Excerpt from Mystic Mountains by Tricia McGill

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When I had the germ of an idea for a story about a woman who was transported to Botany Bay, my research was mainly carried out at the library (before the days when research could be done at your computer). During one of my forays at the library I found a treasure. This book was a collection of letters written mainly by women who had accompanied their pioneering menfolk to Australia. Among these letters sent home to her family in England, was one written by Elizabeth Hawkins which chronicled the hair-raising journey she, plus her large brood and her elderly mother, undertook with her husband who took on a post out at Bathurst west of Sydney. Most who travelled along that hazardous path west across the mountains in those early days were seeking fresh pastures for their flocks.

When visiting Sydney and the surrounding areas these days it is difficult to imagine what it must have been like when it was a penal colony in the 1800s. Botany Bay was an unforgiving and harsh place where the convicts who were transported from Britain were treated like the scum of the earth. Isabella is one of these unfortunates who was sentenced to seven years transportation. The trip across the ocean would have been horrific enough in those days, but then to arrive in an Australia that was little more than a collection of huts with little sanitation, plus knowing that the women would be assigned to a master when they arrived. Bella was fortunate in that the master who chose her at the docks had dreams above his station, and was not solely after a new bed-warmer. She was determined to hate Tiger Carstairs, for he was an Englishman, and she was sent to the penal colony for attacking one such as him. Their journey west across the mountains was made to follow his dream.

Excerpt from Mystic Mountains (Settlers Book One)

Chapter One

March 1818 Sydney Cove.

A wind as hot as the devil's breath sent the longboat rocking. Isabella tried not to think about her roiling stomach as she raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun that blazed down on them. Fear, like some deadly snake, coiled itself around her innards, sliding viciously into every muscle and bone, every part of her body, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.

The woman Isabella now counted as a true friend groaned. "S'pose we'll 'ave to get used to this heat," she muttered as she ran a hand around her nape and blew a strand of greasy hair out of her eyes. "'Tis hotter 'ere than it was on the stinking ship when we was anchored off Rio de Janeiro!"

Isabella grimaced. "That's a fact, Gracie." They had been forced to get used to a lot of things, a deep and abiding despair more than anything else.

"These blooming six days we've been stuck out on the water 'ave seemed longer than the whole bloody voyage," Gracie grumbled. "Gawd but it'll be good to get me old feet on solid ground again."

Isabella wrapped her arms about her middle and shuddered, swallowing the bile that threatened to choke her. "I don't ever want to see the ocean again as long as I live, Gracie." Much as she might wish she were back in Stepney; she would never want to repeat that dreadful voyage. A violent storm lasting for nearly two days coming round The Cape had caused such wretchedness they'd feared they would all perish. No, she wouldn't care if she never saw the ocean again.

Gracie nudged Isabella as the wharf loomed before them. "Well, girl, 'ere we go, 'ow d'ya feel, eh?"

"As if a mess of worms are wriggling about inside me, that's how."

Even when evading the constables in the alleyways and back lanes of Stepney Isabella had always felt that one day things would improve. That certainty died on the day of her arrest. Gracie had tried to give her some hope for better days ahead, but Isabella knew that a woman in her position had little hope for anything in life, least of all a bright future.

Gracie winked broadly at one of the sailors, now getting ready to stow the oars. He blew a raspberry and she chortled. Isabella had no idea how she would get by without Gracie. The older woman had been like a rock on the awful voyage. Dougal too. She saw the Scot now on one of the other longboats, which was carrying cargo. She waved and his plain face reddened as he shot her a cautious grin.

The first mate made a rude gesture. "Right, you lot," he shouted. "Get a move on. The time has arrived for you to leave this illustrious vessel. Steady now, we don't want you falling in the drink and spoiling your nice clothes, do we?" He sketched a bow. "This here's Government Wharf."

Isabella felt like pushing him into the sea, but the small moment's triumph wouldn't be worth the punishment she knew him capable of dishing out. How she hated him. Sweat trickled between her breasts and ran down her legs and she trembled as much with fear as with anticipation.

