Mystic Mountains

end up as bed-warmers for this lot. Still and all, most of the females who'd landed today had whored in London and on the journey over, so the new life in the colony would hold no surprises for them.
    "No, Mackenzie. Believe it or not, some of us are merely looking for women capable of keeping our homes clean and our stomachs full." Tiger looked away, watching the hustle and bustle of unloading.
    Mackenzie's laughter was coarse as he walked away. Probably rum soaked as usual. Tiger sauntered over to the table where Gregson sat with his list of assignments.
    "The wench there with the cropped red hair, who 's to take her?" he asked indolently. "I'd like her."
    "Have to wait your turn, Carstairs. She 's been assigned. I have your woman already noted. Let me see..." Gregson ran a finger down his list. "Ah, yes, you have been allocated one Moira Paine."
    "I don 't want one Moira Paine unless it's that wench." Tiger pointed to the red-haired girl. She was staring at her feet, looking for all the world as if she was unaware of what was going on around her. Or had cut herself off from it all.
    Gregson peered along the line to the woman in question. "What would you want with a scrawny wench like that, eh?" He shrugged. "Mind you, she has the makings of a beauty, I suppose."
    "I care not for looks, old chap." Tiger knew he lied. "My kitchen woman needs a girl to help. This one looks capable."
    "Oh aye." Gregson chuckled. "She does look capable enough." He leered, and Tiger hid a grimace of disgust. These men all had one thought in mind where women were concerned, and that was having them on their backs with their legs spread. "Hold on, old man, we 're about to start allocating now."
    Tiger eyed Gregson with annoyance. With a look along the line he saw that the wench in question still stared at her feet. His heart gave a strange lurch, unsettling him.
     
    * * *
     
    "Ah, thank the Lord, I 'm gasping for a drink," Gracie said when some women came along the line with water jugs. "You cons?" she asked the one who offered her a mug.
    "Yea, all of us." The woman grinned.
    "'Ow d'ya find it 'ere?"
    "It 's a blooming laugh a minute ain't it?" She showed her toothless gums as she threw her head back in a laugh. "Mind yer Ps and Qs and yer'll find it ain't half bad," she advised, before going on down the line.
    "Not bad!" Gracie blew a raspberry, then wiped her mouth with the back of a hand. "Gawd, but it 's like a blooming oven out 'ere, ain't it?" She wiped the hem of her filthy skirt across her face, making streaks through the grime. 
    Isabella sighed wearily. Her bad foot ached, her stomach was twisted in knots, her hair was lousy and she stank like a pile of animal droppings. The seasickness that had racked her during the long months at sea was still with her, and the ground seemed to be going up and down.
    Now the fear that had plagued her since she'd been herded onto the ship so many months ago rose up to stifle her. Just what sort of master would she get? She knew she was as strong as any woman here, but they would take one look at her crippled foot and discard her as a domestic help. She'd get picked as some man's whore for certain, that was all these high falutin' nobs sought. That was how she'd got herself into this mess in the first place. By taking a knife to one of them who'd thought it was his God-given right to lay his white pampered hands on her.
    With a small sob, her right palm went to her stomach. The babe had lain there suc h a short while. Although she'd loathed the thought of the nob's spawn resting in her womb, when the growing babe had been torn from her she had mourned its loss. It hadn't been the babe's fault; and perhaps it had been better off not coming into this cruel world.
    One of the babies born on board began to whine and Isabella stared at its screwed-up face. Poor mite . Its mother, a doxie who'd worked the streets of Islington, put the child to her sagging breast.
    Heartsick and afraid of what the future held, Isabella put her face on her bent knees and closed her eyes.

 
     
    Chapter Two
     
    Ignoring the others as they tossed ribald jokes about the armed soldiers back and forth, Isabella tidied her hair as best she could with her fingers. How she longed for a bath; she'd give her right arm to be able to sink herself into a tub of warm fresh clear water instead of salt water.
    "All right, enough primping," a guard said, smirking as he poked her on the shoulder. "Up you get and go over to the