“Will you dance, Miss Sarah?”
Percival was looking more attractive than usual in a brown cutaway coat and yellow breeches. A striped cravat was tied haphazardly around his neck, giving him an unaccustomed rakish air. His dark brown hair was already untidy, straggling over his forehead, although it still bore marks of the comb that had been dragged through it when it was wet. His sunburned skin was redder than usual, flushed with the exertion of having preceded Sarah’s father as Mrs. Eaton’s partner. He was smiling at her, his thick lips parted over teeth that overlapped in front. The smile was quite absent from his eyes.
“I’d rather not, thank you, Mr. Percival.” The reply and the glance that accompanied it were cool. His faux smile faded, to be replaced by a darkening frown.
“By God, girl, if you don’t stop trifling with me . . .” The harsh words, muttered under his breath, broke off at her outraged stiffening; but his eyes stayed angry as they met her icy gaze.
“What will you do, Mr. Percival?” she inquired sweetly, raising her punch cup to her lips and taking a sip as she eyed him with inquiringly lifted brows.
His lips thinned, and he openly glared at her. “I’ll school you proper when I get you to wife,” he growled. Then, as though aware that he had said too much, he shut his mouth with a sharp click of teeth and turned on his heel, stomping away from her.
Sarah took another sip of punch, hoping that the innocuous orange brew would steady her, hoping that no one standing nearby had overheard the exchange. She glanced surreptitiously about. Mr. and Mrs. Brady were talking animatedly to Lawrence Newcomb, the banker, and young Jared Bledsoe was whispering something to Amy Carruthers, who for once was not being quietly retiring and was actually giggling. They were far too engrossed in their own activities to have spent any time eavesdropping on her. For which Sarah was thankful.
The exchange with Percival had worsened the headache that had plagued her all evening. She took another sip of her punch, then set the glass on a nearby small table, her movements deliberate so that she would not reveal her upset by spilling any. Percival was growing more and more open about his intent—and resorting to more forceful means of expressing it. Thoughts of what he might try in the future alarmed her. There was one very good way by which a man could almost make certain that the woman he wanted would become his wife. She would not put it past Percival to resort to rape—but she meant to make mighty certain that he didn’t get the opportunity.
No one noticed Sarah as she slipped away to the kitchen, as she had been doing all evening. Mrs. Abbott had had the monumental task of making sure that the trays of refreshments on the long table at the end of the room were kept filled. At the moment, she was slicing the meat off a leg of mutton. She looked over her shoulder as Sarah entered the kitchen.
“Tired of dancing, lamb?”
When they were alone, Mrs. Abbott sometimes resorted to a cozy familiarity that Sarah knew stemmed both from long years of knowledge and true affection. Sarah smiled at her.
“Just tired.” She crossed to watch the older woman as she deftly sliced the meat onto a large platter already filled to overflowing. “You’d think we were feeding an army.”
“Dancin’s hungry work.” Mrs. Abbott’s cheeks were flushed from the heat of the kitchen, and perspiration beaded her brow beneath her frazzled, salt-and-pepper topknot. The only concession she made to the heat was that the sleeves of her dress, another high-necked, long-sleeved black bombazine, were rolled up to her elbows. “You there, Mary!” she said sharply over her shoulder. The maid came out of the pantry, an open jar of candied fruit in one hand. “Take this platter on into the parlor. Be careful with it, mind.”
With a quick bob, Mary set the jar on the table and obeyed.
“You ought to take something in yourself and watch the dancing for a while. You need a break,” Sarah said gently.
Mrs. Abbott snorted. “They’d likely spit on the likes of me.”
“Not in this house they wouldn’t.”
“No, ’cause you wouldn’t let them. You’re a real lady, Miss Sarah, and I’m not the only one around here that thinks so! You treat people like people, with no never mind about whether they be convicts or not. Them other two . . . ! They’re no ladies.”
“Mrs. Abbott . . .”