The man leered and suddenly grabbed her arm. "Now we'll see 'ow you'll manage without that Scottish dolt watching over you every step of the way. You got away with it on the ship, slut, but let's see how you like having one of those toffs putting his hands under your shift, eh?" He grinned evilly as he nodded to the men milling about on the wharf. "And not only his hands. He'll be poking on you with more than his hands, mark my words."

Isabella squirmed. "Let me go!" But he tightened his grip until she thought her arm might break.

"I will, after you gives me a little thank you kiss for being so nice to you." Before she could back off he pressed his wet sloppy mouth over hers.

He was pushed aside, and forced to let her go or head into the water, as the women jostled to be first off the boat.

"All right, all right, don't shove," one shouted, elbowing Gracie.

Gracie threw herself bodily at the first mate. "Whoops, must 'ave tripped," she said with a grin.

Isabella wiped her mouth on the hem of her skirt, and jumped swiftly onto the dock. The first mate shook a fist at Gracie and she waved audaciously. He cursed loudly.

Gracie muttered, "Just look at that Marjorie, carrying on like the doxie she is."

A buxom woman on one of the other boats lifted her skirts and shook a leg, making the boat wobble dangerously. The sailors guffawed. Some of the women made lewd gestures and shouted obscenely to the sailors as they climbed out, adding to the crew's amusement.

Isabella was silent. She would never feel anything but heartsick at being brought to this hostile land. Some women had stolen with one purpose in mind: to join lovers and husbands already transported, and these few were cheerful at the prospect of being reunited with their menfolk.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a shout. "That there's The Rocks." The first mate jerked his head towards the cottages and shacks sprawled on the hillside. "If any of you ladies is interested in working in the public houses and rum taverns, that's where you should head," he said, amid coarse laughter from his mates.

"Gawd, let's 'ope we've seen the last of pubs, eh?" Gracie said as Isabella huddled closer to her side. Gracie had made no secret of being a whore in London. To most of the women, whoring was the only means of supporting themselves and families apart from thieving. Isabella shuddered and Gracie patted her hand. "You'll have no need to end up over there, you wait and see."

"I hope to God I don't, Gracie." For a period back there in Stepney she had expected to spend the rest of her days as a whore. Most of the young girls in that slum had resorted to selling their bodies to save themselves from starvation.

But for good or evil, that scum of a gentleman had put paid to that expectation.

She grimaced as Gracie went on blithely, "I saw it in me tea leaves, you're gonna make yer fortune 'ere in the colony." She chuckled at Isabella's skeptical look.

"Oh Gracie, what am I going to do without you?" Isabella shook her head. The thought of their impending separation made her feel sick.

"You'll do a treat, ducks, yes you will."

"I only wish I was as certain," Isabella muttered. She'd been lucky to end up with Gracie when the prisoners were split into mess groups at the start of the voyage. Gracie had been her protector and her mentor. Not even a childhood spent foraging for sustenance in Stepney, or the violence during her stay in prison, prepared her for the hardness and cruelty of some of the thieving harlots on the prison ship. Gracie held Isabella's hand when they'd peered through the scuttle holes to get their last despairing glimpse of London, knowing they'd never see it again.

Gracie now tapped Isabella beneath the chin and grinned again, showing the many gaps in her teeth. "You'll get a good master, don't fret, then all your troubles will be over."

Isabella had a feeling her troubles would never be over.

Dazedly she watched as the boat dropped off the last woman and turned to head back to the ship for the next load of human cargo. The haze caused by the swirling dust gave the scene a sense of unreality. Sweat seemed to seep from every pore in Isabella's skin, soaking her ragged clothing, but she'd grown used to almost every form of human discomfort. What was a bit of sweat? The wind raced across the wharf, the flying dust stinging her cheeks, bare arms, and ankles.

The harbor was a cauldron of activity. Longboats ferried cargo to and from the dozen or so ships bobbing at anchor in the cove, most bound for exotic and oriental ports. At first sight of it the startling scenery had lifted the convicts' flagged spirits after weeks of endless ocean, but that first sense of exhilaration had soon dispelled.

 Gracie nudged her. "Buck up dearie, 'ere's the nobs."

Isabella tried to stop her fingers shaking as she wiped at her dry, cracked lips. Soldiers, lined up and armed, stared at the unkempt women as if they were no better than the rats that had swarmed below decks.

