Mystic Mountains

attempt to take a slice out of one and so put yourself in line for a hanging?"
    Isabella pursed her lips, glaring at him. Why should she tell him anything? But then the fairness of her nature had to allow that he was right. He had saved her from an awful end. She 'd seen that Irishman Malloy outside the trading store and his furious stare assured her he was still enraged with Tiger Carstairs for taking her away from him. She sensed Malloy wasn't finished with her. This was the first time Tiger had touched her, but if Malloy had had his way and won her at the wharf her body would likely be at the bottom of the cove by now after he'd finished using it.
    She looked past him, nibbling her lip. "My ma was dragged away from Ireland and her family when she was almost sixteen. Her wealthy 'English' master decided he wanted her in his house in London." Her face twisted in a sneer. "She became a domestic maid. But 'twas not housemaiding he wanted her there for, was it? He raped her, didn't he? And her barely more than a week past her sixteenth birthday. When she found out she was having me she went to him pleading for help. The gent tossed her out that night. Without so much as a farthing and only the clothes she stood up in."
    Isabella paused, clutching the bundle of apples to her middle. Looking past Tiger she pulled in a deep breath. "Papa was one of the first men wanting her body when she took to the streets, thank the Lord, for I dare say neither her nor me would be alive now."
    "And is your stepfather also Irish?" he asked.
    She shook her head, lifting her chin as she declared, "No, he was born in Spain."
    "Ah, that would account for your first name, eh?"
    "Aye, he was brought to England by a sea captain when he was a boy, but he was alone in the world when he met Ma. He 's a fine man, the finest father anyone could have."
    "So, how is it your name 's O'Shea when your pa's Spanish?" Tiger asked quietly.
    "Papa knew not where he came from, and couldn 't recall his parents, so he took Ma's name. He always said 'twas because he loved her so much when first he set eyes on her." Wistfully she recalled the first time she'd heard the tale, when she'd been barely big enough to climb on his knee.
    He nodded. "So, do you know who this nob is who fathered you, Bella?" She noticed his hands were clenched at his sides, as hers were. She would like to strangle the man who'd fathered her.
    "No. I only know he 's dead and buried. And in hell, I hope."
    "Truth is then that you 're half English, eh?"
    She gave him a scornful glance and he had the gall to smile. "No!" Her retort was vehement. "That so-called gent may have sired me, but me real pa is now in Newgate. That 's the only father I'll ever want to know."
    "But you can 't lump all Englishmen into the same packet because of what your mother suffered."
    "Can 't I?" Her nails dug into her palms. "I can hate the lot of you as much as I like." One of her fists came up and she shook it beneath his arrogant nose. "You're nothing but a bunch of lecherous scum! 'Twas an English gentleman who put a babe in my belly and took the only thing I could ever call my own—my innocence. Why do you think I tried to chop his cock off, eh?" His eyes had widened. Isabella knew a moment's satisfaction for giving him such a shock.
    "A babe? So, are you still carrying the man 's child?" There was a thread of disgust in his tone and briefly she wondered if it was for her or the English pig who'd raped her.
    "Of course not. I 'd be rounder than this now if I was. Don't you know anything about such things? I lost it while awaiting my trial."
    He bent his head, but she refused to meet his eyes. She heard him curse and then he lifted her chin with a finger, forcing her to look at him.
    "It must have been hell for you," he said simply.
    Isabella shrugged her shoulders with false indifference. "I was glad to get rid of it, wasn 't I?" she lied.
    "No doubt you w ere. The spawn of an Englishman. I begin to see . . . " With a lift of his shoulders he turned away from her.
    "You see? Don 't make me laugh. What would you know of a woman's suffering? How would you know what it feels like to have your pride stripped from you, and your virtue plundered? My Ma and Papa both blame themselves; Papa for not being there to protect me and Ma for having to let me go out foraging for food for the little ones." With a small sound of disgust she poked about in the dirt with the toe of her shoe.
    " 'Tis a cruel world, for sure," he