Despite the fact that he owed Sarah his life, even as he was being half-carried, half-dragged from the Septimus he was already promising himself that he would escape as soon as he could. He would not spend the next fifteen years of his life as a slave! The idea unnerved him far more than the little speech that Sarah’s damned overseer had made to him and the other newly arrived convicts about the consequences of trying to run. Regardless of how many men or dogs they put on his trail, run he would—but first he had to wait until his back healed and he had regained his strength enough that he could survive off the land in a country he did not know. And if he gave the appearance of docility for the first month or two, he calculated, they would be less likely to suspect when he did run, and that lack of suspicion might buy him time.
But then there was Sarah. She had attracted him from the beginning, first by the spirit he could only admire, by the very self-possession that had maddened him at the same time as it attracted him. Then, when he had seen past the dowdy clothes and hairstyle and old-maid manner, by the elusive beauty that was absent far more often than it was present. From the beginning, he had been conscious of a desire to strip away the layers of propriety in which she buried herself to see if the woman beneath could possibly be as fascinating as he half-hoped, half-feared she would be.
He might as well face facts, Dominic told himself grimly. For some days now he had felt well enough to run. They were no longer watching him so closely, and living off the land was not going to get any easier for being put off. But, despite his growing hunger for freedom, he had stayed at Lowella, doing Sarah’s bidding although her bossy ways annoyed him, simply because he was not yet ready to see the last of her. Tonight, even, he had been thinking about leaving, just walking away. There was nothing to stop him, and with so many guests he doubted that he would even be missed before late tomorrow. But then he had seen Sarah standing under the trees. . . .
He could go now, he thought, reluctant to recognize the opportunity. Then he thought of Sarah, naked, passionate, clinging, of the priceless gift she had offered him and that he had taken, and of her anger—and her shame. And he knew that he would not go yet.
* * *
Sarah awoke slowly the next morning in her attic bedroom. Something lingered at the edge of her mind, something that she knew she would have to face with the coming of the day. Something so unpleasant that she was doing her very best to block it from her consciousness. Then, there it was. Last night she had allowed Gallagher to make love to her. Remembering, Sarah felt her stomach heave. For a moment she was afraid that she might actually vomit. Then, slowly, her stomach settled—but her mind did not. It tormented her with graphic images of her degradation.
He was a convict. That fact stood out above all the others. Far, far better that she had given herself to Percival, or to young Michael Argers all those years ago, or to anyone—but a convict. She shuddered at the thought. She had shamed herself beyond redemption. How could she have done such a thing? To have let him take her virginity—she must have been mad. She thought of herself naked in his arms, allowing him—no, begging him—to do things to her body that made her go crimson with mortification even now, remembering. Just for tonight, she had thought. Well, morning had dawned with a vengeance. And brought with it a terrible price.
Would he tell anyone? Sarah was ashamed that this was one of her main concerns, but she couldn’t help it. She would want to die if anyone knew. She thought of Lydia’s malicious enjoyment, Liza’s shock, her father’s horror, Percival’s rage—at least, she thought with a hysterical laugh, it was unlikely that he would still want to marry her, if he knew—the disgust of her friends and neighbors; she knew she wouldn’t be able to bear it. Her father would be within his rights to cast her out, though she didn’t think he would. But she would go, nonetheless. She wouldn’t be able to endure the humiliation.
But then Sarah realized that it would be as much as his life was worth to betray her. She would face public scorn if what had happened between them should ever become common knowledge; he would face far worse. She had not a doubt that her father would have him killed if he knew the truth. And Gallagher—she seemed to hear her own voice calling him Dominic and felt the bile rise again in her throat—must know it, too.
That worry reduced to nothing more than a niggle, she was left with another, major one: How could she ever face Gallagher again? Sarah thought of what he had done to her, what she had allowed him to do, wanted him to do, and reveled in the doing—and had her answer: she couldn’t.
But she would have to. There was no way around that. At least not for a while. Later, if the situation became as intolerable as she feared it might, she likely could talk her father into trading Gallagher to some other grazier. Unless Gallagher objected—all he would have to do was to threaten to talk, and her hand would be stayed. Which he would be a fool to do—but once he was out from under her father’s authority, what would prevent him from saying anything he pleased? He could blacken her name for the sheer vindictiveness of it, and get off scot-free.
Sarah reluctantly concluded that Gallagher would have to remain on Lowella. Only then could she be certain that he would keep their guilty secret to himself. Which left her with the prospect of living in close proximity to him for the next fifteen years, seeing his intimate knowledge of her in his eyes every time he looked at her, having to stomach his insolence, or whatever else he might care to inflict on her, for fear that he would talk.
It did not bear thinking about. Agitated, Sarah swung her legs over the side of the narrow bed and stood up. If she did not put it out of her mind, for just a little while at least, she really would go mad. What had happened was like a nightmare come true.
