“I’ll take care of it, Darby,” Dominic said sharply, terminating the conversation. Sarah realized the man called Darby had spun his words out simply so that he could ogle her longer. Before Darby could launch another series of detailed instructions, Dominic wheeled the horse away, heading toward where the men who were not on first watch had already built a fire and were setting up billycans for tea.
“Steady,” Dominic said as he pulled up the horse and Sarah swayed against him. She looked up at that, meeting his eyes briefly before looking away over the dark plain.
“Can you get down?” he asked, sounding faintly impatient as she sat there staring stonily away from him.
Sarah nodded once, the motion jerky, and slid awkwardly from the saddle. To her humiliation, when her feet touched the ground her legs refused to support her. After nearly twenty-four hours of nonstop riding, her knees were like quivering masses of jelly. They folded beneath her, depositing her in a crumpled sitting position on the ground. Dominic looked down at her briefly, then swung one long leg over the saddle and dismounted.
“All right?” he asked, his expression hooded as he looked at her.
“Fine,” Sarah answered curtly, belying her exhausted posture. To her annoyance, her voice was a hoarse croak. To make up for its weakness, she glared at him.
He ignored her, reaching beneath the horse to unhitch the girth and then slide the saddle and blanket from the animal’s back. He dropped the gear near the base of a thick gray gum a little distance away, then returned to slip off the bridle and tether the horse to the hitching line to which three of the other horses were already tied. The animals greeted one another with soft nickers, while Dominic turned back to Sarah.
“What’s his name, anyway?” she asked idly, indicating the Appaloosa, which looked to be far too fine an animal to belong to bushrangers. More than likely stolen, she thought, and sniffed.
“I call him Kilkenny,” he said, eying her as if he could not place what had prompted that disdainful sniff.
“Why?” Sarah asked, looking up at him, suddenly interested.
For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer, but then he shrugged, as if he had decided to humor her. “Because when I first saw him, when he was rearing and lunging and refusing to let anyone near him, he reminded me of a place called Kilkenny in Ireland: wild and beautiful, and dangerous to the unwary.”
“Kilkenny,” Sarah repeated softly, suddenly liking the name. “Is that where you’re from?”
“Near enough,” he answered shortly, and terminated the conversation by reaching down a hand to haul her to her feet. With his arm around her, he led her toward the campfire. Sarah took one look at the unyielding lines of his profile and said nothing further.
They each ate a plate of beans flavored with a bit of bacon and drank strong, bitter tea from tin cups. Each man carried his own utensils, which meant that Sarah had to share Dominic’s. She found it strangely unsettling to eat from his plate, although she had sole use of his spoon, while he ate with the knife he carried at his belt—with considerable skill, she noted with surprise, watching him expertly scoop beans onto the long flat blade. Sharing his cup was worse; she went to considerable effort to avoid placing her lips in the spot where his had been. She felt that he noticed her avoidance, but he said nothing about it. When supper was finished, he left her sitting by the fire while he went to rinse the utensils in the creek. Left alone, Sarah slowly became aware of the thickening silence around her. Looking up from the cup of tea she was nursing, she was alarmed to find herself the cynosure of three pairs of male eyes.
Sarah hastily lowered her eyes back to her cup, wishing vainly that the hat that dangled from its string down her back was still atop her head so that its brim could shield her face from prying eyes. But she was aware of the man who got slowly to his feet and began walking around the fire toward where she sat with her back against a fallen tree. As she felt rather than saw his approach, all her senses leaped in alarm. Where was Dominic? she wondered frantically, then wondered at herself. What made her think that he would protect her?
“Walll, little sheila, you gonna set over here by your lonesome all night? Me and the boys has been lookin’ forward all day to makin’ your better acquaintance.”
Sarah said nothing for a moment, but as the booted feet planted firmly in front of her showed no sign of moving away, she lifted her eyes slowly up the dusty, water-splotched herder’s garb to his face. It was broad and seamed with years of exposure to the sun, homely but not actually repulsive as had been the face of the man called Darby. A bushy red beard obscured his mouth and jaw; his nose was bulbous, his eyes a pale, sun-faded blue, beneath a fringe of hair the same shade as his beard.
