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more pronounced; his lip curled at her.
    Sarah’s lips tightened. “That’s right, he
did,” she agreed coolly.
    “Nobody owns me!” The words, despite the soft,
Irish-sounding lilt that gave his voice an unexpected attraction, were harshly
vehement. Sarah said nothing, just returned him look for look. His lips twisted
into what was almost a snarl. The faintest glimmer of white teeth showed
between them. “Especially not a scrawny, do-gooding female with about as
much feminity as a broomstick! What’s the matter, lady, can’t you
get a man to warm your bed? Are you so frustrated you had to have papa buy you
one?”
    Sarah’s mouth dropped open in shock. But as his words began
to sink in she felt anger course hot and swift through her veins.
    “Why, you ungrateful swine!” she said. “If it
weren’t for me, you’d be fish bait in Melbourne’s harbor
right now! How dare you say such things to me! I’ll have you . . .”
Her voice trailed off as she realized what, in her unusual burst of temper, she
had nearly threatened him with.
    “Whipped?” he guessed with deadly accuracy. “Is
that how you get your excitement? Watching a man being beaten? Or do you like
to do it yourself?”
    “If you don’t shut your nasty mouth, I’ll have
someone shut it for you!” Her voice rose as her anger returned in full
force. She leaped to her feet, uncaring of the box in her lap, which tumbled to
the floor, spilling medical supplies in all directions. “I must have been
insane to stop them today! My father was right: you deserved every lick, and
more. I wish they had beaten you to death! I . . .”
    A spreading pool of golden light stopped her in midtirade. Eyes
widening, Sarah turned toward the stall door and saw the dark figure of a man
looming there, his lantern held high. The sudden bright light blinded her, so
she could not make out his features, but she knew it had to be either her
father or Percival.
    “What the bloody hell?” The angry growl was
Percival’s. “You little slut, if you—” His words choked
off abruptly. The lantern wavered and then was lowered, and Sarah saw his face.
He looked horrified as he recognized her. As she met his astonished stare,
bright color crept up his neck to his face.
    “Miss Sarah, I beg your pardon.” He sounded shaken.
His eyes as they met hers were both embarrassed and apologetic. “I
thought—that is, I heard a woman’s voice in here with the
convicts—I thought it—you—were one of the barmaids.”
    “That’s all right, Mr. Percival.” Sarah’s
words were clipped, but her anger was directed at the man lying sprawled at her
feet. She could feel the insolence of the convict’s eyes as he watched
her. No doubt he had enjoyed hearing his version of her character confirmed by
Percival’s furious denunciation. Keeping her eyes fixed on
Percival’s face so that she wouldn’t have to look at the beast who
had so vilely insulted her, Sarah began to move with regal dignity toward the
stall door. Percival’s face still reflected the horror of having
addressed her in such a way; then, as the situation began to assert itself, his
lips compressed and his eyes narrowed.
    “Miss Sarah, what are you doing in the stable? At night, and
alone—with the convicts.” His tone was condemning. Sarah kept her
head high as she continued to move toward him. Not waiting for her
answer—it must have been obvious that there was no defensible answer she
could give—Percival continued, his voice growing angry, “Good God,
Miss Sarah, what were you thinking of, putting yourself within reach of such
scum? You could have been hurt, or killed, or. . . worse!” Sarah, knowing
very well what he meant by “worse,” felt a faint blush warming her
cheeks. But the fact that for once Percival was in the right did not make her
feel any more kindly disposed toward him. The convict was a vile, ungrateful
brute, and she was willing to believe