Mystic Mountains

by Tricia McGill

  Chapter Two

  Ignoring the others as they tossed ribald jokes about the armed soldiers back and forth, Isabella tidied her hair as best she could with her fingers. How she longed for a bath; she'd give her right arm to be able to sink herself into a tub of warm fresh clear water instead of salt water.

  "All right, enough primping," a guard said, smirking as he poked her on the shoulder. "Up you get and go over to the table when your name's called. No hustling, an' behave yourselves. You never know, the guvner his self may pick you." One of his comrades gave him a dig in the ribs and they both chortled.

  Isabella let the contempt she felt for him show as she picked up her bundle and slowly rose. If she didn't know she would get clapped in irons she'd spit in his ugly pig's eyes.

  The women shuffled about, and the baby began to bawl loudly. Isabella spotted Dougal among the crewmen who'd just unloaded some cargo from one of the longboats. Her friend was frowning and she sent him a wan smile. He looked about, then waved discreetly, mouthing, "You all right?"

  Isabella nodded warily. Would she ever be all right again? Had she ever been all right in her whole life? At nineteen she sometimes felt as if she'd lived a hundred years; most of them with an empty stomach, and heavy heart.

  The woman next to her wiped a hand over her runny nose and sniffed, swearing obscenely beneath her breath as the man behind the table stood up.

  "First I will call the names of the women going to Parramatta to be assigned to masters in that district," he shouted. "These females will form an orderly line over here." He waved a hand carelessly. "You will then be escorted to the master attendant's boat for the short trip upriver."

  The troublemaker, Marjorie, was among the thirty or so whose names he called. As constables led them off Marjorie lifted her skirts, showing her bare bottom to the soldiers. A couple of the other women did the same. One or two of the rowdier women made catcalls and began singing a bawdy song.

  The official ignored them and the boisterous calls they'd brought on. Nodding to the group of male onlookers, he called, "Now then, Isabella O'Shea." Isabella jumped. "Isabella O'Shea, come forward now!"

  Gracie gave her a soft nudge and mumbled a word of encouragement. Gripping a fold of her skirt in a fist, her head held high so that no one would guess at her nervousness, Isabella stepped over to the table.

  "That's me." Her clear voice showed no sign of her inner turmoil.

  "Ah yes, I see you're Irish born," he read from his ledger. "You were tried on the twenty-third of May eighteen seventeen. Attempted murder!" He sneered, his slash of a mouth twisting. "Your sentence is seven years. My God, His Lordship must have been feeling soft that day."

  Isabella pressed her lips together.

  "No previous convictions. Must have been the reason he was so lenient." Giving her lower half a sneering glance he added insolently, "And you have a deformation of the toes of the right foot."

  Isabella lifted her chin higher. He made it sound as if she had two heads and a hunchback. "Yes, that's so," she assured him clearly, her shoulders going back until they ached.

  "I'll take the useless wench." A lump of a man with a distinct Irish brogue strode over to stand beside Isabella.

  She began to shake. He looked as if he'd slept in the same clothes for a year. His beady eyes reminded her of an ugly bird of prey she'd seen once in a book, a vulture, yes that was what it was called. Arms too long for his body flopped at his sides.

  "Gawd, girl, you don't want that pile of shit taking you," Gracie called out. "'Ere guv, take a look at me lovely titties. Choose me instead." She pushed her ample breasts forward and leered at the Irishman.

  But he wouldn't have noticed Gracie if she threw herself naked into his arms. As if the matter were decided he yanked Isabella towards him, slobbering.

  Isabella dug her heels into the ground. No! She screamed inwardly. Sweet heaven—had she come through the sea journey unscathed only to end up in the bed of this son of the devil?

  "Just a minute," a calm level voice ordered.

  Malloy turned to face the tall fair-haired man who strolled towards them.

  He had yellow-gold eyes, Isabella noticed; eyes the like of which she'd never seen on any man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with narrow hips. But her eyes were drawn to his handsome face, with a nose that was straight and elegant, a wide brow, a firm chin.

