Dark Torment

by Karen Robards

  Focusing her anger on her silent captor helped to keep her mind off the exigencies of her situation. Sprawled uncomfortably across his saddle, with his hard thighs pressing into her hip and shoulder, she was very much at the nameless marauder’s mercy, and she knew it. Sarah preferred not to think of the spectacle she must present, her masses of tawny hair dragged from its braid by the wind to stream against the man’s knee and the horse’s dark side, her long bare legs and white-clad arms jouncing ludicrously as the horse galloped over the uneven ground, her nightrail twisted tightly around her body by the man’s fist. She also refused to think about how very nearly naked she was. Except for the thin nightrail—rendered almost useless as a covering by her captor’s grip on it—she was unclothed. With her new knowledge of men and their lusts, Sarah was conscious of a pang of terror at inciting such an emotion in the man—men—who had abducted her. Would he—they—rape her? She shuddered at the very word. The act itself—she could hardly bear to think about it. It had been shameful enough with Gallagher, who at least, as much as she hated to admit it, had appealed to her senses and given her pleasure. With strangers—hard, uncaring strangers who would glory in her degradation and find their enjoyment in brutalizing and humiliating her—it would be unspeakably horrible. She had felt the hardness of this man’s hand when he had shifted her position by clasping her backside through the thin layer of cloth that was all that shielded her skin from his touch. Was he even now plotting how he would use her when at last they stopped? Sarah felt sickened at the thought. Resolutely she forced it from her mind. It was possible that she would be raped, and just as possible that she would be killed. Giving way to panic would do her no good. She had to think, use her wits to save herself. Undoubtedly the man who held her captive expected his poor little female victim to be mindless with terror. Well, she would not be. She would wait for the opportunity, and when it came she would do whatever she had to to escape. And if her chances were remote, well, she wouldn’t dwell on that either. She would escape, because she had to.

  When at last the horse slowed to a trot, then a walk, and finally stopped, Sarah would have breathed a sigh of relief, if she hadn’t been so frightened. What would happen to her now? Her captor dismounted, swinging easily down from the saddle and reaching up to catch her around her waist and drag her down too. Sarah’s every instinct screamed for her to attack him, to fight, to claw and kick and bite in a desperate bid for freedom. But she forced herself to go limp, feigning a faint. Maybe, if he thought she had fainted, he would put her down on the ground and leave her alone. . . . He pulled her off the saddle, one hard arm sliding under her waist to support her as she drooped forward, her hair and fingers and toes brushing the ground. Grunting, he shifted her from one arm to the other, then turned her so that she was facing upward. Sarah concentrated on being a dead weight, on keeping her eyes closed and her breathing regular, but shallow and fast as Liza’s was when she had swooned. A long-fingered, callused-palmed hand closed over one small breast. Sarah shot upright, her eyes flying open, her arms flailing as she knocked away the too-intimate hand.

  “You . . . !” She gasped out a string of insults, not even aware of what she was saying as she went for him, teeth bared, fingers curved into claws. His hands closed over her upper arms, pushing her away from him before she had inflicted any but minor damage. Sarah glared her hatred at the grimy bandanna that concealed the lower part of his face while darkness veiled the rest of him as he towered over her. His hands tightened ruthlessly, painfully, around the soft flesh of her upper arms. Sarah moaned and abruptly quit fighting. His grip on her arms eased, but he did not release her.

  “Best tie the vixen up. Or strangle her,” one of her captor’s companions suggested, not without a touch of enjoyment. Sarah saw that the two other riders were masked like the man whose hands still held her prisoner. Only one man remained mounted. It was he who had spoken, tossing her captor a coiled length of rope as he did so. The grip on one of her arms was abruptly released as her captor lifted a hand to catch the rope; then he was holding her again, turning her. . . .

