Mystic Mountains

table when your name 's called. No hustling, an' behave yourselves. You never know, the guvner his self may pick you." One of his comrades gave him a dig in the ribs and they both chortled.
    Isabella let the contempt she felt for him show as she picked up her bundle and slowly rose. If she didn 't know she would get clapped in irons she'd spit in his ugly pig's eyes.
    The women shuffled about, and the baby began to bawl loudly. Isabella spotted Dougal among the crewmen who'd just unloaded some cargo from one of the longboats. Her friend was frowning and she sent him a wan smile. He looked about, then waved discreetly, mouthing, "You all right?"
    Isabella nodded warily. Would she ever be all right again? Had she ever been all right in her whole life? At nineteen she sometimes felt as if she 'd lived a hundred years; most of them with an empty stomach, and heavy heart.
    The woman next to her wiped a hand over her runny nose and sniffed, swearing obscenely beneath her breath as the man behind the table stood up.
    "First I will call the names of the women going to Parramatta to be assigned to masters in that district," he shouted. "These females will form an orderly line over here." He waved a hand carelessly. "You will then be escorted to the master attendant's boat for the short trip upriver."
    The troublemaker, Marjorie, was among the thirty or so whose names he called. As constables led them off Marjorie lifted her skirts, showing her bare bottom to the soldiers. A couple of the other women did the same. One or two of the rowdier women made catcalls and began singing a bawdy song.
    The official ignored them and the boisterous calls they'd brought on. Nodding to the group of male onlookers, he called, "Now then, Isabella O'Shea." Isabella jumped. "Isabella O'Shea, come forward now!"
    Gracie gave her a soft nudge and mumbled a word of encouragement. Gripping a fold of her skirt in a fist, her head held high so that no one would guess at her nervousness, Isabella stepped over to the table.
    "That 's me." Her clear voice showed no sign of her inner turmoil.
    "Ah yes, I see you 're Irish born," he read from his ledger. "You were tried on the twenty-third of May eighteen seventeen. Attempted murder!" He sneered, his slash of a mouth twisting. "Your sentence is seven years. My God, His Lordship must have been feeling soft that day."
    Isabella pressed her lips together.
    "No previous convictions. Must have been the reason he was so lenient." Giving her lower half a sneering glance he added insolently, "And you have a deformation of the toes of the right foot."
    Isabella lifted her chin higher. He made it sound as if she had two heads and a hunchback. "Yes, that 's so," she assured him clearly, her shoulders going back until they ached.
    "I 'll take the useless wench." A lump of a man with a distinct Irish brogue strode over to stand beside Isabella.
    She began to shake. He looked as if he 'd slept in the same clothes for a year. His beady eyes reminded her of an ugly bird of prey she'd seen once in a book, a vulture, yes that was what it was called. Arms too long for his body flopped at his sides.
    "Gawd, girl, y ou don't want that pile of shit taking you," Gracie called out. "'Ere guv, take a look at me lovely titties. Choose me instead." She pushed her ample breasts forward and leered at the Irishman.
    But he wouldn 't have noticed Gracie if she threw herself naked into his arms. As if the matter were decided he yanked Isabella towards him, slobbering.
    Isabella dug her heels into the ground. No! She screamed inwardly. Sweet heaven—had she come through the sea journey unscathed only to end up in the bed of this son of the devil?
    "Just a minute," a calm level voice ordered.
    Malloy turned to face the tall fair-haired man who strolled towards them.
    He had yellow-gold eyes, Isabella noticed; eyes the like of which she 'd never seen on any man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with narrow hips. But her eyes were drawn to his handsome face, with a nose that was straight and elegant, a wide brow, a firm chin.
    His strong legs were encased in breeches. He wore knee-high boots and his white shirt, open almost to his waist, showed a V of brown flesh covered with golden hairs. The sun glinted in them, making them sparkle. He seemed to be surrounded by a glowing aura and Isabella shook her head slightly to rid herself of the impression the man was a golden god. There was a vitality and arrogance about him that made every other