Mystic Mountains

In one swift movement he circled her waist with his strong hands and deposited her in the well of the wagon.
    Isabella plopped herself onto a sack of grain, her cheeks flaming and her insides fluttering. Refusing to look at him she stared instead at the tree where the birds were still squawking. His hands had felt like a brand, burning her even through her clothes, and her cheek still tingled where he 'd pressed it against the rough material of his sweat-dampened shirt. He had a smell about him that was like no other; somehow all man, emphasizing his masculinity and strength.
    "Like I said, a bag of bones," the arrogant swine scoffed. "Thelma will have her work cut out filling you up and out. I hope you 're not consumptive. Are you?" he queried, giving her a swift once-over before joining her in the back and seating himself on another bulging sack.
    His legs were so long that even when she tucked her own beneath her Isabella still had to hold herself erect a nd stiff to stop her knees hitting his. "No I am not. Skinny I may be, and who wouldn't be after eating the pigs leavings we got on the ship, but I'm as fit as that horse there."
    She glared at him and shifted uncomfortably. Why did she have the distinct impression he was stretching his legs out on purpose to intimidate her with his height?
    "Aye," Tiger muttered. Lord, what had he gotten himself into with this tart bundle? The lad looked strong enough; he'd be useful. Now he'd seen the two of them together it was clear they'd never been lovers; probably never even thought about it. Well, perhaps the lad had thought about it, but the girl looked on him with nothing other than friendship in her eyes. The lad was awkward and shy about her, and clearly worshipped her. Poor fool.
    "This area around the wharf has a bad reputation. I recommend you keep clear of it. This district is full of grog shops, gambling dens and brothels," Tiger told them as the wagon rolled and creaked away from the noisy streets of the waterfront. "For many men torn away from homes and families rum is their only diversion. Then there are the whalers and other seamen who arrive with their pockets full of money after several months at sea."
    "It stinks worse than the ship on a hot day." Isabella pinched her nose.
    Tiger laughed. "Aye. 'Tis said the stench is carried out to sea on a clear night."
    "Have they no fresh water at hand?" Isabella asked as they made their way past a row of tumbledown cottages and a water cart trundled by, drawn by a tired old pony.
    "Some are lucky and have a well in their yard, but most rely on the cart."
    They came onto a wider road. "This here is our main thoroughfare, George Street. Turn left at Hunter Street, Dougal, 'tis marked. That building on the right down there is the Bank of New South Wales, opened just last year." He pointed to a grand building as they turned the corner into Hunter Street.
    "We can go past Hyde Park then straight down Elizabeth Street. Here, put this on, it 's blowing a brickfielder today." He handed Isabella a hat similar to the one he wore. "It'll do 'til we get home and Thelma finds you a bonnet."
    "Brickfielder?" she asked, setting the hat on her itchy head and holding it tight when a gust of wind nearly whipped it away.
    "Aye, 'tis what they call the north-westerlies that send the dust from the brickfields at the back of town to cover us with grime." He brushed at his sleeve where grit had settled.
    At the top end of a great stretch of parkland he pointed to another splendid building. "And that is the courthouse. Keep out of trouble and you 'll not end up there in front of the magistrate."
    Isabella gave him another glare, which seemed to amuse him. "I have no wish to see another magistrate as long as I live," she said, and his smile vanished.
    She craned to look at the cottages; some neatly painted and fenced, with flowers growing in abundance in their gardens. Here and there splendid double storied houses stood out from their neighbors.
    "They 're very grand." She pointed to one where a vine with vibrant orange colored blossoms trailed over the upper balcony. Somehow she'd expected to see nothing but huts and hovels.
    "They are," he agreed. "These houses have taken the place of the slab huts which once housed our convict population. Governor Macquarie has done great work for the growing population in his time here."
    Isabella was astounded. He was holding a civil conversation with her as if she was one of his acquaintances instead