  Sarah struggled, but without any real expectation of success. His grip on her arms tightened again, not hurting her this time but reminding her that he could if he wished. Facing outward, Sarah saw that the moon had risen high overhead, a perfect semicircle against the darkness of the sky, occasionally veiled by a drifting wisp of cloud. The barren, pockmarked landscape stretched flat around them, broken only by a solitary ghost gum and a few isolated outcroppings of brush. The land, bathed in shimmering moonlight, was deserted except for herself and the three men. There was no help to be had; Sarah could not even help herself as her hands were deftly tied behind her back.

  “Ahh.” It was a satisfied sound from the other man on the ground. Sarah frowned, trying to puzzle out what had occasioned it, as her captor put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face him. Then the bleating sound of sheep floated to her from the way they had come. Sarah twisted to look over her shoulder. A pale, shifting blur in the distance resolved itself into more riders driving what could only he a herd of her father’s prized merinos. As the milling flock approached, the sounds grew louder.

  “Rustlers!” Sarah gasped, understanding suddenly what had lain behind tonight’s unprecedented attack on Lowella. Bushrangers—the bandits who terrorized this part of New South Wales—had evidently banded together to make off with her father’s prize sheep. The unprecedented convict uprising—there had never been such a thing before on Lowella—had doubtless been carefully orchestrated by the bushrangers to provide a diversion. That would explain why some had been mounted, while the majority had been on foot. The convicts who had attacked the homestead armed with shovels and torches and pick axes had been left behind to be slaughtered while this small group of outlaws made off with their booty.

  “Keep her quiet!” growled the man who had spoken before. Sarah could not discern his expression, but his tone was angry.

  Her captor ignored the other man; his hands slid from her arms to fasten around her waist preparatory to lifting her into the saddle. With her hands tied behind her, to say nothing of the raw power of the tall male body looming so menacingly close, struggling would have been useless. Sarah permitted him to lift her off the ground because she could think of no alternative that would not worsen her present situation, and obediently straddled the saddle, trying not to think of the length of slender pale leg left bare by her immodest posture. Her captor was swinging himself into the saddle behind her when it occurred to her that he had not, during the entire operation, said a word. Was he mute, or merely taciturn, or . . . ? The lithe movements, the height and breadth of him, and the hard muscular strength of the body now settling close behind her in the saddle struck a hideous chord of familiarity. Eyes widening, Sarah turned around in the saddle just as the horse surged into an effortless canter in the wake of the others, who had moved out to join the band herding the sheep. The grimy kerchief still obscured his features, and a dusty, wide-brimmed black hat was pulled low over his forehead, hiding his hair, but even in the moonshot darkness there was no mistaking the Irish blue eyes.

  “Gallagher!” Sarah stared at him, unable to believe what she was seeing. His eyes glinted tauntingly down at her.

  “You sound surprised. Did you think I was dead?” Despite the muffling mask, she would have recognized that distinctive lilt anywhere. No wonder he hadn’t spoken! She would have known him at once.

  “Yes,” Sarah answered, because she had thought he was dead. His eyes narrowed, grew hard. The arm around her waist tightened, holding her in place in the saddle.

  “Nasty little bitch, aren’t you?” he remarked almost casually.

  Sarah stared at him, taken aback by his hostility. Upon discovering his identity, she had felt a tremendous sense of relief as it occurred to her that either or both of the dreadful fates she had feared were extremely unlikely to befall her. But now, suddenly, she wasn’t so sure. He sounded as if he hated her,
though why, Sarah couldn’t fathom. She had done nothing to him. Indeed, it was the other way around.

  “Are you any kin to the black widow spider, I wonder?” he continued, the laziness of his voice failing to mask its hard undertone. “They devour their lovers after a single mating, you know. But, unlike you, at least they have the courage to do their own dirty work.”

  “What are you talking about?” Sarah looked at him uncomprehendingly. His eyes seemed to lance into her soul.

  “You know damned well what I’m talking about,” he said tightly. “You may as well forget about playing innocent. I won’t believe it—and you’re liable to make me angry.”

  “You’re mad!” Sarah said with conviction, still twisted around so that she could see him. “I don’t know why you should get angry—you’re the one in the wrong. You ran away, you abducted me, and you are helping to steal my father’s sheep.”

