Читать книгу The Wedding Bargain - Emily French - Страница 11

It was the old game; Rafe knew it well. The place was silent as the grave, but he was not dead. Half opening his eyes, he could see a pattern of sunlight, golden, hazy, dancing on a timber-paneled wall. Opening them a little farther brought into his vision the edge of a richly carved wooden dresser and a fringe of some heavy cloth.

He opened his eyes wide. On the wall above the dresser hung a text in a crisscross frame, bearing the words Thou God Seest Me and illumined with an enormous blue eye.

The room was strange. He had no idea where he was or how he had got there. Rafe lifted his head cautiously, frowning for a moment down the long length of white shroud, the swathed hillock of his feet. He bent both elbows and examined the wrist wrappings. He put his hands to his head, felt the wadding.

Nothing made any sense. Was he dead? No. His head ached too damnably. Death was no difficult matter—he was convinced of that. Yet somehow it was denied him. He had a distinct recollection of the battle.

Great numbers of the enemy had swept suddenly upon them, had surrounded them and swallowed them up. He was the only man left. His sword arm was leaden and his feet dragged. Before him was a blur of movement, of faces and bayonets and hatchets. The ground trembled and his ears were filled with noise. With feet apart and knees bent, he raised his sword instinctively.

The next second the combined weight of four soldiers bore him struggling to the ground. He threw them off and, grasping a man’s arm, snapped it like a twig, but another smashed the heavy butt of a rifle across his brow. His senses reeled, but, shaking his head, he climbed to his knees. A second blow, on the nape of the neck, felled him…

Slowly, cautiously, he curled and uncurled his fingers, then passed them over his face, feeling the normal early morning roughness. How had he escaped—if he had? He had nothing to live for. Yet it seemed that he could not die.

Why was he not dead? Perhaps it was illusion and he was taking a long time to die. He sighed and turned on his side. Chance was undoubtedly working in his favor. The tide of battle had swept on, and he was…

Rafe caught his breath at the faint scent of lavender. His nostrils dilated. Memory came flooding back. The mulestubborn little Puritan!

He recalled the warm, soft body twisting under him, her legs tangled with his. His head felt oddly light, as if it were full of air, a bubble of prismatic colors that might burst into nothingness at any moment. But his body was heavy, taut with denial, the intoxicating female smell reminding him of needs almost forgotten.

A little aching sound came from his throat. He must think! Rafe’s fingers gripped the edge of the sheet. For a moment he felt angry, afraid, betrayed and lost.

There had been accusation of collaboration with the enemy…His own indignant protestation of innocence…His colonel looking sick, casting him off…

The pain of it! That moment when Sir Thomas had turned away from him, given orders for Rafe to be locked in one of the stone-built storerooms at the fort to await punishment…as if the years of loyalty and commitment to the Crown had been for nothing…

“Let him be hanged as a traitor!”

Rafe supposed he must have protested. He could only remember staring at them in disbelief. True, the colonel’s personal papers had been found in his knapsack, but how they got there he had no idea. Or at least, he had some idea of how the trick had worked, but it was impossible to accuse the colonel’s faithful and trusted batman of theft or of bearing false witness against him.

General Pakenham had presided over that travesty of a court martial, listening to accusations and half-truths that could not be disproved, only denied. It was Sir Thomas who had pleaded extenuating circumstances, recalling Rafe’s previous gallantry under fire and reminding the court that the accused was Viscount Litchfield, Lord Brougham’s son and heir.

To the devil with armies and battles and honor! Now Rafe had seven years to serve in the colonies. Seven years of bondage to Charity Frey. Well, let it be so!

Yet though he told himself that all would be well, he was filled with a feeling of depression he could not shake off.

So what was bothering him? That the woman had shown kindness and compassion to a known rogue? Or that the courage of a woman determined to hold her own against insurmountable odds stirred long-forgotten feelings? Why read into her motives some sinister meaning?

Charity. The name meant giving, or Christian love. It was a good name for her. He wished her well, but, hell, he wanted out. He wanted his freedom—not further complications.

He heard a gentle movement—felt it, really, as one catches the whiff of a scent—and his body knotted from throat to thigh. A new fear washed over him.

