The Convict and the Cattleman (4 page)

“Aye. He likely came out of this tree.”

She shuddered. “Oh, well pardon me, Mr. Snake, for startling you! I do hope when I fell on my face you weren’t frightened so badly that you can’t sleep today.”

The snake, uninterested in them, glided through the weeds with little noise.

He shook his head. The barrel of the rifle glinted in the sun. “Next time, before you alert half the bloody country, you might make sure there’s real danger. It sounded like you’d been set upon by bushrangers or natives.”

She crossed her arms. “I believe I have been. You don’t get much more native than that.”

He grinned.

She pushed herself up and took a tentative step. An involuntary cry escaped her lips.

“Now what?” Concern erased his smile.

She leaned against a tree, avoiding his eyes. “Nothing.”

Tucking the gun into the crook of his arm, he frowned. “That’s the truth, is it?”

“I’m afraid hurt myself when I fell,” she answered.

“Sit down and let me have a look.” He leaned the gun against the tree. “Come on.”

Mortified that he might see her leg, she balked. “No!”

“Why ever not?”

“Gentlemen mustn’t inquire about a lady’s appendages,” she murmured.

“Bridgit, who told you I was a gentleman? Sit. If you broke something, you shouldn’t stand on it. Where does it hurt?”

She complied and lowered herself to the ground again. “It’s my right leg. I tripped on a root.”

* * * *

He ought to have known better than to let her skip off into the wilderness. Bridgit was a town girl, not a milkmaid. If she’d broken her ankle, the whole trip was in vain. As the thought developed, he realized how selfish it seemed.

Big green eyes flooded with tears. He hoped they were caused by embarrassment and not because she was horribly injured. He kneeled next to her, taking her boot-clad foot in hand. His thumbs brushed her ankle beneath her skirt, but a thick wool stocking prevented his skin from touching hers. Untying the laces, he loosened the shoe and set the well-worn bit of leather aside

The stocking didn’t hide the shape of her foot or the slender calf it was attached to. Somehow he’d never paid much attention to a woman’s foot before. Hers was small, with a high arch. The bones felt fragile beneath his hands. Each toe seemed alright and he continued probing across the top of her foot to her anklebone.

His thumb passed over a tender spot. Bridgit stiffened. He nodded to himself, certain he’d found an overstretched muscle. A hole in the wool above her ankle revealed a whitish-pink mark. A scar left by chains, like the ones on her wrists. He caressed the scar. How could anyone consider her dangerous enough to shackle? Inching his fingers up her leg, he massaged the lean muscles and tendons. He rarely ever indulged in getting to know a woman’s legs so well.

He couldn’t help admiring the feminine curve of her calf. His gaze continued along the limb, running up her calf to her knee and the dark shadow cast by her skirt. As she bent closer, her breath stirred his hair. Was she frightened by his touch, or did the thought of the snake still bother her?

At the base of her knee, he stopped exploring. If he let himself go any farther, he’d not stop until the skirt was bunched around her waist. He frowned. The very thing he feared most was happening–if he desired his employee, what would prevent his men doing the same thing?

Forget that, Jonah.

“Nothing broken. Perhaps a wrenched ankle. You’d best leave your boot off in case of swelling. I’m afraid I’ve nothing to give you for pain.”

“No matter. It’s not terrible.” She rearranged her skirt, avoiding his gaze.

He rose and offered his hand. She accepted, her warm palm fitting against his. Bridgit balanced on one foot, eyes downcast.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ve held us up this morning. I gave you my word I’d be a good servant, but I’ve already been more of a burden than a help.”

Her lower lip trembled.

Pity replaced the rush of lust. “I don’t think you meant for any of that to happen, did you?”

“It was a foolish mistake. You have every right to take me back–”

He interrupted her by picking her up. A gasp passed between her lips as she settled into his arms. Wide green eyes questioned his actions.

“No need aggravating it further.”

Newborn calves didn’t feel as light as the convict in his arms. She needed feeding up, a nice bath and some proper clothes. It made him realize how fortunate he was to have money and a home like Laurie Lark. A month was all he’d promised her; he was determined to find a proper woman to bring up his niece.

Could he live with himself knowing she would return to the gaol, whether she deserved her sentence or not? If stealing pocket change meant the difference between starvation and death, he couldn’t say he wouldn’t have done the same thing.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, apparently mistaking his expression for anger.

“It was only a short delay.” He carried her to the gig and lifted her up on the seat. “Comfortable?”

“Aye. Thank you.”

“Stay put. There are a few things left to do.”

Leaving her side, he packed up the camp and collected the abandoned canteen. He was certain Mrs. Bell was up to something. Temptation. Some men might give in to their sexual thoughts. Three days traveling with Bridgit and a month alone with her might stir the lust of even the most devout man. It was male nature. And the matron knew it. Come the end of the month, Mrs. Bell probably expected to see him back, ready to announce banns and sign a marriage license.

He had no intentions of bedding Bridgit. Not one.

4

The sharp, craggy peaks of the Blue Mountains pierced the gray-blue sky like the teeth of a sleeping giant. The air was cooler, the wind less harsh as the gig rolled along the road. Jonah pushed the horse as much as he dared, wanting to get the trip behind him.

