed it away. Her personal page was private, but Jacko had gained access somehow. That
was what he did, among other things. There were photos of Abby and her friends, with her mother. And an added complication.
Jacko recognised the face of Abby’s partner—Detective Sergeant Scott Amble with the NSW Robbery and Serious Crime
Squad.
“She’s married to a cop?” Connor shook his head. “Fuck.”
“They're not married, just living together.” Which was just as bad.
Zep turned his attention to the information Jacko had put together on Amble. Thirty-one years old and originally from
Ulladulla, where his parents and younger sisters still lived. It was about an hour’s ride from where The Devils were currently
set up. He’d transitioned straight into the Police Academy from high school and had worked his way quickly into the detective
ranks. Based at Ballina, not far from Lennox Head, Amble had been with Robbery and Serious Crime for four years. He and
Abby had been dating for two and a half years and living together for twelve months.
“Is that a help or a hindrance?” asked Connor.
He looked out of the kitchen window at the ocean below and shrugged. “Who knows? He hasn’t spent any time with
Ricochet or the Criminal Groups Squad. His last job involved an extortion ring.”
Ricochet fell under the Criminal Groups Squad and was the taskforce set up to target groups and individuals who engaged
in serious and organised crime, particularly those who had a propensity for violence. Basically, outlaw motorcycle clubs. The
taskforce was made permanent in 2021 and expanded its operations from Sydney into the regions. The biggest mistake Zep had
ever made was not seeing through the undercover cop that Ricochet had planted successfully in The Devils. It was only
discovered when Hollywood went missing. Because of this fuck up, leading to the clubhouse burning down, the club had been
laying low in Broulee, just out of range of the taskforce’s Illawarra base.
“Looks like he spends more time away than at home,” Zep said. He switched back to the social media feeds, this time
scrolling through Becca’s–or Rachel’s’, as it were. She looked happy. Even though he had no right to, he felt a level of relief
that Rachel appeared not to have married or be in any kind of long-term relationship.
The phone beside him on the table began to vibrate with an incoming call.
“Brodie.” Zep put the call on speaker for Connor to listen.
“I got eyes on her and the cop boyfriend, Prez.” Brodie had managed to get a flight out of Charles de Gaulle and had landed
in Brisbane on Sunday night. He’d driven down to Lennox Head and had been keeping watch on Rachel and Abby since
Monday morning.
“And Rachel?” He leaned in.
“She’s been at home, working in her studio.” Brodie hesitated. “We might have a problem.”
Beneath the facade of indifference, a tiny dagger drove itself into Zep’s heart. “What’s that?”
“I’m not one hundred percent sure, but I thought I saw one of Brian Isobel’s men. One of the boys he set on Hollywood and
his old lady.”
The dagger twisted painfully in his heart. “I thought they were all dead.”
“Hollywood took care of most of them.”
“That’s my boy,” mumbled Connor. He never had any kids of his own, and Alex Riley had been like a son to him.
“This guy looks a little too familiar,” continued Brodie. “If I recognise him, chances are good he’d recognise me.”
“Has he seen you?” Zep asked.
“He survived Hollywood; I’d say he’s noticed me.”
 “I’ll send Dodge and Mick as backup after the meeting today.”
Connor nodded in agreement.
“Watch your back, Brodie, and keep me updated.”
“Will do.” The phone call ended.
“What do you think?” asked Connor.
Zep shrugged, smoothing the sides of his moustache, while his mind raced. “Maybe he followed Brodie back from
Europe?”
“Maybe he was sent to Lennox Head with the same task you gave Brodie.” Connor raised his eyebrows.
Which made Isobel one step ahead of him.
“Prez?” A tall, scrawny guy dressed in black cargo shorts and a tank top that revealed a neck, chest, back, arms and legs
completely covered in tattoos, stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. His tight black curls were tied back
in a ponytail.
“What’s up, Jacko?”
“Just got a hit on Ricochet. They’re monitoring unusual biker activity in the Byron Bay area.” He looked between Connor
and Zep.
“It’s gotta be Brodie. He would have said if there was anyone else in the area,” said Zep.
“I’ll put a call into Georgie,” said Connor, rising from his chair. The Road Gypsies had the run of the North Coast and Zep
had called their president as a courtesy when he’d sent Brodie in. He'd received their blessing to take care of business, but
made it clear it wasn’t the Road Gypsies’ fight.
“Thanks, Jacko.” Zep nodded to the younger man. “Keep an eye on it, yeah?”
“Yeah.” Jacko disappeared back to the room he’d turn into his command station. It was full of laptops and mobile phones
set up to keep tabs on club business, their rivals, the cops, and anyone else who needed watching. Things had changed so much
in the forty years Zep had been with The Devils. He called Jacko the tech guy, but really, he was a first-class hacker with skills
that Zep couldn’t even name. He’d spoken to Zep about training Gillie to help out and fill the breach if anything happened to
Jacko.
Zep scratched his head. He really hoped nothing ever happened to Jacko. That might just finish The Devils off if they lost
him before he could rebuild the core of the club after the mess Hollywood and Ricochet had made.
Connor reappeared in the kitchen. “Georgie thinks the same as us—the Feds have clocked Brodie coming back into the
country and given the local cops the heads up.”
“You tell him I’m sending back-up?” Zep stood and walked across to the bench, switching the kettle on. He needed a
coffee.
“Yeah. They’re taking a run down to Coffs Harbour. Georgie wants to make it clear that whatever we and Isobel have going
on, it’s got nothing to do with the Road Gypsies.”
“Smart move.” He held a mug up. “You want one.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Connor sat back in the chair he’d recently vacated.
“Will there be any opposition to Tosh becoming our enforcer?” he asked as he scooped instant coffee into each of the mugs.
