Before she was fully awake, Dominic swung from the saddle and dragged her down with him. Almost swaying with exhaustion, Sarah stood by as he removed Kilkenny’s tack and tethered the horse before lugging the gear to a spot near the dying fire. Then, with a nervous look at the other riders who had followed them in, Sarah trailed after him. Dominic was obnoxious, hateful, and cruel. But the others were even worse. As she looked at his tall form bending to arrange the saddle and blanket, Sarah recalled the saying: “Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.” But, she thought venomously, not much better.
To her surprise, instead of going over to the iron cookpot suspended over the fire and dishing out their meal, Dominic lowered himself to the blanket and sprawled back lazily, his arms crossed under his head, which rested on the saddle.
“Pull off my boots,” he instructed, looking at her with malice.
“Pull off your own damned boots!” Sarah was exhausted, filthy, hot, and ravenous. She was definitely not in the mood to mince words. Before her life had been turned upside down by this despicable convict, she would never have dreamed of uttering an expletive. But lately they seemed to be coming with increasing ease to her lips. His influence, she thought, glaring at him.
“What did you say, Miss Sarah?” He raised a black eyebrow at her, feigning shocked disapproval. “I can’t believe I heard a naughty word fall from your pristine lips.”
Sarah thought about replying with several even naughtier words—all of which she had learned from him—but managed to refrain. He had undermined her morals, ruined her reputation by kidnapping her—even if she had been as pure as the driven snow, no one who mattered would ever believe it after she had spent days, maybe even weeks, in the enforced company of a band of escaped convicts and bushrangers—and utterly destroyed her calm and controlled disposition. She would be damned—darned!—before she would let him reduce her to using filthy language. Damn him!
“I’m not going to tell you again, Sarah: pull off my boots.”
Sarah straightened her tired spine and glowered at him. With his boots and black breeches so covered with dust that they were practically indistinguishable from his once-red shirt, his face sunburned to a dark sepia making his eyes seem even bluer in contrast, his black hair waving wildly around his head, his long, hard-muscled limbs inelegantly sprawled, he was still so handsome that it made her sick. Her knowledge of her own appearance did not make her feel any better: she too was covered with dust, her face streaked with it, her hair in its long braid dulled by it. Her clothes filthy, her nightrail so stained with sweat and dirt so that she longed to tear it from her body, and her makeshift poncho so begrimed that it was nearly as dark as the black hat that hung from its string down her back. His dishevelment served only to emphasize his blatant maleness; hers, she thought, blotted out any claim to attractiveness she might once have possessed.
“Pull off your own boots,” she snarled, the deliberate absence of the shameful expletive in no way mitigating the venom that infused every word. He smiled up at her lazily. That particular curving of his lips was something she had learned to mistrust.
“Would you rather I turned you over to Minger?”
The soft question infuriated her. Sarah longed to tell him to do it and be damned—darned!—but she didn’t dare. He just might take her at her word. He was capable of it, the swine. Clenching her hands into fists under the cover of her poncho—she refused to let him see how he maddened her—she made her way to his feet. Bending, gritting her teeth to keep back the vocabulary of expletives that he had taught her by example, she picked up one of his feet and tugged at the dirt-caked boot. Nothing happened—except that her hands immediately got as filthy as the rest of her. Unable to stop herself, Sarah shot him a hateful look. He chuckled. Sarah felt her rage building dangerously. Her look grew even deadlier, but she managed—barely—to keep a rein on her temper. If she gave way to temptation and told him in satisfying detail exactly what he could do with himself and his boots, she would only fuel his amusement. Because, with the threat of Minger and his cohorts hanging over her head, she had no choice but to depend on him for protection. But oh, when she got him back to Lowella—she had not the slightest doubt that, sooner or late, he would be recaptured and returned to face her father’s vengeance—she would make him pay. It would not be Edward’s wrath he would have to worry about; it would be her own!
“Not that way. Turn around,” he told her, enjoyment plain in his voice.
Sarah’s lips tightened—she hoped not visibly—but she did as he told her.
