Dark Torment (20 page)

“I’ll speak to you any bloody way I please.” He
was still biting off the words, looking as if he wanted to throttle her.
“I don’t give a damn if you blush all the way down to your prim
little toes every time you look at me. From now on, when you go riding, I go
with you. Understand?”

Sarah fairly quivered with temper. “Who do you think you are
to give me orders? Just because—just because . . .” His eyes
darkened, and she abruptly abandoned that line of reasoning. “You
don’t give the orders around here, Gallagher. I do!”

She was shouting. Gallagher’s hands fastened on her arms in
a grip that would have made her wince if she hadn’t been so angry. His
eyes narrowed to gleaming blue slits.

“You heard about that fire in the west field? It was set,
Sarah! This morning, maybe by a gang of runaway convicts like the one who
attacked you, maybe by someone else. Nobody knows. But whoever set that fire
was on the station
this morning,
and they haven’t been caught
and there’ve been no signs that they’ve left. What if you’d
run into them? What do you suppose they’d have done to you, you stupid
female? You were shamed by what I did to you last night? You should bloody well
try rape for comparison!”

“You’re disgusting!” Sarah felt her cheeks
crimson with rage and mortification. Her hands clenched into fists. She jerked
free of his hold and swung a fist at him with all her strength. It never
connected. He caught it in his hand, squeezing it cruelly, making her wince.

“I warned you before about violence,” he snarled.
Before Sarah had time to do more than gasp, he yanked her against him, his arms
locking her to his body in a bone-crushing embrace. His grim mouth descended. .
. .

The kiss was brief, hard, and brutal. Sarah kept her mouth closed
until his hand reached up to clamp around her jaw, forcing her teeth apart.
Then his tongue invaded, conquering territory that had surrendered the night
before, forcing her to accept that, in physical strength at least, he was her
master. Sarah could not fight him; he held her too closely. She chose the next
best course, standing rigid in his arms, refusing to concede him an inch of
ground. Whatever he had from her, he would have to take.

Finally, with an ugly oath, he lifted his head, thrusting her away
from him with such force that Sarah nearly fell. Recovering her balance, she
backed away from him toward the stable door, her face contorted with rage.

“You dirty
convict,
” she hissed, choosing the
one word that she knew would infuriate him more than any other. “How dare
you manhandle me! I’ll make you sorry you were ever born!”

Jaws clenched, Gallagher took a step toward her. Sarah’s
bravado vanished. Whirling, she gathered up her skirts and ran for the house.
As she bolted through the stable door, she sped past Liza, who ducked around
the corner out of sight. Sarah did not even notice her.

* * *

It was long past midnight, and Dominic was lying awake in his
hard, narrow bunk in the long shed that housed all the convicts and a few of
the aborigines, who kept together at the far end. All about him came the sounds
of men asleep. Phipps, in the bunk to his right, a burly footpad as tall as
Dominic himself, whimpered like a child as he slept. He would keep up the
keening off and on all night, just as he had every night since Dominic had
arrived. Dominic had learned to ignore the ragged sounds. Brady, on the
opposite side, a short, thick, good-humored Yorkshire man, slept like an
innocent babe. Which only showed how little one could rely on the quality of a
man’s sleep as a way of gauging character, Dominic thought. Phipps, who
despite his thieving ways had never harmed anyone, cried in his sleep. Brady,
on the other hand, a professional smuggler who had murdered, with a hunting
knife, his wife and her two young children when he caught her being unfaithful
to him, slept like an angel from the time they turned in at night until they
were booted awake by the convict trustees who oversaw their labor during the
day.

Dominic himself could not sleep. He lay on his back with his arms
crossed beneath his head, staring at the velvety black sky through the cracks
between the ceiling boards, cursing himself steadily for his handling of Sarah.
He had meant to be gentle with her when next they’d met, but first
she’d scared him by going off alone, and then she’d made him so
damned mad. . . .

