Mystic Mountains

those witless creatures yonder on the hills." She turned her head in the general direction of where Dougal had pointed out the sheep he'd spotted from the ship's rail.
    A square-tipped finger was jabbed at her nose and she took a step back. "I don 't believe this! You've got the nerve of the devil, d'you know that? You've just stepped off a convict ship. Just who the bloody hell do you think you are?" 
    Isabella could have sworn she saw amusement in those strange eyes of his. How dare he laugh at her?
    "I 'm as good as any English scum," she spat, then put a hand over her mouth, expecting a slap for her insolence.
    But he drawled, "So 'tis scum I am is it? You don't know the meaning of the word if you think that's what I am, little biddy." He stared at her, long and hard, his face so near that Isabella shivered and shrank back from the mocking glint in his eyes. Then, rubbing his jaw, he stunned her by agreeing, "All right, what's his name, this lover of yours that you can't bear to be parted from?"
    Isabella swallowed, her eyes widening in amazement. Dougal had never been her lover; never would be. He was just a dear friend. But best not let this man know that.
    Dougal had successfully shielded her from the sickening and persistent advances of some of the crew. It was taken for granted that once at sea the female prisoners were the officers' for the taking, but Dougal, thank the Lord, had established early on that Isabella was his woman, so keeping them at bay. It had been harder to convince some of the crew members, and she knew he had fought the largest and meanest man on board, and won, to keep the others clear of her.
    Dougal was not very tall, but his well-muscled body enabled him to hold up his own in a fight. Isabella dreaded to think what her fate could have been without him and Gracie to champion her. But gratitude and friendship was all she felt for Dougal.
    "Jackson. His name's Dougal Jackson. You won't be sorry if you take him on, I know you won't. He's a hard worker, and he can take care of himself as well as any man. He used to be a fist fighter in London."
    A glow of hope slowly began to fill Isabella. Perhaps everything would work out just fine as Gracie had predicted. At least this Englishman was listening to her. And that was something she 'd never expected.
    "English eh? So, how come he isn 't classed as a pig alongside all us Englishmen?" Now she was certain he was laughing at her. At least while amused he wasn't contemplating taking his whip to her for speaking out of turn.
    "Dougal 's Scottish." She sniffed. "He worked his way over on the ship. He's after starting out afresh and that was the only way he could get here. He said he's going to look for work as a shepherd. Do you have sheep?"
    "Aye, I have plenty of the creatures." He nodded, his eyes narrowed on her as if deep in thought.
    A grey horse with a rounded belly and glossy coat stood patiently between the shafts of the four-wheeled wagon. Tiger Carstairs stroked a hand down its sleek neck, thinking. Isabella held her breath.
    Then he said, "Stay here." He jabbed a finger beneath her nose again, ordering, "Keep out of trouble. I 'll go and see what I can do about your lover."
    Without further ado he strode off down the path they 'd just walked, his boots kicking up dust. Very big and arrogant, he held his shoulders straight and proud. Typical English gentry; walked as if he owned the world and all in it. Well, truth was he owned her now. Biting her lip Isabella stroked the velvet nose of the horse. It blew a soft breath on her face.
    How strange to be standing here free as a bird with no jailers or crew watching over her. For a moment she felt odd; like a ped dler's monkey she'd once seen. It had become so used to being caged or chained that when it had accidentally gained its freedom one day it just stayed by its cage shivering and chattering, awaiting its fate. It had received a clip round the ear when the peddler returned.
    Some children were scampering about nearby and one of them stopped to stare at her. A woman dressed in a severe grey frock with a high collar and starched apron, obviously the girl 's nurse, pulled her away sharply, glaring at Isabella as if she was worth nothing.
    Isabella poked her tongue out at the woman 's back. The tart was probably no better than she was; a con. Now, how good would that be, to end up being a nanny or a governess to some wealthy nob's children. She sighed; another foolish dream. Who would