  His strong legs were encased in breeches. He wore knee-high boots and his white shirt, open almost to his waist, showed a V of brown flesh covered with golden hairs. The sun glinted in them, making them sparkle. He seemed to be surrounded by a glowing aura and Isabella shook her head slightly to rid herself of the impression the man was a golden god. There was a vitality and arrogance about him that made every other man in the area fade into insignificance.

  "What you want, Tiger Carstairs?" Malloy snarled.

  No mistaking where this Tiger had acquired his nickname. With that mane of hair and his eyes, he bore a striking resemblance to a wild animal. At this moment he looked like a lion about to pounce on his prey. Every woman in the line had turned to watch him.

  "Now, ain't 'e the finest bit of man flesh you ever laid yer eyes on," the woman now at the front of the line declared loudly, sashaying her hips and whistling through her brown teeth.

  "Keep yer filthy maulers off him, Gert," Gracie hissed. Isabella turned in time to see Gracie giving Gert a jab in the ribs with her elbow. "I have a feeling 'e's not the sort to cavort with strumpets such as you, yer old faggot."

  "Aw—a girl can dream," Gert sighed, clutching at the neck of her shift until her breasts almost popped out of the torn bodice.

  "I have a letter from the Governor's office that states I have the right to select a female of my choice from this shipment, Malloy," Tiger Carstairs stated calmly. "So take your filthy mitts off the girl. I saw her first."

  Astonished, Isabella stared at him. The boldness in his eyes as he looked her over was startling.

  "I 'ave a letter from the Guvner's office," Malloy mimicked, pulling his mud-spattered trousers up with a jerk. "Sod off Carstairs, an' take your sodding letter with you!"

  Isabella also glared at this Tiger. He looked as if he thought he owned the very ground beneath his feet. Another Englishman making claims on her. Another of the arrogant aristocracy. He must be a nob if he was a friend of the Governor.

  Isabella cringed inside. Every Englishman was the devil's spawn. Most of the women in the line were now calling out their willingness to go with him. They could take her place as far as she was concerned. The arrogant golden-haired man ignored all the offers and catcalls as if he hadn't heard them, continuing to appraise Isabella, making her feel like a fattened calf at the market.

  "The wench comes with me," the ugly Irishman claimed, his slash of a mouth twisting in a parody of a grin.

  Despite the heat Isabella shivered as he wiped a drop of spittle from his chin with a filthy hand whose nails were bitten to the quick. Dirt was ingrained into his flesh. She doubted he'd washed in months, perhaps years.

  "I beg to differ, Malloy. She comes with me," the tall Englishman said.

  "Now, just a minute both of you," the official interrupted. "The lass has been assigned to work in the kitchens of Mr. Tonkins. It's not up to either of you to decide on the matter." With a glance at Tiger Carstairs he put up a hand and called, "Mr. Tonkins, come and collect your charge."

  Isabella's knees went weak with relief when a small rotund man came forward, a cautious look on his kindly ruddy face. Obviously not of the gentry, he looked to be a tradesman of some sort, his homespun clothes plain, his boots unpolished.

  But her relief was short-lived when he said diffidently, "I have no problem with exchanging my assignee with Tiger's." He gave the tall man a wary glance. "I simply want a young woman to assist my Emily with her household chores. It matters little who I get as long as she's young and able." Isabella could have screamed her outrage. With a pleading glance at him she silently begged this Mr. To
nkins to change his mind.

  But Gregson said, "Very well. That's settled," and she knew her fate was set. With a long-suffering sigh the official drew a line across the page, altering names. "If you're willing to change, and Mr. Carstairs has a letter from the Governor's office, it's a matter between you. Moira Paine, come forward. You go with Mr. Tonkins."

  "But, but . . ." The man named Malloy pressed his palms on the table. His face was turning purple and more spittle flew from his mouth.

  Gregson, the government man, took a kerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his face. "For goodness sake go over there and await your turn, Malloy. Now," he ordered when the Irishman dallied, a stubborn look in his watery eyes.

  The giant called Tiger took Isabella's arm and began to lead her away. Amused, the guards shouted obscene remarks. He ignored them.

  "Take care girl," Gracie called.

