Sarah hesitated again before entering the stall, her nerve nearly failing her. The man was a convict, after all, and reputedly a dangerous one. What business did she have even getting near him? Then he moved, and moaned, a piteous sound that tugged at her conscience. He was a human being. And in pain.
Slowly, moving carefully so as not to drop the box she carried and wake the sleeping men, Sarah entered the stall. She knew that the convict would wake when she put the healing unguent on his raw back. But she wanted to delay the moment as long as possible. Which was silly, she told herself. He was not going to hurt her. She had come to help him.
Kneeling beside the convict, Sarah stretched out her hand to touch his arm, meaning to wake him gently and warn him of what she planned to do. His sheer size gave her pause. Despite the leanness that was the inevitable result of his incarceration on the prison ship, he was broad-shouldered and long-limbed. Standing, Sarah guessed that he would top her by nearly a foot. But the beating and the resulting loss of blood would have left him severely weakened. Even if he wished to harm her, she thought he could not. Still, she peered through the darkness for the reassuring glint of iron chains before waking him. Just to make sure.
The irons were there, stretched from ankle to ankle, linking his spread legs, which lay black and heavy against the golden brown straw. Her eyes slid up the length of his body to his hands. The wrist farthest from her was enclosed in iron, she saw, but the chain led upward instead of across to his other wrist. It was secured to a halter ring overhead. Which meant that he had one hand free . . .
Sarah rocked back on her heels, ready to rise and leave the stall just as silently as she had entered. The sudden movement of his hand as it grasped her wrist caught her by surprise. She gasped, trying to jerk her wrist free. His hand, warm and hard, held her fast. Eyes wide with fright, Sarah stared from his large, hard-palmed hand, long-fingered enough to wrap twice around her slender wrist and shades darker than her honey-gold skin despite his months of imprisonment, to the shadowed face of the man whose captive she had suddenly become. A shaft of moonlight touched his features, glinting off his blue eyes. They were open. He was watching her.
III
“What do you want?” His husky whisper was rough with pain and, she thought, hostility.
“I—I came to help you. I have some salve for your back.” His lack of any immediately violent movement soothed her fright. What would he gain from harming her, after all? He could not escape, and he must know that if he hurt her he would be killed—probably beaten to death. But for all her reasoning she could not still the little shivers of apprehension and something else that crawled up and down her spine. Never before had she been this close to a half-naked man. The sheer masculinity of his bare back disturbed her more than did the wounds she had come to treat. To say nothing of his hair-matted chest, just visible as he lifted his head to look at her. And the smell of him. Raw and earthy, composed of sweat and blood and a musky scent that defied description. It galvanized her. She tugged at her trapped hand, but he would not release her wrist.
“It’s the little Good Samaritan, isn’t it?” From the bitter, biting words, Sarah deduced that he had indeed been cognizant this afternoon when she had thrust herself between him and the whip. The knowledge should have made her feel safer. It did not. “Trying to buy your way into heaven with good deeds?” he continued, sneering. “Well, forget it. I don’t want your help.”
With that, he tossed her wrist back at her and turned his head away. Perversely, now that she was free to go, Sarah stayed where she was, surveying the back of his dark, well-shaped head. His hair was wildly tousled, grown overlong and matted with blood. From the look of it, it had not been combed in months. Or washed, either.
“Whether you want help or not, your back needs attention. I mean to see to it.”
Her fear had largely vanished when he released her wrist, though her skin still tingled from the strength of his grip. If he meant to harm her, he would already have done so. His harsh words and tone had aroused her ire, instead. It showed in the tartness of her voice.
“And I have no choice in the matter?” He turned to look at her, his eyes glittering almost silver in the moonlight. “Oh, that’s right, you own me, don’t you? Your papa bought me this afternoon.” The sneer was more pronounced; his lip curled at her.
Sarah’s lips tightened. “That’s right, he did,” she agreed coolly.
