Her Rags-To-Riches Christmas. Laura Martin

      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 looked up, seeing only a silhouette against the sun, but took the proffered hand to pull him out of the dirt.

      ‘Colonel Hardcastle,’ George said, recognising the man who was now the Lieutenant Governor, second only to the Governor of New South Wales in status and rank. Hardcastle had been in Australia for almost a decade and George had known him from social and bureaucratic events before he’d taken his trip to England. The Colonel was a good man, if a little eccentric.

      ‘Tell me, what on earth did you do to anger so many of my guards?’

      ‘He interfered with the execution of my duty, sir,’ the first guard rushed to say.

      ‘Hmm. Mr Fitzgerald?’

      ‘He’s not wrong,’ George said with a shake of his head. ‘If his duty was to whip this poor woman half to death.’

      All eyes turned to the woman still hanging lifelessly from the post a few feet away. Colonel Hardcastle stepped over to her, lifting her head as he crouched down as if to satisfy himself she was still breathing.

      ‘She’s a thief, sir,’ the guard said helpfully. ‘I caught her stealing. The punishment is whipping, fifty lashes.’

      ‘How many lashes has she had?’ Hardcastle asked.

      ‘Only six, sir.’

      George watched as the other man’s eyebrows raised. To rip open her back in such a fashion with just six lashes spoke of the whip being wielded with an almighty force.

      ‘I think she’s had enough,’ Hardcastle said. ‘Where is she working?’

      ‘The laundry, sir.’

      Again Hardcastle looked surprised. To get a place somewhere like the laundry the woman tied to the post must have been so far a well-behaved convict. The worst jobs, mainly those in the factories, were saved for the troublemakers, the best for those who followed the rules and toed the line.

      ‘What did she steal?’

      ‘Bread, sir.’

      Hardcastle crouched down in front of the woman, shaking his head in regret.

      ‘Well, that’ll be her post gone now. Untie her, take her to the cells.’

      George knew he should stay quiet. It was only his status as one of the wealthiest local landowners that had saved him from being whipped himself, but even so he couldn’t find it in himself to keep his mouth shut.

      ‘I’ll take her,’ he said quietly. As soon as the words left his mouth he regretted them. He had no need for a convict worker, not a domestic at least. He always could use an extra pair of hands in the fields, but the petite woman tied to the post wasn’t going to be much help there. He was thinking with his heart again, not his head, feeling sorry for the woman who had been whipped so harshly. It was no doubt down to spending so much time away from his farm—soon he would need to start thinking like a business owner again.

      ‘I’ve got a need for a servant,’ Fitzgerald said. ‘I was going to put in an application, but I will take her instead. It’ll save you the trouble of punishing her further.’

      Hardcastle seemed to consider the proposition for a moment, regarding Fitzgerald with his keen blue eyes. Then he shrugged. ‘If you wish. File the paperwork in the next couple of weeks.’ He turned to the guards. ‘Cut her free, Mr Fitzgerald will take her from here.’

      With a slash of a knife, one of the guards cut the woman free, sending her tumbling into the dust. George could see she’d recovered from the faint, but her movements were stiff and her head still bowed. Slowly the crowd began to disperse, muttering at the odd conclusion to the day’s events. George wasn’t sure if they were disappointed there hadn’t been more violence or glad for the woman’s relatively light punishment in view of what the guard had planned for her.

      ‘Can you stand?’ George asked softly as he moved over and crouched down next to the woman.

      He felt the air in his lungs being sucked out of him as she slowly lifted her head, fixing the bluest pair of eyes on his he’d ever seen.

      Without answering she began to rise to her feet, wincing in pain as the remnants of her dress brushed against her shredded back. George reached out a hand to help her, but she stiffened at his touch, glaring at him from under her long eyelashes until he backed away.

      As she rose she had to hold her dress to her body to stop it slipping down and George quickly shrugged off his jacket, placing it gently over her shoulders.

      ‘What’s your name?’

      Ten seconds passed, then twenty. He knew she wasn’t mute after hearing her screams not ten minutes ago, but right now she didn’t look as though she would answer him.

      ‘I’ll not be your whore,’ she said eventually.

      ‘Excuse me?’

      ‘That’s why you saved me. So I could be your whore. I’ll not demean myself in that way.’

      George had never been lost for words before in his life, but found his mouth opening and closing in surprise.

      ‘Thank you for your intervention, but I will take my chances at the factories.’ She began to hobble away, every step the pain evident on her face.

      ‘Stop,’ he called out, wondering whether to assure the young woman he hadn’t asked the Lieutenant Governor for her just so she could serve him in the bedroom, or to point out that it didn’t much matter what she wanted—she’d been assigned to his farm. ‘I think there’s been a misunderstanding.’

      He could see the anxiety in her expression, the naked fear as her eyes darted over him. Alongside that there seemed to be a hint of anger, directed at him even though they’d only just met. He moved a fraction closer, spreading his hands out in front of him to try to make himself look less intimidating. ‘I merely wished to employ you on my farm, nothing more.’

      ‘Why?’ she asked, still looking mistrustful, but standing her ground, her eyes narrowing.

      George hesitated. In truth, he didn’t know. She was nothing to him, a stranger, yet he’d risked a whipping for getting in between her and the guard’s harsh but lawful punishment. And now he’d lumbered himself with a convict worker he did not need.

      ‘Call it Christmas charity,’ he said with a shrug. ‘My good deed for the year.’

      ‘It’s not Christmas for another month.’

      ‘Then I’m banking it for later.’

      They stood five feet apart, both regarding the other for a long minute. Then she gave a gracious nod, as if she were a queen and George a lowly servant requesting a favour.

      ‘You don’t touch me,’ she said, thrusting out her hand and stabbing a long and dainty finger in his direction.

      ‘On