Читать книгу The Wedding Bargain - Emily French - Страница 10

“Isaac! Benjamin! Into the wagon. Hurry now, and leave sufficient room for Master Trehearne. Are you ready, sir?”

Rafe heard the words from some far distance. They danced in the air, one after the other, like soft notes of music, separate and ethereal, hanging there, spinning into infinity, their pure…

“Mr. Trehearne, please, we must go now, else we shall not make Mystic Ridge by fall of night.”

Slowly, it seemed, Rafe became aware of a hand plucking at his sleeve. Then the meaning penetrated and he started as from a deep slumber. The clanking of the chains fastened to his wrists and ankles reminded him of his plight. He peered down at his feet.

“I cannot.”

“Cannot? What are you saying, you cannot? You will! You must! It cannot be any other way!”

Rafe felt the strength ebbing from his legs. His feet felt leaden. His body ached, and his head was spinning. Exhaustion was beating a familiar tattoo behind his eyes and he knew his mind teetered on a yawning chasm. He blinked, trying to make his brain function again.

“Not quite. I beg your indulgence, ma’am, but these shackles will make it extremely awkward for me to attend to the wagon in case of accident. ‘Twould be best for all concerned if you order they be removed before our departure.”

He frowned. His voice was surprisingly clear and firm, even though it was taking a great deal of concentration to keep the pain in his head from overwhelming him.

“No! Do not take me for a fool!” Charity paused, then added “Couldst you not crawl into the wagon on your knees, Master Trehearne?”

The man looked at her hand-embroidered coif for a moment. He growled, a strange sound, soft, wild and breathless. He cleared his throat twice and seemed to find speech difficult.

There was a red glow in the golden eyes, despite his proud stance. He reminded her of a trapped, feral animal, fierce and irrational, ready to lash out even at a helping hand.

Her first instinct—to extend that hand—was immediately suppressed. Instead, she clutched the iron rim of the wagon wheel for support. She didn’t seem to be able to move.

Rafe swayed a bit, looked up, found the blue green eyes, focused. His vision clear now, he took an unsteady step forward and bowed from the waist, carefully, formally, correctly. He had no conscious sense of control over his movements, but felt as though strings jerked by unseen hands were starting and stopping him.

“I may be a bondman, sworn on penalty of death to serve you, ma’am. Your wish is my command. I come to you in chains, but not on my knees, Mistress Frey. Never on my knees.”

The bravado touched Charity’s warm heart. To be honest, she welcomed it. Fear was no tool with which to chop out a living in this wilderness, and Charity Frey intended to use this man to hold her land against all who would covet it for their own.

“Master Trehearne, I do not ask you to kneel to me. I ask only that you climb aboard the wagon!”

“And I say I cannot accomplish such a feat when I am tethered like a beast!”

If he had been one of her offspring, she would have delivered a sharp slap to teach him sense. “You have made no attempt to do so, sir, so how do you know whether or nay you can or cannot?”

He stepped close to her, so that she had to tilt her head to see his face. With her back pressed against the wagon, she lifted a slender hand as if to ward him off. He leaned forward slowly, deliberately, pushing against her hand, forcing it back, finally trapping it between his solid body and her soft breasts.

Charity drew in a hard breath, mastering panic. Her lips opened soundlessly. She felt taken, possessed, completely captive. A faint tremor began at the corner of her mouth. “Can you…” She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue and tried again. “Do you mean you cannot…”

Rafe Trehearne’s eyes narrowed briefly, as if he heard the trace of fear in her voice. “Have the fetters removed, Mistress Frey.”

It was an order, sharp and decisive.

With a shock Charity suddenly realised every nerve in her body was aware of the challenge in him. And yet she was not truly frightened. He might be formidable, but she did not sense the evil in him she saw in Amos Saybrook.

Eyes wide and anxious, she stared up at him, seeking some sort of guidance. The man’s gaze locked with hers, with an intentness that was almost alarming. She had never seen brazen resolve in a man’s gaze before, but she recognized it instantly.

A deep, vibrating rumble resounded through her fingers. She felt a warm tingling sensation move through her, stirring all her nerve endings, the way a summer breeze stirred leaves. Her back and shoulders grew tight. She sucked in a strangling breath.