“Nobody owns me!” The words, despite the soft, Irish-sounding lilt that gave his voice an unexpected attraction, were harshly vehement. Sarah said nothing, just returned him look for look. His lips twisted into what was almost a snarl. The faintest glimmer of white teeth showed between them. “Especially not a scrawny, do-gooding female with about as much feminity as a broomstick! What’s the matter, lady, can’t you get a man to warm your bed? Are you so frustrated you had to have papa buy you one?”
Sarah’s mouth dropped open in shock. But as his words began to sink in she felt anger course hot and swift through her veins.
“Why, you ungrateful swine!” she said. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be fish bait in Melbourne’s harbor right now! How dare you say such things to me! I’ll have you . . .” Her voice trailed off as she realized what, in her unusual burst of temper, she had nearly threatened him with.
“Whipped?” he guessed with deadly accuracy. “Is that how you get your excitement? Watching a man being beaten? Or do you like to do it yourself?”
“If you don’t shut your nasty mouth, I’ll have someone shut it for you!” Her voice rose as her anger returned in full force. She leaped to her feet, uncaring of the box in her lap, which tumbled to the floor, spilling medical supplies in all directions. “I must have been insane to stop them today! My father was right: you deserved every lick, and more. I wish they had beaten you to death! I . . .”
A spreading pool of golden light stopped her in midtirade. Eyes widening, Sarah turned toward the stall door and saw the dark figure of a man looming there, his lantern held high. The sudden bright light blinded her, so she could not make out his features, but she knew it had to be either her father or Percival.
“What the bloody hell?” The angry growl was Percival’s. “You little slut, if you—” His words choked off abruptly. The lantern wavered and then was lowered, and Sarah saw his face. He looked horrified as he recognized her. As she met his astonished stare, bright color crept up his neck to his face.
“Miss Sarah, I beg your pardon.” He sounded shaken. His eyes as they met hers were both embarrassed and apologetic. “I thought—that is, I heard a woman’s voice in here with the convicts—I thought it—you—were one of the barmaids.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Percival.” Sarah’s words were clipped, but her anger was directed at the man lying sprawled at her feet. She could feel the insolence of the convict’s eyes as he watched her. No doubt he had enjoyed hearing his version of her character confirmed by Percival’s furious denunciation. Keeping her eyes fixed on Percival’s face so that she wouldn’t have to look at the beast who had so vilely insulted her, Sarah began to move with regal dignity toward the stall door. Percival’s face still reflected the horror of having addressed her in such a way; then, as the situation began to assert itself, his lips compressed and his eyes narrowed.
“Miss Sarah, what are you doing in the stable? At night, and alone—with the convicts.” His tone was condemning. Sarah kept her head high as she continued to move toward him. Not waiting for her answer—it must have been obvious that there was no defensible answer she could give—Percival continued, his voice growing angry, “Good God, Miss Sarah, what were you thinking of, putting yourself within reach of such scum? You could have been hurt, or killed, or. . . worse!” Sarah, knowing very well what he meant by “worse,” felt a faint blush warming her cheeks. But the fact that for once Percival was in the right did not make her feel any more kindly disposed toward him. The convict was a vile, ungrateful brute, and she was willing to believe him capable of
any atrocity, including the one that Percival had so delicately alluded to. No doubt, only her own lack of attraction—possibly coupled with the convict’s state of health—was all that had saved her from that hideous fate.
“I came to treat the man’s back, Mr. Percival,” Sarah said evenly, determined not to let her perturbation show as she moved forward. She reached the stall door and waited for him to move away from the other side so that she could open it. When he didn’t, but stared at her face and then, beyond her, at the convict, she added, “Please let me pass.”
Still he didn’t move. His eyes swung back to search her face, then his voice was suddenly sharp as he said, “Why is the medical kit spilled all over the ground? If you came to treat his back, why didn’t you? I heard you shouting when I came in—by God, if that blackguard laid a hand on you . . . ! Did he touch you, Sarah? Just tell me if he did, and I’ll finish what Farley started today!” He stepped back, swung open the stall door, and started through it. His eyes were fixed on the convict, who lay on his stomach staring up at them. At Percival’s violent eruption, he levered himself up on one elbow. Both men’s eyes met and clashed in a silent war.
