The Cedar Cutter (35 page)

The man was mad.

‘The evidence I have against Mr O'Connor will see him hang. You have the power to prevent that happening.'

She leapt out of the chair; it clattered to the floor behind her. He would not toy with her. ‘Speak your mind. I'll not listen to this nonsense.'

‘Sit down, my dear.' With a laconic wave he indicated to the chair. ‘We must deal with this in a civilised fashion.'

She ignored him, rested the palms of her hands flat on the desk and stared deep into his eyes. ‘What do you want?' The tension knotted in her gut, a silken thread wound tight, gathering all her fear into a solid lump low in her belly.

‘My son or your lover.'

Carrick drifted up through the swirling fug of his dreams and shifted to ease the weight of the chains. His brand burned as though it was seared into him yesterday. It was the dreams, always the dreams, the screams, flames and voices … Voices. Not screams. Roisin's voice, low and deep. This was no dream. She was here. Panic lacing her voice. He stumbled to the Judas door and pressed his face against the bars.

Ice spread through his veins. He rubbed at his eyes, blinked, slammed against the rusty bars, grazing the skin of his face.
The stinkin' murdering agent!
Gideon Dankworth. Here. Flesh and sodding blood. Not in Ireland. Right here. Lolling in a chair, shiny black boots, cane tapping. The patterned green of Roisin's shawl stabbed at the corner of his vision. He twisted, craning his head to see.

A slow smirk spread across Dankworth's face. ‘My son or your lover.'

His son.

Carrick lurched against the door and sucked in a breath.
Her lover?
A load of stuff and nonsense. She'd no lover and if she did, he'd tear the bastard limb from limb. There was only one lover for Roisin and he was that man.
My son or your lover?
Ruan. Gideon Dankworth's son. A lie. All lies. Roisin would have told him if Dankworth was Ruan's father.

His heart started pounding like a bloody anvil. Why hadn't she told him?
Lying bastard!
This had to be some ridiculous plot to further his own aim. Not this time. He'd not catch him this time. He wasn't some wet-behind-the-ears fool now. Not like in Ireland. Sucked into Dankworth's devious plot to see the insurgents rounded up, accused of the fire he'd started. Accused of the destruction of property, insurgency then murders he'd not committed. He'd have him. If it was the last thing he did.

He grabbed at the bars, rattling hard. ‘Come 'ere you murderin' bastard!'

A door slammed and silence fell.

For the first time since he'd left Ireland he didn't know which way his path lay. His plans were shot. He'd reached a fork in the road. One way led back to Dankworth, his past, the other to Roisin and Ruan. And straight ahead? That didn't bear thinking about.

Dankworth's voice hadn't changed, the cutglass accent, the lazy drawl. He'd recognised it down on the bank of the brook with the lad, he just hadn't believed it. He closed his eyes, seeing again the pale eyes sparking, the taunting glare when he'd lifted the torch to the thatch. The sadistic pleasure flickering as Dankworth sank the white-hot end of his cane into Carrick's shoulder. He'd never forget those eyes. They'd haunted his dreams for too long. Long after the pain from the brand. Pale eyes. Bone white. The orbs shimmering with a fierce intensity. Like a blind man.

Blind!
Old Pella's Blind Bunyip.

It hadn't been the Paterson cutters. Dankworth had got to Old Pella. That's why he'd stayed. Stayed to watch over Roisin and the lad. While Carrick had been busy in the forest chasing his dreams. Why hadn't she told him? The lad couldn't be Dankworth's. Nothing so foul could produce such a treasure.

What was Dankworth doing here, in Australia? He belonged in Ireland. He could still see Dankworth's sardonic grin and hear the jubilant rap of his cane when the judge had sentenced him. Sent for seven years, to places beyond the sea. They'd escorted him from the courtroom in chains while Dankworth, flanked by his army of sycophants and redcoats, had grinned in pleasure. Now he looked more like a Sydney dandy—a politician, one of the English upper-class nobs who thought they ruled the world. He clearly couldn't crawl to the top of the heap in Ireland, so he'd come to Australia to lord it over everyone with cheap land grants and squatter's rights.

Land grants!

He dragged on his chains and moved closer to the barred window and let fly a harsh bark of disdain. ‘Dankworth, you murderin' coward!'

Let him get his hands on the miserable worm. See those inhuman eyes show fear. It'd be worth hanging to know he'd rid the world of the godforsaken sadist. Let Brigid and Liam rest in peace. And Roisin—holy hell. Roisin. Ruan was Dankworth's son. The man had more than one debt to pay and he, Carrick O'Connor, would be calling it in, come hell or high water. ‘Get back here, you halfwit!'

There were footsteps along the verandah; he clambered on to the hinged plank and pressed his face against the barred window. What he'd not give to get at the man.

‘You can't prove anything.' Roisin's voice carried a high-pitched note; panic, fear. If the mongrel laid a hand on her … He tugged at his chains.

‘It'd be obvious to anyone with half a brain.'

‘And you'll be able to prove that in a court of law, will you, with the baptismal records and the like?' A note of defiance laced her voice now. Good on her.

‘I don't need records.'

‘That's just as well, because there aren't any.'

‘I have my position in society, my connections. Who is going to take the word of a common whore?'

‘I'm not a whore.'

‘You'll have difficulty proving that, my dear.' The laconic drawl curled through the bars. ‘Your reputation precedes you. There are many in town who will concur. Everyone knows you entertain the cutters. You and that other little tart.'