Sarah walked toward the bowl and pitcher that stood in one corner of the room, meaning to splash her face with cold water in hopes that it would rid her stomach of the horrible queasiness that still threatened. She had reached the basin when her eye fell on a crumpled heap of white silk peeking out from beneath the bed. Her dress—last night she had stripped it off with shaking hands and kicked it and her underclothes away, wanting never to see them again, even as scraps for the rag bag; she would throw them away. And with the dress, nearly hidden by the folds of white silk that still glistened virginally, was the towel she had used to clean her virgin’s blood from her thighs. She could see the brown stains clearly. . . . Sarah barely managed to snatch up the basin before she vomited.
A long time later, she dragged herself up from the floor and made herself wash and dress. It would do no good to dwell on her shame. It had happened, and it was over. She would do her best to put it out of her mind. If Gallagher had to be faced down, then she would face him. And she would act as though nothing had happened. Her humiliation would be increased tenfold if he were to realize how very sickened she was by her own behavior. And it was her own behavior that made her feel so ill. He had done nothing more or less than she should have expected. He was a man, after all, and a convict; what moral standards could he have? But she—before last night, she would have called herself a lady.
Sarah felt her stomach heave again, and resolutely forced herself to concentrate on getting dressed. If she chose her most unattractive dress—a pale gray poplin that was almost four years old and had faded to a noncolor from repeated washings—it was simply because it was the nearest to hand in the tall wardrobe. If she scraped her hair back from her face so severely that it tugged at the edges of her scalp, and wound it into a bun so tight that it would take a whirlwind to blast it free, it was simply because the heat made meandering strands uncomfortable. And if there were dark circles under her eyes, making them look huge and almost bruised, and if her skin was pale and drawn so that her cheekbones were emphasized by the hollows beneath them, well, she was not getting any younger. It was no more than that.
Sarah winced a little as she descended the stairs, not expecting the soreness between her thighs. She felt as she had once, long ago, when she had been learning to ride and had unwisely r
idden for miles. It was that same kind of tenderness. And from a similar cause, she thought bitterly. Only this time, instead of being the rider, she had been the mount. . . . She banished that thought from her mind almost as soon as it appeared. Forcing herself to walk normally despite the discomfort, she entered the kitchen.
Tess and Mary were washing and drying the many dirty dishes stacked on the kitchen table. Mrs. Abbott was nowhere in sight, but Sarah knew, from the savory smells emanating from the bubbling kettles atop the iron stove, that she was not far away. The two girls smiled at Sarah and bobbed a greeting, too shy despite their several years’ service on Lowella to speak without cause. Sarah smiled back, though it cost her an effort; she was determined to behave as naturally as if last night had never happened. She was helping herself to a piece of what was left of Liza’s birthday cake when Mrs. Abbott bustled in from the door leading into the garden, her apron filled with vegetables.
“G’ morning, Miss Sarah,” Mrs. Abbott said comfortably, emptying her burden on a cleared space at the far end of the table and sorting through the tumbled vegetables with her hands. “Last night’s carryings-on must have tired you out. I’ve never known you to sleep so late.”
Sarah tensed, giving the older woman a wide-eyed look, afraid of the meaning that might be hidden in the seemingly innocuous words. But Mrs. Abbott was examining her vegetables with a frown, serenely unconscious of having caused Sarah any distress.
“I was tired,” Sarah acknowledged, hoping that her voice did not sound as thin to Mrs. Abbott as it did to her own ears. “Where—where is everyone?”
Is Gallagher around? she was screaming inside. But of course he wouldn’t be. Percival had sent him to tend the horses—something that he showed marked aptitude for—while Lowella had guests. He would have no business up at the house—unless Mrs. Abbott meant to slip him in for a bite of breakfast. But of course it was long past time for breakfast.
“Well,” Mrs. Abbott said, tapping her forefinger against her front tooth thoughtfully, her attention still focused on the vegetables, “Mr. Percival came by a couple of hours ago to get your pa. Seems that somebody set a fire in one of the fields; the men working there got it out all right, but Mr. Percival thought your pa should have a look at it anyways. Mrs. Markham is still abed, so far as I know. Leastways, I ’aven’t seen her. Miss Liza is, too, and so are the other ladies, except for Mrs. Grainger and Mrs. Eaton, who are sittin’ on the front porch; I’m to take them some tea presently. The Taylors and the Crowells ’ave already started for ’ome; asked me to make their good-byes for them; said you’d all understand, since they ’ave a long way to go.” She looked up then, smiling broadly. “Did I leave anybody out?”
Sarah shook her head, smiling too. “I don’t think so.” Where’s Gallagher? she wanted to demand, but she couldn’t. The last thing she wanted was to create curiosity where none existed.
“What are you wantin’ for breakfast?” Mrs. Abbott inquired, pulling a chair up to the table and sitting down, paring knife in hand, to start on the vegetables. “There’s porridge left, and some cold mutton—I could fry it up for you. Or there’s some fig jelly left, and fresh bread.”
Sarah shook her head. “I’ve already eaten a piece of Liza’s cake. I don’t want anything else.”
Mrs. Abbott frowned. “Miss Sarah . . .”
