Mystic Mountains

by Tricia McGill

  She relaxed, returning the candlestick she'd been gripping to the bedside chest. Frightened that if she lay down she would doze off she sat for at least a half hour, listening to Tiger moving about next door. Eventually there was silence in the house.

  Not bearing to dwell on what she was doing in case she weakened, she picked up the small bundle of belongings she'd shoved beneath the bed. She checked that the long-bladed knife she'd stolen was fixed securely down her belt. With one long look about the room that had been such a joy to her until the night he'd shattered all her hopes, she opened the door carefully and peeped out.

  The house sighed and groaned as it settled for the night. A mouse scampered across the rug, heading for a gap at the side of the fireplace. Tiptoeing across the kitchen, Isabella propped the letter by the lamp in the middle of the table. Her only regret was leaving Thelma and Dougal without telling them where she was going. But she wasn't sure of her destination, and didn't want them coming after her.

  Before she could change her mind she went out and closed the front door, setting off down the path resolutely. It was a cloudy night with the promise of a storm in the air. Her bundle wasn't heavy, for she'd not brought much with her. What did she need with the things Tiger Carstairs had given her? Her new owner would supply her with the essentials. Striding out along the road to town she experienced a moment's regret for what she'd left behind. In a wild fit of rage and frustration she'd taken a knife to the gown she'd worn to the ball, ripping it to shreds.

  Her anger gave her strength, and for the first few miles she kept up a steady pace, but as she neared the town her spirits began to droop along with her energy.

  She would make for Gracie's place of employment. The government official she worked for would put her in touch with the right authority. If she ended up at Parramatta in the female factory, so what? Tiger had turned her into a whore, so if she had to satisfy the lusts of the officers in that brothel at least she could begin to earn a few pennies of her own.

  At that thought she sank down by a tree, curling her legs beneath her. How had her life, which looked so promising, turned into this desolate mire? She would have done just as well to have gone with Malloy that first day. He wanted her for one purpose alone, but Tiger had turned out to be no different. The only difference was she'd foolishly given him her heart. What a fool. Life didn't hand out happy endings to people like her.

  Scrambling to her feet, she walked on. She'd only once been to the home where Gracie worked. Uncertain of the exact whereabouts she stood in the shadow of a double storey building while she took her bearings. Looking up she saw she was on the corner of Pitt Street and King Street. It wasn't far from there, she knew.

  Gnawing her lip she listened to the noises coming from the wharf area. She would be able to get a job down there easily enough. But did she have the audacity to just walk into a tavern and ask for work? No. The thought of entering one of those vile dens sickened her. Ever since Malloy kidnapped her she'd lived in fear of entering The Rocks. Remembering that night brought on memories of Tiger, and how he'd rescued her. Was she a fool for running away? Could she have borne a life as his whore?

  Shaking her head she emerged from her hiding place and stealthily limped on. She went rigid with fright when a hand suddenly clamped over her mouth and the strong aroma of rum, tobacco and sweat surrounded her. Her captor's other hand gripped her about the waist, so tightly it nearly cut off her breath.

  "Well, well, what's a nice little tart like you doing poking about in my territory, eh?" When she tried to struggle free the man laughed evilly. "It's not often I get such a juicy bit of female flesh practically falling in me lap." He guffawed, squeezing one of her breasts until she cried out at the pain. "Yes, very juicy." With a small sound of surprise he discovered her weapon and laughed again as he withdrew it and waved it in front of her face. "Well, well, a slut with a blade, eh?"

  Isabella groaned. No, not another such as Malloy. The strong smell of rum made her want to vomit as he brought his face round until it was level with hers. Now she'd lost the chance to defend herself.

  "Scum!" she screamed, and with all her might jabbed her elbow into his middle. His soft grunt was reassuring. If she didn't get away now, he'd use her knife on her. She kicked him in the shins, then brought her foot up and stamped down as hard as she could on his ankle. He cried out in surprise, loosening his grip. Isabella ran.