The tip-tap of heels signalled Roisin's departure. Not deigning to respond.

If Dankworth as much as touched her, touched his lad, he'd rip him limb from limb. He rattled the bars. A futile, meaningless action.

‘Come back, you English pig!'

Not this time. Dankworth wouldn't touch Roisin, not while he had breath left in his body. He'd taken his family once; he'd not be doing it again. He banged his fists on the door.

It swung open.

Carrick lunged and fell, his nose grazing the toe of Dankworth's shiny boot.

‘Where you belong. Grovelling. About time you accepted your place in life.'

Carrick swung aside and leapt to his feet, scarcely missing Dankworth's foot as it kicked out. ‘You filthy murderer.'

‘You'll have difficulty proving that in a court of law.'

‘You were there at the tree before the constables.'

‘Indeed I was. On my land as I had every right to be. Left my overseer to mark the boundaries, asked the constables to come and authenticate those boundaries and what did we find? You and your filthy cedar-cutting mate, standing over the poor man's body.'

‘I'll have you if it's the last thing I do.'

Dankworth stepped closer. So close Carrick could smell him, smell the privilege. It didn't mask the stench of his lies.

‘You killed an innocent woman and her child, and now you're adding another to your tally. Not this time.'

‘You think you're going to get your own back by taking my son? Think again, you Irish scum. He's mine and I'll have him. No one in Ireland will care who bore the boy.' He rubbed his hands together, a dry, rasping sound that made Carrick want to wring his scrawny neck. ‘He doesn't belong with you, you Irish peasant. Do you imagine I would let you touch my son? Say your prayers, tomorrow you'll be sentenced.'

Carrick lurched at him, but the chains held him fast.

Dankworth reached out and tore at Carrick's shirt, ripping the sleeve open, baring his skin. And then he laughed. ‘Not only that, you'll go to your grave carrying my mark. No better than an animal.'

‘May you rot in hell.' Carrick swallowed his useless words, and then very deliberately turned his back on Dankworth. The door slammed shut, leaving only silence and a terrible emptiness in his very soul.

Roisin stumbled down the steps of the courthouse, squinting into the bright sunshine. Sun that had no business shining. Her heart sat as heavy and black as the motives of that awful man.

His son or her lover?
There was no choice. She wouldn't hand over Ruan or Carrick. Dankworth could bluster all he liked about swearing in court that Ruan was his son. She'd not give in to him. And how could he offer Carrick's freedom in exchange? How did he know who had killed the man in the forest? He wasn't even there. He was in Sydney at the Governor's Ball.

‘Roisin, you poor darling. Come here. Is it true? Carrick did it? How's he faring?'

Interfering old biddy. Elsie was happy enough to slander the cutters when it suited her and now she offered sympathy.

‘Not now, Elsie. Not now.' Her voice caught and she ducked around the corner. She couldn't cope with Elsie and her incessant questions and malicious tittle-tattle. Not now, not ever.

She slammed her fist against the front door, then tried the handle. It was locked. She lifted her foot and kicked out. ‘Jane! Open the door.' Now she was locked out of her own house and where was Ruan?

After an eternity, the door opened a sliver and Jane's face appeared. ‘Come in, come in. I'm sorry, I thought it was better to—'

She forced her way in. ‘Where's Ruan?'

‘He's here. He's safe in the kitchen with his treasure box. What happened? Is Slinger there? Are they all right?'

Roisin staggered into the parlour and collapsed into the chair. Then the shaking began. Her teeth chattered and her shoulders heaved until the tears fell, great gulping sobs beyond her control.

Jane's arms wrapped around her, pulling her face against her hip. Holding her tight. ‘Let it out. Cry it out.'

How could she cry it out? Her heart was breaking and she was scared, so scared. Scared for Ruan and, holy God, scared for Carrick. Dankworth was evil. The devil incarnate. Why was he so determined to involve Carrick? What had he ever done to the man? As her mind spun, the sobs subsided, calmed by Jane's soothing pats.

‘Let me get you a cup of tea. Then tell me.'

She shook her head. ‘I don't want Ruan to hear. Not now. Not yet.' How would she ever tell him that sadistic excuse for a man was his father? What would he say? What would he think?

‘I'll make some tea and give Ruan some biscuits and a drink of milk. He'll want to know about Carrick. He'll have to wait. Wait for a while. Is Slinger there still?'

Slinger. She hadn't even spared a thought for Slinger. Poor Jane. Nor for that matter had Dankworth. ‘Slinger is in the lockup with Carrick. They'll come up before the magistrate at two o'clock tomorrow if Winchester is back from Sydney.'

Jane nodded, unable to mask the concern on her face. ‘Tea.' She closed the door behind her.

Roisin let out a long, slow breath and wiped her eyes. She had to think. There had to be a way around this. Why was Dankworth even interested in Carrick? How could he know about the murder in the forest?

There was only one way: he must have been there. She sat up straight and stared out of the window, snatching at the elusive thoughts flitting through her mind. She had to think clearly. She stood up and threw off her shawl, pacing the floor. How could Dankworth give evidence against Carrick unless he knew something about the murder? Unless he had been there. His overseer, he'd said. Was he expecting Carrick and Slinger?

The door opened. ‘Ruan's fine. Busy with his slate. I told him everything would be all right and you'd talk to him after you had your tea.' Jane put down the tray and offered her the cup.

She wrapped her fingers around the warmth and shivered. She was cold, so very cold.