“Nah, the brothers are behind Tosh. It’ll be unanimous.”
“Good.” He poured boiling water over the coffee and sugar.
“You talk to Tosh? He’s onboard?”
“He’d never thought about the job. But he’s keen to take it on.” Zep added milk and stirred each mug. He brought the
coffees to the table.
“Thanks.” Connor nodded his appreciation. He was the only member the president would make coffee for. He was the only
member who’d been around longer than Zep.
They drank in silence for a moment, watching the waves roll into shore.
“You set on sending Dodge and Mick to back Brodie up?” Connor asked.
Zep eyed the older man, wondering where this was headed.
“You don't think it’s worth heading up there yourself?”
Zep sighed and placed his mug on the table. “We’ve been through this.” His voice was low and firm.
“We have, and I don’t think you heard me the last time.”
“Don’t push your luck, Connor.” He might be his closest advisor, but that didn’t mean he could question his president’s
authority. “Rachel and Abby have been, and still are, better off without me.”
“How long do you think it will take Ricochet to work out why The Devils’ Sergeant at Arms and two fully patched
members are hanging around in Road Gypsies’ territory? Not to mention associates of the Isobel crime family.”
Zep scowled. “Becca Walton no longer exists, and Abby doesn’t even know who or what I am. They are safer without me
showing up.”
“Are they?” Connor matched his glare. “It seems to me you’re playing Russian roulette with those women’s lives.”
 Zep curled his hands into fists beneath the table. Connor had overstepped. “It’s not open for negotiation. Now, go and find
Dodge and Mick so I can give them their instructions. Then you can round up the members so they can vote Tosh in as
enforcer.”
Connor held his stare for another moment, before leaving to carry out his orders.
Zep stood and raised the remains of his coffee to his mouth. Instead of drinking it, he threw the mug across the room,
shattering it against the wall.
“Davo,” he barked at a prospect who had the misfortune to be passing the window. “Get in here and clean this shit up.”
 Chapter 6

Abby and Scott spent all of Monday together, sleeping, making love, eating. Under any other circumstance, Abby would have
enjoyed hiding away from the world for a couple of days with her man, but the distance Demi had accused her of placing
between her and Scott had become a living, breathing thing. She was happy with her life, and she’d thought Scott was too. Now
she wondered if they were even on the same page.
Scott had tried to raise the issue of his transfer and their future again. She’d done her best to distract him, insisting he
decompress from the case he’d been working. He just needed a break. Abby would have suggested they plan a holiday, but she
had a niggling feeling he’d do something crazy, like propose or talk about having a baby. The truth was, Abby wasn’t sure she
could give him any reassurance that she wanted those things.
They’d never discussed having children – she’d never really given the subject much thought. When Flynn was born, she’d
been delighted for Demi and Jake, but it hadn’t awakened any maternal urges in her.
On Tuesday morning, Abby called her mum to check how she was feeling. Somehow, the phone call had turned into an
invitation to lunch because Scott felt like barbequing and decided he wanted to catch up with Rachel. Abby suspected he was
missing his own family, having not seen them since Christmas. Maybe they should plan a visit to Ulladulla? Perhaps over
Easter. Would that help settle things back to normal?
As they stood side by side in the kitchen, preparing the food, Scott received a call.
“It’s work,” he said, looking at his phone.
“It’s your day off.” Abby gave him a pointed glance.
“I’ll remind them of that.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek as he answered the call.
She sighed, looking out at the breathtaking panorama of the ocean. The backyard technically ended several metres from the
bluff, which was covered in lush green grass, gently swaying in the breeze. Although, ‘bluff’ was a bit of a misnomer. It looked
like a bluff from her kitchen window however, once standing on it, you realised it gave way to gentle slopes that led to rock
pools where the ocean met the land. From Abby’s vantage point, the ocean stretched to the horizon, its surface shimmering
under the bright sunlight. The sky was a clear, deep blue, with a few wispy clouds drifting lazily.
She heard Scott end the call as he returned, placing his laptop on the dining table.
“Everything okay?” she called, turning to look at him.
“Yeah.” He didn’t look up as he sat before the computer, logging on. “Just something the boss wants me to have a look at.”
Abby frowned but said nothing. Picking up the knife, she continued slicing the vegetables for the salad. It wouldn’t help her
cause to point out again that it was supposed to be Scott’s day off. It would only add more fuel to his argument for transferring
out of Robbery and Serious Crime.
“Knock, knock.” Rachel’s voice rang out from the front door. A moment later she appeared.
“Hi, Mum.” Abby wiped her hands with a tea towel before coming forward to give her mother a kiss.
“Hello, darling.” She squeezed her daughter’s arm. “Hello, Scott. It’s good to have you home.”
Scott rose from the dining table. “Rachel, you look radiant as ever!”
Abby watched as they embraced, confused by Scott’s assessment of her mother. Rachel’s smile could light up any room, but
to Abby, her mum still looked tired and pale.
“Scott, darling,” said Rachel. “Would you mind bringing in the painting from my car? I got inspired the last time we had a
barbeque here and painted the seascape. I thought it would look lovely in your spare room.”
“Mum! I didn’t know you were doing that?” Abby loved her mother’s paintings and had several in her home.
“Wow,” said Scott, heading for the door. “I can’t wait to see it.”
“No peeking until you get it inside,” Rachel called after him.
“No promises!”
Abby laughed, feeling a sense of normal return. “What would you like to drink, Mum?”
“Oh, just a glass of water, darling.”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
do than what I have been doing.”
“Studying, growing accomplished, falling in love, and marrying,”
replied the earl, laughing. “What would you have been doing more?”
