Dark Torment (5 page)

“What do you want?” His husky whisper was rough with
pain and, she thought, hostility.

“I—I came to help you. I have some salve for your
back.” His lack of any immediately violent movement soothed her fright.
What would he gain from harming her, after all? He could not escape, and he
must know that if he hurt her he would be killed—probably beaten to
death. But for all her reasoning she could not still the little shivers of
apprehension and something else that crawled up and down her spine. Never
before had she been this close to a half-naked man. The sheer masculinity of
his bare back disturbed her more than did the wounds she had come to treat. To
say nothing of his hair-matted chest, just visible as he lifted his head to
look at her. And the smell of him. Raw and earthy, composed of sweat and blood
and a musky scent that defied description. It galvanized her. She tugged at her
trapped hand, but he would not release her wrist.

“It’s the little Good Samaritan, isn’t
it?” From the bitter, biting words, Sarah deduced that he had indeed been
cognizant this afternoon when she had thrust herself between him and the whip.
The knowledge should have made her feel safer. It did not. “Trying to buy
your way into heaven with good deeds?” he continued, sneering.
“Well, forget it. I don’t want your help.”

With that, he tossed her wrist back at her and turned his head
away. Perversely, now that she was free to go, Sarah stayed where she was,
surveying the back of his dark, well-shaped head. His hair was wildly tousled,
grown overlong and matted with blood. From the look of it, it had not been
combed in months. Or washed, either.

“Whether you want help or not, your back needs attention. I
mean to see to it.”

Her fear had largely vanished when he released her wrist, though
her skin still tingled from the strength of his grip. If he meant to harm her,
he would already have done so. His harsh words and tone had aroused her ire,
instead. It showed in the tartness of her voice.

“And I have no choice in the matter?” He turned to
look at her, his eyes glittering almost silver in the moonlight. “Oh,
that’s right, you
own
me, don’t you? Your papa bought me
this afternoon.” The sneer was more pronounced; his lip curled at her.

Sarah’s lips tightened. “That’s right, he
did,” she agreed coolly.

“Nobody owns me!” The words, despite the soft,
Irish-sounding lilt that gave his voice an unexpected attraction, were harshly
vehement. Sarah said nothing, just returned him look for look. His lips twisted
into what was almost a snarl. The faintest glimmer of white teeth showed
between them. “Especially not a scrawny, do-gooding female with about as
much feminity as a broomstick! What’s the matter, lady, can’t you
get a man to warm your bed? Are you so frustrated you had to have papa buy you
one?”

Sarah’s mouth dropped open in shock. But as his words began
to sink in she felt anger course hot and swift through her veins.

“Why, you ungrateful swine!” she said. “If it
weren’t for me, you’d be fish bait in Melbourne’s harbor
right now! How dare you say such things to me! I’ll have you . . .”
Her voice trailed off as she realized what, in her unusual burst of temper, she
had nearly threatened him with.

“Whipped?” he guessed with deadly accuracy. “Is
that how you get your excitement? Watching a man being beaten? Or do you like
to do it yourself?”

“If you don’t shut your nasty mouth, I’ll have
someone shut it for you!” Her voice rose as her anger returned in full
force. She leaped to her feet, uncaring of the box in her lap, which tumbled to
the floor, spilling medical supplies in all directions. “I must have been
insane to stop them today! My father was right: you deserved every lick, and
more. I wish they had beaten you to death! I . . .”

A spreading pool of golden light stopped her in midtirade. Eyes
widening, Sarah turned toward the stall door and saw the dark figure of a man
looming there, his lantern held high. The sudden bright light blinded her, so
she could not make out his features, but she knew it had to be either her
father or Percival.

“What the bloody hell?” The angry growl was
Percival’s. “You little slut, if you—” His words choked
off abruptly. The lantern wavered and then was lowered, and Sarah saw his face.
He looked horrified as he recognized her. As she met his astonished stare,
bright color crept up his neck to his face.

