V
“Hold still, you scurvy bastard, or I’ll break your neck.” Gallagher’s Irish lilt was more pronounced than usual as he growled at the man who still struggled fiercely in his hold. When the man continued to fight, Gallagher’s arm tightened until his prisoner could no longer breathe. Terror rounded the smaller man’s eyes; his mouth opened and closed like that of a landed fish as he gasped for breath. Gallagher continued to deny him air until the man was almost limp. Then, slowly, he loosened his hold.
“Next time there won’t be a next time. Understand?” Gallagher was white about the mouth as he threatened the other man. At first Sarah thought it was from anger, and then she noticed the perspiration beading his forehead. The drops could be from the heat, but she thought that he must be suffering some pain. His back couldn’t have healed completely in less than two weeks; the exertion required to subdue her attacker must have cost him dearly. She was surprised that he bothered. The only possible explanation for his presence was that he’d followed her, as she had half-feared he might. To take his revenge . . . Probably he had been as caught by surprise by what had happened as she had been. He had undoubtedly come to her rescue before he’d had time to think the situation through. Because if he had thought about it, he would have seen that fate had handed him the perfect revenge, with no danger to himself. She would have beeen punished, and he couldn’t possibly have been held responsible.
“Did he hurt you?” Gallagher asked sharply.
Sarah shook her head, still feeling a trifle dazed. “No.”
Gallagher drew a deep breath. His attention shifted back to the man he held. “What do you want me to do with him? Miss Sarah.”
She had been staring blindly at the pair of them, but that mocking afterthought of “Miss Sarah” brought her back to awareness in a hurry. Regardless of how ridiculous she must look, glaring at her rescuer from a prickly, precarious seat in the middle of a gorse bush, she frowned at Gallagher. But what could she say? She had told him to call her that, after all. But it was the way he did it. He was deliberately being provoking, she knew, but the knowledge didn’t help: his insolence enraged her every time.
Gallagher smiled at her, clearly relishing her helpless anger. He looked unbelievably handsome, with the sun slanting down through the eucalyptus leaves to dapple his hair with blue highlights, and his white teeth gleaming in his dark face. Her involuntary reaction to his dazzling good looks only fueled her anger. And the realization that she was furious with her rescuer rather than with her attacker further outraged her.
“Miss Sarah?”
Sarah scrambled to her feet, impatiently thrusting behind her ears the thick mass of tawny hair that had tumbled from its pins during the struggle. She thought with some annoyance that she must be even more unsightly than usual. Her skin was smudged with dirt, her shirtwaist was torn so that the edge of her plain white cotton chemise was clearly visible, and her maddening hair spilled around her like an overgrown shock of wheat. Unreasonably, the knowledge of her lack of attraction in the face of Gallagher’s masculine beauty incensed her more than anything else. With one hand holding her torn shirtwaist in place, and feeling an utter fool, she glared from the man who was eying her fearfully, motionless now in Gallagher’s hold, to Gallagher himself. His mocking smile widened, mocking her even more. Battling the urge to throw something, preferably a large stone, straight at those gleaming teeth, she looked at the man who had attacked her.
“It’s very likely that he’s a runaway convict,” she said, ostensibly to Gallagher but without lifting her eyes to his face. “If so, then he’ll have to be turned over to the authorities in Melbourne. In any case, we’ll have to take him back to Lowella.” She frowned suddenly, remembering that Malahky had bolted in the scuffle. “But how?”
“I left a horse back there in the trees,” Gallagher said, nodding toward the river. “When I heard you scream, I thought I’d be more effective if I surprised the army that I envisioned had assaulted you.” His mocking smile deepened again, revealing a slashing dimple in his left cheek. Sarah tried not to notice it. “I was sure that nothing less than an army could have forced a scream from such a redoubtable lady. Miss Sarah.”
The look she sent him should have seared his eyeballs, but before she could think of a way to annihilate him verbally—without losing her dignity in the process—the man Gallagher still held by the neck suddenly went limp. Eyes closed, mouth open, his skin pasty white where it wasn’t stubbled with grizzled whiskers, he looked dead. Only the barely perceptible rise and fall of his scrawny chest indicated that he lived.
“He’s fainted.” Sarah looked at Gallagher accusingly, glad to have something concrete to berate him about. Gallagher shrugged, patently unconcerned. Sarah came a step nearer, her eyes shifting back to the man dangling from Gallagher’s arm. He seemed to be going a little blue around the mouth and nose.
“You’d better let him go,” she said, not wanting to be responsible if the man strangled.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” There was a finality about the words that told Sarah that Gallagher did not expect to have his judgment questioned. Sarah looked daggers at him. She was getting tired of all the men of her acquaintance automatically assuming an air of superiority. And this one was a convict, yet!
“I said let him go,” she repeated, challenging him with her eyes. “Put him down on the ground and let him get his breath back. For goodness’ sake, we can’t take him back to Lowella like this. If there’s only one horse, he’s going to have to walk. Unless you want to carry him.”
Gallagher regarded her steadily for a moment, then shrugged again. “Anything you say. Miss Sarah.”