“As it happens, sir, all this proves an excellent preparation for my
present business. But I did not know that it would; and I was
perpetually asking myself,—moreover, Letitia was perpetually asking
me,—the end and aim of my employments.”
“That was the secret, I dare say,” said the earl, “of your difficulty in
winning her. Eh, Letitia?”
“Indeed it was,” replied Letitia, blushing. “God knows what difficulty
I found in making it a difficulty; but I dared not at once give up the
calling which nature had sanctified to me, without providing for my
race being served in an equal proportion in some other way. If there
be one note sooner than another to which conscience awakes in
these times, it is to the cry of unserved humanity; and mine, having
been once thus awakened, could not be lulled asleep again; and
even your son could not soothe it till he began to promise that we
should labour together for all, as well as for each other.”
“So you married to be useful;—for no other reason on earth, my
dear?”
“No, no, no. I was useful before. I married ... for the same reason
as your son. But this reason did not make me forget my
responsibilities; that is all.”
“Ah, my dear: you do not know,—highly as you rate your art,—
what you have deprived society of by shutting yourself up here. Why,
—I saw that sot, colonel Bibber, turned into a patriot for full three
hours under your influence; and poor little lord H. that we were
speaking of just now, grew almost magnanimous for the same space
of time. These, and hundreds more, owe to you, my dear, the greater
part of whatever virtue has visited them for the last five years.”
“If so,” said lord F——, “what was the effect on better people?”
“The effect that the fine arts are ordained to produce,” said Letitia.
“They have much to answer for who defame them,—who perceive
nothing in them besides colours, and sounds, and motion,—who put
a kaleidoscope and Raphael’s Transfiguration on a level, and
recognize nothing more in a symphony of Mozart than in an Eolian
harp, and see no matter of choice between a merry Andrew and
Kean in Hamlet. They who perceive not that the fine arts are the
fittest embodiments of truth and beauty are unconscious of the
vastness of the department in which they would have man remain
unserved. Such would wonder or laugh at my view of my profession,
and discredit my hesitating to leave it for lord F——.”
“You were satisfied that you held a commission to serve man, by
means of the fine arts; you were right, my dear, as is proved by your
having made the colonel a patriot, and the little lord a hero.”
“That it was only for three hours at a time,” said Letitia, “was not
my fault, but that of the arrangements by which means and ends are
sometimes separated as far asunder as if the world would be perilled
by their coming together. In this, we might wisely copy from man in
his state of nature. Indian savages have their songs and dances
immediately before their battles; and, as long as prayers imply
devotion, they are everywhere used in senates as a prelude to the
business of the nation. But we go straight from an oratorio to dinner,
from a tragedy to sleep, from the Elgin marbles to shopping in
Regent-street; while, on the other hand, if a great national question
has to be debated, a mighty national achievement to be wrought, the
last thing its conductors would think of would be to spiritualise the
passions, and elevate the emotions, and animate the faculties by the
most appropriate means which Providence has given for that end.—I
know that this union can be only partially effected yet. I know that the
passage of the Reform Bill would have been but little helped by any
such appliances as we can at present exhibit; but it will be different
hereafter, when men have learned the true office of the fine arts, and
the ultimate objects of political reforms. Then, hundreds of years
hence, it may be,—if a new question of national renovation should
be brought forward, the senate to whom it is committed may lay hold,
with one accord, on whatever prior observance may best soothe
down their animosities, and banish their petty self-regards, and
establish their minds in that state of lofty tranquillity which alone
beseems the master-spirits of an empire.”
“In those days,” said lord F——, “there will be an end of the
absurdity of admitting the ennobling influence of the fine arts, and at
the same time holding its professors in contempt.”
 “Is it, even now, anything more than a nominal contempt?” asked
Letitia. “Do not people mix up the profession and the vices of its
professors together, and then talk of contempt?”
“But those very vices are caused by the treatment of the
profession.”
“True; like all other professional vices,—like all the peculiar failings
of certain classes,—like the avarice of Jews, the romancing of
travellers, the spiritual pride of sectaries, the vanity of authors. When
prejudices are so far surmounted as that no class shall be regarded
with factitious deference or contempt, there will be an end of all
occasion to reproach painters, musicians and actors with their
tendency to self-indulgence, at the same time that proverbs and by-
words against Jews, methodists, travellers, and poets, will fall into
oblivion.”
“In those days,” said lord F——, “perhaps our peerage may
honour itself by taking up the profession of the fine arts. The time is
coming when no class of society may be idle; and if the aristocracy
plumes itself upon its refinement, this seems to be the pursuit most
congenial to its constitution.”
“If you preach your doctrine,—that all must work,—to those of your
own condition,” said the earl, “they will ask you where you got the
notion,—whether you are intimidated by the clamours of the lower
classes.”
“Not intimidated by their clamours, but moved by their condition, I
would tell them, sir; and that I derive my notion from the nature of
man and of society, and not from the dictation of any class whatever.
It is enough to melt a heart of stone to read and hear of such
distresses as have come to my knowledge since I entered office; but
I am convinced that many of the sufferers look in the wrong direction
for the causes.”
“Yet there must be much cause for complaint,” said Letitia, “when
our institutions lead to such an opposition of interests as there now is
between different ranks. They should surely work together....”
“The present opposition of interests, my dear, arises from a
scarcity of the prime necessaries of life. If there were food enough
for our people, their occupations and interests, be they as various as
the minds that adopt them, would assist and promote each other
from end to end of society. If there be a scarcity of food, men will
snatch from one another’s mouths, be they huddled together in our
manufacturing cities, or duly distributed in a Moravian settlement.
Where there is plenty, there will be a harmony,—where there is want,
there will be an opposition of interests; and it is folly to assign co-
operation and competition as the remedy and cause of distress.”