“I know, I know. I shouldn’t be talkin’ about them that are my betters. But that’s what I think. Can’t ’ang a body for thinkin’, can they?”
Sarah had to smile at the truculence of the look that accompanied this last. “No, they can’t,” she agreed. Scooping a section of candied orange from the jar Mary had left on the table, Sarah popped it into her mouth.
“I’m going out in the back garden for a breath of fresh air. If anyone comes looking for me, don’t tell them.”
Mrs. Abbott said, “Not me, Miss Sarah,” and shook her head vigorously. Sarah had a feeling that the housekeeper knew all about Percival’s attempts to coerce her into marriage; she was very cool toward Lowella’s overseer whenever she saw him, which, thankfully for the station’s harmony, wasn’t too often.
Sarah smiled her thanks and let herself out the back door. With darkness shrouding the shriveled brown grass and the nearly leafless trees, the garden was much more pleasing than during the daytime. Tonight a huge full moon, round and misty white, hovered low over the horizon. It cast a silvery light over everything. A breeze, cool compared to the searing winds that had whipped down from the mountains earlier, set the grasses and leaves to rustling. The scrape of the fiddles, playing at a slower tempo now, wafted clearly to her through the open windows. In the distance a dingo howled. It was a mournful sound, but, because Sarah had been familiar with it from babyhood, it was oddly comforting. The heady fragrance of the wattles mingled with the spicier scents of oranges and lemons as she wandered toward the orchard. Reaching it, she paused to lean against a fig tree, not thinking of anything in particular as she let the peace of the night envelop her. Her headache was almost gone. . . .
“For a minute there I thought you were a ghost. I nearly ran.”
Sarah would have recognized that teasing lilt anywhere. She turned her head to find Gallagher standing behind her, a few feet away. The foliage of a banana tree blocked out the moon rays where he stood, so that he appeared to be no more than a tall, dark shadow. Sarah had thought that she would feel more embarrassed than ever the next time she saw him, remembering that morning when he had seen her in nothing but her chemise. But the peace of the night seemed to have infected her. Besides, what harm could come from talking—just talking—to him? She smiled faintly.
“I would like to have seen that.”
He moved a couple of steps nearer, drawn perhaps by the unexpected friendliness of her tone. The moonlight poured over him now, highlighting the sculpted bones of his face, the proud curves of cheekbones and chin and forehead, the faintly aquiline nose. It formed a soft, silvery nimbus around his hair, which was darker than the night; the light touched his mouth, the feel of which her lips remembered so well, like a lover’s caress.
“Is your sister enjoying her party?”
“I think so. She seems to be. So does everyone.” She was talking to him like an equal again, as she seemed to most of the time. But what harm could come from it? Just for tonight . . .
“Except you?”
“What do you mean?” She frowned, trying to read his expression in the shifting pattern of light and shadows.
“You’re out here.”
“Oh.” She smiled and shrugged. “My head ached. And I didn’t feel like dancing. Probably because I’m not very good at it.”
“You should learn. With your natural grace, you would enjoy it.”
She stared at him. He was smiling, just barely, that handsome mouth twisted up slightly at one corner so that it looked almost lopsided.
“Why, thank you.” She nearly stuttered, so flustered was she by the compliment. She rarely got compliments; in fact, she couldn’t remember the last one. And from Gallagh
er . . . Did he really think she was graceful? To cover her confusion, she continued lightly, “Maybe I will learn one day. If I can find someone to teach me.”
“I will.”
“What?” She thought she must have misunderstood him.
“I said, I will teach you. To dance. Miss Sarah.” He sounded as if he were laughing at her, but he looked perfectly solemn, except for dancing devils in his eyes.
Sarah looked at him warily. “You told Liza you couldn’t dance.” It was foolish, but it was the first thing that came into her head. She should be upbraiding him for his impertinence.