“Now straddle my leg and pick up the boot.”
With poor grace Sarah did that too, wishing she were strong enough to break the dirty-leather-encased ankle between her hands.
“Hold on.”
To Sarah’s amazed fury, the words were scarcely out of his mouth before he was lifting his other foot and placing it squarely against her backside. Before she could react, he pushed—and she went stumbling forward, minus the boot.
“I told you to hold on. Now come back here and let’s try it again.”
Sarah straightened and glared at him—and obeyed. All he had to do was cast a single, significant look with those blue eyes at where Minger and the others were interestedly watching this byplay from across the fire. She turned, bent, picked up that filthy boot again—all the while giving free mental rein to her new vocabulary—and acquiesced while he placed his other boot familiarly against her backside and pushed. This time the boot came off. Sarah stared at it for a moment as she held it in her hands, having to battle against the urge to hurl it straight at that grinning face. But prudence won—for the moment.
“Now the other one.”
The operation was repeated, with Sarah no happier than before. When both boots had been removed, Sarah placed them side by side, with infinite care, by the edge of the bedroll.
“Anything else, master?” The words were meant to be sarcastic—indeed, from her tone he could have had no doubt of her intent—but he took them at face value just to torment her, Sarah suspected.
“Now you can go fetch my meal.”
Sarah stared at him sprawled like a pasha while he ordered her to wait on him. She knew that if she refused, it would give him great pleasure to compel her. And, if she had to do as he said, there was far more dignity in seeming not to mind than in putting up a battle that she was sure to lose.
Without a word she dug the tin plate and cup and utensils out of one saddlebag and carried them to where the cookpot and billycans were steaming over the fire. Filling the plate with the brown mess that she thought was meant to be meat stew, she had an awful urge to spit right on top of the glutinous mound. But, she reminded herself sternly, despite the extremes that that convict had reduced her to, she was still a lady. And ladies definitely did not spit into food.
Balancing the plate, the cup filled to the brim with hot tea, and the knife and spoon was no easy task, but she managed it. Dominic sat up as she approached, mockery plain in his dark face. Sarah ignored it. She handed him the food and stood watching as he dug into it. Her anger grew as he ate with apparent enjoyment without ever offering her so much as a bite. She was hungry too, dammit, and tired and dirty! She certainly wasn’t going to stand there and watch him devour her meal as well as his!
“If you’ve quite finished gorging yourself, I might point out that you are about to consume my dinner as well as your own.” Her voice was icy. Her hands-on-hips stance and belligerent glare were a little less cool.
“Miss Sarah’s back, is she?” he said, barely bothering to glance up.
This reference to the deliberate precision of her language—she absolutely refused to let herself slip down to his level again!—made her eyes flash angrily. But she would not allow herself to be drawn. That was his intention, she knew.
“You can eat when I’m done,” he continued, his tone condescending. “That’s when all good slaves eat, isn’t it? After their masters?”
“You woul
d know more about that than I,” she replied with malice. His answering glance was rapier sharp. But Sarah wasn’t about to back down now. If he grew angry, then that was just too bad.
“Yes, I would, wouldn’t I?” The very smoothness of his words told her how much she had annoyed him. Sarah smiled. She loved annoying him.
“Be careful I don’t decide to teach you your place the same way you tried to have me taught mine. Whipping slaves is quite an acceptable practice, I understand.”
Sarah sighed, no longer as angry. “I did not have you whipped,” she said for what must have been the dozenth time.
His answering sneer was equally familiar. “So you keep saying. I wonder why I don’t believe you.”
“Because you’re a stupid, stubborn, braying jackass!” she yelled, losing her temper with a vengeance.
From across the fire, Minger and the others, who could not have missed hearing that bellow even if they hadn’t been intently watching and listening, let loose a series of knee-slapping guffaws. Dominic, his face reddening angrily, set the plate aside and rose with awful slowness. Sarah, all too conscious of how angry he must be, nevertheless bravely stood her ground. She would not turn and flee like a coward. Even if she had wanted to, there was no place for her to run.