“Nay; but can it be right that starving thousands should bid their
labour against one another for bread? Can it be right that whole
families should, at this moment, be crouching down supperless in
their litter of straw, while we.... O, I am ashamed of our luxuries!...
our mirrors, and harps, and lamps,—and my very dress. I am
ashamed of them all.”
“If we gave them all away this moment, my dear, they would not be
food; and if exchanged for bread, they would only take food from the
mouths of some who want it, to give to those who cannot want it
more. Believe me, the inequality of condition we are complaining of
is rather checked than promoted by competition. Competition
equalizes the profits of industry, and increases instead of lessening
its productiveness.”
“Whence, then, comes all this misery? all this tremendous
inequality?”
“The misery arises from a deficiency of food....”
“Well; whence this deficiency of food?”
“From the tendency of eaters to increase faster than the supply of
food.”
“But if we can raise more food by co-operation than without it....”
“Even supposing we could,—unless co-operation also checked the
increase of numbers, it could prove no more than a temporary
alleviation of our grievances. In my opinion, it would, if it included
equality of condition, leave us in a worse state than it found us, in as
far as it would relax the springs of enterprise and industry, and, in
time, bring the community down into a deplorable state of sameness;
it would, if persevered in, make us into a nation of half-naked potatoe
eaters, and water-drinkers.”
The earl inquired whether anything had been heard lately of the
co-operative society formed in the neighbourhood of Weston.
 “O yes!” replied lord F——. “They are enjoying the benefits of
competition to the utmost. They ascribe their prosperity to their co-
operation; but they are, in fact, a large partnership in competition
with smaller ones. They do not see how their relative position would
be altered by their absorbing all their competitors into their firm, with
no check to their numbers, while nature has imposed perpetual
checks upon the growth of their capital.”
“But cannot numbers be checked,—cannot the checks upon the
growth of capital be evaded, while we have such a wide world to
move about in?”
“Certainly, my dear: but there is no need of equality of condition to
help us to do this. Competition is more likely than co-operation to
induce prudence and foresight; and it will quicken our activity in
carrying our surplus numbers to distant fertile lands, or in bringing
the produce of distant fertile lands among our own people, instead of
tempting us to waste more and more of our capital continually in
turning up inferior lands at home, as the co-operatives would have
us do.”
“But were not you telling me that your rent-roll becomes more
valuable as time passes? Are not landholders’ incomes increasing
perpetually under the present system?”
“They are; but this is the consequence, not of competition, but of
the varying qualities of the land, the tillage of every new grade of
which tends to lower profits and raise rents. No plan for the
distribution of home produce can affect the law by which the returns
to capital are perpetually diminished.”
“But what will be the end of it under the present system?”
“There are two extremes to which the systems of equality and
inequality of distribution respectively tend, in as far as they involve
restriction upon food by using only the produce of our own lands.
Under the equality system, there would be an ultimate scramble for
potatoes, or a worse diet still, if there were such a thing. Under our
present system, the whole produce must in time be in the hands of
the land-owners and tax-takers. Of course, we must change our
system; not, however, by discouraging competition, or abolishing
private property, but by removing all artificial restrictions upon food,
and by regulating our numbers according to our resources. The way
to bring down landlords’ rents, and to increase the profits of
cultivators, is to procure food from some better source than our own
inferior lands; and this I will prove to you by figures, the next time my
steward brings me the accounts of my farms.”
“O, that Moravian village!” exclaimed Letitia. “How often I think of
the day we spent there! There was comfort, there was abundance,
there was mutual assistance and agreement.”
“Are you quite sure, Letitia, that there was nothing in the situation
and peculiarities of the place which called off your attention from the
principle on which the society was constituted? Remember the
sunset, that evening; the golden light on the green hill side, above
the rows of Moravian dwellings. Remember your admiration of the
internal regulations,—of the women’s uniform, of the music in their
church, of the simplicity of their way of life. Remember that all this
has nothing to do with their principle of association.”
“You must no more set the accomplishments of the Moravians to
the account of community of goods, than the absurdities of the
Shakers,” observed the earl. “That some sing beautifully, and others
dance ridiculously, has nothing to do with the distribution of their
wealth.”
“No more than the ordinances of the Harmonites,” continued lord F
——. “Mr. Owen’s followers very properly refuse to be mixed up with
Moravians, Shakers, and Harmonites. Superstition has no part in
their system, either under the form of ritual observance or celibacy.
Yet they are apt to incorporate extraneous matters with their system,
which serve as allurements to a greater extent, I doubt not, than they
intend. They owe more converts than they suppose to their promises
of mansions, pleasure-grounds, coffee, alabaster lamps, and so on.
My wonder is that more are not enticed by descriptions like these,
accompanied with promises of ease, and leisure, and many other
things to be obtained in a short time, which the poor man now sees
little chance of his children’s children ever enjoying.”
“There might be alabaster lamps and damask furniture in every
house under the present system,” observed the earl, “if food enough
could be got to keep the production of capital going at its natural
rate; aye, and ease and leisure too, if our numbers were kept within
bounds. It is not so very long since shoes and stockings were worn
only in courts; and that they are now worn by peasants proves that
our capital has grown under a system of competition. That multitudes
have little ease and no leisure is the fault of over-population, which
would be rather aggravated than lessened under a system whose
very essence it is to cast each man’s burdens upon all. No man need
scruple to have twenty of his children gracing the dinner-table of a
co-operative establishment, till he should find, too late, that not all
the savings caused by extensive association can compensate for the
falling off in the produce of inferior lands, and for the new impulse
given to population. His sons and his sons’ sons must add more and
more labour to the common stock; must give up, first, damask and
alabaster, then broadcloth and glass; then descend to sackcloth and
wooden trenchers, then to tatters, potatoes and water, and then....”