“Miss Sarah, I beg your pardon.” He sounded shaken.
His eyes as they met hers were both embarrassed and apologetic. “I
thought—that is, I heard a woman’s voice in here with the
convicts—I thought it—you—were one of the barmaids.”

“That’s all right, Mr. Percival.” Sarah’s
words were clipped, but her anger was directed at the man lying sprawled at her
feet. She could feel the insolence of the convict’s eyes as he watched
her. No doubt he had enjoyed hearing his version of her character confirmed by
Percival’s furious denunciation. Keeping her eyes fixed on
Percival’s face so that she wouldn’t have to look at the beast who
had so vilely insulted her, Sarah began to move with regal dignity toward the
stall door. Percival’s face still reflected the horror of having
addressed her in such a way; then, as the situation began to assert itself, his
lips compressed and his eyes narrowed.

“Miss Sarah, what are you doing in the stable? At night, and
alone—with the convicts.” His tone was condemning. Sarah kept her
head high as she continued to move toward him. Not waiting for her
answer—it must have been obvious that there was no defensible answer she
could give—Percival continued, his voice growing angry, “Good God,
Miss Sarah, what were you thinking of, putting yourself within reach of such
scum? You could have been hurt, or killed, or. . . worse!” Sarah, knowing
very well what he meant by “worse,” felt a faint blush warming her
cheeks. But the fact that for once Percival was in the right did not make her
feel any more kindly disposed toward him. The convict was a vile, ungrateful
brute, and she was willing to believe him capable of any atrocity, including
the one that Percival had so delicately alluded to. No doubt, only her own lack
of attraction—possibly coupled with the convict’s state of
health—was all that had saved her from that hideous fate.

“I came to treat the man’s back, Mr. Percival,”
Sarah said evenly, determined not to let her perturbation show as she moved
forward. She reached the stall door and waited for him to move away from the
other side so that she could open it. When he didn’t, but stared at her
face and then, beyond her, at the convict, she added, “Please let me
pass.”

Still he didn’t move. His eyes swung back to search her
face, then his voice was suddenly sharp as he said, “Why is the medical
kit spilled all over the ground? If you came to treat his back, why
didn’t you? I heard you shouting when I came in—by God, if that
blackguard laid a hand on you . . . ! Did he touch you, Sarah? Just tell me if
he did, and I’ll finish what Farley started today!” He stepped
back, swung open the stall door, and started through it. His eyes were fixed on
the convict, who lay on his stomach staring up at them. At Percival’s
violent eruption, he levered himself up on one elbow. Both men’s eyes met
and clashed in a silent war.

“By God, you bastard, if you touched this lady, you’ll
be begging me to kill you before I’m through with you!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Percival.” Despite her
anger at the convict, Sarah stopped Percival’s enraged charge with a hand
against his chest. She did not want to see more violence done, no matter how
much the brute might deserve it.

“Sarah . . .” He was breathing hard. Fury made the
lines in his face seem even deeper. His stocky figure was poised for immediate
action, his fists clenched at his sides. His hazel eyes bored into hers,
demanding that she step out of his path. Chin lifting slightly, Sarah stood her
ground.

“I don’t believe I gave you permission to address me
by my given name, Mr. Percival.” She meant to sidetrack him; to her
relief, it worked.

“Don’t be absurd, girl,” he replied.
“There’s nothing improper about me calling you Sarah. After all,
we’ll be man and wife soon; I was talking to your da about it just the
other day. You’ll soon get used to me calling you by name—and to
calling me John.”

Percival’s refusal to take no for an answer, added to her
rage over the convict’s lewd insults, brought her temper near the
exploding point again. Ordinarily she was very even-tempered; today she had
been goaded into angry outbursts no fewer than three times. Spine stiffening,
she stared at Percival coldly, her hand dropping from his chest.

“I have no intention of marrying you, as you well know, Mr.
Percival,” she said, emphasizing the title with icy meaning. “You
and Pa can plan all you like; I’m telling you straight out, I won’t
do it.”