Unable to hold his gaze any longer, she lowered her head. “If you would stand back a little, Master Trehearne, I will have one of my sons pass me a tool.”

Hands clasped behind him, Amos Saybrook watched Charity thread her way toward her wagon. In her modest black dress, with its white, starched collar that came all the way up to her chin, and wearing a black bonnet that hid all of her hair, she still had an air of conceit about her that sat ill with him.

Following that thought came another that dwelled longer in his mind. Leah had come to him with her tale of outrage. Charity’s forthright manner was discomposing, and she had the manners of a Hottentot, but she had land, valuable land, and a spirit that he would enjoy taming.

Amos scanned the rapidly thinning crowd. There would be no militia parade today. The crowd had already watched a better show, and audience and amateur soldiers alike were starting for their far-flung homes before dark.

He frowned, thinking of the poor, miserable specimens who had been willing to sell themselves for the price of passage to the American colonies. Vermin and trash for the most part. Out-and-out heathens to boot. Probably never in their lives had they been to church. They were no better than a pack of savages.

Look at the big fellow now! Shuffling like an old man, as if he was so tired he could barely stand. And Charity Frey preferred to take that trash instead of a good, Godfearing, law-abiding man such as himself.

If there was anything Amos could do about it, well, then it would be different. But hadn’t he already eliminated his friend, Ezra Frey, and made out that those damn thievin’ Pequots had done it?

His anger grew to a new peak, almost of frenzy. Leah might rant and rave and urge him to take what he wanted, but he knew better. Behind those luminous, blue green eyes and that soft voice, Charity Frey had quite an independent mind and a strong will.

And her will said no to the giving of herself—for the moment.

A sly and malicious feminine voice spoke so close to his ear that Amos jumped. “It appears all your conniving and scheming have been to no avail, Brother Amos. The pigeon has escaped.”

“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”

In spite of his efforts to keep his voice calm, Amos’s ruffled ego betrayed itself in his voice, and Leah’s head came up sharply. “It could be beneficial to your cause to give the Lord a hand in this matter, Amos.”

Her brother’s eyes were on Charity and her bondman, standing ever so close, almost intimately, beside the wagon, and he spoke as if he was thinking of something else. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways, Leah.”

Amos stood for another moment lost in thought. He nodded his head slowly as if in full agreement with some unspoken conviction of his own, then abruptly walked stiffly toward the couple.

Leah had the idea he had been about to tell her something of importance, and she wanted to hear it, but he was gone.

“Can I help you with that vermin, Charity?”

Amos Saybrook looked down his great long nose and spoke in a high, squeaky voice that completely belied his heavy jowls and enormous bulk. “Thank you, Amos. I have but to loosen this last link.

There, ’tis done.” There was a satisfying clatter as the shackles hit the dirt. The boys cheered loudly at the sound.

Charity smiled softly and turned to Rafe. He was staring at his hands as though they were strange objects. She heard him draw a deep breath. Her smile broadened. “There would seem no reason to delay our departure further, Master Trehearne.”

Rafe curved his hand as though he wished he had something to crush in it. He looked up. For an instant, their eyes met. He blinked. “Thank you, Mistress Frey.” It was barely a whisper.

Amos made a harsh sound and straightened his hat. “Charity, do you think it wise to release this vagabond like this? Are you not aware of the charges that were brought against the man? How dangerous he is? How foolish you have been to defy the elders.”

Charity had expected a lecture. What she had not expected was that Rafe Trehearne and her sons would be witness to the reprimand. She bit her lip in vexation, then controlled herself and answered calmly, with an inflection deliberately devoid of expression, “Amos, your voice is so loud, I think that God himself hears every word you are saying, and I think He must be as perplexed as I am.”

“Charity, you are blaspheming!” The stiffening of his shoulders beneath the sturdy gabardine jacket was obvious.

A renewed surge of resentment flowed through Charity. Guilt lanced through her, as sharp as any knife. Would she never learn to curb her tongue? She concentrated on relinquishing to Benjamin the ax she had used to pry open the iron links.

