Dark Torment (29 page)

“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 would 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.