Dark Torment (7 page)

“You insolent . . .” she sputtered as he placed the
reins in her ungloved hands. She jerked away from his touch; Malahky danced
back in alarm. Controlling and soothing the animal took all her attention for a
moment. Then she glared fiercely at Gallagher. Seated on Malahky’s back,
she was head and shoulders above him. That difference in height, plus the
strength of the horse beneath her, restored her confidence.

“If you ever do such a thing again, Gallagher, I will have
no choice but to bring your behavior to either my father’s or Mr.
Percival’s attention.” Her voice was icy, but she had to work to
keep it so. Her every instinct urged her to scream at him.

“And they, as I’ve already discovered, don’t
subscribe to your particular brand of Christian charity.” His voice was
hard. His blue eyes met her gold ones with something like hatred. Sarah shrank
inwardly from their unsheathed menace. “But do you know,” he
continued, musing, “I find I prefer even their brutality to your treacly
hypocrisy. At least it’s honest.”

This was the final straw. Sarah’s hand tightened around the
reins; she lashed out, catching him full across the face with the dangling
ends. The sharp crack of leather against flesh rang out. Gallagher staggered
back a pace, his hand rising to his cheek. When he withdrew it, it was smeared
with blood. More blood beaded in the hair-thin gash in his cheek.

As he looked down at his bloodstained fingers, his mouth contorted
furiously. His blue eyes flashed to hers. Before he could take whatever form of
retaliation he was considering, Sarah clapped her heel to Malahky’s side.
Already made nervous by the unaccustomed human tension surrounding him, Malahky
bolted. Sarah nearly lost her seat as he lunged past Gallagher and out the
door.

Her ride was ruined, of course. Sarah laughed almost hysterically
as she considered how that thought bothered her. Her first hour of freedom in
nearly two weeks, and the taunting insolence of a convict spoiled it. The laugh
died as she thought of the gash her blow had opened in his cheek. He had looked
shocked at first, and then furious. She didn’t want to speculate on what
form his anger might have taken if she hadn’t removed herself so
precipitously from the vicinity. After all, he was a convicted criminal; she
doubted that he was a stranger to violence. From his expression as he had
stared at her after she had hit him, she knew he had been contemplating
inflicting it on her. Sarah felt sick as she remembered the blood on his
fingers and cheek; blood from a blow she had struck deliberately, in anger. She
had never done such a thing before; she hoped never to do such a thing again.
But something would have to be done about Gallagher. Her father had been right
all those days ago on the
Septimus:
the man was dangerous. He was also
insolent, and brutish, and . . . She thought of his hands touching her waist,
her knee, remembered the heat and hardness of them, and felt her stomach
quiver. The reaction she had felt then, and felt again now, remembering, was
revulsion, pure and simple. There was nothing else it could be. The man was a
convict. Sarah knew that if she gave her father or Percival even the smallest
inkling of how he had behaved toward her, Gallagher would be punished. But did
she want to be the cause of another beating like the one he had suffered on the
Septimus
? On her behalf, her father would be ruthless, she knew. And
Percival would enjoy having Gallagher under the whip. The memory of that
earlier beating made her stomach churn alarmingly. In that moment she knew that
she could never wittingly expose another human being to such agony. But neither
could she live the next fifteen years fearing to go outdoors on the off chance
that she might encounter Gallagher and he might take his revenge for the way
she had hit him. It was absurd even to think of it. He would have to be got rid
of. But how could she manage that without revealing her reasons to her father?

Sarah was so caught up in worrying about the matter that she
scarcely noticed when Malahky turned away from the river to head for the grove
of eucalyptus that was his favorite munching spot. Sarah let him have his head,
knowing that Malahky could be trusted eventually to amble back to the homestead
without getting them lost. Which brought her thoughts back full circle to the
problem at hand: how was she going to return Malahky to the stable with
Gallagher there?