She was coming! He trembled. His gaze moved beyond the end of the couch to the open door. It was not her.

Isaac Frey stood by the door, one hand on the knob, as if about to flee. How Rafe knew it was Isaac when the twins were alike as two peas in a pod, he could not say. He just knew.

“You are awake?”

Isaac pressed his back against the door, working his fingers around the handle. He tilted his head gravely, his blue green eyes watchful, as if he was waiting to see whether Rafe dared to lie to him.

Rafe’s limbs were so stiff from the effort he had made to control himself that at first he could not move. He could not understand why the thought of facing Charity Frey again distressed him—had he not faced greater hazards? Lying quite still, he inclined his head politely and smiled.

The boy hesitated. After a moment he left his place by the door and inched toward Rafe, sidling, stopping, never taking his eyes from the bondman’s face. “You have been asleep a long time.”

How long was a long time to a nine-year-old? Where was Charity Frey? Playing for time to think, Rafe pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose.

There was a long silence.

Isaac glanced at Rafe from the corner of his eye and bit his lip. He shuffled his feet and frowned, crinkling his brow. “Does your head hurt very much?”

Rafe shook his head. “No. Not much.”

“Oh.” Isaac seemed disappointed. Warily he edged over to the middle of the room. “Mama sent me to keep watch on you. She’s real cross.” His small chin jutted and the frown became a scowl. “Betsy Ann was in the henhouse again.”

Rafe’s body tightened for a second, but years of discipline kept his body language neutral and controlled, his expression blank as he repeated, “Betsy Ann?”

The boy grinned, a tiny mischievous lift of his lips, then sobered immediately. More boldly now, he approached until he stood directly beside the couch. “Our pet raccoon. It steals the eggs. That makes Mama mad.”

Rafe began to smile inwardly. It seemed idiotic in the extreme, a schoolboy pleasure, but he wanted to see Charity Frey all cross and angry, her Puritan cool ruffled. Energy, renewed by sleep, flowed through him, clearing his mind.

“Something of a dilemma. Seems your mother needs a hand.”

From utter stillness, he shot up on one elbow, throwing back the sheet. He halted halfway, his dark hair falling over his forehead. His whole body went hot as he realized he was naked under the covering—and how he must have got that way. “Christ Almighty! She’s not mad! The woman’s a raving bloody lunatic!”

There was a moment of silence. Isaac fidgeted, edging away. His eyes were wide, his mouth open slightly. “You lie! The tithing man says Mama is simply im-imimpetuous.”

Rafe flushed a little, pulling the linen to his waist, hugging his knees. “That’s putting it mildly. What’s she done with my clothes? Where are my pants?”

“Mama burnt them.”

“Bloody hell! What a foolish woman!”

Isaac took Rafe’s statement at face value. His stick-thin body straightened, and his pint-sized hands balled into fists, his very stance transmitting to Rafe the fact that Charity had a small protector, that she wasn’t alone.

“Mama is not a fool! She burned your clothes that were mal-mal-malodorous. Same as she washed you all over ‘cause you stunk worse’n a skunk when it lifts its tail.”

Rafe swallowed hard. A muscle twitched at the side of his mouth. She had seen him mother naked—washed him all over!

As if he could feel the touch of her fingertips, Rafe shivered with a tingle that slid the length of his spine. In an effort to dispel the sensation, which was rapidly radiating into his loins, he launched a verbal attack. “No need for chains of brass or bars of iron at Mystic Ridge. Charity Frey finds it easier to keep the beast naked—he’ll not wander far.”

The words would hardly come out. To Rafe’s mind his voice sounded somewhat breathless. An awkward silence followed his outburst.

Isaac slanted a look at him, as if unsure what to do next. Rafe returned the look evenly, unblinking. It would be easy to stand up, shove past the boy. It would be easy to escape. The idea gnawed at him.

Isaac chewed his lower lip, straightened his shoulders and shifted his feet, as if the steady gaze made him uncomfortable, the uncertainty almost too much to bear. The floorboards creaked.

