Dark Torment (28 page)

Her legs rubbed against the hair-roughened surface of his, coaxing
them, pleading with them, seducing them. Her hips undulated against the heat of
his, still held just a little away from her so that she was nearly out of her
mind with frustration. Between her legs she could feel the hard, throbbing heat
of him.

Her hands could not be still. They caressed the back of his head,
delighting in the rough silk of his hair as it curled around her fingers, in
the warm, strong neck, in the satin-over-steel shoulders and the broad back. .
. . Her caressing fingers faltered as they encountered the raised, uneven
surface of scars. From the beatings . . . The movements of her body ceased as
her hands lingered over the weals. They reminded her, suddenly, shatteringly,
of who he was and who she was, of what she was letting him do, of
reality—and of shame. . . .

Her eyes opened to find that his body had frozen, too, poised over
hers, his head lifted so that he could stare down into her eyes. She saw the
same reality as that which had just been forcibly brought home to her surface
in his eyes. The dark, smoldering embers solidified, hardened. . . . The
muscles of his arms quivered as he lifted himself away from her, holding
himself above her for a timeless moment as he stared at her with bitter anger.
Then he was rolling away from her, getting to his feet, muttering a string of
oaths so foul that Sarah winced to hear them as he found his breeches and
dragged them on.

“Get up.”

Sarah needed no second urging to scramble to her feet, conscious
of his eyes on her every second. She was appalled at what had happened between
them, at what she had so nearly let him do, if she was honest had wanted him to
do. . . . Moon madness. Sarah glanced up with agonized reproach at the slender
witch floating high overhead. The silvery crescent seemed to mock her. Twice
now she had succumbed to him under its seductive spell. Never again, Sarah
vowed fiercely, cringing as she thought of what would have happened in just
instants if he had not stopped. She would have experienced once again the
ecstasy of his possession—and the shame.

“Get dressed.” He flung her clothes at her.

Sarah, standing with her arms around herself to shield her naked
body from his eyes, could scarcely bear to look at him. He seemed no more eager
to look at her, turning his back to her as he jerked on his shirt and then sat
on a nearby stump to pull on his boots. The very rigidity of his back bespoke
his anger. In the moonlight, the crisscrossing scars gleamed pale against the
teak brown of his skin. Sarah stared at them as she scrambled into her clothes.

“Come on. We’re going back to camp.”

His terse order flayed her overstretched nerves. Head flung back
as she struggled to adjust the blanket-poncho so that it provided maximum
coverage, she whirled on him, her eyes flashing fire.

“Don’t give me orders!” she snapped, glaring at
him.

“I’ll give you orders any damned time I please. And
you’ll obey them. Get your behind moving. Now!” He turned his back
on her again and marched away toward the camp.

“No!” Sarah shouted, nearly beside herself with anger.

Her eyes found what they had unconsciously been searching for. A
rock! Snatching it up, she flung it with all her strength at his retreating
back. It struck one broad shoulder with a satisfying thud before bouncing
aside. His stride faltered; he hesitated for a moment, his back rigid. Sarah
held her breath. How would he retaliate? Physically? Would he beat her, or . .
. ? Her imagination ran riot as she balanced on her toes, poised to flee. To
her astonishment, he didn’t even turn. After that one brief pause he just
kept walking steadily until the trees hid him from sight.

Sarah stared after him with fury stabbed through with triumph. She
had gotten rid of him—and it had been so easy! Now she was free to follow
the creek to safety, to make her way home. . . .

In the distance, a dingo howled, then another, and another. The
moon stared down at her with a malicious grin on its sly face. Now that she had
the chance, she knew with a rush of blind rage that she could not take it: it
would be foolish beyond belief to hare off on her own, to attempt to walk back
to Lowella or anywhere else without proper preparations. They must have come
twenty miles or more since the night before. It was at least that far, she
thought, to any place where she might find help. Without food or proper shoes
or clothing, and with the sun beating down on her and one mile of bush looking
exactly like every other mile, she would be insane to attempt it. She could
easily die—people died in the bush all the time. Sarah gritted her teeth,
uttering the same oath that had made her cringe when Dominic had used it just
moments before. It fell from her lips with a very satisfying sound; for the
first time, Sarah understood why men used bad language. There were times when
nothing else would do. Kneeling to fasten her makeshift sandals, Sarah said it
again. Then she straightened, squared her shoulders, and with fury in her heart
trailed slowly, reluctantly, but inevitably in Dominic’s wake.