  At that moment a carriage came out of the darkness. Isabella heard the driver's warning call, heard the horses snort with fear, heard the wheels crunching, then a screech as the driver applied the brake. She hit the front leg of the nearest horse, and fell backwards. Her head hit the ground with a sharp crack and she dropped into blackness.

  "What is it, Jenkins?" the man who clambered from the carriage demanded. "What the bloody hell's happened?"

  "'Tis a woman, sir. She ran in front of us." The driver jumped down from the bench seat and bent over the sprawled body. "I think the horse struck her." Touching her arm, he breathed a heavy sigh when she moved and groaned. "At least she ain't dead, sir."

  "Thank the Lord. Bring her up, and put her inside." Lieutenant Gareth Moreton also breathed a sigh. Good God. What if the girl had died? The resulting scandal didn't bear thinking about. Here in the colony life was pretty cheap, but nonetheless scandals among the upper echelon were still held up and dissected at every opportunity. A mild-mannered and honorable member of the Forty Eighth Northamptonshire Foot regiment, Moreton had no interest in bringing scandal down around his neck. He was betrothed, due to marry in a matter of months. An inquiry as to why he was racing through Sydney Town in a carriage at this time of night would make life awkward, to say the least.

  The woman groaned and opened her eyes. "How are you feeling?" Gareth queried softly, taking her hand and squeezing it.

  "My head hurts." Isabella couldn't see the man leaning over her because her eyes refused to focus, but his voice was kindly. He had the smell of a gentleman about him, and past experience had taught her it didn't pay to trust them. Stifling her fear she tried to lift her head to glance furtively about. "That man jumped out on me. I tried to run away . . ."

  "Yes, yes, don't worry now. He's taken off. You're quite safe with me."

  That was a matter of opinion, but for the moment there was little she could do about it. Her head ached and she felt dizziness engulf her.

  "Jenkins, lift the young lady into the carriage," he ordered the hovering driver, saying in that soft voice that encouraged her confidence, "Careful man, that's the ticket, gently does it."

  "My bundle," Isabella said as she hunched into a corner of the carriage, a hand to the back of her throbbing head.

  "What? Oh, yes, Jenkins, the lady's belongings. Fetch them."

  He nodded at his driver, who came back with the package and placed it at her feet.

  "Where to, sir?" he asked, winking at Isabella. She gave him a wan smile as he patted her in a fatherly fashion on her knee.

  "Where is your home, madam? Where were you heading so late at night, alone?" Gareth scratched at his short crop of carroty hair. She didn't look like a harlot, so what was a respectable young woman doing out and about in this part of town?

  "Home?" she asked vaguely, before she slumped back, obviously in a swoon.

  "Saints preserve us. Jenkins, you're a sensible chap. What do you suggest we do with the lady? Take her to the infirmary?"

  Jenkins shook his head. "I doubt they could do much with her, sir. She looks to have a bad bump on the head. A bit of a kip should have her on the mend, I'd say."

  "Um, well. Perhaps you could take her home with you?" Moreton suggested. "Your lady wife would know what to do with her."

  Jenkins stepped back as if shot.

  "Oh no, sir." Holding both hands in front of him like a shield, he cried, "My missus wouldn't hold with me bringing no stray woman home in the middle of the night. I'd like as not be thrown out on me ear. No, sir, you'll have to think of something else."


  Gareth would have laughed if it weren't so serious. "I have an idea. It's the only one I can come up with at this late stage. Jenkins, return to where you just picked me up. The good lady will not turn away another female in need, I'm sure."

  Jenkins grinned and nodded. "Perfect sir," he agreed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  "Gareth, darling; what on earth are you doing back here?" Selena gasped her surprise when Jenkins pushed past him with the limp girl in his arms.

  "Selena, I didn't know where else to take the unfortunate soul." Gareth raised his eyes and gave his mistress a grin he hoped would placate her. He felt sheepish now, but still could think of no better place to take the wench.

  "Unfortunate soul? What the hell do you mean?" There was a touch of hysteria in the question.

  "This woman ran in front of the carriage," he explained. "She's unconscious, my dear. I had no idea what to do with her. You know what a scandal it would cause if I reported it to the authorities."