“I ought to beat hell out of you for that,” he told her in a growl audible to her ears alone. He had gripped her shoulders when he stood up. Now his hands tightened punishingly.
“Why don’t you?” she taunted, temper making her reckless.
“I’ll do even better,” he promised through clenched teeth. “I’ll . . .”
“Hey, Gallagher, it don’t look like you can handle her! You need a man to show you how to tame a she-cat like that!”
Dominic’s hands clenched even tighter around her shoulders, making Sarah wince. Her hands came up to catch his wrists, tugging at them beseechingly. She looked up to find that his eyes were fixed on the group across the fire. His expression was grim; she doubted that he was even aware of the strength of his grip on her.
“Aye, mate, we’re gettin’ awful tired of you bein’ the only one with a woman. The only fair thing to do is share her!”
“That’s right! How’d he get the lass anyways? I don’t recall doin’ any votin’!”
The chorus of voices from the other side of the fire made her back stiffen in alarm. They were baying like a pack of dogs with a hare in sight—and she was the hare. And this time, from the sound of them, they would not be distracted by a few jokes.
“Damn you, see what you’ve done?” he growled for her ears alone.
“Me!” Sarah shot back angrily, before the ridiculousness of fighting with him—her only protector!—occurred to her.
“You gonna be generous, Gallagher? Or do we have to make you?”
Staring up at him wide-eyed, Sarah saw his jaw clench at the challenge. His hands clenched too, reflexively, she thought, but even as she was wincing he released her.
“Stay out of the way,” he told her through his teeth, and put her to one side.
Freed of his grip, Sarah turned to find that Minger, Darby, and the third man, whose name she didn’t know, were advancing around the fire. Sarah stepped back a pace, then another.
“Stay back,” Dominic warned them in a voice that would have stopped Sarah in her tracks. The men just kept coming.
“We mean to have her, Gallagher. Why don’t you make it easy on all of us? I told you before—we won’t hurt her none. Just take what woman is made for takin’.” As Minger spoke, the three men gained the other side of the fire and began to spread out.
Dominic was taller and more muscular than any of them, Sarah thought, frantically weighing their chances. Despite Minger’s bull-like build, Darby’s rat-meanness, and the nameless other’s hulking shoulders and long arms, she would have been confident of Dominic’s victory over any one of them—individually. But they were clearly determined not to abide by the Queensberry Rules. Obviously, they subscribed to the doctrine that there was strength in numbers, and meant to take him three on one.
Sarah watched, her heart in her throat, as they closed on Dominic—and was unable to suppress a gasp as, with a roar, Minger charged with his head down and his arms spread as though to butt the larger man to the ground. Dominic stopped him with the quickest, hardest punch Sarah had ever seen. She gaped as Minger dropped like a stone to the ground. Maybe the battle would not be as one-sided as she had expected, she thought hopefully. Then, to her horror, as Dominic turned on the other two men, she saw Darby grope at his belt. In an instant a wicked-looking knife glittered in his outstretched hand. The other man, following suit, pulled his knife. Dominic jumped back as Darby lunged, and grabbed his own knife before whirling to meet the next charge. Sarah hysterically thanked God that the rifles were with the men’s saddles. The rifles . . .
“No need to make this a killin’ matter, Gallagher,” Darby wheedled softly. “Give us the woman and we’ll forget all about it.”
“Come and get her,” Dominic invited, half-crouched as he brandished his knife before him. The firelight glinted off the honed steel blade. Waving the knife and his other arm in the air, Dominic challenged all comers. Darby crouched too, in a replica of Dominic’s posture, as he slowly advanced. The other man, knife in hand, began to move out and around. When Dominic was between them, waving his knife threateningly at first one and then the other, the two began to close on him. On the ground, Minger groaned and sat up. Rubbing his jaw, he took a moment to absorb what was happening around him. Then he got slowly, lumberingly to his feet and, like the others, reached for his knife.