The thud of booted feet on the rickety porch outside caught his
attention. Dominic looked toward the door as it opened and three men entered.
In the darkness it was impossible to recognize them. He watched with wary
interest as they passed down the rows of sleeping men. One of them held a
lantern; he shone it discreetly on each of the sleepers in turn. Some sort of
bed check, Dominic surmised, and wondered what had made it necessary. When they
got to him, he blinked into the light, waiting for them to pass on. But they
stayed where they were, surrounding his bed. The lantern was blown out.
Instinctively all his muscles stiffened in alarm. He started up.

“Take him,” one of them said.

Gallagher had run away. Sarah was surprised at how that knowledge
troubled her. He was a greenhorn, and the bush country was deadly to
greenhorns. He should have known that, should have had more sense. Within hours
of their arrival on Lowella, Percival always made new convicts aware of the
hopelessness of running. Like others before him, Gallagher had clearly chosen
not to believe Percival. Most of those who left perished in the miles of
desolation around them; with the drought drying up most sources of water,
Gallagher’s eventual fate would be even more certain. And if he came back
to Lowella, as a few did, staggering with exhaustion and defeat, he would be
whipped. But however severe the beating, surely it would be better than dying
of thirst and exposure to the raging sun. Surely he would come back. . . . But
a week passed, then two, then four. Sarah had to face the truth: Gallagher was
very likely dead, his long, hard body lying out on the parched tundra, the
flesh stripped from his bones by carrion eaters so that soon only a bleached
skeleton would remain to attest that a man had lived and died. . . . The
dingoes would carry off even the bones, Sarah realized with a shudder; nothing
would be left of Gallagher at all. The thought haunted Sarah; she was
preoccupied by day and unable to sleep at night.

“Have you had any luck finding that convict
Gallagher?” She could contain the question no longer. The family, plus
Percival, who usually joined them, was at dinner, gathered around the large
mahogany table. Candles provided illumination in preference to oil lamps, at
Lydia’s insistence. Crystal and silver gleamed, while the dishes were of
fine china imported from England and the white tablecloth was made of the best
damask and lace. Dinner, Lydia said, was going to be civilized, even if nothing
else was in this crude country. Edward sat at the head of the table, his black
cutaway coat and white silk stock an uncomfortable concession to his
wife’s badgering. Only Sarah, who remembered how her father had refused
ever to wear a coat no matter what the occasion, recognized his donning of such
apparel for the sacrifice it was. Lydia, resplendent in white silk and pearls,
with a great deal of her bounteous charms on display, sat at the foot. Sarah
and Liza, in beige muslin and yellow silk, respectively, sat on one side of the
table. Percival, who was attired even more correctly than Edward, was directly
opposite Sarah. Mary, the quieter and less clumsy of the maids, waited on
table. Mrs. Abbott rarely appeared in the dining room; Lydia said that the
sight of a convict while she was eating was enough to put her off her food.

Edward shrugged in answer to Sarah’s question, glancing over
at Percival, who picked up his wineglass and swirled the red liquid slowly.

“Haven’t tried,” Percival replied indifferently,
his eyes on the candlelight shining through the wine to form a red shadow on
the tablecloth. “The man’s no loss; he was a troublemaker from the
start, as I told you he would be.”

Liza giggled. “I think Sarah liked him,” she suggested
slyly.

Sarah could feel herself turning pink even as she struggled to
reply to Liza with the scorn the remark should have merited.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, and was pardonably
pleased with the crispness of her voice. The fact that all eyes except her
father’s were focused on her made her hope fervently that the color she
knew was in her cheeks would be hidden by the dimness of the candlelight.

“He was a very handsome man,” Lydia observed, her
languid tone masking the glitter in her eyes from everyone but Sarah. Sarah was
too familiar with that look to miss it. She felt her stomach begin to tense as
she waited for Lydia to home in for the kill. “I for one wouldn’t
blame dear Sarah if he turned her head just a little bit. She has so few
opportunities. . . . Oh, I’m sorry. Don’t mind me, Sarah. You know
my wretched tongue. Of course, we have all learned to value you for your
sterling character, and not give your looks a thought.”