The eucalyptus grove, with its bubbling mineral spring that kept
the surrounding foliage green despite the drought, was a lovely spot, but Sarah
was in no mood to enjoy it. Even the beauty of the pink and gray galahs that
rose from the shaggy tree ferns as Malahky approached failed to distract her
from her thoughts. Here where the grass was green, Malahky grazed with relish
on the first living blades he had seen in weeks. Sarah sat on his back, hands
resting lightly on the pommel, absently listening to the gurgle of the spring
and the whistling cry of a rosella in a nearby smoke tree. What was she going
to do about—

Hands closing brutally around her waist brought her instantly back
to the present. She was being dragged backward from the saddle. Malahky,
frightened, reared and ran out from under her. Even as she screamed and had the
scream abruptly cut off by a man’s hard hand on her mouth, she thought
that what she had feared had happened: Gallagher had followed her and meant to
take his vengeance on her away from the homestead, where there was no one to
come to her aid. Then her skull was rammed painfully against a man’s hard
shoulder. Swiveling her head around, kicking and squirming in a frantic effort
to break free from the arms that bound her, Sarah got her first look at her
attacker. The narrow, sunburned face with its grizzled hair and red-rimmed eyes
definitely did not belong to Gallagher. Perversely, her terror increased
tenfold. Doubling her efforts to escape, Sarah felt her elbow connect sharply
with the man’s rib cage. He grunted, shifting his hold. She felt the hard
heel of her riding boot find his kneecap in a kick that almost brought him to
his knees. Cursing, he staggered backward. Taking advantage of the sudden
slackening of his hold, she bit down hard on the fingers covering her mouth and
twisted furiously at the same time. She did not manage to break away from him,
but her mouth at least was free. Another piercing scream escaped before his
hand crushed her mouth once more.

As he dragged her back into the brush, Sarah sobbed with terror
even as she fought. He was a white man, which meant that in all likelihood he
was a convict. And he was not one of Lowella’s. Which meant that he was
on the run, a rogue. Maybe he was one of those who had burned and pillaged
Brickton, Lowella’s neighbor to the south, last month. Although Paul
Brickton’s cruelty to the convicts assigned to his station was notorious,
and an uprising there was almost rough justice, Sarah remembered that two of
the Bricktons’ sons had been killed. . . . She shuddered as she felt the
wiry strength of the arms controlling her struggles. Would he kill her?

He had lifted her off her feet when Sarah felt him stagger again.
She writhed wildly in an effort to break free. His arms released her without
warning. Sarah cried out in surprise as she tumbled to the ground. Thick
bracken cushioned her fall, but pain shot through her elbows and bottom, which
made the first, hardest contact with the ground. Scrambling to take advantage
of her sudden freedom, she cast a scared glance up at her attacker. To her
astonishment, he was struggling as frantically as she had earlier against him.
A powerful-looking forearm was locked around his neck, strangling all
utterance. One arm was twisted behind his back. Her eyes wide, the ringing in
her ears subsiding so that she could hear the sound of masculine grunts and the
shuffling of two sets of feet on the bracken, Sarah looked over her
attacker’s head at her rescuer, who towered some inches above him.
Dominic Gallagher’s handsome face was grim with effort. His eyes, too,
were grim above the gash she had opened in his cheek as he tightened his hold
on the smaller man’s neck.

“Hold still, you scurvy bastard, or I’ll break your
neck.” Gallagher’s Irish lilt was more pronounced than usual as he
growled at the man who still struggled fiercely in his hold. When the man
continued to fight, Gallagher’s arm tightened until his prisoner could no
longer breathe. Terror rounded the smaller man’s eyes; his mouth opened
and closed like that of a landed fish as he gasped for breath. Gallagher
continued to deny him air until the man was almost limp. Then, slowly, he
loosened his hold.

“Next time there won’t be a next time.
Understand?” Gallagher was white about the mouth as he threatened the
other man. At first Sarah thought it was from anger, and then she noticed the
perspiration beading his forehead. The drops could be from the heat, but she
thought that he must be suffering some pain. His back couldn’t have
healed completely in less than two weeks; the exertion required to subdue her
attacker must have cost him dearly. She was surprised that he bothered. The
only possible explanation for his presence was that he’d followed her, as
she had half-feared he might. To take his revenge . . . Probably he had been as
caught by surprise by what had happened as she had been. He had undoubtedly
come to her rescue before he’d had time to think the situation through.
Because if he had thought about it, he would have seen that fate had handed him
the perfect revenge, with no danger to himself. She would have beeen punished,
and he couldn’t possibly have been held responsible.