“Ah, Sarah, girl, you’re just shy.”
Percival’s indulgent tone, coupled with his continued use of her name
after she had requested him not to address her so familiarly, made Sarah grit
her teeth. She was on the verge of saying something she knew she would regret
when he reached out to catch her arm. Sarah shook him off angrily, and when he
looked as though he meant to take hold of her again she backed away. His eyes
narrowed, but he made no move to follow her.

“You still haven’t told me what
that—convict—did to you.” Percival’s eyes shifted from
her to the man sprawled in the straw.

Glancing over her shoulder, Sarah saw that, although the man had
fallen back to lie flat on his stomach, his head was turned toward them. His
eyes met hers. In the warm pool of light from the lantern Percival had hung on
a hook beside the stall door she saw that, although his face remained carefully
expressionless, his lids flickered once and then were stilled, as if
deliberately. Sarah knew he realized that this was her chance to be revenged
for the appalling things he had said to her. Since Percival was unable to take
out on her his anger at her cold rejection of his advances, he was looking for
a scapegoat. If she gave him so much as a hint of an excuse, he would
undoubtedly beat the convict mercilessly. And he would revel in doing so.

Technically, only government officials and their agents were
allowed to order corporal punishment of convicts. In practice, however, the
landowners and their employees treated the convicts as they saw fit. Floggings
were commonplace, and deaths resulting from them were not extraordinary. In
nearly every case, the government looked the other way. The convicts were
common criminals, England’s scum deposited on Australia’s shores.
Who would complain about a few less of them? Besides, if the convicts were not
afraid of the men for whom they toiled, how would they ever be persuaded to
work?

Although Edward kept Percival’s excesses under control on
Lowella—only under the most extreme circumstances would Edward permit a
convict to be whipped—Percival’s authority on the station was such
that he could order a beating and Edward would never hear of it. Sarah
suspected that he had done so more than once in the past, but the convicts and
aborigines alike were deathly afraid of Percival, and would never tell on him
out of fear for their own lives.

“Sarah?” Percival reminded her that she still
hadn’t answered him.

Sarah held those deep blue eyes with her own for a moment longer.
The convict’s haggard face could have been carved from stone now. Not
even by so much as a flicker of an eyelid did he importune her silence. Sarah
compressed her lips angrily at the cold insolence of his stare, she remembered
what he had called her and the disgusting things he had said. He undoubtedly
deserved to be punished most severely.

“Now who’s being absurd, Mr. Percival?” Sarah
scoffed. “The man did nothing to me, of course.”

“What was all the shouting about then?” Percival was
determined not to be deprived of his prey without an argument. “And
don’t tell me that there was no shouting—I heard it
distinctly.”

Sarah regarded him haughtily. “Though it’s really no
concern of yours, I will tell you that he did not want his back treated and I
was insistent. Now I see that he was in the right of it after all. And
that’s all I mean to say about the matter.”

Percival glowered at her. It was plain that he wanted to answer
her harshly—clearly, he felt that she had overstepped her place as a
female—but the fact that she was his employer’s daughter stopped
his tongue. That, and his own intentions toward her. Sarah could read his
changing expressions as he decided not to attempt to exert his masculine
authority over her now, before he had wooed or coerced her into becoming his
wife.

“Very well, Miss Sarah.” He stepped once again into
the overseer’s role, despite his anger, which he couldn’t quite
hide. Sarah shivered. If she had ever had any doubts about her decision not to
marry Percival, they had just been laid to rest. The glint in his eyes told her
plainly how her defiance infuriated him; if she had been his wife and subject
to him, she would have had good cause to fear the form his retaliation might
take.

Sarah held his eyes for a moment longer, determined not to let him
see that she was suddenly wary of him. Then she turned, bending, and began to
gather up the scattered medical supplies. In the corner, the other convict
huddled in a little ball. His very stillness betrayed that he was awake but
wanted no part of what was going on. The ungrateful scoundrel whose life she
had just saved for the second time that day lay motionless, his free arm curved
under his head to act as a pillow, his eyes expressionless as he watched her.
After that one quick glance, Sarah didn’t look at him again. As far as
she was concerned, he would have to look out for himself in the future. He
could expect no further assistance from her.