Dark Torment

by Karen Robards

  He didn’t move for a long moment after she had spoken; then, at last, he lifted his head. Sarah wanted to close her eyes in shame as his raked her face. But proudly she met his gaze with a bitter stare. He frowned, looking down at her. His arms shifted, and one hand came up to smooth the tangled strands of her hair away from her face. She jerked away from his touch.

  “Take your hands off me!”

  His frown deepened. His blue eyes darkened and turned cloudy. Despite her words, his hand returned to her face to be joined by its fellow as he cupped her cheeks, his expression grave as he stared down at her face, studying it.

  “Sarah . . .”

  “Don’t call me that! I’m Miss Sarah to you! Oh, will you let me up?” She was suddenly, ragingly angry at him. Sarah welcomed the feeling as an antidote to the utter shame that threatened to overwhelm her. What had she done? How could she have allowed him to . . . to . . . ? The strength returned to her arms. She shoved furiously at the wide shoulders that loomed over her, blocking out the moon.

  “Certainly. Miss Sarah.”

  He rolled away from her, coming easily to his feet, standing with his legs apart and his hands balled into fists on his hips as he towered above her. He was naked, the moonlight silvering the hard planes and muscles of his body, hiding nothing. Before, Sarah had been too caught up in her dream world to notice how he looked naked. Now, she could not look away. Her stomach heaved as she absorbed the broad shoulders and powerful chest, the narrow waist and hips, the abdomen that she knew was as hard and unyielding as a board, the long, well-muscled legs—and that thing that hung between them. It still looked huge, even semilimp. . . . Sarah shuddered. Everything about him repulsed her now, from the thick black whorls of hair that formed a wedge on his chest and tapered down to trail across his belly before widening again to form a bushy nest around that obscene proof of his maleness, to the muscles bulging in his arms as they angled away from his body, even to the too-beautiful face. Like the rest of him, it was too uncompromisingly male. It made her sick to her stomach. . . .

  With a start, she realized that his eyes were moving over her body just as hers had moved over his. She looked hastily down at herself, feeling fiery color creep up her neck as she realized how very wanton she must look, long, slim, pale legs, still clad in her white stockings and garters, sprawled apart, tawny strands of hair cascading down over her shoulders past her waist to tangle with the only slightly darker triangle of curls between her thighs, her belly and the small, tip-tilted mounds of her breasts glistening with his sweat. She scrambled into a crouching position, swinging her hair forward, intent on hiding as much as she could from him as she groped for the clothes that he had flung aside as he had pulled them from her body. Her chemise was crumpled and stained with earth, but she pulled it thankfully over her head as soon as it came to hand. Then she reached for her petticoat, only to find his hand there before hers, snatching it out of her reach.

  “Look at me.” His voice was ominous.

  Sarah, still crouching, feeling almost as indecent in her near-transparent chemise as she had moments earlier when she had been naked, needed no encouragement to glare at him. His unabashed nakedness as he stood there glowering down at her, her white petticoat dangling from his hand, made her cringe.

  “For God’s sake, put on your clothes,” she muttered, averting her eyes.

  He swore, the oath succinct and so profane that it fairly blistered Sarah’s ears. Then her petticoat came fluttering into her line of vision as he flung it to the ground. Before she could register his intention, he was crouching before her, his hand rough as it caught her chin and jerked her face around so that her eyes met his.

  “I’ll be damned before I’ll apologize.” He sounded as angry as she felt.

  She matched him glare for glare, refusing to shrink away as her every instinct urged her to. He had stripped her of every vestige of virtue she had felt she possessed; she would not let him steal what few tatters remained of her pride.

  “Have I asked you to? Take your hand off me!”

  His eyes narrowed. “It’s a little late for that now, isn’t it?” The words were a cruel taunt. Inwardly Sarah flinched; outwardly her eyes flashed at him, golden with scorn.

  “I said take your hand off me!” The words were hissed from between her teeth, deadly with the cold superiority of a mistress to her servant. As it registered, his eyes narrowed until they were mere slits, and his mouth compressed into a savage line.

