Dark Torment (23 page)

“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 grass, 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.

Sarah found the strength to glare at him. “Having
fun,” she muttered, the words heavy with sarcasm. His eyes narrowed.
“Does it matter?” she continued. “You can take my word for
it, I didn’t plan it. Could you please untie my hands?—if
they’re still there. I’m hardly likely to be a threat to you.
You’re much bigger than I.”

He didn’t like her tone, she could tell by the ominous
tightening of his mouth, but he didn’t say anything, just rolled her onto
her side so that he could get at her hands. What he saw made him swear under
his breath. His hands were oddly gentle as they worked the knots loose.

When her hands were free, Sarah rolled back onto her back,
bringing her hands in front of her with an effort that sent needles through her
arms and shoulders, She shook her hands, gingerly, until she felt the blood
flowing back into her fingertips. Then she brought her hands together, rubbing
her raw wrists.

He didn’t say a word, but his expression was stony as he
stared at the raw bands of flesh encircling her wrists. For a moment Sarah
thought he might apologize for having bound her so tightly, and she looked up
at him, thinking that if he did it would be a good sign. But he did not. He got
to his feet, moved to where the horse stood with its head lowered, trying
vainly to find a blade of green among the brown, and untied a chamois pouch
from behind the saddle.

“You have water,” she croaked accusingly, thinking of
the hours she had just passed dreaming of just a drop to wet her parched lips.

His eyes raked her as she lay limply in the small circle of shade
cast by a solitary smoke tree, her tawny hair fallen around her pointed face to
form a tangled lion’s mane, her golden eyes huge and faintly unfocused as
she tried to glare, her soft, full lips cracked and coated with dust. Sarah
felt his eyes on the uncovered length of her legs, and made an instinctive
attempt to pull down the torn hem of her dust- and perspiration-streaked
nightrail. But the movement required too much effort. Her hand fell limply back
to rest beside her.

“A little late for modesty now,” he said caustically,
coming down on one knee beside her again and sliding a hand behind her head,
lifting it slightly while he held the contoured nozzle of the pouch to her
lips. Sarah drank thirstily, until he pulled the pouch away.

“Drink too much and you’ll be ill,” he told her.
Sarah had lived in the bush country long enough to know that, and had even said
it herself more than once. But she had never before realized how one could
crave water, lust for it, need it with an intensity that defied all reason. She
made a halfhearted grab for the soft pouch, but he pulled it farther out of her
reach. “You can have more later.”

He stood up, his big body blocking the sun, and took a brief
swallow from the water pouch. As he tilted his head back, the clean lines of
his throat and chin were exposed. His skin was bronzed, she saw, far darker
than it had been when he had disappeared from Lowella a month ago. A
night’s stubble of black whiskers toughened his appearance, making him
look more like a bandit than the seasoned bushrangers. He had filled out some,
his shoulders in the snug-fitting red shirt so broad that they gave her pause,
his waist and hips and legs still lean but tautly muscled.

He turned away to refasten the water pouch to the saddle. The
thought of gathering her slowly returning strength and using this opportunity
to flee occurred to Sarah, to be savored and then, reluctantly, dismissed. He
would catch her in seconds. And he wouldn’t even need the horse to do it.

“Here.” He was back, kneeling beside her again,
dropping a blanket to the ground nearby. The bandanna was no longer tied around
his neck, she saw as he bent over her, but was in his hand, darkened where he
had moistened it with a little of the precious water. “You should have
told me what bad shape you were in.”

Sarah met his gaze, relieved at the touch of the cool cloth on her
burning skin even though she tried to glare at him. “I had no reason to
believe you would have been concerned.”

His face hardened. “Unlike you, I don’t take pleasure
from causing gratuitous suffering. I have no wish for you to be uncomfortable.
The punishment I have in mind for you won’t cause you any pain. At least,
not as long as you’re a good girl and do as you’re told.” His
hand, which had been wiping her face with the cloth, moved down to slide the
blessed coolness over her neck. Then, to her horror, she felt him slip his hand
beneath the prim neckline of her nightrail and swish the cloth casually between
and beneath her breasts, his knuckles brushing the soft crests, accidentally,
she thought. But it was no accident the way her nipples suddenly sprang to
attention. Galvanized into action, Sarah struggled into a sitting position,
thrusting his hand away.

“Get your hands off me!”