This was accompanied by such a poisonously sweet smile that Sarah
glanced instinctively at her father, thinking that this time surely he would be
able to see the hostility behind the pretense of affection. But he was spearing
a chunk of mutton with his fork; Sarah doubted that he had even heard. And even
if he had, he wouldn’t come to her defense. She had learned that long
ago. He detested being made uncomfortable, and Lydia, if she got into a snit
with him because of his championship of his daughter, was more than capable of
making his life very uncomfortable indeed.

“Of course you have,” she managed unconcernedly,
knowing that to affect indifference was the best way to handle Lydia’s
barbs. She spread some butter made from ewe’s milk on one of Mrs.
Abbott’s caraway-seed rolls and bit into it with every appearance of
pleasure. Her eyes met Lydia’s for the barest second. Both ladies smiled.

“Found out anything more about that fire in the west field,
John?” Edward asked placidly, changing the subject. He did that nearly
every time Lydia launched one of her attacks; Sarah suspected that it was
deliberate, aimed at diverting his wife’s attention from her, but she
could never be sure. Her father was never interested for long in any
conversation that did not deal with the station, and through it, directly or
indirectly, his beloved merinos.

“You know it was set.” Percival’s tone was
suddenly brusque as he seemed to come to attention. Edward nodded, while the
ladies listened in silence, Lydia and Liza clearly bored, Sarah attentive.
“It could be that same group of convicts that burned Paul Brickton out a
couple of months back. Or it could be a single convict. Or even an aborigine or
a group of aborigines, though they don’t usually do anything like that. I
don’t know. I do know that they won’t get a chance to do it again.
I’ve got guards stationed in all the fields and outbuildings. If whoever
did it comes back, they’re in for a nasty surprise.”

“Good thinking, John,” Edward said absently. Percival
inclined his head in silent acknowledgment.

Lydia leaned forward so that the candlelight gleamed on the smooth
white slopes of her full bosoms, exposed almost to the nipples by the dipping
neckline of her dress. “To you, John Percival,” she purred, lifting
her wineglass toward Percival in salute. The smile that accompanied the gesture
was meant to be provocative.

Sarah, watching her stepmother as she flirted under her
husband’s nose, wondered at her temerity. After seven years of marriage,
Lydia still did not know her husband as well as she obviously thought she did.
Usually her father was mild-mannered, largely because he was almost always
preoccupied with his sheep. But if Lydia actually carried through on what her
flirting promised, and her father found out, Sarah had not a doubt that Lydia
would discover Edward Markham’s temper with a vengeance.

“What would we do without you?” Lydia continued. Her
smile had changed, becoming nothing more than polite now that her
husband’s eyes were on her as he too raised his glass. Liza and Sarah,
the latter reluctantly, followed suit. “May you soon become a permanent
member of the family!”

Sarah, in the process of taking the required sip of wine, nearly
choked. There was no mistaking Lydia’s meaning. Her father was smiling at
her, and Liza was suppressing giggles, while Percival looked smugly pleased.

“I look forward to it as soon as Miss Sarah sets the
date,” Percival replied as if their marriage were a settled thing.

Sarah decided then to make it quite clear, before the whole family
so that there could no longer be any doubt, that she would not marry Percival.
“I have no intention, ever, of setting a date for our wedding, Mr.
Percival,” she said evenly, looking at him across the table with steady
eyes as she set down her wineglass deliberately. “As you know, for I have
told you many times, I have no wish to marry you.” The words were calm,
and even fairly polite, but their effect on the company was electric. Percival
stiffened, glowering at her, while her father eyed her with dismayed
disapproval. Lydia was smiling, pleased at the furor she had created, while
Liza was staring first at Sarah, then at Percival.

“Sarah!” Edward remonstrated. Then, to Percival:
“Forgive her, John. Every lass likes a little courting, eh? She’ll
come round in time.”

Her father’s connivance wounded Sarah to the heart. Although
why it should, she didn’t know. He had never listened to her, never
really cared for her, at least not enough to protect her from Lydia and, now,
Percival. For the good of his beloved sheep, he was prepared to hand her over
to Percival lock, stock, and barrel.

“Excuse me,” she said, standing abruptly. Before
anyone could reply, she put her napkin on the table and walked from the room.