Dark Torment (31 page)

“What’s the matter?” His voice was sharp.

“We’re going to make camp. I want you to dismount,
unsaddle Kilkenny, and carry your gear over under that tree. And watch
yourself. I would hate to have to shoot you.”

“Not as much as I would hate for you to,” he observed
dryly. With surprising efficiency, considering that he had had no more sleep
than she, he carried out her instructions.

“Now come unsaddle my horse,” Sarah ordered when he
had finished. She dismounted, careful to keep the rifle trained on him, and
stood to one side as he obeyed. When her gear was stowed under the tree along
with his, she had him water the horses, then tether them near a bush with a few
remaining green leaves so that they could eat, following along behind him all
the while. Finally she ordered him to build a fire.

“Now lie down on your stomach,” she instructed when
that was done. He was squatting before the small fire. At her words, he got
slowly to his feet. Sarah refused to allow herself to be intimidated by the
height and breadth of him, but she did take a step backward. It would be
foolish to allow him to get too close.

“Planning to ravish me, are you?” he asked
sardonically. “You’ll need me on my back for that. But then, you do
lack experience, don’t you?”

“Close your filthy mouth and lie down!”

He looked at her for a long moment, in which the issue hung in the
balance. Sarah kept the rifle aimed steadily at him, her eyes determined as
they met his. At last he grimaced, and dropped first to his knees and then to
his belly.

“Now put your hands behind your back.” Triumph gave
Sarah her second wind. It was amazing how much difference a loaded rifle could
make; the feeling of power it gave her was intoxicating, and it intensified as
he obediently put his hands behind his back.

He was lying between the dropped saddles and the fire. Sarah
walked over to the gear, careful to keep a wary eye on her prisoner, and
extracted a rope. Then, rope in hand, she approached where he lay sprawled in
the dust, his face turned so that he could watch her every move, his long legs
spraddled, his hands resting one on top of the other in the small of his back.
His eyes were a deep obsidian blue as he stared at her. The expression in them
made her that much more careful.

“I’m going to put this rifle against the back of your
neck and then I’m going to tie your hands,” she said carefully.
“It’s loaded, and cocked, so if I were you I wouldn’t so much
as breathe hard. Unless you want a hole in your neck the size of Melbourne,
that is.”

“Listen, Sarah . . .”

“Don’t talk!” she said, warily approaching.
“You’re not going to get me to change my mind with your
damn—darned!—Irish blarney. But you’re liable to make me
angry, and with a rifle against your neck I wouldn’t want that to happen.
Would you?”

He didn’t reply. Sarah watched him for a moment, then
decided that it was now or never. She could barely keep her eyes open as it
was. Pointing the rifle directly at his head, she moved toward him until the
mouth of the barrel rested against the back of his neck.

“Turn your face away. Carefully!” This was so that he
couldn’t watch her all the time. If he watched, he was bound to see her
concentration slip from the rifle to his hands. And then it would be very easy
to surprise her with a sudden quick move.

He obeyed, the movement sullen. Sarah hesitated, then propped the
rifle—which she had stealthily uncocked in case of an
accident—against her hip, and bent to tie his hands. When they were
secured to her satisfaction, she stepped back hastily, the rifle swinging to
her shoulder once more.

“Now stand up.”

“Sarah . . .”

“
Miss
Sarah. And I said stand up!”

He stood, his movements awkward because of his bound hands. She
gestured him over to the tree and ordered him to sit with his back against it.
He did, but with obvious reluctance.

“Hold still.” She had come up with an ingenious plan
for ensuring that he didn’t get the opportunity to attack her while she
was tying him to the tree. First she passed the rope around his throat and the
tree trunk and tied it tightly. With the rope threatening to cut off his breath
if he moved, and his hands bound securely behind his back, she didn’t
think there was a chance of him overpowering her while she trussed him up. Her
plan worked like a charm. He did nothing more than sit there glowering at her
as she passed the rope around and around his body before tying it in a series
of knots in the back.