“I lied.” He moved forward until he stood directly in front of her, towering over her so that she had to tilt her head back to see his face. He was so big—she liked the sensation of being small and fragile she had when she was near him. It made her feel, for once, very feminine. “I’d like to teach you to dance. Will you let me?” He held out his hand as he spoke, clearly waiting for her to put her own into it.
Sarah stared at that brown, long-fingered hand. He was a convict. She would be utterly disgraced if anyone ever learned of it. The explosive reaction his slightest touch seemed able to engender in her made it dangerous . . . too dangerous.
She put her hand in his.
IX
“That didn’t hurt, now, did it?” He was smiling. His teeth gleamed white against the darkness of his face.
Quivering with renewed misgivings, Sarah stared up into that face. She should pull away from him now. . . . Her hand trembled in his like a trapped bird. His much larger one enwrapped hers comfortingly, refusing to let it go. In the distance, the fiddlers struck up again. Sarah recognized the tune. It was a new one, from England. A waltz.
“I really don’t know how to dance to this.” She pulled away her hand, both relieved and disappointed to have the decision taken from her.
“I do. Put your other hand on my shoulder. It’s too late to back out now.”
“Gallagher . . .”
He reached out and caught her hand, placing it firmly on his shoulder. One arm slid around her waist. He pulled her close to him, not right up against his body but near enough that her skirt brushed his legs.
“Gallagher . . .”
“Relax. You’re as stiff as a board. Let me lead you.” He began to move in time to the music, dragging Sarah after him. Being held so close to him, with his arm hard and warm around her waist, sent her senses spinning with mingled pleasure and alarm. This was all wrong, she knew, and she also knew that she would bitterly regret it in the morning. But just for tonight . . .
“That’s better. You’re doing fine. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three-four . . .” He counted off the rhythm, molding her body into a pattern of intoxicating dips and sways and turns.
When Sarah became more comfortable with the steps, he increased the tempo until he had her twirling breathlessly, laughing. She felt so strange, unlike herself. It was as if the beauty of the night and the feel of him holding her, his hard legs brushing hers with every step, had cast a spell over her. Looking up at him, watching that chiseled mouth quirk with honest amusement, seeing the blue eyes twinkling down at her out of that darkly handsome face, feeling the height and breadth of him against her, the strength of his muscles beneath her hand and against her legs, she was in danger of forgetting who she was. Who he was. The silvery spill of moonlight washing over them as they danced among the trees, the warm, perfumed air, the haunting lilt of the music drifting from the house, each carried its own brand of magic. As did he. He was enchanting her, he and the night and the music together, conspiring. Sarah felt it happening but could do nothing about it. She was already bewitched.
The fiddles reached a climax, and Gallagher spun her around, then dipped her over his arm so that her head fell back toward the ground. She clutched frantically at his shoulder for balance, laughing up at him, feeling her hair slipping from its pins to hang thick and heavy behind her, but not caring. At that moment, in his arms, she felt herself everything she had always wanted to be: beautiful, feminine, the kind of woman whom a man like Gallagher could look at and desire. . . .
“Where did you learn to dance like that?” she asked as the music ceased and he pulled her upright but did not release her. Sarah was supremely conscious of the warmth of his hand clasping hers, of the strength of the arm around her waist as he grinned a little mockingly at the honest admiration in her question.
“When I was a boy, I lived in a castle. A very big castle with battlements and turrets, made of stone as black as the devil’s heart. There, among many other useless accomplishments, I was taught to dance. Much good that it ever did me.”
“You’re making that up!” Sarah accused, laughing again. Then, when he said nothing, just looked down at her with a whimsical expression, she added with a touch of uncertainty, “Aren’t you?”
He shook his head, then grinned tantalizingly. “What do you think?”
Sarah considered the matter for an instant. “I think you are,” she decided.
“Then I must be.” He was looking down at her, his mouth twisted up in a half-smile. The expression in his eyes was unreadable.
“Your hair fell down.”