“I am aware of what I am doing, Amos. I am ensuring that my sons receive their rightful inheritance. If this requires forbearance and fortitude, then I will praise the Lord for His generous gifts.”

“’Tis arrogance and you know it, Charity Frey. ’Tis better you pray for humility.” Amos slid his thumbs behind the lapels of his frock coat and rocked back on his heels. “As tithing man and your prospective husband, it is my duty to question the wisdom of your actions.”

Eyes narrowed to thin slits under the overhanging eyebrows, Amos looked very intently at Charity, as if waiting for a response. When she did not reply, he addressed himself to Rafe.

“I’ve been talking to Silas Deare, the magistrate at New Haven. He says those Iroquois savages who were so abandoned in natural loyalty and decency as to take up arms against their rightful king claim you as a blood brother. Do they?”

“If they say so, they must.” Rafe’s heart had begun to pump, and for a moment he felt slightly dizzy and light-headed. His breath came a shade too rapidly. He swallowed hard. She was not married! A covert smile was struggling on his lips. He tried to say something, but the words caught in his throat.

He wanted to tell her his whole story. Explain that he had become a bond servant through no fault of his own. That, on the contrary…No, there were some things you couldn’t explain because no one would believe them.

“Charity! This most abandoned of mankind, forgetting his allegiance to God, has, according to his own confession, supported these savages, putting his hand and seal to a bloody truce, full of the knowledge of what mischief this treachery will cause. And he impudently calls on the intervention of Sir Thomas Pakenham to spare him the rope!”

Charity was annoyed. What business did Amos Saybrook have, spreading such vile slander? She glared at him, but the tithing man went on, speaking harshly, rapidly, not giving her a chance to say anything at all.

“Chances are this thieving scoundrel will disappear with half your possessions.” Amos allowed himself the luxury of a sneer. “Or get drunk and give them away to the enemy.”

Charity’s hands were clasped together so tightly that her knuckles showed white. She felt the blood recede from her face. Her lips, her face, her whole body felt stiff—but with fear now, not anger. She opened her mouth, but it was several seconds before she spoke, and her voice was unsteady.

“Drink accounts for all manner of derangements.”

Something in her tone drew him to her wide and dismayed eyes. Rafe’s brain whirled giddily before the words made sense. He turned them over in his mind. As far as he was aware, strong liquor was not a failing of most Puritan men.

She made another peculiar sound and smoothed her skirt awkwardly. The boys began to busy themselves rearranging the pile of sacks already stacked neatly on the wagon tray. He wondered when—and how—she had gained her fear of a drunken man.

His hands started to move, but he restrained the gesture. He was nearer to collapse than he would have allowed, for there was a curious catch in his voice when he finally spoke. “You can relax, Mistress Frey. Though I have many vices, a fondness for alcohol is not one of them.”

Amos Saybrook’s watery blue eyes moved to Rafe. He cleared his throat impressively. “Do you know what you have done, Mistress Frey? You have endangered the lives of these precious infants. Suppose the Pequots decide to support the Iroquois and capture them? What then?”

Three pairs of anxious, blue green eyes swung toward Rafe. A stab of anger shot through him. Trust the Puritan ignoramus to raise the fears of a lone woman and her children. He squared his shoulders. He knew that if he allowed the anger to overcome him, he would explode. He had to remain in command of himself.

“There’ll be no trouble.” He was relieved that his voice sounded quietly confident. “A little common sense would tell you I’m not likely to have any friends among the Pequot.”

Charity’s fingers closed convulsively over those of the nearest twin, and for a horrified moment Rafe thought she was going to burst into tears. Then she rallied.

“Amos, it is you who preach that sin is permitted by God, for it tests men and proves them in God’s eyes. It is only through prayer and penitence that men attain salvation.” She raised her eyes in unconscious appeal. “Surely you would allow this sinner the same chance?”

A explosive sound burst from Amos Saybrook’s thick lips. “Once a killer, always a killer—that’s a fact.”

For a long moment Rafe stood without moving, expressionless except for the fire of anger in his eyes, which surveyed the creature before him with utter contempt. He had never known anything like the blistering fury that gripped him now.

