scars that could only have come from hundreds and hundreds of lashes delivered at the triangle by the vicious claws of a cat-o'-nine-tails.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lucas perched atop the whitewashed split-rail fence, his forearms resting lightly on his bent knees, the toes of his boots hooked behind a lower rail, his gaze following the big bay stallion as it cantered in an easy, endless circle, its silver hooves flashing, its red hide sleek and gleaming in the fitful morning sun.
The paddock was big. Big enough to give the horse the illusion of freedom—until it ran up against the far fence line and stopped, its neck arching, its ears twitched forward, its nostrils quivering. "That's right," whispered Gallagher. "You can run, but you can't really go anywhere, me lad. They've got you surrounded."
"You gonna try riding him today?" asked Charlie, his voice tight with excitement as he climbed up to stand on the bottom railing of the fence, beside Gallagher.
Lucas smiled. "Not yet. I want to get to know him a wee bit more first." He cast a sideways look at the boy. "Like to try workin' him on a longeing rein yourself, then?"
"Wouldn't I just!" Charlie's face broke into such a wide smile that Lucas had to turn his head away, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Warrick Corbett strolling across the yard.
Lucas watched the man come at them. He hadn't quite taken the measure of Warrick Corbett yet. In some ways, he seemed a good man to be assigned to, seemed free of the sadistic tendencies that the English public school system could sometimes breed into a man along with a taste for cricket and Cicero and Shakespearean poetry. But then, Cor- bett had never been to Eton or Winchester, wasn't really an Englishman—although Gallagher doubted the man realized that yet. Corbett had been born and bred here, in Australia, and whether he admitted it or not, that made him different.
But it didn't entirely account for that disconcerting wild- ness that could blaze in Warrick Corbett's eyes, or that dangerous, fallen-angel smile that could come out of nowhere. There was a volatility, an immature recklessness about the man that Gallagher didn't trust.
"You, Charlie," Corbett called when he was still some six to eight feet away. "Go catch my sister's mare, Cimmeria, and saddle her up. And get that strawberry roan for Gallagher while you're at it," he added as the boy hopped off the fence and took off at a run for the far paddock. His head tilting back, the man swung to face Gallagher, that devilish grin of his firmly in place. "I've got a job for you."
Lucas twisted sideways and swung his legs over the top of the fence to balance there, his arms braced wide. "I thought you wanted me to continue working Finnegan's Luck today."
"I did. But it looks like that'll have to wait until later." Corbett paused beside the fence, his gaze following the restless stallion. "My sister needs a groom."
Lucas tightened his grip on the rough wood of the fence and pushed off to land lightly in the yard. Whether in Hyde Park or the hills of Hampshire, no young Englishwoman with any pretense of gentility would even think of riding alone, without a groom in attendance. To do so would outrage every rule of propriety her society enforced. Yet it seemed a curious custom to follow here, where the groom was more often than not a convict.
"I thought Old Tom was her groom," Gallagher said, his voice rough with a tension that stole his breath and twisted his gut. To be forced to ride at a respectful distance behind that beautiful but haughty young Englishwoman, to be at her beck and call as her groom, as her servant, suddenly struck him as more degrading and insufferable than anything he'd yet had to endure—more than the chains, more than the triangle and whip, more than all the grinding, day-by-day humiliations and indignities he'd endured through three long, soul-destroying years.
Corbett rested one elbow on the fence's high railing, his attention caught, once again, by
CHAPTER EIGHT
Lucas perched atop the whitewashed split-rail fence, his forearms resting lightly on his bent knees, the toes of his boots hooked behind a lower rail, his gaze following the big bay stallion as it cantered in an easy, endless circle, its silver hooves flashing, its red hide sleek and gleaming in the fitful morning sun.
The paddock was big. Big enough to give the horse the illusion of freedom—until it ran up against the far fence line and stopped, its neck arching, its ears twitched forward, its nostrils quivering. "That's right," whispered Gallagher. "You can run, but you can't really go anywhere, me lad. They've got you surrounded."
"You gonna try riding him today?" asked Charlie, his voice tight with excitement as he climbed up to stand on the bottom railing of the fence, beside Gallagher.
Lucas smiled. "Not yet. I want to get to know him a wee bit more first." He cast a sideways look at the boy. "Like to try workin' him on a longeing rein yourself, then?"
"Wouldn't I just!" Charlie's face broke into such a wide smile that Lucas had to turn his head away, his eyes narrowing at the sight of Warrick Corbett strolling across the yard.
Lucas watched the man come at them. He hadn't quite taken the measure of Warrick Corbett yet. In some ways, he seemed a good man to be assigned to, seemed free of the sadistic tendencies that the English public school system could sometimes breed into a man along with a taste for cricket and Cicero and Shakespearean poetry. But then, Cor- bett had never been to Eton or Winchester, wasn't really an Englishman—although Gallagher doubted the man realized that yet. Corbett had been born and bred here, in Australia, and whether he admitted it or not, that made him different.
But it didn't entirely account for that disconcerting wild- ness that could blaze in Warrick Corbett's eyes, or that dangerous, fallen-angel smile that could come out of nowhere. There was a volatility, an immature recklessness about the man that Gallagher didn't trust.
"You, Charlie," Corbett called when he was still some six to eight feet away. "Go catch my sister's mare, Cimmeria, and saddle her up. And get that strawberry roan for Gallagher while you're at it," he added as the boy hopped off the fence and took off at a run for the far paddock. His head tilting back, the man swung to face Gallagher, that devilish grin of his firmly in place. "I've got a job for you."
Lucas twisted sideways and swung his legs over the top of the fence to balance there, his arms braced wide. "I thought you wanted me to continue working Finnegan's Luck today."
"I did. But it looks like that'll have to wait until later." Corbett paused beside the fence, his gaze following the restless stallion. "My sister needs a groom."
Lucas tightened his grip on the rough wood of the fence and pushed off to land lightly in the yard. Whether in Hyde Park or the hills of Hampshire, no young Englishwoman with any pretense of gentility would even think of riding alone, without a groom in attendance. To do so would outrage every rule of propriety her society enforced. Yet it seemed a curious custom to follow here, where the groom was more often than not a convict.
"I thought Old Tom was her groom," Gallagher said, his voice rough with a tension that stole his breath and twisted his gut. To be forced to ride at a respectful distance behind that beautiful but haughty young Englishwoman, to be at her beck and call as her groom, as her servant, suddenly struck him as more degrading and insufferable than anything he'd yet had to endure—more than the chains, more than the triangle and whip, more than all the grinding, day-by-day humiliations and indignities he'd endured through three long, soul-destroying years.
Corbett rested one elbow on the fence's high railing, his attention caught, once again, by
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