Dark Torment by Karen Robards Page A

had of him before, when he was
dirty and unshaved and in pain, had not prepared her for this. When she had
first seen his features on the
Septimus,
she had thought that under
better circumstances he might be reasonably attractive. Now he looked the
embodiment of a schoolgirl’s dream. His hair had been washed and trimmed;
brushed ruthlessly back from his face, it nevertheless tried to curl. It was as
black as her father’s Sunday boots, and as glossy. The planes and angles
of his face were beautifully sculpted. She had never before seen such
perfection. His forehead was broad, his cheekbones elegantly carved, his jaw
lean and square. Above a determined chin, his mouth twisted up at one corner in
a mocking half-smile; the lower lip was fuller than the upper. His nose was
straight, high-bridged, and without flaw. The sickly paleness had left his
skin, and its natural swarthiness had been darkened even more by exposure to
the hot Australian sun. And of course there were his eyes. Set amid thick black
lashes that any girl would envy, they were as devastatingly blue as jewels. As
she met them, Sarah saw that they were bright with mockery. To her horror, she
realized what construction he must be putting on her dumbstruck silence.
Suddenly she thought of his insulting remarks the night she had tried to help
him; a vision of him as he had looked without a shirt, all corded muscles and
black-pelted chest, rose unbidden in her mind’s eye. She could even
remember the
smell
of him.
    Sarah felt herself blushing, which was something she did more than
she wished, as she tried frantically to remember what it was that he had said
before she had been struck dumb by his looks. Ah, yes, his name.
    “I keep the station’s records,” she said evenly,
determined not to let him see how he had affected her. “Your papers are
among them. You’re Dominic Gallagher, age thirty-two, Irish, no
dependents, sentenced to fifteen years for robbery. And I believe I asked you
to saddle my horse for me.”
    His eyes narrowed at her. Sarah was suddenly, overwhelmingly
conscious of how alone they were. The stable was deserted; there were only the
horses stamping and chomping contentedly in their stalls. Unlike the other time
she had been alone with him, his hands and feet were unfettered; once they
reached Lowella, convicts were never chained. It made for better morale;
besides, there was little chance of their running away. Where would they go?
The bush was unforgiving, especially of those unfamiliar with the country, and
if they did happen to survive the relentless sun and scarcity of water, they
would be hunted down like mad dogs. In the stillness Sarah could hear the drone
of a buzzing fly. Through the open stable door, she could see the blinding
sunshine. She longed to be out in it, away from the menacing hostility that
emanated from this convict like the tangy smell of his sweat. Then, remembering
who he was and who she was, she stiffened her spine. She would not be afraid of
him; and if she was, a little, she would certainly do her best to make sure
that he did not know it.
    “Yes, ma’am,” he said as he had before. There
was no mistaking the mockery this time. Sarah’s lips tightened. If they
were ever to have the proper servant-mistress relationship, she could not allow
the brute’s insolence to go unremarked.
    “You may address me as Miss Sarah,” she instructed as
he turned away to open the door to Malahky’s stall and lead the gelding
out. He was good with the animal, she noted, watching the confident way he
handled the big bay.
    “Yas’m, Miss Sarah,” he said. His words were
such an obvious parody of the aborigines’ obsequiousness that Sarah felt
her temper begin to heat. What was it about this man that enabled him to anger
her so consistently? Ordinarily, in the face of even the most blatant
provocation, she reverted to icy hauteur. With him, it was all she could do to
keep