A bolt of alarm shot through Rafe. He swore under his breath. This wasn’t going to do at all. The boy would scuttle off in a minute. Distract his attention. Reassure him. Get him talking. Ease his fears.

Rafe laid a hand over his heart. “I’m not about to leap on you and break your neck. I’m after bigger game.” He allowed a slow smile to curve his mouth. “What are your orders, lad?”

“I’m s’posed to call Mama if you wake.” The boy gave a very faint answering tilt of the lips. “But if your head does not pain you overmuch, perhaps you would prefer to dress first?” Isaac’s unease had vanished, and he chattered on. “Mistress Arnold called by on her way to meeting, es-es-especially to bring some clothes that would make you decent.”

Charity Frey should quiver in mortification at the prospect of her rash and imprudent trick being discussed over the teacups. The idea cheered Rafe. Some perverse sense of childish revenge made him want to laugh. His lips twitched. It took every bit of will to keep his voice even. “‘Twas very kind of Mistress Arnold, I am sure.”

“Mistress Arnold said that she would ask the meeting to cast an eye away from the im-impro-impropriety of Mama’s actions, but there were more ways to kill a flea than burn the blanket!” The blue green eyes lit with mischief. “I think she was trying to say that Mama had fallen overboard.”

“Gone overboard.” Amused at the boy’s innocent gossip, Rafe quietly corrected Isaac’s grammatical error.

“Yes. That’s what I said. I’m glad Mama cleaned you up. You are not so fearsome now.”

Rafe rubbed absently at the dark shadow of his beard. “A razor and some hot water and I’ll be a new man.”

Head on one side, the boy examined him for a moment. Then, as if a sudden, momentous decision had been reached, Isaac grinned. “Will Sutcliffe says that if a man attends to his external self first up, then he can spend the rest of the day attend’n to his inner needs.”

“Isaac! I have told you not to associate with Will Sutcliffe and his scandal-mongering tongue. ’Tis not seemly!”

Rafe’s head jerked up.

Dressed in prim gray, with the strings of her bonnet falling untied about her shoulders, Charity managed to look like a veritable hoyden. Her face was flushed, much of her hair had escaped its confining coif and bits of dried grass clung to her skirt.

“As for you, Master Trehearne, I will not accept that you are still incapacitated when you can lay abed and gossip. I have paid good coin for your indenture—seven years of fair labor. After which you will be a free man and able to lay about in indolence if you so desire. Until then I expect a fair day’s work. Get up, sir!”

Rafe’s heart beat with sudden violence. The humiliation was galling. Surely she was not going to ask him to parade his nakedness. He watched her, waiting.

Charity opened her mouth as if to say something else, then shut it again, her expression suddenly wary. Rafe pulled at the sheet. He swung his legs to the floor and sat on the edge of the couch, the linen draped across his thighs.

“I’m hardly in a fit state to…” He lifted his eyebrows a little, as if to ask if she wished him to continue.

Charity set him straight. Her tone would have done justice to a sergeant-at-arms. “I don’t expect you to stand up in your present condition, Master Trehearne. I will give you ten minutes. When you are decent, I will be in the kitchen.”

Isaac sidled toward the door. “Mama says it’s a wise chicken that runs for cover at the first clap of thunder!”

Rafe closed one eyelid in a wink. “Your mother is a very wise woman.”

The kitchen was hot and full of the smell of freshly baked bread. Rafe stood in the doorway and scanned the place slowly.

It was a long room, with a fireplace and closed bread oven at the end. A neat pyramid of chopped wood filled one corner, and a round pine table and slat-back chairs nestled in another. There were shelves along one wall and a step-back hutch opposite. Two high windows allowed the light to filter in.

Cooking utensils hung above the hearth; a woolen throw draped one of the chairs. A basket of mending lay on a shelf beside a bowl of potatoes and a bunch of leeks. Jars of apple butter, pickles and plum jelly packed the shelves.

Clean as a pin and shiny bright, the kitchen was lovingly cared for. The homey clutter was somehow comforting. It told Rafe a lot about Charity Frey.