“By God, you bastard, if you touched this lady, you’ll be begging me to kill you before I’m through with you!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Percival.” Despite her anger at the convict, Sarah stopped Percival’s enraged charge with a hand against his chest. She did not want to see more violence done, no matter how much the brute might deserve it.
“Sarah . . .” He was breathing hard. Fury made the lines in his face seem even deeper. His stocky figure was poised for immediate action, his fists clenched at his sides. His hazel eyes bored into hers, demanding that she step out of his path. Chin lifting slightly, Sarah stood her ground.
“I don’t believe I gave you permission to address me by my given name, Mr. Percival.” She meant to sidetrack him; to her relief, it worked.
“Don’t be absurd, girl,” he replied. “There’s nothing improper about me calling you Sarah. After all, we’ll be man and wife soon; I was talking to your da about it just the other day. You’ll soon get used to me calling you by name—and to calling me John.”
Percival’s refusal to take no for an answer, added to her rage over the convict’s lewd insults, brought her temper near the exploding point again. Ordinarily she was very even-tempered; today she had been goaded into angry outbursts no fewer than three times. Spine stiffening, she stared at Percival coldly, her hand dropping from his chest.
“I have no intention of marrying you, as you well know, Mr. Percival,” she said, emphasizing the title with icy meaning. “You and Pa can plan all you like; I’m telling you straight out, I won’t do it.”
“Ah, Sarah, girl, you’re just shy.” Percival’s indulgent tone, coupled with his continued use of her name after she had requested him not to address her so familiarly, made Sarah grit her teeth. She was on the verge of saying something she knew she would regret when he reached out to catch her arm. Sarah shook him off angrily, and when he looked as though he meant to take hold of her again she backed away. His eyes narrowed, but he made no move to follow her.
“You still haven’t told me what that—convict—did to you.” Percival’s eyes shifted from her to the man sprawled in the straw.
Glancing over her shoulder, Sarah saw that, although the man had fallen back to lie flat on his stomach, his head was turned toward them. His eyes met hers. In the warm pool of light from the lantern Percival had hung on a hook beside the stall door she saw that, although his face remained carefully expressionless, his lids flickered once and then were stilled, as if deliberately. Sarah knew he realized that this was her chance to be revenged for the appalling things he had said to her. Since Percival was unable to take out on her his anger at her cold rejection of his advances, he was looking for a scapegoat. If she gave him so much as a hint of an excuse, he would undoubtedly beat the convict mercilessly. And he would revel in doing so.
Technically, only government officials and their agents were allowed to order corporal punishment of convicts. In practice, however, the landowners and their employees treated the convicts as they saw fit. Floggings were commonplace, and deaths resulting from them were not extraordinary. In nearly every case, the government looked the other way. The convicts were common criminals, England’s scum deposited on Australia’s shores. Who would complain about a few less of them? Besides, if the convicts were not afraid of the men for whom they toiled, how would they ever be persuaded to work?
Although Edward kept Percival’s excesses under control on Lowella—only under the most extreme circumstances would Edward permit a convict to be whipped—Percival’s authority on the station was such that he could order a beating and Edward would never hear of it. Sarah suspected that he had done so more than once in the past, but the convicts and aborigines alike were deathly afraid of Percival, and would never tell on him out of fear for their own lives.
“Sarah?” Percival reminded her that she still hadn’t answered him.
Sarah held those deep blue eyes with her own for a moment longer. The convict’s haggard face could have been carved from stone now. Not even by so much as a flicker of an eyelid did he importune her silence. Sarah compressed her lips angrily at the cold insolence of his stare, she remembered what he had called her and the disgusting things he had said. He undoubtedly deserved to be punished most severely.
“Now who’s being absurd, Mr. Percival?” Sarah scoffed. “The man did nothing to me, of course.”
“What was all the shouting about then?” Percival was determined not to be deprived of his prey without an argument. “And don’t tell me that there was no shouting—I heard it distinctly.”