"Stand to one side," one of the soldiers ordered and another waved his truncheon.

"What do they think we are, a load of stupid sheep?" Isabella moaned.

"Ah well, we should be used to it by now." Gracie sighed as they all moved to where they'd been directed.

"They're looking at us as if we're creatures on display at the fair. You'd think they've never seen a female con before."

There were men everywhere, not just the soldiers. They lurked around corners and on rooftops, treating the arrival of a shipload of women as a spectacle. 

"'Tis a fact that we've been brought here because they have a shortage of women in the colony, Bella. I s'pose that lot's waiting to find out which of us they're gonna own, eh?" Gracie jerked her head towards a motley group of men standing openly surveying them, eyes gleaming.

It took some time to bring all the prisoners to shore. Isabella was close to fainting with the heat before the final boatload was set down.

 At a signal from one of the officials a gentleman came out of a building. Moving with stiff precision to the center of the dockyard, he stopped, then wiped his face on a white kerchief as he cast his eyes along the row of women. Unsmiling, he announced, "On behalf of Governor Macquarie I welcome you to New South Wales."

"God bless me, if he don't sound like 'e's really glad to see us who've come from the other side of the world at the King's pleasure." Gracie chuckled. "Nice of Governor Macquarie to send one of 'is codgers to make sure we're all 'appy to be 'ere."

"Yes, happy as larks," Isabella retorted in a sharp whisper.

"As you know," the man went on, "you have been allocated quarters or assigned masters. These good men," he gave the officials a stiff smile, "have spent many hours taking your particulars to ensure that everyone goes to an appropriate place of employment. You will show your allegiance to these masters. If you work hard to prove you are of some worth to the new colony you will earn your freedom as many others have before you." Obviously bored, he ran his eyes along the row of sweltering women. "Many of you will be in far better positions than you would ever have hoped to attain in England." He turned and strode back into the building.

Isabella blew upwards in an effort to cool herself. She'd only taken in half of what he’d said. She was a prisoner, for all his fancy words. Still, in the long run, better to work here, hopefully in some nob's kitchen, than to rot in a prison back home. Or face the hangman's noose.

Home? It was so far away and so far removed from where she stood now, that it seemed as if the years before she'd been arrested had been lived by another person. But for all their poverty she'd always known what it was to be a part of a close, loving family. Oh how she missed her ma, and her brothers and sisters.

 Isabella ignored the leering looks they received from men scurrying to off-load cargo. Her legs felt as if they would give out on her at any moment. Her bad foot with its crooked toes was beginning to ache fiercely and she swayed.

At last they were herded to where a stern government clerk sat at a table, a ledger in front of him and a pen in his hand.

Gracie poked Isabella in the back. "I 'ope I get a strong 'ansome master," she said with a chuckle. "Like that one with the gold 'air over there. Look at 'im. Lord, 'e'd do me fine. E’s been staring 'ard at us since we came ashore. Stands out from the other lot like a boil on yer nose, don't 'e? Rather a dandy, I don't mind saying so. I'll warm 'is bed any time 'e likes."

"Can't say I noticed him," Isabella lied.

"Oh no, suddenly you're blind, eh?"

"One member of the gentry's the same as the other. They can all rot in hell." Isabella shuddered. She detested them all, with their fine clothes, finicky manners, and hearts as cold as stone.

"You may sit on the ground, ladies." The officer in charge gave the order then smirked as he marched away.

"Cripes, why didn't they tell us that before?" Gracie sank with a huge sigh onto her well-padded bottom. The others followed her.

* * *

Tiger Carstairs removed his hat, then ran his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. Smiling grimly, he pushed the hat back on as he turned his back on the bedraggled lines of women.

What a bunch. They didn't get any better. Still, one female had caught his eye. She was a bit short on flesh to cover her bones, but there was a light of defiance in her eyes that the dreadful journey with all its degradation hadn't snuffed. She'd stared right at him from eyes as green as the sea as she'd limped past, her spine straight as a broomstick. He liked that.

Yes, she'd do perfectly.