  “And you ran squalling to your papa. Tell me something, Miss Sarah: Just how did you explain our love-making? Did you tell him that I forced myself on you, or were you honest enough to admit that you asked for everything you got? Your overseer—a hard man with a whip, that—never said, and I wasn’t in a position to do any asking.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never told my father anything.” At his blatant reference to what had taken place between them, Sarah’s eyes dropped away from his. She didn’t realize it, but her downcast eyes made her look the picture of guilt. His breath hissed through his teeth and his eyes grew harder.

  “Then why did he send that lout of an overseer and two other men to drag me from the bunkhouse and string me up in one of the barns? Did you know that I hung there for two days, Miss Sarah, after they beat me, with the flies buzzing around the wounds they left and my waste on the floor, without a bite to eat or a drop of water? Did you know that they meant to leave me there until I died? Does the thought of it turn your stomach, Miss Sarah? Believe me, experiencing it did far more than that to mine.”

  “My father had you beaten?” she whispered, appalled. Impossible to believe . . .

  He laughed, the sound without humor. “What did you think he would do? Shake his finger under my nose while he scolded me for being a bad boy?” He bent his head so that his mouth was almost touching her ear. His near-whisper sent chills down her spine: “Do you know what it’s like to be totally helpless, totally at the mercy of someone who has no mercy?” She shuddered. His voice grew even softer as his breath seared her skin. “Believe me, Miss Sarah, you will.”

  “Gallagher . . .” she began, her eyes wide as she searched his face. She could find no hint of softening in his expression. His eyes over the bandanna were hard and fierce, implacable. She shivered as she began to comprehend what had happened to him, what he thought she had done . . . what he might do to her in revenge. They were no longer mistress and servant, he bound to obey her commands while she had the power of life and death over him, however little inclined to use it she might be. The tables had turned with a vengeance.

  “Gallagher . . .” The word was a hoarse croak.

  She saw the sudden snarl in his eyes before she heard it in his voice. The arm around her waist tightened until it felt like an iron band locking her against him. Beneath them, the horse rocked in its easy canter, the motion oddly soothing.

  “In view of our relationship—our new relationship—it might behoove you to call me Dominic, however much that might offend your notion of what’s right and proper.”

  “What do you mean, our new relationship?” she asked, faltering, dreading the answer.

  “Why, I’m your master now, Sarah. And you’ll do just exactly as I tell you. Whatever I tell you, whenever I tell you to do it.” The silky raspiness of his voice sent a shiver down her spine. Pressed close against her, the hard strength of his body was nearly as intimidating as his tone.

  “And if I don’t?” The question was pure bravado. Sarah sensed that it would be fatal to allow Gallagher to suspect how much she was beginning to fear him. The terror at her plight, which had begun to abate when she recognized Gallagher, was returning in full force. He hated her, blamed her for what he had suffered. Dimly, she felt that he also blamed her in some way because he was forced to serve her and her family until the expiration of his sentence. He was angry and he needed a scapegoat—that much was overwhelmingly clear. And she was to be that scapegoat. Sarah chewed her lower lip. The thought of being helpless in his hands made her throat go dry.

  “If you don’t?” He sounded thoughtful. The very lack of threat in his voice was somehow more alarming than any blustering he could have done. With a gesture he indicated the panorama around them, the masked riders as graceful as wraiths in the darkness as they wove efficiently among the tide of bleating sheep, driving them toward the horizon where the moon now rode low. “Why, I won’t do a thing, Sarah. Nothing at all.”

  He smiled as he said it. She could tell by the narrowing of his eyes. His eyes also told her that it was not a pleasant smile. Sarah did not understand what he was threatening her with, but she had a feeling that she would rather not know.

  Sarah was still puzzling uneasily over Gallagher’s answer when he touched his heels to the horse’s sides, urging the animal into a gallop to chase after a wayward sheep. Only his arm around her held her in the saddle. Sarah was forced to turn so that she was facing forward, giving her attention to clinging to the saddle with her thighs and knees so that she would not fall off the horse. There was no more time to ponder Gallagher’s meaning—now.