“What are you going to do if our bushranger friends find us?
Or some other, equally nefarious characters?” He was taunting her as she
stood admiring her handiwork.

“I am an excellent shot, thank you. I believe I can take
care of myself.” She refused to seriously consider such a possibility.
Her luck couldn’t be that bad—she hoped.

“How am I supposed to sleep like this?” he complained.

“You’re not. I am.”

Satisfied that he was tied securely, she moved away to open her
bedroll. His knife gleamed up at her; tucking it with the rest of the gear, she
sank down on the blankets with a sigh. Her eyelids felt as if they were
attached to lead weights. . . .

“Don’t I even get a meal?”

Sarah roused herself to glare at him. “Don’t you ever
shut up?”

“I’m hungry.”

“What a shame.” She had meant to prepare a simple
meal, but she was simply too tired. They could eat when she woke. Her eyelids
fluttered shut.

“Dammit to hell, Sarah, at least put out the fire before you
fall asleep. We could be roasted alive! As dry as this brush is, all it would
take is one spark to set the whole countryside ablaze.”

There was sense in what he said, she knew. She had meant to fix
tea and beans over the fire, not to let it burn all night. Struggling to her
feet, she stumbled to the fire and scooped handfuls of dust over it until not a
single ember glowed. Then she just managed to make it back to her blanket
before collasping. Her eyes closed as soon as her head found the saddle. Her
last conscious thought was of the malevolent glare in Dominic’s eyes as
he watched her curl up in the bedroll. She mistrusted the look in his eyes. . .
. Her hand reached out to clutch the rifle nestled beside her before she fell
deeply asleep.

The sun bright against her eyelids teased them open the next
morning. Blinking, staring straight up at the scraggly eucalyptus branches
overhead, it took her a moment to remember where she was and what had happened.
Then it all came back to her with a rush. She turned her head, and her eyes
found Dominic. He was leaning back against the tree, his head slumped sideways
as far as it could go with the rope around his neck, his eyes shut. The coils
of rope still bound him securely to the tree. Sarah first felt relief that he
had not managed to work himself loose, and then a stab of compunction at his
posture, which looked extremely uncomfortable. But last night she had not been
able to think of any other way to secure him so that she might get some sleep.

Picking up the rifle, she stood up, stretching her muscles
painfully. With a quick glance at Dominic, who hadn’t moved so much as an
eyelash as far as she could tell, she pulled the poncho off her head—she
had been too tired and too wary to remove it the night before, although she had
managed to take off her hat before falling asleep—and shook it
vigorously. The resulting cloud of dust made her cough and close her eyes.

“You’ll find some clothes in one of my saddlebags. I
took Darby’s extras when I was gathering up the gear. I would have told
you about them earlier, but you didn’t give me a chance.”

Sarah cast him a startled glance, to find that his blue eyes were
raking her body, which was covered only by the thin rag that was all that was
left of her nightrail. Blushing, she immediately turned her back to him and
pulled the poncho back over her head. She was embarrassed that he should see
her so scantily clad, but along with the embarrassment was another feeling, a
curious tingling that ran all the way down to her toes. Sarah felt her nipples
hardening, and silently said another of those words with which Dominic had
enriched her vocabulary. Why did he have to be so handsome? she asked herself
despairingly. Just the sight of him was enough to make her body throb and burn,
despite every reprehensible thing he had done to her. She could not even quell
the achy feeling by reminding her hungry flesh that he was a convict and
probably despised her, to boot.

“You’d get a big laugh out of seeing me tricked out in
men’s clothes, wouldn’t you?” she accused, turning, suddenly
inordinately angry.

He shrugged. “Wear what you want. If you enjoy being filthy,
then by all means, don’t change.”

Sarah looked at him for a long moment, undecided. Then cleanliness
won out. She would change, no matter how ridiculous or scandalous the clothes
might make her look. And she would take a moment to bathe, too. With a haughty
lift to her chin, she bent and began to rummage in Dominic’s saddlebags.
A pair of dark breeches and a gaudy blue shirt came immediately to hand. They
were of poor materials, and coarsely sewn, but they were relatively clean. And
since Darby had been on the thin side and she was tall, they shouldn’t be
too terrible a fit.