“Pray excuse me. I am very tired.” The words were as cool and steady as she could make them. Her eyes met his without, she hoped, any sign of the fear that was making her heart palpitate.
“Ehhh, listen to her talk! We got ourselves a lady,” he chortled to the men across the fire, then turned back to Sarah. “That’s all right, little sheila. The kind of acquaintance we has in mind involves a lot of laying—flat on your back.” He chuckled again at Sarah’s appalled expression, then reached out to take a clumsy grip on her arm. “Come on, sheila. There’s four of us for now, and four more for later, so you’d best be gettin’ a move on. Else you won’t be gettin’ no sleep at all tonight.”
Sarah stiffened, all her muscles bracing for a fight to the death. She would not submit to these—these animals! But before she could do anything, Dominic’s tall form materialized out of the darkness. He strolled toward her with infuriating unconcern, his head cocked a little to one side as he took in the situation. Sarah felt temper at his nonchalance begin to churn in her veins—until she noted the long rifle cradled negligently in his arm.
“Now, Minger, the lady doesn’t look too excited about the prospect of sharing a bedroll with the three of you. Maybe somebody told her about your fleas.”
Minger, who had been scratching at his beard, stopped, looking self-conscious. Across the fire, the other three roared with laughter. Dominic himself was grinning as Minger glared at him.
“Dammit, Gallagher, we saved your hide. Are you gonna stand between us and a little fun? We won’t hurt the lady none. She won’t be nothin' more than a little sore, come mornin’.”
“But what about your fleas, Minger?” Dominic prodded gently, coming to a halt beside Sarah. She stood up, moving close to his side. He didn’t so much as look at her, but his solid presence beside her was immensely reassuring. “You can’t expect me to share a horse tomorrow with a lady infected with your fleas.”
More guffaws from the men who watched and listened with increasing enjoyment from the other side of the fire made Minger’s face redden until it was almost the color of his beard.
“Sheila can share my horse,” he muttered truculently.
“Now there’s an idea,” Gallagher said with seeming approval. “But maybe we’d better ask the lady her preference. What about it, sheila?”
The mocking way he called her sheila—a too-familiar Australian name for any young female—made her long to kick him in the shin, but prudence kept her feet planted firmly at her side. She looked up—she didn’t think she’d ever get used to having to bend her neck so far to look into a man’s face—and met his gaze. His eyes were sending her a message. Be careful, they said. Play it light.
“Why, I thank you for your kind offer, Mr. Minger.” Sarah smiled politely at the perspiring man who was only a couple of inches above her own height. “But I’m deathly allergic to fleas. So I guess I’ll just have to forgo the pleasure of riding with such a handsome man in favor of Mr. Gallagher here. He may not be as good to look at, but he won’t make me itch, either.”
The men across the fire roared again at her response. Minger eyed her, then Dominic, his face growing even redder. For a moment the issue hung in the balance. Then he joined rather halfheartedly in his mates’ chuckles and retreated.
“I am not an old maid!” Sarah snapped without thinking, stung by the slur. He looked down at her, smiling suddenly, a very charming smile such as she had never before seen him wear. It made his blue eyes twinkle in the handsome, sun-baked bronze of his face; his mouth tilted up lopsidedly, while a lone dimple creased his right cheek. Sarah stared, dazzled.
“No, you’re not, are you,” he said, his hand coming up to tug unexpectedly at a tangled lock of her hair. “Like the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing, you merely pretend to be. When something happens to shake you out of your prim ways, you become quite a woman.”
Sarah could find nothing to say to this, which was, she thought, in the nature of a compliment. But maybe not. He might have some ulterior meaning that she, in her naïveté, could not even guess at. He might even be alluding to that night when he had taken her virginity. . . . He must have read her thoughts in the golden eyes that she had fastened on his, and made his own associations, because abruptly his face hardened as his smile vanished.