It took iron willpower to control the anger to a point where he could function, and then it was with discipline and nerve alone. His shoulders moved in an uneasy, uncharacteristic gesture, and then he stepped forward. He moved with striking grace, but he was not quite steady. “Men have died for causes before, and I imagine they always will. I’m not such a bloody-minded fool that I can’t see that Mistress Frey needs a man to help hold her land against bigots and thieves.”

Charity glanced at Rafe momentarily, from under fluttering lids. There was a promise in her eyes he couldn’t fathom. A tiny frown crinkled his brow and he made a slight gesture with one hand.

She stood on tiptoe and put her hand up to his throbbing temple, pressed lightly. The touch, careful though it was, arrested his breath, centered all his consciousness on exploding pain, annihilated him. His jaw grew tight with agony. To breathe took a jerky effort.

Her mouth moved. She spoke. He knew she did because her voice echoed inside his head. “Once he has paid his dues to society, whatever his crime, Master Trehearne is a free man.” She brushed her hand against his unshaven jaw. “Until then, he is mine.”

Somehow the wall of darkness receded, and he was dimly aware that Amos was nodding his head in agreement. There was a perceptible thaw in the man’s attitude, as if he had decided to retreat a little, give himself a chance to revise his strategies.

The preacher began to rock back and forth slightly on his booted feet. He spoke with heavy delicacy. “Though the present circumstances make me wish otherwise, I’m bound to agree with you, Charity.”

Rafe could see the relief flow through Charity, washing away her tension and uncertainty. Of course, this scion of respectability had not surrendered completely. The Puritan turned away from Charity and took a step closer to Rafe. He smiled, a thin, humorless little smile, his eyes gleaming with scorn and anger. “In truth, sire, you are a rascal and a villain, but with a scrub and decent garb, some of the prison stench may leave your body, if not your soul. Prayer and penitence will do that. No doubt you’ll be seated with us at the meetinghouse on Sunday?”

Rafe bowed deeply from the waist, then looked Amos full in the face. He made a valiant effort to give one of his sweetest smiles. The strain was making him light-headed. His tongue felt thick.

“You are too kind, Master Saybrook. While you honor me beyond my wildest hopes, it would never do for someone in your high position to be seen consorting with a servant, especially a miserable creature whose indenture has seven long years to run.”

Rafe’s head ached dully. He remembered other pain. The heat. Flames that lapped intermittently at his bare feet, his ankles, for they would not allow the redcoat warrior to die quickly. He recalled the fierce glare of the sun, searing his eyeballs and drying his throat painfully. The pull on his wrist increased to agony…

He blinked, looked around. The compound was empty, the distant mountain mute and green. A boy was doing a balancing act on the edge of a wagon. He saw the freckled face, the shining eyes, the wide, white grin. There were other faces that should be here, but weren’t.

They’re inside your head.

He could not endure the thought, but there was no escaping it. He heard a sound, metal on metal. Danger. Was it the snick of a rifle trigger? He blinked again.

For an instant, light flooded his brain—light so cruel, so bright, that it was like staring into the sun—and the woman was in its path! He exploded into action.

The hatchet’s bright blade came at him. His momentum took him toward it. Past it, a dark blur. Plant the feet, breathe in, swing with the mass of his frame, pushing from his ankles. A heaving, rounded breast. A flurry of skirts.

He regained his feet and pivoted again to meet the threat.

There was none.

Charity Frey lay on her face, her breath making small puffs in the dust, so he knew she was alive. The tithing man was standing in the same posture as moments before, but now his mouth was agape, as if he was trying to figure out what had happened. The Frey twins were leaning over the wagon edge gazing at him in open admiration, identical freckled faces alight with excitement. One spoke.

“Can you show me how to do that, bondman? Did you see him, Mama? He moved quicker than lightning!”

Rafe panted, gulping for air as the woman scrambled to her feet. Irritably she shook away his extended hand. “I’m all right!”

She stood before him, staring at him, nervously brushing at her skirt, attempting to straighten her bonnet. A lock of copper hair had escaped the confines of her coif.