  “Don’t take that tone with me, you haughty little bitch! You wanted my hand on you badly enough earlier, remember? You wanted everything I did to you! You were hot for it, you liked it—so what the hell’s the matter with you now?”

  He was speaking through his teeth just as she was, rage darkening his face so that he really did resemble the devil. Her fingers itched to slap him with every bit of strength she possessed; but instinctively she knew that if she did, it would snap the tight rein that kept his temper under control. He was far bigger than she, far stronger. . . . Clutching at the shreds of her dignity, Sarah met the fire in his eyes with ice in her own.

  “I made a mistake.”

  Rage flared brighter in his eyes. The hand holding her chin tightened painfully. Sarah tried to pull away, but he held her fast.

  “You sure as hell did, lady. Now that I’ve scratched your itch for you, you’ve remembered that I’m a convict. That’s what this little farce is all about, isn’t it?”

  She winced, both from his deliberate crudeness and the accuracy of his guess, and refused to answer; her eyes wavered and fell before the savage light in his.

  He swore again, his expression ugly, and practically threw her chin away from him. Standing, he snatched up her clothes and flung them at her.

  “Get dressed and get out of my sight,” he growled.

  Sarah thought about snapping that she didn’t take orders from him, but his words coincided so exactly with her own desires that she quickly scrambled into her clothes. Her fingers were clumsy as she knotted the ties to her petticoat; they fumbled as she tried to do up the buttons of her dress, only to find when she was done that she had missed one and had to go back and do it over again. Hopping from one foot to the other as she slid her slippers on her feet, she started to move away almost before the second sole hit the ground. Gallagher’s hand on her arm stopped her. She whirled to face him, her hand flying up to knock his away. He had made no move to don his own clothes, she saw. His unabashed nakedness made bile rise in her throat.

  “Your hair.” The words were thick with dislike.

  “Don’t you dare put your hand on me again, you . . . !” she raged, too angry to listen to his words, or to come up with an epithet to adequately describe how she loathed him. He grabbed her arm again, his grip cruel. She tried futilely to pull away from him, wincing at the force with which his fingers dug into her soft flesh.

  “Put up your damned hair: you look like you’ve been rolling around on the ground with a man—which, of course, you have.”

  “What do you care?”

  “I think we’d both agree that what happened out here tonight is best kept between ourselves. Sweet Jesus, do you want everyone in there to know you lost your virtue—to a convict?” He bit the last words out at her.

  “I’ll go up the back stairs: no one will see me.” Sarah ignored the savage taunt, wild to get away from him before her rage reverted again to shame and she disgraced herself by breaking down completely. She could feel hysterical tears dangerously near the surface.

  “I’m not willing to take that chance,” he said. Hauling her to him by his hand on her arm, he raked his fingers through the tangled thickness of her hair, not caring that he was hurting her, oblivious to the tears that stood in her eyes as he searched for the hairpins that still clung to the heavy strands. When he had several between his teeth, he turned her so that her back was to him. He had to let go of her arm to gather up her hair. It was a task that needed both hands. Sarah immediately lunged forward
, desperate to escape. He caught her by her hair, jerking brutally to bring her back to where he wanted her.

  “Stand still,” he growled at her. Then, as she made one final, abortive movement, he jerked at her hair again. “Stand still, damn you, or . . .”

  He never said what he would do, but Sarah found that she didn’t want to know. Fury emanated from him in waves, reminding her suddenly that, despite what had transpired between them tonight, she didn’t know him at all. Except for the fact that he was a convict. She could well believe him guilty of the most vicious of crimes, she thought, shuddering. Deadly menace was in his hands and his voice as he twisted her hair into its customary knot at her nape. The one glimpse she had had of his eyes frightened her. He looked on the verge of violence.

  “Now get out of my sight,” he muttered when he was done.