Sarah ignored that, watching with a small measure of triumph as Gallagher let the man sink to the ground. He lay unmoving, looking so pathetic that Sarah moved closer to get a better look at him. Perhaps he really was ill. Though why she should be concerned, she didn’t know, she thought, reminding herself that only moments before he had dragged her off her horse and into the brush with intentions she didn’t want to contemplate. If Gallagher hadn’t come when he had . . .
“Get back!” The warning was Gallagher’s, but it came too late. The man thrust himself up from the ground, his legs bunched under him to give him greater momentum He shoved Sarah, who hovered near him, eyes widening with surprise, backward with all his might. She reeled, and would have fallen if Gallagher had not caught her, his arms sliding around her waist. The feel of his hands gripping her rib cage with such intimacy, even though she knew that his action was nothing more than an instinctive response to keep her from falling, caused her to leap away from him. Her sudden, violent recoil sent Gallagher staggering backward. He tripped over a fallen branch and fell heavily, cursing harshly as his back hit the ground. Sarah winced, hurrying to his side as the other man ran off through the trees as fast as his bandy legs would carry him.
“Dammit, woman, see what you’ve done.” Gallagher was glaring up at her. He had turned over and lay flat on his belly in the bracken, his eyes mere slits of pain as he regarded her with acute dislike. “If you’re expecting me to go running after him, you can think again. I may not be able to move for months.”
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said automatically, before she remembered whom she was addressing. Her brows slanted together to form an irritated V over her eyes as she matched glare for glare with the man who lay sprawled at her feet. “Don’t you dare swear at me!”
“Why, you ungrateful . . .” Gallagher bit off the next word, then appeared to remember her saying much the same thing to him not many days before. He smiled, reluctantly, wryly. Sarah, who was remembering too, had to smile back. The whole situation was ridiculous. And he looked so funny, lying there on his stomach with a frond of fern decorating his black hair, his big body framed by more feathery protrusions of greenery, a mingling of pain and amusement on his face. It was the first time she had seen him smile without nastiness or mockery; the effect was dazzling. “I beg your pardon. M
iss Sarah.”
The warmth of his smile did much to rob the deliberate needling of its bite. Sarah extended a hand to help him up. When he made no effort to respond, but merely lay there looking up at her through narrowed eyes, she frowned. Was he hurt more badly than she had imagined, or was he determined to keep their feud going despite its senselessness? Biting her lip, she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. She crouched beside him, her eyes meeting his with concern.
“Are you in pain?”
One corner of Gallagher’s mouth twisted up wryly. “No more than usual. I think I’ll just lie here for a while. I have a sinking suspicion that moving is going to hurt like the devil.” He paused, shifting a shoulder experimentally, then grimaced. “I suppose our friend is long gone?”
Sarah looked around the copse, devoutly hoping that the man was indeed gone. With Gallagher out of commission, she didn’t fancy her chances of dealing with him. But there was no sign of him. All about them the greenery continued undisturbed, and as if to settle the matter a pair of rosellas chose that moment to settle into a nearby tree fern. Besides the flutter of their wings, the only sound was the gurgle of the spring not far away.
“I think so.” She hadn’t intended to sound so hopeful. He smiled again, eying her. “Don’t worry. If he comes back, I think I can undertake to defend you.”
“Why should you?” Sarah didn’t mean to say it aloud, but the words escaped before she could stop them. His hand lifted automatically to the gash she had made in his cheek. She winced at the gesture.
“Why did I, do you mean?” He fingered the cut, which had formed a narrow crust. “I don’t know. I came after you meaning to pay you back for this with interest, and then head out for the bush country. I can only suppose my innate chivalry overcame my good sense.” This last sentence was laced with self-mockery. Then, softly, “Or maybe I just wanted to make us even.”
“Even?”
He inclined his head. “You saved me that day on the Septimus; now I’ve saved you. We’re quits.” There was a curious satisfaction in his words.
Sarah’s brows knitted as she looked at him. He had moved so that he was lying more on his side now than his belly, and she had a three-quarter view of his face. She hadn’t been mistaken about the satisfaction in his words, she saw; it was there in his face as well. But, try as she would, she could not understand why it should please him so enormously to know that he no longer had to feel himself under any obligation to her. To her knowledge, it had not affected his behavior in the least. No one could accuse him of having been so much as commonly civil to her.
“Well, whatever your reason, I thank you,” Sarah said formally. “I shudder to think what that man might have done to me if you hadn’t come when you did.”
He very slowly levered himself into a sitting position, wincing and flexing his shoulders as he moved. Sitting in the bracken with his knees bent and his bare forearms resting on his knees, his white shirt unbuttoned so that Sarah could not help but notice the soft whorls of black chest hair at the base of his throat, he exuded so much sheer masculinity that Sarah involuntarily drew back. She was still crouching beside him, but it suddenly occurred to her that now that he was sitting up, he was far too close. She stood up abruptly, making a little business of brushing off her skirt with one hand while the other self-consciously clasped together the ripped edges of her shirtwaist.