She was young, if not very hearty, but Thelma had told him to keep his eye out for one who didn't look as if she'd be off in a flash with any man who showed up at the back door. This one hated men, if that glower she'd given him was anything to go by. So blatant was her scorn he'd fully expected her to spit in someone's eye. The sunshine had picked up glints in hair that would probably be reddish-brown after a good washing. But the wench had really taken his fancy, stirred some deep emotion. It was an unnerving sensation, peculiar in its uniqueness.

"Ho, Tiger Carstairs, after a new woman to warm your bed?" called one of the other men who'd come to inspect the new arrivals.

Tiger eyed the man coldly. Half of these poor dregs of humanity would end up as bed-warmers for this lot. Still and all, most of the females who'd landed today had whored in London and on the journey over, so the new life in the colony would hold no surprises for them.

"No, Mackenzie. Believe it or not, some of us are merely looking for women capable of keeping our homes clean and our stomachs full." Tiger looked away, watching the hustle and bustle of unloading.

Mackenzie's laughter was coarse as he walked away. Probably rum soaked as usual. Tiger sauntered over to the table where Gregson sat with his list of assignments.

"The wench there with the cropped red hair, who's to take her?" he asked indolently. "I'd like her."

"Have to wait your turn, Carstairs. She's been assigned. I have your woman already noted. Let me see..." Gregson ran a finger down his list. "Ah, yes, you have been allocated one Moira Paine."

"I don't want one Moira Paine unless it's that wench." Tiger pointed to the red-haired girl. She was staring at her feet, looking for all the world as if she was unaware of what was going on around her. Or had cut herself off from it all.

Gregson peered along the line to the woman in question. "What would you want with a scrawny wench like that, eh?" He shrugged. "Mind you, she has the makings of a beauty, I suppose."

"I care not for looks, old chap." Tiger knew he lied. "My kitchen woman needs a girl to help. This one looks capable."

"Oh aye." Gregson chuckled. "She does look capable enough." He leered, and Tiger hid a grimace of disgust. These men all had one thought in mind where women were concerned, and that was having them on their backs with their legs spread. "Hold on, old man, we're about to start allocating now."

Tiger eyed Gregson with annoyance. With a look along the line he saw that the wench in question still stared at her feet. His heart gave a strange lurch, unsettling him.

* * *

"Ah, thank the Lord, I'm gasping for a drink," Gracie said when some women came along the line with water jugs. "You cons?" she asked the one who offered her a mug.

"Yea, all of us." The woman grinned.

"'Ow d'ya find it 'ere?"

"It's a blooming laugh a minute ain't it?" She showed her toothless gums as she threw her head back in a laugh. "Mind yer Ps and Qs and yer'll find it ain't half bad," she advised, before going on down the line.

"Not bad!" Gracie blew a raspberry, then wiped her mouth with the back of a hand. "Gawd, but it's like a blooming oven out 'ere, ain't it?" She wiped the hem of her filthy skirt across her face, making streaks through the grime. 

Isabella sighed wearily. Her bad foot ached, her stomach was twisted in knots, her hair was lousy and she stank like a pile of animal droppings. The seasickness that had racked her during the long months at sea was still with her, and the ground seemed to be going up and down.

Now the fear that had plagued her since she'd been herded onto the ship so many months ago rose up to stifle her. Just what sort of master would she get? She knew she was as strong as any woman here, but they would take one look at her crippled foot and discard her as a domestic help. She'd get picked as some man's whore for certain, that was all these high falutin' nobs sought. That was how she'd got herself into this mess in the first place. By taking a knife to one of them who'd thought it was his God-given right to lay his white pampered hands on her.

With a small sob, her right palm went to her stomach. The babe had lain there such a short while. Although she'd loathed the thought of the nob's spawn resting in her womb, when the growing babe had been torn from her she had mourned its loss. It hadn't been the babe's fault; and perhaps it had been better off not coming into this cruel world.

One of the babies born on board began to whine and Isabella stared at its screwed-up face. Poor mite. Its mother, a doxie who'd worked the streets of Islington, put the child to her sagging breast.

Heartsick and afraid of what the future held, Isabella put her face on her bent knees and closed her eyes.

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. Tonkins 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.