“I’m gonna cut your gizzard out for that, Gallagher, and then lay your lady-friend on top of it,” he snarled, and took a menacing step toward where Dominic waited to challenge the three of them.
“Don’t make another move!”
All four men ignored Sarah’s order. She jerked the rifle to her shoulder and fired a warning shot over Minger’s head—but not very far over. The breeze of it must have tickled his scalp as it whizzed by. He yelped, ducking and clapping a hand to his head to assure himself that it was still in one piece. The others—Dominic included—stopped in their tracks, turning to stare at her.
“Drop those knives. Now!”
They didn’t move, just stood there gaping at her, nearly identical expressions of incredulity on their faces. Clearly, they had dismissed her as a negligible entity in so masculine an undertaking as a fight. She, a woman, was supposed to wait cringing in fear until claimed by the victor as the spoils. Well, this time the spoils was doing a little fighting of her own.
“Believe me, I know how to use this thing, and I will,” she said calmly, aiming the rifle right between Darby’s bulging eyes. “I said drop those knives!”
Darby dropped his knife. Minger and the other man did too. Dominic, grinning, moved to pick them up. The men glared at him as he threw the three blades into the bush.
“I’ll get the horses,” Dominic said as he passed her, chuckling. “You keep holding them off. You’re doing a hell of a job.”
Sarah didn’t reply, just kept the rifle trained on the three glowering men. Not one of them made a move. Apparently the thought of a woman with her finger on the trigger unnerved them to the point of caution.
“Let’s go, Sarah.” Dominic, astride Kilkenny, drew up beside her, leading Minger’s big roan. “I’ve got things under control.”
Glancing up, Sarah saw that he had another rifle trained on the men. Looking hastily at the bulging saddlebags as she mounted—no easy task, straddling a man’s saddle with her nightrail to hamper her—she concluded approvingly that he had taken most of the provisions.
“I’m afraid the other horses have—uh—run off. You should be able to catch up with them in a day or two. But I left you some food—and your rifles. So count your blessings.” Dominic saluted the three, who watched sullen-faced as he nudged Sarah’s horse into a canter with his foot and then wheeled his own to follow.
&
nbsp; “You left them their rifles?” Sarah asked disapprovingly when they were out of sight of the camp. The rifle she had extracted from Dominic’s gear lay across her saddle bow; he had restored the one he had taken to the holster strapped to one side.
“Why not?” he said, grinning. When Sarah spluttered, trying to burst forth with a dozen reasons at once, he leaned over to pat a bulging saddlebag. “I took the bullets.”
They rode in silence for a little while before Dominic chuckled.
“What’s funny?” She glanced at him without much favor.
He chuckled again, shaking his head. “You are, my girl. Not one female in ten thousand would have done what you did tonight. Most would have had hysterics or swooned. But you—you took stock of the situation and did what you could to correct it. My practical Sarah! Lord, did you see the look on Minger’s face when you nearly scalped him with that bullet?” He chuckled again, clearly enjoying the memory. “They’ll never get over it, being caught off guard by a mere slip of a girl!”
“Will you?”
He looked over at her, still grinning. “What did you say?”
“I said, will you—ever get over being caught off guard by a mere slip of a girl?” She mimicked his words. His grin slowly began to fade as, with a widening smile, she lifted the rifle from her saddle bow and pointed it squarely at his midsection. “Start heading west. We’re going back to Lowella, Gallagher.”
XIX
“Dammit, Sarah . . .”
“Miss Sarah,” she corrected, enjoying herself hugely as anger built in his face. It was long past midnight; she had had an exhausting day and little sleep the night before. She should have felt dreadful, but having Gallagher at her mercy again sent energy bursting through her.
“You wouldn’t use that.” He was looking at her from beneath frowning black brows.
Sarah smiled at him. “Try me.” The words were a soft challenge. The rifle never wavered as she pointed it at his belly. Then, slowly, she brought the barrel up a little, changing its target. “But not to kill. I think I’d put a bullet right through your elbow. You would probably lose the use of that arm for life. Now pass your rifle over here. And your knife. Carefully.”
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