“Oh, I doubt that he would have done anything much to you,” Gallagher said, regarding her with a grin. Sarah was piqued to notice that her nearness seemed not to have bothered him at all, if he had even been aware of it. But of course, she was plain, while he was far, far too attractive. Gallagher continued, “He was most likely after your horse.”
Sarah could not stop herself from feeling, and looking, she had no doubt, affronted. “Well, thank you very much,” she said before she could stop the words. Gallagher looked up at her, frowning, then as the reason for her obvious indignation occurred to him he laughed.
“Wounded vanity, Miss Sarah?” he jeered softly, rising to his feet with a lithe movement that gave no quarter to the pain she guessed he must be suffering from his half-healed back. Standing up, he was alarmingly tall—a good head taller than she was, while most of the men of her acquaintance were at best just an inch or so above her height—and alarmingly close. She had to tilt her head back to see his expression, and she didn’t like the sensation at all. It occurred to her that here was one man whose strength she could come to fear. . . . “Would you prefer to think that he meant to have his dastardly way with your person before murdering you?”
Sarah flushed. It was all she could do not to let her eyes drop. Put that way, it sounded ridiculous, but yes, it did hurt a little to realize that Gallagher thought she was so unattractive that a man could have no other motive for attacking her than her horse.
“Don’t be absurd,” she said shortly, turning away. To her surprise, she felt his hand close over her arm. His callused palm seemed to burn her bare skin. Stiffening, she looked at him over her shoulder, her expression as off-putting as she could make it. With all that had happened, she had forgotten for a moment that he was a convict and she his mistress. So, apparently, had he. It would never do to allow him to think that this intimacy could continue. He must remember his place, and so, she told herself fiercely, must she.
“Take your hand off me, Gallagher.” Her eyes were steady as they met his. He frowned at her, his eyebrows meeting in a thick black line over his incredible blue eyes.
“And if I don’t?” he asked silkily.
Sarah half-turned to face him, her eyes widening. Now there was a question, she thought. What would she—could she—do if he elected not to obey her? She was hardly in any position to enforce her commands physically. A ghost of a smile flitted at the corners of her lips as her eyes moved swiftly, involuntarily over him. He was so big, so tall and broad-shouldered with steel-muscled limbs, that the very thought of overpowering him was ridiculous.
“I have no idea,” she admitted frankly, her smile still flickering. “But I should think of something, I assure you.”
He laughed, looking suddenly relaxed. “I’m sure you would,” he said with humor, and his hand released its grip on her arm to finger the gash in his cheek. “The prospect terrifies me.”
Her smile vanished. “I’m really very sorry about that,” she said, her eyes earnest. “I just lashed out without thinking. I’ve never done such a thing before.”
His hand fell from his cheek. “Don’t worry about it,” he said curtly. “It’s little more than a scratch. I’ve been hurt more, with less reason.”
“Yes,” she agreed, remembering his back.
He frowned suddenly, darkly. “Hadn’t we better be getting back?” His words were brusque. “I don’t know about you, but I have work to do. I doubt that your overseer will be pleased if he comes by the stable and finds I’ve disappeared. I don’t fancy being strung up and beaten again.”
His hand was on her arm again, quite unconsciously, she thought, while he urged her in the direction he wished her to go. Deciding that so small and obviously unthinking a familiarity was not worth angering him with another reprimand, she glanced up at him.
“Don’t worry, if any question arises I will tell him that you very likely saved my life,” she promised.
His mouth quirked derisively. “Thank you, but I prefer not to shelter behind your petticoats.” His response was short. It occurred to Sarah that she was again in danger of forgetting their relative stations in life. He was addressing and handling her as if they were equals—no, rather as if he, as a man, was for that reason entitled to direct her actions. He was clearly used to being very masterful with women. She sighed.
“Gallagher, I don’t mean to offend you,” she began carefully, meaning what she said. “But you are going to make life difficult for yourself if you don’t learn to behave properly.”
They had stopped walking; Max, her father’s big black stallion—typical of what she
had seen so far of Gallagher’s character that he should boldly choose the best horse in the stable—was just behind Sarah as she turned to look at Gallagher. The horse was placidly stripping what few leaves he could reach of the eucalyptus branch he was tied to. Gallagher’s hand left Sarah’s arm as she finished speaking, but not, she realized, because of anything she’d said. He was merely untying the horse.
“Are you listening?” she demanded, impatient. And there it was again: she was addressing him as he had addressed her, as an equal. A state of affairs that she would have to put a stop to, no matter how secretly pleasant she might find it. For his sake, if for no other reason. She shuddered to think of what her father’s or Percival’s reaction would be if either should witness such familiarity.
“You were telling me I don’t behave properly.” He led the horse forward as he spoke, then turned back to Sarah with the reins looped casually around one hand. Before she could do more than sputter a protest, he caught her around her narrow waist and lifted her into the saddle as he had once before. Sarah again had to clutch his forearms for balance; involuntarily her fingers spread, absorbing the hard, warm strength of him and the coarse abrasion of the hairs that roughened his skin. Her palms ached to explore further, to stroke the male flesh beneath them. As soon as he sat her in the saddle, she snatched her hands away as if his flesh had suddenly scorched her.
Dark Torment Page 6