  Isabella sent a smile tinged with nervousness and terror over a shoulder as she was steered across the wharf. Helpless despair filled her. This Tiger Carstairs who now owned her body and soul led her silently along narrow alleys. Raucous cries of street traders and mixed smells of cooking food and animal droppings reminded her vaguely of the back streets of Stepney.

  Men and women the worse for drink sprawled on high steps in front of shops displaying red and white poles by their doors. Isabella had seen the likes back home and knew exactly what trade these shops plied. For a moment she considered breaking free and rushing over to one of them for sanctuary. Perhaps whoring for seamen was a better option than being this English gent's property.

  At the end of a narrow street they went up some steep steps. When he saw that with her limp she couldn't mount as easily as he, Tiger Carstairs slowed his pace without letting go of her arm. At the top he went up to one of the assorted wagons secured there, and stopped, giving Isabella a furious glance when she fidgeted.

  "Be still, woman," he ordered, shaking her none too gently.

  "I'd just as soon have gone with that Mr. Tonkins," she told him haughtily, trying to get free.

  "You have no say in who you go with. Tonkins now has his woman and is quite happy. Would you rather have gone with the Irishman? Yes?" he asked when she remained mute. "Perhaps I should have let him take you. Do you know what the likes of Malloy would do with you, hmm? Well, let me tell you, he'd use your scrawny body until it was fit for naught but feeding the sharks out in the cove. The last woman who went with him is now dead and buried, and probably grateful to be there, instead of being used by him."

  "I might have preferred going with him," Isabella lied. "Anything would be better than being the chattel of an English pig."

  His heavy golden brows drew together. "So, 'tis a pig I am is it? If you think I'm a swine then let me tell you about Malloy, wench. He's a debaucher of the worst kind. Why else do you think he wanted a skinny little wench like you? Especially one who walks with a limp and who doesn't have the strength to lift a kettle, by the looks of her." His strange golden eyes skimmed her from head to toe in open scorn.

  "Then why did you pick me if you think I'm such a poor choice?"

  "Heaven knows. I must be mad. I should have left you to Tonkins, or let Malloy have his way. All right. You win."

  He curved his fingers about her upper arm and made to drag her back the way they'd come. "Right, let's go back. I've now lost my original woman to Tonkins, but I'm sure if Malloy hasn't made his choice yet he'll be more than willing to accept you. I'll get whatever is left. You can have the pleasure of warming that old lecher's bed until you lose every scrap of self-respect, until your body has been reduced to a sniveling wreck or you die of the pox. Come on, then, let's go," he said when she stood firm, her feet planted in the dust. "Damned if I have the time for a cripple with a foul temper anyway."

  Isabella put a hand to her throat. What a beast! But then what was she to expect from an Englishman? Especially one who looked as if he'd never done a hard day's work in his life.

  Tiger watched the emotions cross her face; an expressive face, with large eyes that sparkled with such animosity he could practically feel it touching him. She had a fading bruise on her chin, and shadows beneath eyes that reminded him of the sea on a fine day. Her hair, which had been chopped short with a blunt knife by the looks of it, stuck out like a nest of rats' tails.

  Why in blazes was he bothering? Deep down he knew the answer to that, but it was something he wasn't willing to confront at this moment; probably never would.

  Tiger dropped her arm and turned his back on her, thrusting his hands in the pockets of his breeches. He began to whistle.

  "All right. I'll come with you," she said. "But only on one condition."

  A choked laugh burst from his lips. He turned and gave her a mocking stare. "You're a bloody convict, woman—you have no rights whatsoever. You make no conditions."

  Now wasn't the time to let this man see how nervous she was. "I'll come with you. But . . . could my friend Dougal come to work for you too?"

  There, she'd said it, even though her voice wobbled. Raising her chin in a show of bravado she forced her shoulders back. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, her ma had always told them. The worst he could do was say no, or beat her. And one more bashing would make little difference.

  "Dougal's very strong and tough as old boots. He knows all there is to know about animals, especially sheep. I noticed there seems to be a lot of those witless creatures yonder on the hills." She turned her head in the general direction of where Dougal had pointed out the sheep he'd spotted from the ship's rail.