“Then would ensue a scramble; if anything should be left,
competition would come into play again; society would rise by its
means, and might possibly attain once more to a state in which they
might speculate on the universality of damask and alabaster.”
“Well!” exclaimed Letitia, “I shall ask to look at your steward’s
accounts, and to have an explanation of them; for I do not at all like
our present position. We must reach the extreme, you say, of having
our whole produce in the hands of land-owners and tax-takers,
unless we change our system.”
“Yes, my dear: but by change of system, I do not mean convulsion.
All might be set on a safe footing by timely care, the removal of
restrictions, the diffusion of intelligence. There is nothing in all this,
threatening to public dignity or private safety. There is nothing to
lessen the security of property, or to endanger the rights of any
class; but quite the contrary: for property is never so secure as when
it most abounds; and rights are never so well respected as in the
absence of temptation to infringe upon them.”
“By change, then, you mean progression, without fear of
subversion.”
“Just so; the progression of society from an advanced into a higher
state. What is there in such progression that is not as beautiful in
theory as it is found to be necessary in practice?”
From this hour, the progression of society, of which Letitia had
long dreamed, on which she had often speculated, began to assume
distinctness in her mind, and to form a large part of her conversation
when she happened to be with those to whom she could speak most
of what was most in her thoughts. Whenever she heard of misery
and crime on a large scale, she satisfied herself that the national
demand of progression had not yet been sufficiently attended to.
When she heard that her lord’s rents ought to be more, but were,
from the difficulty of collecting them, less than formerly, she sighed
for the time when an unrestricted provision of food (unrestricted by
state-laws) should check the rise of rents. Whenever she sat down
by her husband’s side to hear curious tales of the doings of large
speculators or eminent merchants, or of the sufferings of large
classes of agricultural or manufacturing labourers, she learned
something that made her wonder and lament, that, while the natural
laws of production and distribution work out evenly their balance of
results, the tendency of legislation thus far seems to be to clog and
thwart them, and delay the progression in intelligence and comfort
which must arise out of their unobstructed operation. She saw that, if
the universal interest of society was allowed to be the moving spring
of the social economy, all would be served; and that if many yet
remain unserved, it is on account of other movements being made to
interfere with it—the petty springs of narrow and mistaken interests;
so that partial protection brings on general hardship, and arbitrary
stimulus, a condition of general suffering.
Before going down to Weston, Letitia had become prepared to
make her way with the steward, the co-operating workmen in the
village, and all who could throw light on the past and present state of
property in the place. Many a conversation and calculation had she
also gone through with Thérèse on the subject of shop-keeping in
Paris; and all that Maria told of Waldie’s business went to the same
account of information. It made poor Maria smile sometimes in the
midst of a fit of anxiety to find that her children’s babble savoured of
political economy, when they had been spending a morning with their
aunt. They were more ready then than at other times to wonder why
they had dolls in the nursery, and picture-books in the parlour, and a
shell-grotto in the garden, when many other little children had no
playthings; and why poor Ned who swept the crossing was so much
more ragged than their errand boy, when Ned worked the hardest of
the two, and was often out in the cold and the rain besides. Almost
babies as they were, they could sometimes find out very sage little
reasons for these things, when put on the right scent by aunt Letitia
or her pupil Thérèse.
 Chapter IV.

MORE NOVELTY.

At length came September, with its utter dulness in town, and its
busy brightness in the country. No parliament, no ministry, no court,
with whose proceedings to diversify the daily papers; but instead, a
reporting of the progress of certain noble lords and patriotic
gentlemen from one country seat to another, with accurate
calculations of the quantity of game bagged by each. Now were
expresses hurrying to and fro in search of the runaway men in
power. Now were ancient ladies proudly leaning on the arms of sons,
who were happy in being allowed breathing time to watch the
autumn sunsets from the terraces of their stately castles. Now were
the young heirs of rank and wealth initiated by playful papas into the
mysteries of riding and sham shooting. Many a little lord was now
mounted on his pony to adventure forth as far as the park gates,
while mamma and sisters waved their handkerchiefs from afar, and
careful grooms waited to lead him back safe. Many such a little
rogue carried his mimic fowling-piece into the stubble, and learned
not to wink or flinch when papa brought down a bird, or coaxed the
gamekeeper to lend him a brace or two to carry when they should
come in sight of home and the girls. Many a tenant now put himself
in the way of a greeting from his landlord, resting on a stile, or pacing
his way slowly through a field. Many a state secret, that the public
would fain have known, was dismissed for some such freak as
snatching at a high hazel twig, or leaping a gate. Many a fair family
group of riders was seen threading green lanes, or cantering over
downs, or appearing and disappearing in the clumpy drives of a
park,—graceful boys, and high-born girls, leading their father in
search of some new beauty which it turns out he discovered in like
manner, when he was a pleasure-loving youth instead of a
statesman. Now, in the golden noon, was the boat seen to unfurl its
snowy sail, and glide in rivalship of grace with the swans which
diverged on either hand to let the vessel have its way without
disturbing their serenity. He who has guided, or may guide, the helm
of the state, now condescends to steer a less majestic bark on a
calmer element; and instead of the prayers, threats and blessings of
an empire, bends his ear to the prattle of his little ones, or to the
rustling of a startled deer, bounding from the thicket as the vessel
nears the shore. Not now too busy to observe whether rain or
sunshine be without, the recreated statesman finds in either case
equal pleasure and repose. His lady’s nursery and boudoir, his sons’
classics, his daughters’ music, his library, his billiard table, and withal
some peculiar and long relinquished pet pursuit, give him as much
pleasure on a rainy day, as the flower-garden, the fish-pond and
poultry-yard when the sky is blue overhead. He sighs over his past
toils, reminds his spouse of their wedding sojourn at Chamouni, and
at intervals quotes Virgil to the lad behind his chair, and whispers
Pope to the little lady netting at his elbow. Statesmanship should
have pleasures worthy of its toils; and so thought Letitia when her
husband first mutely pointed out to her the woods of Weston.