“Come with me.” He turned his back, speaking over his shoulder as he walked away from her. “I think it’s best if we let our friends cool down a little.” He nodded toward the trio who were now swigging rum as they swapped stories and stared into the flickering fire. Sarah quickly fell into step behind him. She didn’t want to be left on her own with them again. Next time, Dominic might not appear so fortuitously—or he might take it into his head not to intervene.
“How did you get hooked up with them, anyway?” she asked, hurrying to catch up with him. His long stride was carrying him rapidly into the darkness of the denser part of the gum grove.
“Sorry they saved my life?” The snarl was ugly. He didn’t even look at her as he continued his rapid pace. Sarah winced, sorry that she had asked the question. It had inevitably reminded him of her supposed perfidy—if he had needed reminding.
“Not at all,” she answered stiffly.
His eyes gleamed in the darkness as he turned his head to look at her. “I stumbled upon their camp about three days after I managed to escape from your father’s idea of vengeance. They were getting ready to ride on, and I was half-dead. I think they would have left me to die if they hadn’t realized that I had come from the general direction of Lowella. They asked me if that was where I was from, and when I answered a cautious yes, they took one look at my back and guessed the rest—or the important parts, anyway. They offered to give me a horse and let me ride with them, on one condition: that I help them plan a raid on your father’s sheep. Not having any particular love for your home, I accepted. And here I am.”
“You helped them set fire to the barns, and the stable—do you know that some of the horses died in that fire? Mrs. Abbott and I were the only ones left to rescue them, and we couldn’t get them all out. You killed them, and stole our sheep, and sent a mob to attack the homestead!” Sarah’s voice was shaky by the time she finished her accusations.
He shrugged, looking faintly satisfied at her impotent anger. “I did what I had to to stay alive. They would have raided Lowella with or without my help, in any case. Besides, why should you expect any different? You did your damnedest to have me killed.”
“I did not!”
“Don’t lie to me, Sarah. I don’t like it.”
“I—” She broke off abruptly. He had stopped, and was in the process of unbuttoning the few buttons that remained closed on his shirt. “What are you doing?”
He smiled tauntingly at the horror in her voice. “What does it look like? I’m taking off my clothes. So are you. Starting now.”
“What?”
“You heard me, Sarah. Strip.”
“I will not! Will you stop?”
He had removed his shirt and tossed it over a nearby branch. Hopping from one foot to the other, he pulled off his boots and set them aside. Then his hand moved to the fastenings of his breeches. Sarah whirled so that her back was to him, closing her eyes tightly in horror. She would have run away, but his arm sliding around her waist stopped her.
“Do you remember the little discussion we had earlier today, Sarah?” He was close behind her, bending down to whisper in her ear. Sarah quivered and tried to pull free of him, but he held her fast. “When I told you that you were going to do just exactly what I said, when I said? I meant it. So take off your clothes. Now.”
“No!”
“If you don’t—if you don’t . . .” His voice was silky now, his breath warm against her ear. “I’ll do nothing, Sarah, just like I promised. I’ll hand you over to Minger and the others and just walk away. It’s your choice.” She made a single abortive movement, and his arm tightened fractionally around her waist. “And don’t try to get out of this by running, Sarah. I’ll just fetch you back.”
Sarah said nothing, merely stood there with her eyes tightly closed and her arms wrapped around her body. What could she do? She had no doubt that the swine meant every word he said. He would turn her over to Minger without a qualm, no doubt feeling that multiple rape was scant return for what she supposedly had done to him. But almost as unthinkable was the alternative—letting Dominic use her body in that animalistic way he had once before. Because of course that was why he wanted her to take off her clothes. There could be no other reason. Against her will, the memory of the glorious feelings he had coaxed from her body surfaced from the place where she had thought it safely locked away. If she was honest, a tiny voice whispered, she would admit that being “forced” to experience his particular kind of ecstasy again would be, in a vast understatement, no hardship. No! her mind asserted vehemently, even as her body began to react to the thought. She shuddered inwardly. She could not so demean herself again.