Minger and the others who were not on watch had bedded down near
the campfire, Sarah saw as she approached the periphery of the camp. Dominic
stood beneath a towering gum, his saddle near its trunk while he spread a
blanket beside it. Sitting on the edge of the blanket, he removed his boots,
then lay back with his head on the saddle and his eyes on the fire. His rifle
was within easy reach. Still Sarah hesitated, of half a mind just to wait there
at the edge of the camp until morning. But the thought of the other men, the
ones who were on watch and didn’t know that Dominic had earlier placed
her under his protection, dissuaded her. She would be easy prey. Besides,
unless she wanted to be left behind, she would have to face him in the morning.

His eyes were closed when Sarah stopped beside him, but she
sensed—how, she didn’t know—that he was aware of her presence
and that he had expected no less. A smug satisfaction seemed to radiate from
him. Sarah glared at his prone form, working to restrain the urge to kick him.
She loathed every millimeter of that hard body, from the booted feet and long
legs stretched so negligently over the nubby gray blanket that was nearly
identical to the one she was wearing, to the arms crossed in relaxation over
the broad chest, to the thick, curling black eyelashes that rested without a
flicker on that maddeningly handsome face, to the glossy black hair still
disordered from where her hands had run through it. Sarah waited, glaring, for
him to open his eyes, to speak, somehow to acknowledge her presence. Gradually
it dawned on her that he was not going to. He was not even going to offer to
share his blanket! Not that she wanted to sleep with him, but . . .

Sarah glanced warily around the camp. The three other men appeared
fast asleep, but they could awaken at any time. And there were the others to
consider, too. She did not dare be left behind when Dominic took his turn
watching the sheep. All she had to do was ask, she knew, and he would let her
huddle at his side, under the mantle of his protection, however grudgingly he
might now be offering it. But every vestige of her pride rebelled at humbling
herself to that extent. She would not!

Glaring furiously at him, mouthing that oath again—silently,
so that he would not hear it and take satisfaction from the straits to which he
had reduced her—she stalked to the side of the tree and sank down against
it, her back against the trunk. She did not dare go to sleep. It would be just
like the unprincipled swine to leave her behind if she did. Arms locked around
her knees beneath the enveloping poncho, head resting back against the rough
bark, her back already aching as she sought to find a reasonably shaped section
against which to brace it, Sarah directed one final, killing glare at
Dominic’s supremely comfortable-looking form. Doggedly forcing her eyes
to remain open, she then settled in for what she knew would be an uncomfortable
night.

“If you would let me use one of those other horses, I could
ride by myself.”

It was mid-afternoon of the following day. Sarah was once again
leaning back exhaustedly against Dominic’s hard chest, her legs almost on
top of his as she rode sideways before him in the saddle. One of his arms was
around her waist; the other rested lightly on his thigh. Sarah could feel his
chin just brushing the top of her hair, which today she had woven into a single
thick braid without the use of either brush or comb and secured with a bit of
cloth ripped from the increasingly tattered edge of her nightrail. Any
observer, seeing the slender, supple woman resting so completely back against
the much taller, broader man who was, to all intents and purposes, embracing
her in the saddle, might easily have concluded that the two were on the easiest
of terms. But then, an observer would have had no way of guessing at the
hostility that charged the very air around them.

“Getting tired of my company? You enjoyed it well enough
last night,” Dominic jeered in reply.

Sarah clenched her teeth. Ever since he had made her practically
beg him to take her with him when he went on watch the night before, Dominic
had missed no opportunity to throw her behavior by the creek in her face. Sarah
wanted to rant and rave at him, to turn around and box his ears until they were
as red as the shirt he wore. But she did not. To do so would be to let him know
how successfully he was managing to get under her skin.