Rafe knew he didn’t belong to himself. His skin still burned from the brief contact of his palm on her breast. His insides trembled. Damn it. He had survived every torture devised by man while a prisoner of the Iroquois. Why was his body doing cartwheels now?

The high-pitched, nervous giggle of a small boy splintered his brain and body. Panic clutched him. A gray mist was swirling around the edges of his vision.

“Isaac! What tomfoolery have you been up to?”

Rafe heard the boy’s answer, trembling, remote. His voice was hollow, coming from a formless, shifting wasteland, slightly off-key. “Oh, Mama! I was only reflecting light off the ax head—making secret signals to Benjie like the Indians do. And it was his turn, only I dropped it onto the wagon wheel!”

Reflections! Rafe Trehearne, you’ve been to hell and back. Heard men scream until their voices were gone and after that go on screaming with their eyes until they died. And you perform like a monkey on a string at the antics of a couple of boys!

The tithing man spoke. “That boy needs a good beating!”

Charity whirled, hands on hips, a tigress protecting her cub. She drew in several deep breaths.

She was scared, Rafe realized numbly. Trying not to show it, but scared.

“He’s only nine!”

It was a cry of desperation. Rafe could see the heaving of her sweetly curved breast.

Amos shrugged. “Isaac is behind every mischief. He can’t be allowed to smile and laugh and entice others to the same evil.”

“I know that,” Charity said. “But I also know there are other ways to discipline a small boy than by beating him!”

Time was suspended. Charity gazed at the tithing man, wide-eyed. He was staring at her too, his expression aghast.

Rafe yielded to a sudden, fierce and irrational desire to protect her. He was swaying on his feet now but didn’t know it. He stood in front of Amos Saybrook, all dark, masculine arrogance, wearing his tattered convict garb as proudly as if he wore silken robes of majesty. It was odd how pride remained when all else had vanished.

“The boy is not to blame, Master Saybrook. It was all my fault—and there’s no damage been done.” He gave another deep, formal bow. “If you’ll excuse us, we must be leaving now.”

He bowed again and was in the wagon before the dark color appearing on the tithing man’s cheeks had risen to his brow.

The exertion was too much. There were hammers at Rafe’s temples. Drums. His tall body went suddenly limp, and he slumped, then crumpled to the wagon floor as darkness swallowed him up.

The diamond-paned window was wide open, and the night air blew in fresh and pure, fragrant with the rich scent of dew-drenched pines and the cool of the mountain behind.

There was a large moth in the room. Attracted there by the light of the candles, it seemed to be dashing to and fro now, in a wild search for freedom. Shadows bloomed against the ceiling, shifting, reforming, as the moth flitted dizzily round and round the candle.

Charity followed its movements, fascinated, as it circled closer and closer to the flame. Suddenly, it made a headlong dash for the fire. There came a sharp crackle and then a dull thud as it fell upon the floor. A great shudder caught her, almost convulsed her.

At that same instant the door opened. Charity looked up. A head appeared, eyes widening as they met hers. Isaac hesitated, drew back, slid around the door, looking guilty but determined. His twin followed.

“Is he dead, Mama?” Benjamin asked in a breathless rush.

Charity shook herself, put a lock on her thoughts. The child was making reference to the bondman, lying on the parlor sofa, not to the small, dark object on the polished wood floor.

Limbs loose, hands limp, Rafe lay unmoving, only the rise and fall of his chest suggesting life. He was waxy pale, but the soft sigh of his breathing sounded normal.

“No, Benjie.”

Isaac bit his lip. “Will he die, Mama?”

“No, Isaac. At least I don’t think so.”

A heavy, still-raw wound slashed his temple. Ever so gently, Charity ran an index finger across Rafe’s swollen brow and traced the jagged, purple line that disappeared into the dark tangle of hair. A fresh injury atop an old one.

“Then why has he been unconscious for five whole hours?”

“When there’s a blow or an injury to the head, sometimes it takes days before the patient comes to his senses.”

And sometimes they never did, she thought with a touch of panic. Sometimes such a wound affected their mind. They were witless or could not talk…or proved dangerous.

She slid her strong, competent fingers across Rafe’s moist, hair-roughened chest. She was not sure whether the pounding that vibrated through her fingers was from his heartbeat or hers. But whatever its source, it was strong and rhythmical. There was nothing ominous about the steady thump-thump-thump.