The object of his thoughts was standing by the fireplace preparing tea. She swirled hot water round in the pot, emptied it into the ashes in the hearth and took a brown pottery tea crock down from the mantel. He walked slowly down the length of the kitchen and stopped a little behind her.

“Fresh bread!”

A choking sound passed her lips as she swung to face the bondman. He sniffed the air with such obvious delight that Charity felt much of her ill-humor fade. He was too close, so near she could see the darker motes in his golden eyes. When he looked at her, those eyes seemed to take in at one glance everything about her, from her hastily pinned hair to the sturdy shoes on her feet.

She knew her color was still high, but her coif was securely fastened, and the muslin scarf that now crossed her bosom demurely covered the square neckline of her gown.

He was wearing a linen shirt, pulled tight across the shoulders, the front gaping to reveal crisp, dark chest hair. The ruffled cuffs ended a couple of inches above his bandaged wrists. Hiram’s knee-length breeches fit him no better. The fastenings remained undone because of the sturdy nature of the bondman’s legs.

It would seem, from the easy way he walked, that the buckled shoes were a comfortable size. He had eschewed the woolen stockings, however. Perhaps the knit would not stretch over the thick ankle dressings?

He leaned forward, his gaze on her parted lips, a kissing distance away. A mocking smile played over his mouth. “What would I have to do to get a slice?”

“This is not a game of forfeits.” She put out her hand to push him away, then snatched it back. She did not want to touch him.

He surveyed her gravely for a moment, then bowed low, but his voice quivered with hidden laughter. “I did not think a Puritan lady would think of, let alone speak of such things.”

The heat from his closeness was making her knees weak, and Charity wondered if he could sense their trembling. She swallowed and said a silent prayer for help.

“Must you make a jest of everything?” She twisted her head away sharply, but not before she saw his lips part in a grin, which for an instant showed a gleam of white teeth.

“It helps when things are not going as planned. Are you always so shrewish, or is it that you’ve not broken your fast yet?”

Her temper was cooling but it smoldered still. Charity opened her mouth to utter another rebuke, but the kitchen door banged open. Benjamin and Isaac charged in, bringing with them a rush of fresh, sweet air. She turned to them in relief. “I’ve boiled you each a nice fresh egg for your breakfast, boys, so don’t be too long about washing your hands. Take a seat, Master Trehearne.”

Without a word, Rafe came and sat down, and she poured his tea. A slice of baked ham, a pat of butter, a bit of comb honey, a spoonful of plum chutney and a scrap of cheddar cheese were separate and distinct temptations alongside his egg. As though this were a normal family breakfast, and he was the head of the household!

The thought was unsettling. Particularly when he couldn’t remember anything after attempting to play the hero after the auction. Vague memories haunted him. He could still sense that soft, faintly perfumed warmth around him.

For a fleeting, arousing instant, he had an erotic vision of the woman lifting his head, pillowing it against softness unrestrained so that he could feel one of those firm, widely separated, twin fire points probing into the flesh of his cheek.

Which was absurd.

Charity cut thick slices of the crusty bread and set them on a plate beside two mugs of milk for the boys. Her slender fingers trembled as she set the jug on the table. She peeked at Rafe and found him staring at her. The heat of his eyes was a palpable sensation, and a small, expectant shiver ran along her nerve endings.

She quickly bowed her head in prayer.

During the blessing, Isaac exchanged a glance with his twin. Both bright heads were bowed, but to an astute observer the slight quiver of the boys’ lashes betrayed their intent.

“Thanks for the doctoring. I appreciate the trouble you went to.” Busy buttering his bread, Rafe addressed Charity briefly.

Holding her teacup between her hands, she blew on the hot tea. Watching him over the rim of the cup, her eyes crinkled a little against the steam. “I did it for me as much as you. A crippled bondman would be useless.”

Rafe picked up his own cup. He sniffed at the contents before he sipped experimentally. “Doesn’t it worry you that I could be unsafe, even dangerous? Mayhap my purpose is as sly and avaricious as any other man who seeks land and fortune,” he said silkily.

There was no doubting the veracity in the softly spoken words. His low-pitched voice came as a gentle caress and sent an eddy of sensation curling through her stomach.

