Her Rags-To-Riches Christmas. Laura Martin

Chapter Thirteen

       Chapter Fourteen

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Chapter Eighteen

       Chapter Nineteen

       Chapter Twenty

       Chapter Twenty-One

       Chapter Twenty-Two

       Chapter Twenty-Three

       Chapter Twenty-Four

       Chapter Twenty-Five

       Epilogue

       Extract

       About the Publisher

       Chapter One

      Crouching down, George Fitzgerald took a handful of earth and let it trickle through his fingers. The earth here wasn’t like anywhere else in the world—and he’d stopped off in many countries during the long voyage back to Australia. It was thick and fertile and smelt of home. It felt good to be home, good to have the warmth of the sun on his face and the sound of the sea behind him. Three long years he’d been gone and now he was eager to get back to his farm, to get back to a normal life.

      Sydney had changed in the time he’d been away. There were more buildings, more people, and as he walked away from the port he felt an optimism for his country that he hadn’t for a long time. It was as though people had finally realised this fledgling colony was here to stay and one day might be more than just a place to send those England had sentenced to transportation.

      George was just crossing the road, heading north-west to start the long and dusty journey out of Sydney and back to his farm when he heard a scream so piercing it made him stop in his tracks. Five seconds passed and then ten, then there was another cry, even more desperate than the last. Another and another passed in quick succession, each followed by a loud sob.

      Quickly he ran down the street, dodging the children playing and the women bustling through the town, rounding the corner just as he heard another agonised scream. He slowed as he came up against a small crowd, gathered around watching the spectacle in front of them, muttering uneasily. This time the crack of the whip was unmistakable, coming just a fraction of a second before the woman’s cry of pain.

      George took in the scene. Tied to a post was a young woman, her age difficult to tell as her head was lolling forward, her face covered by thick tresses of hair. Her dress had been ripped at the back, exposing pale skin crisscrossed with the marks of the whip. Some of the lashes had broken the skin and blood dripped down in crimson droplets. The guard brandishing the whip had a serious expression on his face, but as he drew back his arm for another lash George could see he was relishing the power he held over the woman tied in front of him. She would get no mercy from that quarter.

      Before the rational part of his brain could stop him, George sprang forward, parting the crowd and placing himself between the guard and the woman. He shot out a hand, grabbing the whip just before the guard could flick it, stopping it in mid-air. His hand was wrenched forward, but he managed to stand his ground, planting his feet firmly and bracing his shoulders.

      For a moment the guard just looked at him with surprise.

      ‘Move away,’ he growled after a few seconds.

      ‘She’s had enough,’ George said, his voice calm and his manner polite, but he knew the guard would see the steel in his eyes.

      ‘What business is it of yours? Move away.’

      ‘I can’t do that. She’s had enough,’ George repeated.

      With a snarl the guard yanked at the whip, trying to unbalance George and send him sprawling into the dirt, but George had a good hold on the leather now and pulled back just enough to show the guard he wasn’t going to be shifted easily.

      ‘I’ll whip you, too, don’t think I won’t.’

      George had no doubt the guard would go through with the threat in a fit of anger.

      ‘Go fetch someone from the Governor’s office,’ he instructed a young lad standing at the front of the crowd. ‘There’ll be a coin in it for you.’

      He watched as the boy scurried off, then turned his attention back to the man in front of him. The guard still hadn’t moved, but every so often would pull on his whip, trying to unbalance George from a distance. He wanted to check on the woman hanging from the whipping post, but did not dare turn around and take his eye off the threat in front of him.

      There was a murmuring in the crowd and out of the corner of his eye he saw people step aside as a couple more guards pushed through, coming to investigate the commotion.

      Within seconds he was surrounded by four large men, doing their best to tower over his six foot two frame, but failing.

      ‘Gentlemen...’ George said, knowing they were nothing of the sort. ‘Please step back. Someone from the Governor’s office will be here shortly to sort this mess out, but I wouldn’t want any of you to get hurt before he arrives.’

      One of the guards laughed mirthlessly. ‘Let go of the whip, or you might find you are holding on to it with a broken arm.’

      George sighed, cursing the protective instinct that had pushed him to interfere. He was a good fighter and strong from years of working on the fields. He had no doubt he could land a few punches if it came to it, but he was outnumbered five to one and that meant he could expect a pretty good beating. Perhaps a black eye or two. What a welcome back home he was receiving.

      Smoothly, he dropped the whip for a fraction of a second, using the guard’s surprise to unbalance him, catching hold of the leather further down and yanking forward, pulling the first guard so he crashed into the body of one of the others. Ignoring the shouts of outrage, he swung his body round, landing a couple of punches on the jaws of two of the other guards before he felt them catch up to what was happening and pile on top of him. George was buried under the bodies and fists of five men, gasping for air and wondering if this foolhardy rescue would be his last when he heard a loud voice calling for order.

      Slowly the men on top of him rose, not missing the opportunity to get in one or two more sneaky jabs on the way up.

      George lay on the ground, looking up at the brilliant blue sky, contemplating if the dull ache in his chest meant one of his ribs was broken. He was out of breath and he could feel a warmth on his cheek which he suspected meant his eyebrow had been split open.

      ‘Mr Fitzgerald, if I’m not mistaken,’ a cultured voice said. ‘Australia’s prodigal son returns.’

      George