“I know, I know, I’m too thin, I should eat. But I’m not hungry. I think I’ll go for a ride.” And with that she escaped out the door into the garden. Just at the moment, she didn’t think she could tolerate Mrs. Abbott’s well-meant criticism of her appearance.
Going for a ride had been the furthest thing from her mind when she said it; it had merely been an excuse to leave the kitchen before the thin shell of her composure cracked and she snapped at Mrs. Abbott, or the maids, or anyone else who ventured near, as a means of releasing the tension that still had her stomach tied up in knots. But, thinking about how wonderful it would feel to get away from the homestead for a while, to put aside her troubles in the sheer joy of having a horse beneath her and the endless miles of bush spread out before her, she suddenly longed to ride. Before the drought, she had been used to riding every day. The heat had made her think of Malahky’s well-being before her own enjoyment, and she had stopped riding so frequently. But the urge was back, and she would answer it—except for one difficulty. Gallagher would be in the stable. She winced at the thought of coming face to face with him so soon. Later, when she had had time to put what had happened out of her mind . . . But would waiting really make any difference? Sarah asked herself. The truth was that she never wanted to see Gallagher again. And equally true was the fact that she would not be able to avoid it. How she dreaded the encounter! She knew the dread wasn’t likely to go away. It would haunt her constantly, limiting her movements for fear that she would run into Gallagher. She couldn’t live like that, constantly on edge. Sarah knew it, and, reluctantly, came to the conclusion that there was only one thing to do about it. She would have to face Gallagher as soon as possible and get it behind her. The longer she put it off, the harder it would get, until she became a prisoner of her own embarrassment.
Now was always the best time for doing something distasteful. Her father had said that many times. Sarah grimaced, the words replaying in her brain, as she stopped momentarily at the edge of the kitchen garden and stared at the whitewashed walls of the stable as David might once have stared at Goliath. She had to battle a strong impulse to return to the house. But the ordeal would not get any easier for postponing it. Squaring her shoulders, she walked deliberately toward the stable. She would lay the groundwork for her future relationship with Gallagher by behaving as though nothing, absolutely nothing, had happened between them. She was the mistress of Lowella, he a convict laborer. It was time to get that clear between them.
It was dark in the stable after the brilliance of the light outside. Sarah hesitated in the wide doorway, one hand on the edge of the open door. Try as she would, she could not make out Gallagher’s tall form. . . .
“Goin’ for a ride, Miss Sarah?” The voice was not Gallagher’s. Sarah nearly fainted with relief. She had not realized how flimsy her courage was, or how much effort it had cost her to summon it for this confrontation, until she found that she no longer needed it. She let out her breath in a long, shaky sigh. Her knees trembled. Percival must have decided that Gallagher was now well enough to do the labor he had originally been meant to do and assigned him to one of the convict work gangs that were digging for water on the range.
“Yes, Jagger, I am. Would you please saddle Malahky for me?” Her voice sounded almost gay, she was so giddy with relief.
“Sure thing, Miss Sarah.” Jagger’s dark face creased in a broad grin as he hurried to do her bidding. He had lived and worked on Lowella for as long as Sarah could remember. Like most of the other aborigines, he would occasionally disappear for a few months—“gone walkabout”—they called it, but he always came back. The aborigines had trouble staying in one place for too long, but Lowella was his home.
“Uh—what happened to the convict who was taking care of the horses while you helped with the digging?” She hadn’t meant to ask that, but the words forced themselves to the surface. She had to know if she was safe from running into Gallagher for hours, or days, or even weeks, if Percival had sent him out to join the men digging on the farthest edge of the property. This part of Australia required approximately one acre to support each sheep, and Lowella had thirty thousand sheep. If Gallagher was working near the station’s perimeter, he would be camping out with the others because it took too much time to ride back and forth each day. She might not set eyes on him for quite some time. No matter what she had told herself about the virtues of getting unpleasant tasks out of the way, she could not suppress the bubbling sense of having been reprieved.
“Oh, he’s . . .” Jagger began.
“Here, Miss Sarah,” Gallagher said with an edge of mockery.
Sarah felt as if a huge fist
had just made contact with her stomach. Turning slowly in the direction of that distinctive lilt—it had come from one of the stalls—Sarah found to her dismay that her courage had quite deserted her. He stood in the stall beside Master, a big roan, pitchfork in hand and sweat glistening on the bronze planes of his face. His black hair was wildly mussed; it formed deep waves all over his head. His mouth was set in a controlled line, and his eyes—she was almost afraid to meet those blue eyes—were unreadable. Sarah stared at him, unspeaking. She had not been prepared for this. She felt sick, dizzy. To her horror, she was completely unable to speak.
“Did you want me for something, Miss Sarah?” Despite the glint in his eyes, the words were respectful, Sarah supposed for Jagger’s benefit. The smaller man was in the process of saddling Malahky. His cocoa-brown eyes, flickering from one to the other of them, were only casually interested. Sarah knew that she would have to get hold of herself before his interest became more than casual. The aborigines loved to gossip.
“Not—really.” Sarah forced the words out. “I just wondered where you were. You can go back to work now, Gallagher.”
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