Self-consciously Sarah lifted the hand that had rested almost forgotten on his shoulder and tried to tame the wayward mass. But she needed both hands for that, and he would not release the other one.
“Leave it. It becomes you.”
She looked up at him uncertainly. Was he teasing her? He seemed perfectly serious. With the moonlight illuminating his face she could see that he was no longer smiling. His eyes had changed from bright blue to a darker, smoky sapphire. . . . Something about the way he was looking at her made her suddenly, achingly aware of how close he was, of the way he was holding her.
“The music has stopped. You can let me go now.” She tried to pull away, suddenly very self-conscious. She was enjoying his touch too much. It was time she remembered who, and what, they both were.
“I don’t want to.” His voice was husky. Sarah looked up at him, her eyes widening, her breath catching in her throat. His hand released hers to capture her chin.
“Gallagher . . .” His name was both a plea and a warning.
“Miss Sarah.” He was mocking her, but the mockery sounded oddly gentle. “I think I’m going to have to kiss you again. Miss Sarah.”
“Gallagher!” Before Sarah could do more than gasp out his name in strangled protest, he was bending his head. Sarah could only watch, mesmerized, as that handsome mouth descended so very slowly toward hers. He was not holding her so tightly that she could not have evaded his kiss if she had wanted to. But she didn’t want to. She was horrified to discover that, more than she had ever wanted anything in her life, she wanted him to kiss her.
When his mouth touched hers in a gentle, butterfly kiss, the shock of it made her shudder. She closed her eyes helplessly, pressing close to him, her lips fluttering apart as she sighed her surrender. She did not make even a token protest. This was what she had wanted since that other time when he had kissed her. But she had not realized the depth of her own need—until now. Her mouth opened to him, her lips trembling beneath the heated encroachment of his. His tongue was hot and spicy-tasting as it explored the wet sweet cave of her mouth, licking over her lips and the smooth surface of her teeth before venturing further to stroke the ridges at the top of her mouth, the soft skin of the insides of her cheeks, and then, finally, her tongue. She trembled against him. Shyly at first, and then with increasing boldness, her tongue moved to meet his, to learn the inside of his mouth as he was renewing his discovery of her own. She loved the taste of him, the passion. Her arms crept around his neck, her fingers tangling in his thick black hair. It curled around them seductively, as cool as the moonlight and as soft as raw silk. The back of his neck felt hard and warm in contrast.
To her surprise, as he felt her surrender he seemed to shudder, too. His arms went hard around her waist, pulling her even tighter against him.
Sarah felt the heat and strength of him with every centimeter of her skin. Her fingers clenched on his hair.
“Gallagher,” she sighed against his mouth. He broke off the kiss, lifting his head a little away from her. Sarah moaned a protest, clutching at the back of his neck, her eyes opening to look at him in dazed reproach. His eyes seemed lit by tiny, raw flames. His answering whisper was hoarse.
“Dominic. My name is Dominic. Say it.”
“Dominic,” she responded obediently. She would say anything, do anything, if only he would kiss her again.
“Sarah.” Her name was a mutter of satisfaction as his mouth came down on hers again, not gently this time, but demanding and receiving her response. Sarah clung to him with all her strength, on fire for him, letting his lips and tongue teach hers all she didn’t know about kissing. She felt as if she were melting in his arms.
One arm left her waist to slide between them. His hand crept up the silk covering her rib cage to close over the slight curve of her breast. At the feel of his hand warm and intimate against her, Sarah went rigid with shock and an excitement that she immediately strove not to recognize. Her eyes flew open; her hands slid from around his neck to shove frantically at his wide shoulders. He was going too far. He had to stop. Her insistent pushes brought results at last: his eyes opened, to gaze down into hers with smoldering intensity. His mouth continued to hold hers captive; his hand stayed cupped around her breast, which to her horror seemed to swell against his palm. She shoved at him again, harder this time. Her urgency finally communicated itself to him. He lifted his head—but not his hand.
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