“Did he hurt you?” Gallagher asked sharply.

Sarah shook her head, still feeling a trifle dazed.
“No.”

Gallagher drew a deep breath. His attention shifted back to the
man he held. “What do you want me to do with him? Miss Sarah.”

She had been staring blindly at the pair of them, but that mocking
afterthought of “Miss Sarah” brought her back to awareness in a
hurry. Regardless of how ridiculous she must look, glaring at her rescuer from
a prickly, precarious seat in the middle of a gorse bush, she frowned at
Gallagher. But what could she say? She had told him to call her that, after
all. But it was the
way
he did it. He was deliberately being
provoking, she knew, but the knowledge didn’t help: his insolence enraged
her every time.

Gallagher smiled at her, clearly relishing her helpless anger. He
looked unbelievably handsome, with the sun slanting down through the eucalyptus
leaves to dapple his hair with blue highlights, and his white teeth gleaming in
his dark face. Her involuntary reaction to his dazzling good looks only fueled
her anger. And the realization that she was furious with her rescuer rather
than with her attacker further outraged her.

“Miss Sarah?”

Sarah scrambled to her feet, impatiently thrusting behind her ears
the thick mass of tawny hair that had tumbled from its pins during the
struggle. She thought with some annoyance that she must be even more unsightly
than usual. Her skin was smudged with dirt, her shirtwaist was torn so that the
edge of her plain white cotton chemise was clearly visible, and her maddening
hair spilled around her like an overgrown shock of wheat. Unreasonably, the
knowledge of her lack of attraction in the face of Gallagher’s masculine
beauty incensed her more than anything else. With one hand holding her torn
shirtwaist in place, and feeling an utter fool, she glared from the man who was
eying her fearfully, motionless now in Gallagher’s hold, to Gallagher
himself. His mocking smile widened, mocking her even more. Battling the urge to
throw something, preferably a large stone, straight at those gleaming teeth,
she looked at the man who had attacked her.

“It’s very likely that he’s a runaway
convict,” she said, ostensibly to Gallagher but without lifting her eyes
to his face. “If so, then he’ll have to be turned over to the
authorities in Melbourne. In any case, we’ll have to take him back to
Lowella.” She frowned suddenly, remembering that Malahky had bolted in
the scuffle. “But how?”

“I left a horse back there in the trees,” Gallagher
said, nodding toward the river. “When I heard you scream, I thought
I’d be more effective if I surprised the army that I envisioned had
assaulted you.” His mocking smile deepened again, revealing a slashing
dimple in his left cheek. Sarah tried not to notice it. “I was sure that
nothing less than an army could have forced a scream from such a redoubtable
lady. Miss Sarah.”

The look she sent him should have seared his eyeballs, but before
she could think of a way to annihilate him verbally—without losing her
dignity in the process—the man Gallagher still held by the neck suddenly
went limp. Eyes closed, mouth open, his skin pasty white where it wasn’t
stubbled with grizzled whiskers, he looked dead. Only the barely perceptible
rise and fall of his scrawny chest indicated that he lived.

“He’s fainted.” Sarah looked at Gallagher
accusingly, glad to have something concrete to berate him about. Gallagher
shrugged, patently unconcerned. Sarah came a step nearer, her eyes shifting
back to the man dangling from Gallagher’s arm. He seemed to be going a
little blue around the mouth and nose.

“You’d better let him go,” she said, not wanting
to be responsible if the man strangled.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” There
was a finality about the words that told Sarah that Gallagher did not expect to
have his judgment questioned. Sarah looked daggers at him. She was getting
tired of all the men of her acquaintance automatically assuming an air of
superiority. And this one was a convict, yet!

“I said let him go,” she repeated, challenging him
with her eyes. “Put him down on the ground and let him get his breath
back. For goodness’ sake, we can’t take him back to Lowella like
this. If there’s only one horse, he’s going to have to walk. Unless
you want to carry him.”