Charity felt a childish urge to strike out at this man, at the world. Until yesterday morning she had felt, if not emotionally complete, at least sanguine that at last she could cope with whatever the Lord required of her. The past and its hurts were behind her. Mystic Ridge was hers. She was confident she could guarantee her sons a secure future She knew her way forward in life.

And now this smiling devil, whom she herself had thoughtlessly brought into her own life, had come to torment her. To arouse long-forgotten or suppressed, unwanted emotions and feelings to churn uncomfortably inside her.

Irritated by her reactions, Charity savagely hacked another slice off the loaf. She forced a tight smile. “As the proverb says, I am snared with the words of mine own mouth. I’m not sure that I considered the matter thoroughly, but then I didn’t have any choice!”

He drained his cup, grimacing briefly. The empty cup was turned upside down. She offered him more bread, but he shook his head.

“Thank you, but no. I’ve already lingered too long. It’s time I was attending to the chores.” Rising to his feet, he shoved the chair back to the table and straightened. He looked at Benjamin over her head. “But that was the best cup of tea I’ve had in years.”

A frisson of alarm leapt along Charity’s spine. She recalled Isaac pouring the tea, Benjie fussing with the cups for a second. It made her go hot and cold again as she thought of it. She poured him a fresh cup.

It was as the tithing man had predicted! Without a man’s guidance the boys were headed for perdition. Her stomach curled at the idea of having to confess their misdeeds at meeting. “Do you like children?” she asked breathlessly.

Rafe Trehearne swallowed the tea before answering. He seemed cautious, as though he had invaded foreign territory and was about to face some kind of enemy.

“Used to be one myself, but since then haven’t had much to do with them.” He tilted his head to one side, and his golden-colored eyes lit with inner laughter. “Why?”

Charity firmly suppressed the little flicker of irritation that immediately assailed her. She made a slight, scarcely perceptible movement of one hand, clenching the knife she held. “You have not accused either of the boys of indulging in an untoward prank, or suffering an excess of rebellious spirit.”

“I’ll grant you that tea and salt don’t blend well, but ‘twas only a lark. There was no intent to poison me.”

“Oh.” She stood as well, abashed. She felt she had made a fool of herself, and a brief glance at Rafe Trehearne’s face showed her that he was highly amused. Something moved in her throat, and she heard herself mumble beneath her breath, as if she were in pain, “Are you defending them?”

“Heavens no! I’m simply turning a blind eye because this is their first offense, and it’s easy to say you’re sorry when you don’t mean it.”

“Justice is mine—” She broke off, meeting Rafe’s steady gaze, and flushed.

A slow smile gathered on his lips as the moments went by and she did not continue. The tiger-bright eyes that met hers held a challenge, a dare. She lifted her chin and was glad anger was replacing her guilty feelings.

“Benjamin! Isaac! Apologize to Master Trehearne. Don’t stop to argue who was to blame! Do you hear me, boys? Apologize!”

Benjie sniffed loudly. “I’m sorry I put salt in your tea…”

Isaac sighed heavily. “…But you should not have drank it.”

“I am, too. More sorry than you’ll ever know.” Rafe lifted his eyes to Charity again. “I need to have a look around. Check on the barn and the sheds.” He smiled conspiratorially at the boys. “Would you like to show me?”

The twins knew the signs of a scold coming on from their mother. They went.

Head bent low over a boy’s shirt, fingers nimbly plying a needle and thread, Charity replaced a torn seam, her thoughts far removed from her actions. The twins had gone off to bed without protest, their natural ebullience a little subdued for once.

The boys’ predilection for getting into all the more damaging and perilous forms of mischief worried her. Her tawny brows pleated in a frown as she nipped a piece of thread with her teeth and rethreaded the needle.

Picking up another garment, she absently began to repair a three-cornered rent, her mind calling up images of Ezra. Tall, his fair hair and blue eyes making him seem younger than his years, he had impressed her father with his serious mien and devotion to the Scriptures.

Ezra had turned his back on the false and dangerous English church and had followed the Bible’s clear words and truths. He had been so persecuted and plagued by the clergy and authorities in his hometown that he had been forced to emigrate.