  Sarah wasted no time in obeying him. She flew through the trees toward the house as fast as her feet would carry her, running as though the devil himself were at her heels. All around her moonlight shimmered, and the hot wind caressed her skin as his hands had earlier. Sarah shuddered at the comparison, forcing herself to slow her headlong pace as she neared the house. Every window was lit, reminding her of the party still in progress. Voices floated to her ears, and laughter, and the clink of glasses. Music swirled out to surround her. The haunting strains made her catch her breath. With a choked little laugh, she recognized the lilting melody that, just an hour before, had so betrayed her.

  XI

  Dominic watched her go, watched the tall slim shape of her skimming over the rough ground like a ghost as her white dress billowed behind her and shimmered in the moonlight. He cursed again, viciously. What the sweet bloody hell had happened? He’d taken the little bitch with more tenderness and care than he had ever before lavished on a woman, given her a woman’s supreme pleasure—he knew damned well he had!—and as soon as the throes of rapture had passed she had been sick to death with shame because she considered him so far beneath her. She owned him, he reminded himself with savage mockery. And tonight she had gotten her money’s worth with a vengeance. His performance had been pretty damned good for a paid stud, if he did say so himself. He had given her ecstasy, only to have her treat him afterward like a leper. She had used him. The thought made him grind his teeth. Usually it was he who used women—he had never expected the tables to be turned as they were now. Maybe it was rough justice, but he didn’t like it one damned bit.

  Tonight, when he had first seen Sarah standing in the moonlight, it had entered his mind that this might be the best chance he would ever get to make love to her. He’d known that persuading her into it would not be all that difficult, despite the maddening air of prim propriety that she wore like a cloak. Enough women had been attracted to him over the years for him to recognize the signs. She wanted him, no matter how hard she tried to disguise the fact. Tonight he had simply decided that, if he could, he would give her what she wanted.

  Three days ago, when he had first kissed her, he had been astounded at the shaft of desire that had hardened all his muscles, but he had decided that it was an aberration. He couldn’t possibly be taken with a female shaped more like a boy than a woman, with an adder’s tongue to boot and a damned uppity way about her that made him long to strangle her at least half the time. No woman had ever given him orders before, or spoken to him like a servant and eyed him with condescension mixed with, yes, dammit, with pity. It enraged him. He had not yet gotten used to having come so far down in the world. Tonight he had meant to turn the tables on her, to make himself her master, to reduce her to a clinging supplicant in his arms. He had thought he could take her body and walk away triumphant, knowing that she had been humbled as she had been part of his humiliation. But, from the beginning, everything had gone wrong.

  To start with, she was no prim old maid. When they had danced and she had laughed and her hair had tumbled down, she had charmed him utterly. When he had kissed her, the strength of his own wanting had caught him by surprise. And then, when he’d done more, he had discovered to his bedazzled enjoyment that beneath that proper manner, those unattractive clothes and that awful bun, was a woman as wild as any he’d bedded. She had been on fire for him, quivering in his arms, begging him to take her with her mouth and body and hands . . . until he had obliged. He had hesitated even then, feeling some faint inkling through the throbbing lust that drove him that something was not right, he was being drawn in too deep, deeper than he had ever been before. When he had felt her maidenhead, he had almost pulled back. Now he wished to God he had.

  He had found her lovely. Dominic laughed harshly. Was it possible that, all unknowing, he preferred boys? he asked himself sardonically. Every woman he had had before had been lushly endowed, flauntingly female with full white breasts and an ample behind. Yet, none of their bodies had fired his senses as Sarah’s had tonight. Her slim body, gleaming pale in the moonlight, had been so sleek and supple under his hands; her small breasts with their dusky rose nipples so enticingly virginal; her hips so slight, her bottom so firm and round, as taut and smooth as any boy’s. Her long, slender, curving legs and tiny waist were the only truly feminine things about her. Except, of course, for the satin of her skin; the softness of her mouth; her huge golden eyes; the silken masses of sun-shot hair . . . and her passion. That was all woman, and it had shaken him to the core.