Her attention was caught by a flock of birds, some sort of parrots. Noisily they argued over perches in a nearby tree. Their plumage was a vivid green and several shades of blue, the brightest colors she'd ever seen. The tree was strange; its branches spread wide and high, its trunk shedding its bark. There was a stark sort of beauty in its gangly shape; quite unlike the oak, poplars, and elms of England.

Taking a few deep breaths Isabella turned slowly, her face to the sun, feeling slightly light-headed. What heaven after the confining horror of the ship. This English gent who'd gone to try and fetch Dougal couldn't be all bad to have agreed to her demand.

Hold on, Bella, she cautioned. Don't go getting all soppy at this late stage. He's an Englishman. No doubt he'll have you warming his bed in short time. Likely he'll want Dougal there too. She'd heard plenty of tales on board about the loathsome acts some of the gentry tried to force the maids and lads in their service to perform for them. Of course—that was probably why he'd agreed so readily to fetch Dougal.

A thought hit her then: he'd left her here alone. She didn't have to dally like that stupid monkey. What was there to stop her making off? Glancing about, she prepared to make a run for it.

But then she chided herself. Don't be a fool, Bella. Where would you go, and what would you do? The crew had told tales of the wild endless jungle beyond the town and how a person could die of thirst in the desert that went on forever beyond the limits of the colony. Of course she could lose herself in the maze of streets here on this hill but there was little doubt what life would have in store for her if she did. No doubt her English master would delight in dishing out his punishment once he found her; which she was positive he would, with his connections to the Governor.

Might as well wait and see if the Englishman kept his word and brought Dougal back. At least Dougal would watch out for her. She and Dougal could run off together once they had the lie of the land worked out. She'd have more chance of survival with her faithful friend beside her.

A row of filthy prisoners shuffled by in a line, their odd clothing bearing a pattern of arrows. Their ankle shackles clanked and Isabella shuddered when she caught sight of raw and festering skin beneath the fetters. A few of them called out obscenely to her and the guard in charge of them wielded his weapon and shouted an order to keep moving.

Isabella swallowed as she watched until they were out of sight. Then she looked down at her own legs. At least she wasn't shackled like those poor wretches. And not locked up in some filthy cell as she'd been for months back home. Shuddering, she brushed a hand over her eyes. Nightmares still haunted her of that cell and her fellow inmates. Once the sun set her fears came back to torment her, and probably always would. The stink, the heat, then the intense cold; the fear when she'd begun to bleed and the woman beside her had yelled for the guard who'd leered at her blood-soaked skirts. If not for a kindly nun who came to offer comfort to the women awaiting transportation she would be dead now.

The heat made her sleepy. She yawned. They'd been up since the crack of dawn staring anxiously at the shore, she and Gracie whispering their hopes and fears of what would happen to them in this god awful colony the sailors had painted such horrendous pictures about. So far it hadn't turned out anywhere near as terrible as they'd expected. What was Gracie doing now? Had she fared any better or worse?

There was a flap at the back of the wagon that could be let down, but it was much too high for her to climb up there so, after giving it a bit of thought, she clambered up the front using one of the smaller wheels. She sat on the bench. All at once she felt sick, weary, and scared out of her wits. Supposing this Tiger Carstairs was as evil as most of the other gentry she'd ever come in contact with.

Twisting her fingers together to stop their trembling she looked straight ahead, ignoring the ribald shouts from a group of marines ambling by. They were obviously on their way to a tavern she could see on a corner of one of the streets nearby, a din emanating from inside its smoky depths.

A lot of time seemed to pass. Others from the prison ship came up the hill and were driven away by their new owners. Some gave her strange looks when they saw she still sat there, alone. Gracie wasn't among them and she worried over her friend.

When one of the other members of their mess came along with a stern-looking man wearing a reverend's collar Isabella called, "Did you see what happened to Gracie, Ethel?"

"The old devil walked away with her new master. I think he's a nob," Ethel shouted back before being hustled onto a cart.

Eventually just the one wagon remained.

Isabella rested an arm on the iron rail at the back of the seat and put her head on it. Despite all the hustle and bustle going on around her, her eyelids began to droop. 

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