  By the time the sun was high in the sky, Sarah was leaning back limply against Gallagher’s solid form, the enmity between them pushed aside as she strove to find what ease she could. She had never been so physically uncomfortable in her life. Her bare legs, which had grown colder and colder as they had ridden through the night, were now being broiled to a bright red by the blazing sun. The soft insides of her knees and thighs had been chafed by the leather saddle until they felt raw. Her hands, which were still bound behind her, had lost all feeling, and her lips were dry from the sun and lack of water. To add to her misery, a fine coating of dust covered her skin and the unbound, tangled mass of her hair. The wind had blown grit into her eyes so often that she now kept them shut. Not that this was any hardship. Every time she chanced to open them, it was to find one or another of the men’s eyes upon her, staring, with an avidity that made her quiver with fear, at the pale length of her legs left bare by the nightrail hiked up around her thighs and at the slight curves of her body, so inadequately concealed by the thin cloth. Held tightly before Gallagher in the saddle, she felt ruthlessly, totally exposed. She tried not to speculate on how much worse her situation could get. If the looks in those men’s eyes were any indication, the answer was, much worse. But worrying about it would do no good, and Sarah was almost too tired and miserable to care.

  The horses and sheep were walking now. No other gait was possible in the enervating heat. A thick cloud of dust hovered over them as they went, making breathing almost impossible. Without even her hands to cover her mouth and nose, Sarah inhaled as shallowly as she could, not wanting to choke on the dust that inevitably found its way into her nose and mouth and from there to her lungs. Finally she gave up. Her head lolled limply back against Gallagher’s shoulder as she drew a deep, shuddering breath, then immediately began to cough. If she continued with only the tiny, unsatisfying sips of air she had been taking into her starved lungs, she would have suffocated. But now, as she coughed and wheezed and coughed some more, she feared she might choke to death.

  “Christ,” Gallagher growled in her ear, the first word he had spoken to her for hours. She felt him draw rein, bringing the horse to a halt beside the plodding sheep. As he started to dismount, Sarah swayed, and would have toppled sideways out of the saddle if he had not caught her around the waist and lifted her down with him. Even then, when the bare soles of her feet made contact with the hot, sun-cracked earth just barely covered by a shriveled mat of brown g
rass, she could not find the strength to hold herself upright. Her knees buckled; she would have fallen if he had not supported her as he lowered her with surprising gentleness to the ground.

  “Problems, mate?” One of the other riders had reined in beside them and was staring down at Sarah’s prone form with something more than idle concern. Sarah had opened her eyes as Gallagher lifted her from the saddle, but now she squeezed them shut. She felt threatened by the expression on the man’s face. All she could do was shut it out.

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” Gallagher replied.

  There was a brief silence, then Sarah heard the jingle of stirrups and the rhythmic thud of hooves as the rider moved on again. Still she didn’t open her eyes. She was too exhausted. Even the pain of lying on her bound hands could not rouse her.

  “What in the name of all the saints ails you?” She had never heard him sound so very Irish. Sheer surprise sent her lids flickering open to find that he was down on one knee beside her, glaring at her with annoyance and, she thought, a touch of concern.

  Sarah had to run her tongue over her lips before she could speak, but annoyance at his annoyance spurred her into making the effort. “I’m dying of thirst, my nose and throat are so full of grit I can hardly breathe, much less speak, I think my hands fell off long ago, I’m sunburnt, and . . .”

  “Half-naked,” he finished for her, his eyes sweeping over her body with what she was sure was disapproval. He had pulled down his bandanna so that it rested around his neck. Its color, she saw, had once been blue. The faded cloth made his eyes look even brighter in contrast. The ancient red shirt he wore, obviously scrounged up after he had left Lowella, was tight across his shoulders and chest. To ease the fit, he had left several buttons undone, and the black tangle of curls on his chest was clearly visible. Sarah averted her eyes from the sight, and in the process discovered that he still wore his convict-issue black breeches and sturdy boots. “What the devil were you doing, anyway, out riding in your shimmy at midnight?” He sounded genuinely puzzled.