Sweet was the leisure of the first afternoon, which gave promise of
what should be done at future intervals of leisure;—intervals not
likely to be too frequent to retain their charm. His lordship had
brought his business and its apparatus with him; but for this day all
was laid aside. Within half an hour after alighting from the carriage,
and while dinner was being served up, my lord and lady were in the
rosery, observing on what must have been its beauty a few weeks
before, and the one pointing out and the other following with eager
eyes the tracts among the hanging woods which had to be explored,
the points of view which must be visited, one at sunrise, one in the
glowing noon, another in the still evening. As soon as dinner was
over, they were out again, that Letitia might see the ruins of the old
abbey before the sunlight should have departed. Her heart melted
within her when she saw the long shadows of the lofty arch extended
on the velvet turf, motionless except when a bird took wing from
among the ivy, and set its boughs dancing. The rooks sailed in
circles above the stately ruin, and the thrush piped from the
evergreen covert which shut in the retired nook in which it stood. The
sun-dial also marked the silent lapse of time, although there was
usually none to lay the lesson to heart.
“This is the place, love,” said lord F——.
“And you would have had me come without you,” said Letitia, after
a long pause.
“We have some weeks yet, to be sure, to enjoy it. This is the last
spot that looks desolate as winter comes on. No leafless trees, no
strewn blossoms! The wall-flowers there on the pinnacle flourish late;
and all is green and bright till the snow falls.”
“And after, surely,” said Letitia. “I should like to see icicles
glistening on these arches, springing grey from the sheeted snow. I
should like to see the ivy sprays bending under their white burden, or
shaking it off in a shower of sparkles at the breeze’s bidding. O let us
come here at Christmas!”
“If we do, you may chance to see another sight. You will see tracks
of small feet in the snow, and catch some little girl, in her red cloak,
stealing from the Wishing-Well.”
“The Wishing-Well! O where?”
“It springs from under an old stump behind this wall. Have you any
wishes?”
“I will make some for the superstition’s sake.”
And immediately Letitia might be seen unbonneted, kneeling on
the consecrated stone, and drinking the draught her husband had
filled for her. Thus was she seen, as presently appeared. A voice
reached them from one side, praying that her ladyship’s wishes
might come to pass, be they what they might, as they must be for
good and no harm to the people under her. Letitia sprang up,
laughing, and her husband replaced her hat, calling to the well-
wisher to show himself. He did so, not in the shape of a hardy
labourer, with his farming or gardening tools on his shoulder; nor yet
of a picturesque old man bending beneath his faggot. Such might
better have beseemed the place: but this was a middle-aged,
shrewd-looking little man, whom one would have guessed to be
town-bred. He came forward, saying that he had a message for her
ladyship from his wife;—my lord knew his wife.
 “Not I,” said his lordship. “I did not know you had a wife.”
“May be not, my lord; but you know the woman. She that keeps
the grocery shop, as you turn the corner in the village, your lordship
remembers.”
“What! Nanny Sweet? So you have taken her to wife since I saw
you last.”
“Yes, my lord. She has a very good business, or had before the
equality folks set up a store against us. I don’t like equality, not I. But
my wife sends word, my lady....”
“You do not like equality!” interrupted Letitia. “If there was equality,
you know, you would not need to mind who set up a store, and what
came of your wife’s grocery business.—And do not you like this
place too,—these woods, and the deer, and the lake?”
White lauded the grandeur and beauty of Weston.
“Well; this place would be as much yours as ours if there was
equality. You might fish on the lake, and shoot in the preserves,
and....”
“And lie down to sleep in the sun here beside the well,” continued
lord F——; “and all without asking anybody’s leave.”
“I thank you kindly, my lord; but I like sleeping in my bed, if I sleep
at all, unless it be dozing over my pipe, while Jack is reading the
news at the Duke’s Head. The only time I went fishing, I fell into the
water; so you’ll not soon find me in a boat again. My wife and I like a
chicken now and then, on Sundays; so a share of your poultry-yard
would be welcome perhaps; and, as for the deer and game, I leave it
to other folks to get out of their warm beds for the sake of it. It would
not answer to me to be laid by with the rheumatism for such a cause,
you see.”
“But there would be no poaching if there was equality,” said Letitia,
laughing. “Cannot game be shot in the daytime?”
“By none but gentlemen, my lady, as I have always heard.
However, the equality folks have no more game, as far as I know,
than other people. The most they pretend to is to have plenty of
butcher’s meat.—What I pretend to, and Nanny too, is to get our
bread honestly; and so, my lady, she bade me tell you that she has
laid in a new stock, hearing your ladyship was coming, and has lost
already by its being September instead of June. Light ginghams for
morning wear....”
“I thought your wife was a grocer.”
“Grocer and draper, my lady. If your ladyship should find the
mornings chilly, as they will be soon, perhaps you would look at her
stuffs;—a very pretty variety of browns, as you will see, my lady. And
her tea and sugar is of the best; and as for her snuffs....”
“O, I must make acquaintance with her snuffs, of course. Have you
a pinch about you?”
“And what is your occupation now, White?” inquired lord F——.
“The last thing I had to do, my lord, was lining your lordship’s pew
at church, and covering the hassocks.”