  A square-tipped finger was jabbed at her nose and she took a step back. "I don't believe this! You've got the nerve of the devil, d'you know that? You've just stepped off a convict ship. Just who the bloody hell do you think you are?"

  Isabella could have sworn she saw amusement in those strange eyes of his. How dare he laugh at her?

  "I'm as good as any English scum," she spat, then put a hand over her mouth, expecting a slap for her insolence.

  But he drawled, "So 'tis scum I am is it? You don't know the meaning of the word if you think that's what I am, little biddy." He stared at her, long and hard, his face so near that Isabella shivered and shrank back from the mocking glint in his eyes. Then, rubbing his jaw, he stunned her by agreeing, "All right, what's his name, this lover of yours that you can't bear to be parted from?"

  Isabella swallowed, her eyes widening in amazement. Dougal had never been her lover; never would be. He was just a dear friend. But best not let this man know that.

  Dougal had successfully shielded her from the sickening and persistent advances of some of the crew. It was taken for granted that once at sea the female prisoners were the officers' for the taking, but Dougal, thank the Lord, had established early on that Isabella was his woman, so keeping them at bay. It had been harder to convince some of the crew members, and she knew he had fought the largest and meanest man on board, and won, to keep the others clear of her.

  Dougal was not very tall, but his well-muscled body enabled him to hold up his own in a fight. Isabella dreaded to think what her fate could have been without him and Gracie to champion her. But gratitude and friendship was all she felt for Dougal.

  "Jackson. His name's Dougal Jackson. You won't be sorry if you take him on, I know you won't. He's a hard worker, and he can take care of himself as well as any man. He used to be a fist fighter in London."

  A glow of hope slowly began to fill Isabella. Perhaps everything would work out just fine as Gracie had predicted. At least this Englishman was listening to her. And that was something she'd never expected.

  "English eh? So, how come he isn't classed as a pig alongside all us Englishmen?" Now she was certain he was laughing at her. At least while amused he wasn't contemplating taking his whip to her for speaking out of turn.

  "Dougal's Scottish." She sniffed. "He worked his way over on the ship. He's after starting out afresh and that was the only way he could get here. He said he's going to look for work as a
shepherd. Do you have sheep?"

  "Aye, I have plenty of the creatures." He nodded, his eyes narrowed on her as if deep in thought.

  A grey horse with a rounded belly and glossy coat stood patiently between the shafts of the four-wheeled wagon. Tiger Carstairs stroked a hand down its sleek neck, thinking. Isabella held her breath.

  Then he said, "Stay here." He jabbed a finger beneath her nose again, ordering, "Keep out of trouble. I'll go and see what I can do about your lover."

  Without further ado he strode off down the path they'd just walked, his boots kicking up dust. Very big and arrogant, he held his shoulders straight and proud. Typical English gentry; walked as if he owned the world and all in it. Well, truth was he owned her now. Biting her lip Isabella stroked the velvet nose of the horse. It blew a soft breath on her face.

  How strange to be standing here free as a bird with no jailers or crew watching over her. For a moment she felt odd; like a peddler's monkey she'd once seen. It had become so used to being caged or chained that when it had accidentally gained its freedom one day it just stayed by its cage shivering and chattering, awaiting its fate. It had received a clip round the ear when the peddler returned.

  Some children were scampering about nearby and one of them stopped to stare at her. A woman dressed in a severe grey frock with a high collar and starched apron, obviously the girl's nurse, pulled her away sharply, glaring at Isabella as if she was worth nothing.

  Isabella poked her tongue out at the woman's back. The tart was probably no better than she was; a con. Now, how good would that be, to end up being a nanny or a governess to some wealthy nob's children. She sighed; another foolish dream. Who would employ a chit of a girl from the slums of Stepney to teach their offspring?

  The children were full of beans, laughing carelessly. Even their faces looked different from the half-starved urchins populating the streets of London. These healthy, strong-limbed children were happy. Isabella guessed their exuberance was due to the confidence of not having to worry where their next meal was coming from. They doubtless wouldn't know what it was to steal to get food in their bellies.