“I did not mean for this to happen, Mama.”

A flicker that was scarcely humorous touched Charity’s soft mouth. Neither did I, she thought ruefully.

She looked down at Rafe. He was a mysterious man. A bondservant. An unknown quantity. After all, he could prove violent. His instantaneous reaction to some perceived danger this afternoon had shown her that. Then she had felt vaguely responsible. Now she felt vulnerable.

“Of course not, Isaac.”

Isaac frowned, crinkling his brow fiercely. “Can you cure him?”

“A poultice to reduce the swelling on his temple, a draft of herbs to ease the pain in his head, and he’ll regain his senses in no time.”

Isaac sighed dejectedly. “Will the tithing man beat me?”

“Of course not!”

“Was playing with the ax a sin? It did not feel like one!” Isaac’s blue green gaze was wide, innocent.

Charity stood, lightly smoothed his tousled hair. She drew in a slow breath. She gave Isaac a warm, aching smile.

“Ill-advised and a little reckless, Isaac, but not a sin.” She curved an arm around each of her sons. “Come. It is time for prayers and bed.”

At what point the wandering wit failed to return to its earthly host, Charity did not know precisely, although she suspected time was running out for Rafe Trehearne. If the vital signs were depressed for much longer, logic dictated the coma could be permanent, the mind caught forever between life and death. Her own mind baulked at the possibility. She bit her lip and closed her eyes.

“Charity! Charity!”

Thirza Arnold’s worried tone and light tap on her arm brought her out of her thoughts. It did little good to shut eyes and mind against Thirza when her neighbor was in a crusading mood. She would stay there until Charity opened them or plague her until she yielded.

“Don’t.” The one word Thirza spoke held a volume of meanings, all warnings.

Charity felt herself stiffen. She gripped her hands together. “You almost sound as if you are chiding me.”

Thirza was very small, a little brown bird, all bones and temper. Her eyes snapped with reproach. “Maybe I am.”

Charity didn’t move, but there was tension in every line of her body. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “Heavens above, Thirza! ’Tis not some den of iniquity!”

“How can you be so calm about it, Charity? Even without Amos Saybrook’s natural jealousy, as tithing man he will argue that you are lost to all sense of propriety to have a man lodge here without a chaperon.”

There was conviction and something more in the look Thirza gave her. Charity realized her mouth was open, gaping. She closed it with a snap and suddenly laughed. “The man is unconscious, Thirza!”

Her neighbor was stubborn. “It is not circumspect.”

“You don’t think the parlor is the most logical place to put him, under the circumstances?”

“Why don’t I have Hiram bring the trap over and remove the bondman to Longacre?” Thirza persisted doggedly.

“No! That is out of the question!”

“Not even for your children’s sake?”

Charity went stark white. Suddenly she felt extremely tired, emotionally deplete and on the verge of tears. “No! If Master Trehearne is moved, even greater damage could occur.”

“It is up to parents to set a good example for their children, and the example you are setting does not fall anywhere near what is required by the elders.” Thirza pressed forward, as if sensing victory.

Charity lifted both hands, palms forward. “I have attended to the ills of this entire community for nigh on five years. I am charged with the bondman’s welfare.”

“My dear, of course you are. Perhaps I misspoke. But you cannot have a man in the house. ’Tis preposterous.”

Charity leapt to her feet, her shoes making a loud thud on the wooden floor. “The elders have always respected my powers of healing. I’ll not have it said that my conduct is suddenly unbecoming or improper because I use the gifts the Lord has given me!”

“You are making a big mistake, Charity.” Thirza’s words were clipped and precise. She rose and stomped to the door where she paused. “This bid for freedom will end in disaster for you and the boys. Think on it.” An angry rustle of skirts and Thirza was gone.

Charity stubbornly lowered her eyes.

At her feet lay the charred remnant of the moth that last night had fluttered on impotent wings, trying to escape. It lay there, shriveled, lifeless, the wings that had beaten so madly for freedom now singed by the flames.

She stood there, not moving, for a long, long time.