“Make up your mind, Sarah. Me or the others.” His arm dropped away from her waist as he spoke, and he stepped back, leaving her to decide.
There was really no choice, as Sarah had known from the beginning. Lifting her chin in a characteristic prideful gesture, Sarah opened her eyes, dropped her hands to her sides, and turned to face him. He was naked. She swallowed, unable to look away. Her eyes ran once, involuntarily, over his body before snapping up to his face. But even that brief glimpse left burned in her mind the image of broad, bronzed shoulders, a wide, hair-roughened chest, taut-muscled belly and hips, and long, hard-looking legs. . . . About what protruded obscenely between those legs, huge and alert in a nest of curling black hair, she refused to allow herself to think. Or remember.
“So I’m to decide between rape in the plural or the singular?” she gritted, hating him. “You know you leave me no choice: I choose you.”
“I thought you would.” He was grinning, his arms crossing over his chest as he stepped back a pace, his head cocking to one side as he ran his eyes with slow purpose over her body. “Take off your clothes, Sarah.”
Still she hesitated. Then, knowing that there was no help for it, she clenched her teeth so hard that her jaw ached and slowly lifted her arms to the string around her throat, which attached to the hat. She removed the hat carefully, turning to hang it on a branch. When that was done she bent to remove her makeshift shoes. Then, with her back to Dominic, moving as slowly as she dared, she began to lift the hem of the poncho.
“Oh no you don’t. Turn around, Sarah. I want to see you.”
“I must have been out of my mind that day on the ship,” she said bitterly. But if she had hoped to jolt him out of his mocking enjoyment of his revenge, she failed. His expression remained unchanging as she turned back to face him.
There was no way out. Sarah lifted the poncho over her head, wishing that she could hide forever under its stifling folds. But she could not. It was off, and when she had finished securing it to a branch there was only h
er thin nightrail left between her body and his eyes.
She hesitated. To deliberately take off her clothes in front of a man . . . She shuddered at the degradation of it. No matter that he had seen her naked once before. That night had been a time apart, something unreal, which she had blocked out of her mind. Until now. Now the shaming memories were pressing on her, unbidden.
“That, too.” His voice was low as he indicated her nightrail. Sarah looked at him silently for a long moment. Then, doing her best not to think of anything at all, she caught the hem of her nightrail and pulled it over head. When it was off, she didn’t bother to hang it with the rest of her clothes but instead let it flutter to land in a crumpled heap on the dark ground. It was too late now to play for time.
She felt his eyes on her. Her every instinct screamed at her to cringe, to cover herself, to hide as much of her body from him as she could. But she fought the impulse. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing how truly successful was his revenge. Naked, she faced him, her head thrown proudly back so that her hair tumbled down her back to her hips, disdaining even to try to hide behind its tangled thickness. Her hands were uncurled at her sides, making no attempt to shield her body. But, for all her bravado, Sarah could not look at him. She was too ashamed. Instead, her eyes focused on the shadowy forms of a pair of kookaburras nestled for the night high in the branches of a gum not far away. The birds reminded her poignantly of the woods at Lowella. Would she ever see them again? She swallowed, forcing her eyes to shift downward to a rustling thicket of gorse. The sound of the dry branches rubbing together was oddly soothing. Sarah concentrated on that, refusing to allow herself to face the fact that she was naked, not three feet away from a naked man who would undoubtedly soon lay his hands on her, possess her body, and in doing so degrade her abysmally even as he wrung from her cries of shameful delight, while the wind played with her hair and trailed teasing fingers over skin dappled with goosebumps despite the heat. Overhead the moon was silent witness to her humiliation, a thin crescent illuminating her with its iridescent glimmer. Until—she felt it distinctly—the cool moonlight was replaced by the heat of his eyes.
Dark Torment Page 19