After seven years in Boston, he had joined the small Puritan settlement at Mystic. A marriage had been quickly arranged between sixteen-year-old Charity and this enlightened man of God. Ten years they had been wed before Ezra’s untimely death.

Charity could still feel a terrible heartache when she thought of Ezra, good, kind Ezra, lying motionless and silent, his head at an awkward angle, his chest pierced by a bloody, feathered shaft. Yesterday a surge of that remembered pain had swept over her as she knelt beside the limp figure of her new bondman and realized the extent of his injuries.

The needle moved slowly as she analyzed that flood of feeling. Fear? Guilt? Concern? Physical awareness? A combination of them all? Her thoughts collided, merged.

She shouldn’t have been so impulsive as to purchase a bond servant. She’d never known a man who could call up such conflicting emotions in her. She had wanted to throttle him, only fate had already done that for her.

Initial fright and indignation had been quickly swamped by concern. Between them, she and the twins had managed, with no little effort, to transfer the unconscious man from the wagon into the parlor and onto a couch. He had been no mean weight!

And yes, there had been an element of physical awareness when she had attended him. Warm sensations had enveloped her as she removed the tattered shirt.

Charity’s hands stilled with the memory. The sight of that hair-roughened chest, crisscrossed with recently healed wounds, had made her fingers tingle with the urge to feel the warmth and texture of him. She shook her head and grimaced. Lord, what a ninny she was, having such wondrous and shocking fancies at her age! Why, she was no better than a foolish, lovesick girl!

“Where do you keep…”

Charity jerked, dropping the shirt she had been mending. Her heart started to thunder sickeningly in her breast. The bondman stood framed in the doorway, shoulders square, feet apart, still and taut. In his hands was the heavy old wheel-lock rifle that was always left hanging on a special brass hook above the mantel.

Why had she not thought to secure the weapon?

“Sorry.” A rueful expression crossed his face. He propped the rifle against the hutch and bent to retrieve the shirt. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Charity flushed. Her hands trembling, she tucked an errant strand of hair beneath her coif. “‘Startled’ is an understatement,” she managed to say.

Feeling gauche, she shoved the shirt into her sewing basket. It was galling to notice that her fingers still shook as she fastened the lid and placed the basket on a small table. Straightening, she turned. He had moved. He now stood in front of her, feet squarely planted.

“I’d like to be frank with you.” His voice was purposeful, as if he had something momentous to impart. “I think you should know—”

He stopped abruptly, looked at her, his golden eyes glittering with some suppressed emotion. Charity felt the heat of his eyes as if it were a palpable sensation, and a small, expectant shiver ran through her. All her earlier uneasiness returned. She clenched her hands together.

“Do you intend to murder us?” She tried for a light tone. It did not work. His mouth went tight, and his eyes narrowed into shadowed slits.

“Hell, no! I came to say that I’ll keep watch outside.”

Charity sat forward abruptly, queasy at the thought that Rafe suspected the Pequots might be prowling around the farmhouse. Her heart lurched over, then settled into a rapid drumroll.

She lifted her chin challengingly. “You have some reason?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded sharp.

He shook his head swiftly. “The ‘coon has been tied up all day. She needs some exercise.”

Charity, however, was not deceived. She knew that a man fleeing from justice did not think clearly. He had a chance to get away now. The odds were in his favour. She clenched her teeth, suddenly feeling angry. Not only would she be fifty pounds poorer, but Amos Saybrook’s will would prevail. Terrified, she forced herself to breathe slowly. “You do not intend to try and escape?”

A curious stillness gripped Rafe. He stood there as if made of stone, his forehead whitely limned. A dull red stained the high bones of his cheeks, emphasising his jaw’s strength and sweep.

“You will stay?” Unspoken words—Please don’t do this to me—or to God—but most of all, don’t damn yourself—hung like tiny dust motes in a sunbeam.

A silence, heavy with significance, stretched between them. Charity stood there waiting, as if unwilling to break into his thoughts.

Rafe studied her a long time before he spoke. Then, in a single breath, he whispered the words she wanted to hear and shut the gate to freedom.

“I’ll stay.”