  "What do you take me for? Why have you brought a dead body to my house?" There was definitely hysteria threading her voice now. "Take her away. I demand you remove her from my house." Selena pointed one of her white fingers at the door.

  But Jenkins had already put the woman down on the chaise and she moaned as she regained consciousness.

  "Where am I?" she mumbled.

  "Well, I'll be damned." Selena sauntered over and stood staring down at the woman, her lips curled in a sneer. She put a finger to her chin and tapped it thoughtfully. "How strange fate is, Gareth darling." This was the convict woman she'd seen with the others of Tiger's household outside the church one Sunday. Numerous people told her with spiteful relish how she had accompanied him to the ball. "If it isn't Tiger Carstairs' whore."

  Gareth went to join her. "It's the woman who attended the Governor's Christmas shindig, all right. But steady on, Selena darling. There's no proof that she's his harlot."

  Selena smirked. "Gareth darling, sometimes you're so gullible. Tiger isn't the sort of man to live without a woman in his bed for long. What other reason would he have for taking such a plain little thing to the ball? No, he's grown mean as well as arrogant, too stingy to pay for what he can get free." Her emerald eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "You say she ran into your horse, eh?"

  Gareth disagreed about the wench's looks. He found her pleasing to the eye. But then women saw things differently. He nodded, and Selena's laugh was a merry tinkle. He frowned, seeing nothing amusing in this at all.

  "So she was running away from the high and mighty Tiger, was she? That's the only explanation for her being out alone this far from his property. What a splendid joke. Did she say where she was heading, darling?"

  "No, she swooned before I got any sense out of her. Can she stay, Selena?"

  Selena patted him on the hand and gave him a serene smile. Gareth was a dear, but he would never take the place of Tiger. God, how she hated that golden giant. And how she missed his passion, his fire. Probably there was no man alive who would ever match up to him. This doxie had played right into her hands.

  "Of course she can stay." She ran a finger up his arm and gave him one of her most provocative smiles. "How could I turn another woman away? She's obviously in need of a place to stay, or why else would she be wandering the streets at night."

  "Thank you, Selena." Gareth breathed a sigh of relief. "I'll be by tomorrow. Is that all right?" He gave her a diffident smile.

  Selena returned his smile, her eyes narrowing. Poor Gareth, he was still unsure where he stood with her. "Yes, darling, that will be fine." As he made for the door, after placing a swift kiss on her cheek, she called after him, halting him with his fingers on the latch. "And Gareth, don't say a word about her to anyone. The poor girl obviously doesn't want her whereabouts known, so it would be best if Tiger doesn't know she's here, don't you think?"

  "Excellent idea," he agreed, smiling gratefully.

  "Oh, and make sure the driver keeps his mouth shut too."

  "I will. Goodnight." He gave her another thankful look as he waved before climbing into the carriage.

  "Goodnight, Gareth darling." Selena watched until the vehicle rumbled off into the night, then went back to stand over her rival. Smug satisfaction made her want to jig like a girl, something she hadn't done in an age.

  * * *

  "Wh . . . Where am I?" Isabella licked her dry lips and pushed herself onto her elbows. Shaking her head slightly she tried to focus on something. Then she remembered. The ruffian had grabbed her. Then the carriage . . .

  "Oh my." Putting a hand to the back of her head, she winced. The swelling there was as big as a fowl's egg.

  "At least you didn't cut your scalp," a soft and vaguely familiar voice said from behind the couch where she lay. Isabella sat up, then held her head in her hands as the room began to spin.

  "Steady now, you had a nasty bump on the head. Take it easy," the voice drawled.

  Isabella did as ordered, then turned slowly to face the woman. How strange. Surely this was Selena Drake. Peering more closely at the beautiful woman above her, she saw she was right. She looked about. Was this the house of the woman who'd been Tiger's mistress? And if it was, what was she doing here?

  "What am I doing here?" She put her thought into words as she managed to finally put her feet to the floor.