“And what did your priest say to that?”
“Lord, sir, I cleared scores with the priest long ago; ever since I
was employed to white-wash the Baptist chapel.”
“Were you once a Catholic?” inquired Letitia.
“Yes, my lady. There was carving work to do at Sir William’s
chapel, and I got a good long job.”
“And were a Catholic while it lasted, and a Baptist after white-
washing the meeting-house?”
“To be sure, my lady; I took a part in the week-day meetings after
that.”
“Till you were employed to line my pew; and now, I dare say, you
are a very good churchman?”
“I hope to be so, my lord. Your lordship may laugh, but I know what
manners is. I wouldn’t be so unhandsome as to take work at one
place, and attend at another.”
“So your interest has nothing at all to do with it, White; only
manners. But I wonder now what you think your religion is worth, if
you can change and change again as you have done?”
“Why, my lord, I think religion is a very good thing, as long as it
does not come in one’s way: but one must make sacrifices to duty,
as all the clergy tell us; and is it not my duty to get my living the best
way I can?”
“Well, White; tell your wife I will step down to see her stock, some
day soon. I do not at present take snuff; but whenever I do, I will be
her customer.”
 Thérèse and her mistress kept one another waiting this night. The
housekeeper, who was much amused with Thérèse’s broken English
and unbroken simplicity, invited her out to a turn in the shrubberies
when tea was sent in, and she was sure of not being wanted for an
hour or two. When they came in again, they found that their master
and mistress had once more wandered forth, tempted by the rising of
the clear full moon behind the woods. After sitting nearly an hour in
the dressing-room, Thérèse put faith in the housekeeper’s prophecy
that her master would stay abroad till after midnight, like a child as
he always was, or one that lived on air, the first few days after his
coming down from town. Thérèse looked out and longed for another
ramble. The dressing-room lamp shed a pearly light through the
room; but a golden planet hung over the opposite beechen grove: a
small bright fire burned in the grate; but it was less cheering than the
bracing evening air: the time-piece ticked drowsily amidst the
silence; but it was less soothing than the coming and going of the
night-breeze among the elms in the green walk. Thérèse could not
resist. Once more she ran out, promising herself that she would be
back in ten minutes,—long before her mistress should be ready for
her. In an hour, startled by the striking of the village clock, she
returned, and found Letitia, half undressed, still gazing from the
window.
“Ah, madam!” cried Thérèse, terrified; “I am very, very wrong....”
As she hastened, with trembling hands, to throw off her cloak, and
arrange the toilet-table, appealing the while to the moon and other
temptations, Letitia, under a sudden impulse, ran and kissed the
astonished Thérèse, crying, “O Thérèse, how happy we shall be
here!” Thérèse returned the kiss again and again before she stopped
to consider what she was about. As soon as Letitia could repress her
inclination to laugh, she observed that they seemed all to have set
aside common rules to-day, and to have their heads turned alike by
coming into the country. After this, Thérèse would be in waiting at the
proper hour, and she herself....
“And you, madam ...” said Thérèse, half-smiling. “You will not
make me forget that there is one in this country who loves me as
some love me at home; but this will redouble my respect, madam.”
 “I hope it will, Thérèse; for I need to be reminded now and then.... I
was not always lady F——, you know; and a moon-light night makes
me forget these things sometimes. We are all equal in reality, except
when ignorance, and all that comes of ignorance, separates us from
one another; so there may be friendship,—there is friendship
between you and me, Thérèse.”
“The knowledge which you have given me, madam, will make this
friendship my secret treasure. No one will know it who cannot also
be your friend.—But many ladies put confidence in their maids, and
tell them such things as I have never heard from you. Mrs. Philips....”
“Mrs. Philips, I suspect, Thérèse, had much more to tell than she
ever was told; at least, her secrets were of a kind that will never be
known to come from me. Your confessor shall never have to warn
you against me,—unless, indeed, it be my heresy. I would not spoil
you, my dear; and that is the reason why I keep you so much with
me. It would be hard if I did not love you and let you love me. Now
go to bed; and when the sun shines, instead of the moon, we must
forget all the wild things we have done this first day.”
“I shall never be fit to be a countess,” was her confession to lord F
——; “I kissed my maid last night.”
“What, Philips!”
“O no, no. That would be idiotcy. Philips is at Brighton, you know,
where lady Frances spoils her by a more pernicious familiarity than
mine with Thérèse. But really this girl wins one’s heart as if she had
been born one’s younger sister.”
“I dare say she is some countess, or countess’s daughter in
disguise; or so some romantic ladies might fancy.”
“Ladies who think that nobility is only hereditary. There is disguised
nobility in Thérèse; but her patent is sealed with an impress which
there are few to recognize, and it is deposited where not many
trouble themselves to look for it.”
“Side by side with yours, love. Happily, your nobility of that better
kind needs be disguised no more than the lesser which you have
acquired. This was the chief satisfaction I had in giving you the
lesser.”
“We will look among the equality folks, as White calls them, for
specimens of natural nobility. According to their theory, such always
assumes its rank among them, does it not?”
“This is one of the professed objects of their system; but it is not
fair to look for its fulfilment in such small societies as they have yet
been able to form. Master minds are thinly sown.”
“There needs not equality of outward condition,” observed Letitia,
“to make the best minds master minds. Those who, by virtue of a
patent of mental nobility, have held sway over the national mind,
have been of all ranks.”
“And will so continue to be; for, as long as men are unlike one
another, there will be a distinction of ranks, though the distinction
may be maintained by a better principle than heritage. Rank and
wealth will, I trust, be in time distributed according to natural laws;
but degrees of rank and wealth there will always be; and the
advocates of a system of equality would greatly promote their cause
by a frank recognition of this truth. While all evidence from which a
judgment can be formed is before them, and they come to a
conclusion in direct opposition to the evidence, I cannot, however
much I may respect them on some accounts, think them wise and
safe guides of the people. The necessity of inequality of condition
may be established thus.”