“Where are you going?” Dominic called after her as she
headed for the creek, clothes in hand.

“To bathe,” she called back, grinning despite herself
as she heard him groan, “Can’t you at least untie me first?”

By the time she returned to their camp, she felt infinitely
better. She had sat in the middle of the stream and scrubbed every inch of her
body, including her nails, each of which to her shame had managed to collect a
tiny crescent of grime. Then she had submerged her whole body, lying on her
back on the rocky streambed while she scrubbed her hair with sand. When at last
she emerged, she dried herself on the inside of the nightrail—having been
next to her skin, it had stayed comparatively clean—before donning her
new garb and rebraiding her hair. The breeches were a trifle loose and had to
be rolled up at the bottom so that she could walk; the shirt was even looser,
with long sleeves that she pushed above her elbows. The dark blue of the
breeches was unexceptionable—if one could call a lady dressed in breeches
unexceptionable—but the brilliant cobalt of the shirt made her feel like
a peacock on the strut. She had never in her life worn such a bright color, and
it made her uneasy.

Sarah retraced her steps very slowly, feeling more uncomfortable
by the moment at the thought of Dominic’s seeing her dressed as she was.
She didn’t know if she was bothered more by the impropriety of his seeing
her clad in breeches, or by the unbecomingly revealing clothes. To her dismay,
she suspected it was the latter, and fiercely castigated herself for always
wishing to appear attractive to him.

To her surprise, he made no comment about her appearance—she
had expected barbed jibes at her expense. Indeed, although she watched him
carefully as she approached, she could discern no reaction except for a slight
hardening of his eyes. Still feeling uneasy, she got the fire started and
quickly set up a billycan for tea. That done, she fried bacon in an iron pan
that he had also brought. When it was crispy, she ate a portion and swallowed a
cup of scalding, bitter tea, all under his eagle eyes.

“Going to starve me to death?” he inquired nastily as
she filled the cup a second time.

“It’s a thought,” she replied, carrying the cup
and the pan with the remaining bacon over to where he sat. “But I think
I’d rather watch you hang,” she added, setting the food aside and
pointing the rifle, which had never left her side, at him. He stared first at
it, then at her. She thought his expression looked sullen, and smiled with
delight at having so thoroughly gotten the best of him.

“I’m going to untie you. Don’t make any sudden
moves.” She held the rifle on him for a moment longer, savoring his
helplessness, then walked around the tree and began to work on the knots. It
took her considerably longer than she had expected; she congratulated herself
on having tied such knots when she was physically exhausted. But at last he was
free. She gathered up the rope, then moved around to stand in front of him
again, gesturing him to stand with the rifle. Then she had him move away from
the tree and lie on the ground, and repeated the previous day’s procedure
for untying his hands. She had to work at those knots, too, and when at last
they were loose she winced inwardly at the chafed marks on his wrists. She had
not realized that she had bound him so tightly.

“All right, get up.”

He stood again. Sarah stood over him with the rifle while he ate
the food she had saved for him, then oversaw his activities as he packed their
gear and loaded it on the two horses. When at last the animals were saddled,
she motioned him to mount first, then swung herself into the saddle. He obeyed
her every instruction without argument. Sarah didn’t know whether to
congratulate herself on his docility or to be wary of it. In the end she
decided to be wary. She was as cautious as she could be, keeping her horse well
behind his and her eyes trained on his back.

Two hours later he made the move she had been half-expecting. They
had just passed a dilapidated shepherd’s hut, the first
building—though the sagging wooden shack could not really be dignified
with such a name—they had seen in days. Lowella’s western boundary
could not have been more than a couple of miles distant. To reach the homestead
itself would be about a six-hour ride. Soon she would have to make a final
judgment on what to do about Dominic, though secretly she knew that the matter
had already been decided. She would never be able to live with herself if she
did not let him go. But not quite yet . . .