  Wrapped in a flimsy pink house gown that fell in soft folds over her voluptuous figure the woman drifted over to stand in front of Isabella. "Here, drink this, it will make you feel better." She offered a fine china teacup.

  "Thank you . . . I don't understand." Isabella sipped at the hot liquid, the saucer clutched between fingers that shook slightly.

  "A good friend of mine, Lieutenant Gareth Moreton, happened to be a passenger in the carriage you ran into, my dear. Fortunately for you he's a gentleman. As he was handy to my house he brought you here. I dread to think what fate may have befallen you if you'd ended up in the hands of one of the rogues who plague the streets after dark. What in God's name were you doing out at this time of night on your own . . . Isabella, isn't it?"

  "Yes, it is. I was . . . going to a friend. How did you know my name?"

  "Oh my dear, you've been the talk of the town since you went to the ball on the renowned Tiger's arm." Sitting next to Isabella she arched her perfect brows. "A friend? After dark? In this town? Come now, only an idiot would risk their life like that. And something tells me you are no fool, Isabella."

  "Call me Bella, everyone does. No, you're right. I may as well tell you the truth. I couldn't stay in his house any more. I'd rather not say why. But I had to leave, and I had to do it when I couldn't be followed. I'm still his servant, owned by him, an' he will follow me, I know. Even though I'm the last person he wants in his home." Isabella tried not to let her despair show.

  "Why on earth would you think that?" Selena leant nearer, obviously puzzled.

  "I don't want to talk about it, Selena." Isabella took a mouthful of the tea. "May I call you that?"

  "Of course." Selena shrugged her exquisite shoulders. "I don't have very loving thoughts where Tiger Carstairs is concerned. If you say you have no wish to return to him, I can understand that, and let me say my sympathies are with you. The only problem now is the authorities." Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "They'll be after you once he's reported you've absconded. Gareth won't say you're here. He's reliable. You can stay here with me until you decide what you want to do."

  "Thank you. I'd be very grateful." Isabella nibbled at her bottom lip. "But I won't be able to repay you. I can't get paid work. I was going to apply for a transfer to a new owner. My friend Gracie is working for an official. I was hoping her master would put in a good word for me to get me a job in his kitchen. I'd sooner go to the female factory than go back to Tiger."

  Selena recoiled in shock. "You have no idea what you're talking about. The dregs live and work down there. You'd soon lose all self-respect and end up no better than the whores who populate it. No, my dear, a
sensible woman uses her head as well as her body. Do you like my house?" She glanced about the room.

  "It's lovely." Bella looked about, taking in the polished dining table and four padded chairs, the dresser stocked with fine bone china, the tall clock in the corner, the chaise they were sitting on. It was a finely furnished room. Candles in ornate holders sent a soft glow over everything. Isabella had never seen a more fetching place in her life, apart from the Governor's residence. Quickly she stifled that thought; she would never think of that magical night again.

  "I own all this. There aren't many women in the colony who can boast that. All right, so the wives and their daughters may snub me and look down their refined noses at me. But I don't have to take orders from any man. I do as I please, take lovers as I fancy. These pasty-faced matrons and the sallow misses who sneer at me are locked in cages of their own making. How would you like to be your own woman, Bella? Have your own home, your own space, be answerable to no man?"

  "It certainly sounds as if you're getting the best of a bargain, Selena. But how can you?" Isabella cleared her throat. "I mean . . . don't you have to . . .?"

  "Let's not be coy, Bella. I entertain men callers. Let's face it, most of the other women in the colony sleep with men. The difference is that I get paid handsomely for my favors. I have all this." She spread her arms to encompass the comfortable room.

  "Other women are used by their men, suffer all sorts of indignities, and then own nothing. If they're dissatisfied with their lot in life they cannot walk away from it. They would be thrown out without a penny or a scrap of clothing to call their own. It's a sad fact that most men, once married, treat their wives no better than chattels, while they are off playing with the other men in their clubs, or with their mistresses. And the mistresses get paid handsomely while the wives have to lie back and think of other things." She chuckled. "'Tis the way of the world."