Sarah regarded him haughtily. “Though it’s really no concern of yours, I will tell you that he did not want his back treated and I was insistent. Now I see that he was in the right of it after all. And that’s all I mean to say about the matter.”
Percival glowered at her. It was plain that he wanted to answer her harshly—clearly, he felt that she had overstepped her place as a female—but the fact that she was his employer’s daughter stopped his tongue. That, and his own intentions toward her. Sarah could read his changing expressions as he decided not to attempt to exert his masculine authority over her now, before he had wooed or coerced her into becoming his wife.
“Very well, Miss Sarah.” He stepped once again into the overseer’s role, despite his anger, which he couldn’t quite hide. Sarah shivered. If she had ever had any doubts about her decision not to marry Percival, they had just been laid to rest. The glint in his eyes told her plainly how her defiance infuriated him; if she had been his wife and subject to him, she would have had good cause to fear the form his retaliation might take.
Sarah held his eyes for a moment longer, determined not to let him see that she was suddenly wary of him. Then she turned, bending, and began to gather up the scattered medical supplies. In the corner, the other convict huddled in a little ball. His very stillness betrayed that he was awake but wanted no part of what was going on. The ungrateful scoundrel whose life she had just saved for the second time that day lay motionless, his free arm curved under his head to act as a pillow, his eyes expressionless as he watched her. After that one quick glance, Sarah didn’t look at him again. As far as she was concerned, he would have to look out for himself in the future. He could expect no further assistance from her.
“Let me help.” Trying to recoup the ground he must have known he had lost, Percival stooped to scoop up the supplies nearest him and hand them to Sarah. He looked at the injured convict only once, but Sarah intercepted that look. The malevolence in the overseer’s eyes as they rested on the convict reinforced her opinion: she would not like to be in his power. She sighed inwardly. As her father’s daughter and a free woman, she was not and was never likely to be subject to Percival’s retaliation. But the convict was.
“I’ll escort you back to the inn.”
&
nbsp; Sarah had no fault to find with this; it had been a long and difficult day. The best place for her at the moment was in bed, where she could put from her mind the events of the day and the two very different men who had made it so trying. Clasping the medical kit under her arm, she preceded Percival from the stall, and even waited while he retrieved the lantern from the hook. Neither spoke as he accompanied her back to the inn. He made no effort to touch her, and left her with a muttered good-night when they were safely inside. For this Sarah was thankful. Despite her growing aversion to the man, she did not want to make an enemy of him. Lowella needed Percival. Edward could never run the station single-handed. And Europeans of untainted blood were few. Sarah handled the administrative duties, but she could not oversee the men in the fields. The convicts and the itinerant workers who composed most of Lowella’s labor force had one thing in common: they were men, and men did not take orders from a woman. Not without a peck of trouble. And Lowella didn’t need that.
* * *
For the first ten days after the disastrous visit to Melbourne, Sarah was so busy that she scarcely had time to eat. Her father, as always, spent most of his days at the breeding pens, where he was trying to improve his strain of prize merino sheep. This left Sarah to struggle on her own to balance the cash on hand with the far greater amount needed for bills and supplies. In addition, she had the house to run, the new convicts’ papers to sort and file, and nursing duties as well. Lydia, being Lydia, had managed to contract catarrh during her husband’s and daughters’ absence. Liza no sooner came into contact with her mother than she had it too. As the house staff consisted only of Mrs. Abbott, a former convict who had been trained as cook-housekeeper by Sarah’s mother, and two aborigine maids, Sarah had also to do considerable fetching and carrying for the pseudo-invalids. Lydia often bewailed the small number of servants, never more so than when she fancied herself ill, but Edward, with his fondness for a dollar, had instructed Sarah that no more were to be engaged. So Sarah turned a deaf ear to Lydia’s complaints, but still it grated on her nerves. When, finally, Lydia seemed ready to get better, Sarah decided to leave Liza in the care of the maids for a while and get out of the house. The strain of the past days was beginning to wear her down.
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