  His possession of her body had, at the end, been frenzied. He had meant to spin it out, to bring her to that ecstasy again and again and again before succumbing to his own pleasure. But, to his amazement, he hadn’t been able to wait. He had been so damned hot for her. . . . Unwillingly he remembered how she had felt beneath him, how soft yet resilient her body was, how sweet her breasts had tasted, how hot and wet that woman part of her had been for him, and felt himself hardening again. He muttered a single, succinct profanity, then forced the memory from his mind. But her face as it had looked afterward, pale and sick with shame, would not be banished. Those huge golden eyes filled with loathing as they stared at him would, he feared, haunt him to his grave.

  Of course, she was ashamed. Leaving aside the fact that he was a convict, she had just given up her virginity outside the bonds of matrimony. Reluctantly he acknowledged that, for a lady such as Sarah, that was bound to be traumatic. But he knew too that a good part of her distress was due to the fact that she considered him so far beneath her. That thought still enraged him. But now, as the first hot blast of his temper cooled, he realized that that was a fact of his life that he would have to accept—at least for the present. He didn’t like Sarah’s reaction, but losing his temper and frightening her had not helped the situation. He should have expected and tried to reason away her distress, soothing her shame and revulsion with soft words and softer kisses. He would have done that as a common courtesy with any virgin he took; in such cases, a certain amount of agitation was expected. But with Sarah . . . Dammit, why was his reaction to her so different from his reaction to any other woman? What was it about her?

  The cream of the jest was that, by taking her, he had meant to turn the tables, to own her where she had previously owned him. What he had not counted on was that, by the very act of possessing her, she had in some unfathomable way managed equally to possess him.

  When he had first been arrested and tossed into jail, he had not been able to believe that they could make the charge stick. When they had, first to his fury and then to his fright, he had vowed that he would be a prisoner only for as long as it would take him to escape. Learning that he had been sentenced to transportation to Australia, of all ungodly places, to serve fifteen years—fifteen years!—at hard labor for a crime he had not committed, he had been stunned. But then it had occurred to him that it would be even easier to escape from a prison without walls. He would be back, he vowed, to confront those who had declared themselves his enemy. And soon. But that was before he had endured those eight hellish months on the prison ship, before he had been chained and starved and beaten. . . .


  When the ship had docked in Melbourne and the convicts had been herded up on deck to be washed down with buckets of sea water thrown over their heads so that their filth would not disgust their new owners, he had been able to stand it no longer. After all those weeks cooped up in a dark hold filled with men more sick than well and their sweat, their vomit, their excrement; the brilliant sunlight glinting off the sea; the warm, fresh air, after months of being damp and cold; even the birds wheeling overhead, beautiful birds, red-winged parrots, lorikeets in a rainbow of colors, yellow-crested cockatoos—how he had envied them!—had driven him temporarily out of his head. He had throttled the guard nearest him, not caring if he killed the man, and run for the side, meaning to dive over, into the sea. They had caught him, of course; but, since a landowner had paid good money for him and they didn’t want to damage the merchandise, he had thought that despite everything he would be let off with just a few kicks and blows. But then Edward Markham had refused to take him. . . . Deprived of his double profit, Captain Farley had turned nasty. There was not the slightest doubt in his mind that the captain would at that point have honored the terms of his original agreement with those in England who wished Dominic Gallagher ill. He had not been meant to survive the voyage, Dominic knew. He shuddered, remembering how they had stripped off his shirt and bound him to the mast, recalling in excruciating detail the soul-destroying agony of the blows. . . .

  Sarah had saved his life. He had been only half-conscious, but he had heard that soft voice, unmistakably female, as she came to his rescue, placing herself between him and the whip with a courage that had fascinated him at the time—most females would have screamed, or swooned, and turned away from the horror instead of defying an entire crew of hardened sea-dogs for the sake of a wretched stranger. When they had, at her insistence, cut him free, he had wanted to go down on his knees to her to thank her for saving his life, which he had been surprised to discover that, despite everything, he still valued. And he had hated her for making him feel that way. Nearly all his growing-up years he had been beholden to someone who begrudged even the food he ate. When he had reached sixteen, he had vowed that he would never again allow anyone to put him in a position where he was in their debt. Sarah had; and it galled him every time he thought about it.