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beside the convict, Sarah stretched out her hand to touch
his arm, meaning to wake him gently and warn him of what she planned to do. His
sheer size gave her pause. Despite the leanness that was the inevitable result
of his incarceration on the prison ship, he was broad-shouldered and
long-limbed. Standing, Sarah guessed that he would top her by nearly a foot.
But the beating and the resulting loss of blood would have left him severely
weakened. Even if he wished to harm her, she thought he could not. Still, she
peered through the darkness for the reassuring glint of iron chains before
waking him. Just to make sure.
    The irons were there, stretched from ankle to ankle, linking his
spread legs, which lay black and heavy against the golden brown straw. Her eyes
slid up the length of his body to his hands. The wrist farthest from her was
enclosed in iron, she saw, but the chain led upward instead of across to his
other wrist. It was secured to a halter ring overhead. Which meant that he had
one hand free . . .
    Sarah rocked back on her heels, ready to rise and leave the stall
just as silently as she had entered. The sudden movement of his hand as it
grasped her wrist caught her by surprise. She gasped, trying to jerk her wrist
free. His hand, warm and hard, held her fast. Eyes wide with fright, Sarah
stared from his large, hard-palmed hand, long-fingered enough to wrap twice
around her slender wrist and shades darker than her honey-gold skin despite his
months of imprisonment, to the shadowed face of the man whose captive she had
suddenly become. A shaft of moonlight touched his features, glinting off his
blue eyes. They were open. He was watching her.
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CHAPTER III
    “What do you want?” His husky whisper was rough with
pain and, she thought, hostility.
    “I—I came to help you. I have some salve for your
back.” His lack of any immediately violent movement soothed her fright.
What would he gain from harming her, after all? He could not escape, and he
must know that if he hurt her he would be killed—probably beaten to
death. But for all her reasoning she could not still the little shivers of
apprehension and something else that crawled up and down her spine. Never
before had she been this close to a half-naked man. The sheer masculinity of
his bare back disturbed her more than did the wounds she had come to treat. To
say nothing of his hair-matted chest, just visible as he lifted his head to
look at her. And the smell of him. Raw and earthy, composed of sweat and blood
and a musky scent that defied description. It galvanized her. She tugged at her
trapped hand, but he would not release her wrist.
    “It’s the little Good Samaritan, isn’t
it?” From the bitter, biting words, Sarah deduced that he had indeed been
cognizant this afternoon when she had thrust herself between him and the whip.
The knowledge should have made her feel safer. It did not. “Trying to buy
your way into heaven with good deeds?” he continued, sneering.
“Well, forget it. I don’t want your help.”
    With that, he tossed her wrist back at her and turned his head
away. Perversely, now that she was free to go, Sarah stayed where she was,
surveying the back of his dark, well-shaped head. His hair was wildly tousled,
grown overlong and matted with blood. From the look of it, it had not been
combed in months. Or washed, either.
    “Whether you want help or not, your back needs attention. I
mean to see to it.”
    Her fear had largely vanished when he released her wrist, though
her skin still tingled from the strength of his grip. If he meant to harm her,
he would already have done so. His harsh words and tone had aroused her ire,
instead. It showed in the tartness of her voice.
    “And I have no choice in the matter?” He turned to
look at her, his eyes glittering almost silver in the moonlight. “Oh,
that’s right, you
own
me, don’t you? Your papa bought me
this afternoon.” The sneer was