“But first tell me whether their favourite principle of co-operation
necessarily involves equality of condition.”
“They would tell you ‘yes.’ I say ‘no.’ They hold that competition is
both the cause and effect of inequality of condition; whereas certain
advocates of co-operation in another country hold, (and I think
wisely,) that their principle stands a better chance where a gradation
of rank and property is allowed. I so far agree with these last as to
believe the time to be discernible when co-operation, in a certain
sense, shall prevail,—meaning thereby, when all interests shall be
harmonized instead of opposed; but that this includes equality of
condition, I cannot allow, since varieties of character seem to me to
forbid such equality.”
“There must be an inequality of physical and mental powers, at all
events.”
“Surely; and therefore an inequality in the produce of individual
labour. No one labours, or ever will labour, without a view to the
fruits; and those fruits, however appropriated, are property. If a giant
produces ten times as much as a dwarf, and each is allowed the
same middle portion of the fruits, for his maintenance and
enjoyment, is it to be supposed that the giant will trouble himself
henceforth to produce more than the dwarf?”
“He will be more likely to seize some of the dwarf’s portion.”
“Certainly; and hence it is clear that the only security of society lies
in awarding to all their rights, and enforcing upon all their duties; and
what are rights but a man’s exclusive power over his own produce?
What are his duties but allowing to others the possession of their
produce?”
“You do not think then that the giant and the dwarf would be alike
contented with having everything they could want or wish for
administered to them in return for a certain portion of their labour.
You do not look forward to the lion dandling the kid.”
“I should be afraid the lion would be dandling the kid when he
ought to be out in quest of food. If there was no inducement to giants
to produce more than dwarfs, there would soon be little to administer
to anybody. The consumption of giants would soon have to be
provided for by the labour of a community of dwarfs.”
“The giants would foresee this, and then....”
“Instead of working harder for no recompense, they would
withdraw,—the mightiest first, and then the next strongest, and so
on, till the weakest of the dwarfs would be left to shift for themselves
as they best might.”
“And then would come the days of potatoes and wooden
trenchers, of which you were speaking one day.—But this is
supposing men to have the same passions and desires that they
have now; whereas they are to be educated into a better state.”
“With all my heart: but the utmost that education can do is to
extend man’s views, to exalt his aims, to strengthen and vivify his
powers,—not to change his nature. His nature involves inequality of
powers; and this decree of Providence can never be set aside, or its
operation neutralized by any decree of man that the fruits of those
powers shall be equally divided.”
“Certainly not; for such a decree of man involves injustice. If the
giant feels it to be unjust that he must give to others the fruits of his
labour, the dwarf may also complain that he enjoys no more than the
giant, though he works ten times as hard.”
“The dwarf’s complaint would thus be against Providence, and the
giant’s against man; but both show that equality is an arbitrary state,
good neither for each nor for all. Nothing but compulsion would
retain the giant in it long; and thus it is clear that, where there is
liberty, there cannot be equality.”
“What becomes of the old cry of Liberty and Equality?”
“It relates, I imagine, to an equality of rights. It means an open field
and fair play to every one. This kind of equality I am doing all I can in
my office to procure, by doing away with the protection to some
which imposes burdens upon others. By the same principle I am
bound to oppose that arbitrary equality which enriches the weak with
the fruits of the strongman’s labours.”
“But there is no force used. All who bind themselves to equality do
it voluntarily.”
“Certainly. The only applicable force is force of argument, and the
opposition I bring is an opposition of reasons. If these should not
prevail, a little experience will soon finish the business. I am only
sorry that any should be dazzled with a delusive prospect of ease
and luxury, when their efforts should be guided in another direction
for the relief of their grievous burdens. At a time when every one
should be bent on regulating the labour market, providing for the
utmost permanent growth of capital, and lessening the burdens of
taxation, we cannot spare any from these grand objects to be urging
on the increase of capital at the expense of a much greater increase
of population, and amusing themselves with visions of what can
never be achieved by the means they propose. Man must and will be
better served as the world grows older; but it will be by giving the
eternal laws of society fair play, and not by attempting to subvert
them. I shall be surprised if you hear anything from our neighbours in
the village which will not bear the construction I have put upon the
system as laid down by its originators.”
“Suppose I make myself popular among them at once by telling
them my tale of last night.”
“There is no need, my dear. I trust they do us the justice to believe
that our affections graduate according to a truer scale than that of
hereditary rank.”
“You have shown that they do by marrying me.”
“All people show it in the most important circumstances of their
lives,—in their attachments. Alas for man, if the movements within
must correspond with the outward state! Whom then would kings
love?”
“And (what is more important) how should the poverty-stricken
look up through the ranks above him, and say, with hope in his eye
and assurance in his voice, ‘I am a brother?’ How else should the
stirring thought be kept alive in him that his rights will not be for ever
overlaid, his claims not be for ever incompatible with those of his
brethren? Natural affinities are ever acting, even now, in opposition
to circumstance. They will in time direct us to the due control of
circumstance. Meanwhile, let no class imagine that any other class
denies the existence of these affinities, or resists their workings.—I
will go and see how they are acting in the village.—Shall I bring you
some of Mrs. White’s snuff?”
“Why, thank you, I am not aware of any affinity between a rappee
canister and my nostrils. But the old sexton is a snuff-taker. Call
upon him by all means, and show him that you understand his
likings. He will gratify some of yours, if you find him in a talkative
mood.”