He might not intend to bed Bridget, but he wasn’t immune to her. He’d wanted to peel the stockings off and run his fingers up the skin beneath. How would it feel to have those legs locked around him, her lips swollen and red from kissing, her face flushed after lovemaking? Sheets torn off the bed, clothing scattered about the room.

Annoyance overcame his desire. He needed a good swift kick for not seeking a willing woman in Sydney when he had the chance. He should’ve refused to accept Bridgit; he knew she’d cause temptation among his men. He’d not expected her to tempt him.

Since Olivia’s birth, he’d barely thought about women. Thank God for calving season. He didn’t understand why one dirty, big-eyed convict should turn his thoughts from cattle to sex. A few quick moments of brushing her skin shouldn’t make him want to explore all of it.

He glanced at Bridgit. She absently tugged a string on her sleeve. Her gaze was on the landscape, but she seemed deep in thought. He doubted their intimate moment lingered on her mind the way it crowded in his.

Instead of imagining her legs, he ought to thank heavens they were on the road again. She'd suffered a minor injury, but it could easily have been a broken bone and a huge setback. He opened his mouth to ask what troubled her, but a sigh tripped past his lips. He didn't need to get more involved.

* * * *

The morning and afternoon passed with no more than a few words between them, much like the day before. As the sun burned across the sky, he noticed Bridgit’s skin turning pinker. He hadn’t thought to ask if she owned a hat. Or if the Factory provided a coat or cape for the cool nights. By the time they reached the station, she would be worse for the wear. Their eyes met for a second before she lowered hers.

“I’ve never seen mountains quite like these. There are the Dublin Mountains back home, but they’re south of the city. I never got the opportunity to visit them,” she said.

“If it’s your dream to see mountains, here they are. For years everyone thought they were impassable. When a way across was discovered, they built a road. It’s been improved upon over time. I hate to think how long the trip would take if we had to go around. Three days is plenty long enough.”

She didn’t strike him as the type who enjoyed mountains, much less desired to explore them.

“Three days is a wee scrap of time compared to five treacherous months on a rickety ship.”

He couldn’t imagine living in the filth of a tiny hold filled with criminals for any length of time. It was, no doubt, a life-altering experience. The finality in her voice suggested she wouldn’t undertake such a trip again.

“Even though by the time we reach the station your arse will be numb from the bouncing?”

Color rose in her cheeks. She met his eyes boldly. “Ladies don’t speak of their t’other ends with men.”

A lady. Well, she was better mannered than most of the convicts he’d met, but he wasn’t sure
lady
was the right term either. “I hadn’t been informed ladies made it a habit to pick pockets.”

“Most of them don’t, but the ones that do try not to get caught. I made quite a mess out of it. You can rest assured I will never attempt it again.”

She sounded so earnest, Jonah wanted to believe her. Bridgit was full of surprises. She hadn’t complained about the sorry fare or sleeping on the hard ground. She’d said nothing more about her leg or the dust blanketing both of them. He remembered the Irish tended to be resilient; they had to be to survive under British law. Australia was practically overrun with Scots and Irish alike. She probably had kinsmen on every corner.

There was something different about her. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. The pink in her cheeks was more than sun. She sat straighter today, like a weight had been removed. Even after the incident with the snake, she’d perked up. The clean air agreed with her. He didn’t want to imagine the relief that must be coursing through her at leaving the Factory behind. Granted the opportunity to clean up, she might look like the lady she professed to be.

If he was honest with himself, he felt guilty for treating her harshly. He could do something to make up for it, and he never objected to a good meal. The stopover would delay them, but it would be worth it.

* * * *

The cooler temperatures almost lulled Bridgit to sleep. She spent the afternoon watching colorful birds, studying strange plants, and trying not to think about Mr. Andrus’s hands on her. Gentle, but firm. A touch meant to soothe away aches and pains. She’d forgotten about wild animals and danger with his hands on her.

She paid no mind to the road or the direction. Her head bobbed against her chest, until a shout almost caused her to topple off the seat.

Mr. Andrus grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer. His touch sent a sizzle of heat through her.

For a long moment, she pressed against him, trying to regain her bearings. Bridgit turned her face up, forgetting the noise that had startled her.

He returned her stare, though neither said a word.

“You old blighter! What the blazes are you doing out this way?”

Bridgit’s gaze left Mr. Andrus and she scooted away. A wiry, red-haired man emerged from the brush. He appeared friendly enough, smiling through a heavy beard. His accent was Irish. A fresh wave of homesickness rolled over her.

“Natty,” Mr. Andrus greeted. His teeth flashed in a wide smile. The sight transformed his face. Laugh lines crinkled around his eyes, and his dark brown irises softened.

The man he called Natty waited for them to stop. Judging by the felled trees behind him, he’d been splitting rails for a fence. Grayish-blue eyes roved over Bridgit so intimately, heat crept up her neck. If only she had the power to disappear. The man wore plain work clothes, not the fancy sort Mr. Andrus sported. He looked at home in the forest, almost like a bushranger, except for the cheerful smile and sparkling eyes.

Natty looked back at Mr. Andrus, his bushy eyebrows raised. “Got yourself a Sheila there, ain’t you? You get married without inviting the missus? She’ll have your hide, mate.”

Mr. Andrus shook his head. “I didn’t marry her. She’s one of the Factory women.” He looked uncomfortable for a moment. “The best I could do on short notice.”