“Riding tandem can’t be any more comfortable for you
than it is for me,” she pointed out in a carefully neutral voice.

“It isn’t,” he promptly agreed in a growly
undertone. “But as you know very well, both spare horses are loaded with
supplies. To let you ride one would mean leaving half our provisions behind.
Tell me, if put to the test, which do you think our fellow bandits would
choose: you or a side of bacon? I know which I would.”

“Don’t lump me in with the rest of you
miscreants,” Sarah muttered nastily. “You’re thieves,
marauders, and kidnappers. I’m merely your innocent victim.”

“
Innocent?
”

This snide remark, a clear reference to her lost virginity, nearly
sent all Sarah’s self-control flying. But she
managed—barely—to hold onto her temper.

“
I
had no hand in my kidnapping. Or in setting fire
to the stable and barns. Or in stealing my father’s sheep,” she
pointed out virtuously, refusing to acknowledge that she had gotten the point
of his latest hit.

“If you don’t quit talking, I’m going to have a
hand on your backside,” he threatened.

Sarah smiled triumphantly at having come out the victor in this
encounter. The name of the game seemed to be for each to goad the other into
losing his or her temper, and so far the honors were about even. But this last
exchange left her slightly ahead, Sarah reckoned.

“Temper, temper,” she chided with enjoyment, and
didn’t even wince at the foul curse he muttered in her ear. During the
course of the night and day, she had heard much worse from him.

Now that victory was hers, Sarah lapsed back into brooding
silence, pulling the bandanna back up over her mouth and tilting the hat
farther forward on her head to shield her nose. Despite their mutual animosity,
Dominic had not repossessed his gear. Sarah supposed that some remnant of
chivalry must be restraining him, or that he was so intent on scoring off her
that he would not admit that he needed the protection of a hat and kerchief,
while she did. Whatever the reason, she greatly enjoyed the notion that he was
suffering in the broiling heat.

The sheep were on the move again, being driven through the dry
bush country parallel to the creek. They would maintain this course for as long
as possible, Sarah knew. To move away from a sure source of water before it was
absolutely necessary would be lunacy. In this drought, even long-established
water holes might be dry. No one had told her so, but Sarah guessed that they
were headed for Sydney. Disposing of the sheep to an unwary or unscrupulous
buyer would be fairly easy in that bustling port. But there were many miles
between here and there. Once away from the water, unless more was found on a
regular basis, the sheep would soon start dropping like flies. Sarah was torn
between hope and dread that by the time they reached their destination the
bushrangers would be left with nothing to sell.

It was after dark when they stopped for the night. This time,
Dominic had first watch, and Sarah went with him. The sheep, having been
allowed to drink their fill and having found a few blades of green grass on
which to munch, bleated contentedly, taking comfort from being so close to
their fellows.

Like the three other riders, Dominic patrolled the perimeter of
the herd until well past midnight. When at last someone came to relieve him,
Sarah was not even aware of it. She had fallen asleep hours before, lulled
despite her dislike of him by the rhythmic beat of his heart and the secure
feeling of being held in his arms. A rough hand on her shoulder shook her
awake; blinking sleepily, Sarah saw that they had returned to the camp.

Before she was fully awake, Dominic swung from the saddle and
dragged her down with him. Almost swaying with exhaustion, Sarah stood by as he
removed Kilkenny’s tack and tethered the horse before lugging the gear to
a spot near the dying fire. Then, with a nervous look at the other riders who
had followed them in, Sarah trailed after him. Dominic was obnoxious, hateful,
and cruel. But the others were even worse. As she looked at his tall form
bending to arrange the saddle and blanket, Sarah recalled the saying:
“Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.” But,
she thought venomously, not much better.

To her surprise, instead of going over to the iron cookpot
suspended over the fire and dishing out their meal, Dominic lowered himself to
the blanket and sprawled back lazily, his arms crossed under his head, which
rested on the saddle.