Chapter 14
The Powell home was a small two-storied cottage that was cared for with great love.
Begonias grew in profusion about the entrance; bright clean curtains hung at the windows.
When Robert pushed open the door, wonderful cooking aromas filled their senses.
Hook rugs adorned the simple floors, and precious candles burned brightly from a well-polished dining table.
“Robert?”
There was surprise in the dulcet tones of the plump woman’s voice as she came toward them. Brianna blinked, for Margaret Powell, her mother’s cousin, did not appear as if she had changed a wit in all the years gone past.
But evidently Brianna had changed somewhat herself.
Margaret stopped walking, absently pushing back a still-black wing of hair, and stared at her with a curiosity that was not rude, but rather a bit stupefied—as if she should be able to place the girl on her son’s arm, but could not.
Then, quite suddenly, she let out a little gasp and rushed forward with a smile as radiant as the sun.
“Brianna! Oh, Brianna! All grown up! Oh, child, child, come in, come in!”
At last she was being crushed by safe and loving arms. Explanations could come later; for now, there was only the bliss of being cherished.
Tears had filled her eyes by the time Robert’s father came to hold her too.
Tall, slim, and weathered, he said her name gently, and she knew that they would give her all the support she could find in this world.
By nightfall the Powells had been given a sketchy version of all that had happened. They did not judge her, nor did she even know what they really thought. Ethan said solemnly that they would stand by her—and that surely God would too.
To her amazement she slept soundly that night. Sleep was a respite from anguish. A blessed respite, for the morning brought all that she had feared. Margaret woke her with a calm warning. “Brianna, he is here.”
“Sloan?” she gasped out shakily.
Already? It was too soon, she was barely awake. She wasn’t strong at all.
“Aye, Lord Treveryan.”
She closed her eyes again. Had he thundered into the house? Demanded that she be returned? If he displayed the arrogance of his class, she might well find it easier to despise him; to find some shame that she desired him enough to forget that he was wedded to another in the eyes of man and—and God.
“Did he … did he …”
“He came as courteous as a man might, my dear. I thought to loathe him for the dishonor he has brought you to, but I cannot, for even if he stands like an oak and is as sound in mind and body as any ship, his eyes harbor such a tumult that he must not be despised. Deal gently with him—but firmly. You must not go with him.”
Brianna nodded miserably. She rose quickly and dressed, and with shaking fingers knotted her hair firmly at her nape. Her palms were damp, her throat was dry.
At last she opened the door and came to the parlor.
Sloan was there, by the fire, one hand upon the hearth, his head inclined toward it.
Seeing him, she felt that she wanted to die, quite truly, rather than watch him walk out the door.
When he turned to her, his features were strained, but his eyes were vividly, brilliantly green against the redness that marred them.
She thought that he had not slept at all, and she desperately wanted to run to him, to hold him tight, and ease the deep-set furrows from his brow.
But Ethan and Robert stepped beside her to walk with her to the parlor.
“I would have you come back with me,” Sloan said, and his voice was harsh and hoarse, and ripped at her soul.
She opened her mouth, but no sound would come. She hated herself for being such a coward, and finally found the words to speak.
“These people are the family I have so craved to reach, Sloan. My place is here, with them. I beg you, leave me where I am loved—and respected.” Her emphasis on the last word was soft, and yet it was clear, so that he would truly understand.
Then he appeared angry, and in her heart she was a little glad; she did not want to forget his anger and his touch of arrogance, for they were a part of him that she loved; his determination that he could always best the world.
“Brianna—”
Robert set an arm about her and stepped forward slightly.
“My Lord Treveryan, I will speak frankly here. You cannot give Brianna that which I can. Think, my lord! What would her life be? Access to port upon port? And what of your loyalty, sir, to the prince you serve? There is hardship ahead, war and battle. Would you see her brought to danger—or left behind to suffer scorn? My lord, we are her kindred, and we must protect her life and soul. We are grateful to you for saving her life, but, my lord, we are her male protectors; we must guide her life. Sir, I must tell you that Brianna and I are betrothed. I will marry her, my lord, and give her that station which you cannot.”
Sloan’s incredulous exclamation covered Brianna’s own gasp of shock.
“But you cannot!” he exclaimed in a fury. “You are cousins.”
“Nay, sir, our mothers were cousins. And I might remind you that the Prince and Princess of Orange are first cousins.”
For one terrible minute Brianna feared that Sloan meant to draw his sword and slay Robert on the spot; she had never seen such a fire in his eyes. He seemed indomitable as he stood there towering over them all, fierce and bronzed—and beautiful still to her eyes.
“Sloan!” she cried out, stepping forward. “Please, I beg of you! If you care for me—if ever you have loved me—leave me here, in peace.”
He turned away from her, striding back to the mantel—he could not look at her. Her words rang in his ears, an echo of reproach. “If you ever loved me …”
If? He didn’t think that he could walk away, that he was capable of doing such a thing. He wanted to rip to shreds this man who was claiming Brianna. But Robert Powell was aware that Sloan could kill him with little more than a blow—and held quietly to his stance anyway.
And Brianna …
There had been such pleading in her voice. Dear God, he did love her. So much that he couldn’t wrench her away, no matter what his own feelings were. He’d go through hell for her; he would face a thousand Matthews. But he couldn’t fight her. Not now.
He could give her almost anything in the world, but not the most important thing. He could love her with all his heart—but he could not make her his wife.
Neither could he bear being here longer thinking that she would wed another man. And he could not despise Powell, for even though he appeared as gaunt as birch branch, he was not without courage.
Sloan longed to fight for the woman who was his. But he couldn’t. Brianna had begged him to leave her, and because he did love her, he had no choice.
But he made one last protest, his voice so harsh that it was a crude rasp.
“Have you forgotten? Brianna MacCardle is an outlaw here—until William of Orange marches into England. Only then will I be able to clear our names.”
“My Lord Treveryan,” Robert Powell said distinctly. “I am aware of that. I intend to take her far from England. The Lady of Bristol sails in three days for New England. We will be on her.”
Sloan nodded. His heart seemed to be ripped from his chest, and sink bleeding to his feet.
He stared at her then, determined to memorize her for a lifetime.
The beautiful blue of her eyes, radiant now, dazzled with liquid tears.
He must remember her face, her form, her fiery pride and rages; the melody of her laughter, and the parted curve of her lips when she anticipated his kiss.
Sloan took a step forward, dredging up everything he knew of gallantry.
He knelt at her feet, took her hand, and lowered his head over it. Slim and delicate—he would never forget the touch of her fingers.
“Peace and happiness, to you, then, my lady. Godspeed to you both.”
He kissed her hand and rose, bowing sharply to Robert and Ethan Powell.
Then he quit the small cottage, allowing the door to slam shut behind him.
Holding back a man’s tears, he jumped upon his horse and sent his heels flying against the beast’s flanks.
He rode until he came to a cove in the forest, where he dismounted, finally realizing that the animal did not deserve to be the brunt of his turmoil.
Sloan sank to the grass. For once in his life he had wanted some one thing …
someone … more than anything else in the world.
And he could not have her, simply because he did love her so much.
He ached as though mortally wounded. He did not know what to do, where to turn, and so he thundered his fists against a tree, and when his hands were bloody, he fell to the forest floor.
Morning passed; the sun rose high above him. And suddenly he screamed out—screamed out in rage, in loss, in frustration—and in love.
Finally his voice went hoarse. He stood and patted the neck of the horse he had run so ragged. He found a stream and let the animal drink, next he splashed his face again and again with the cold water and cooled his battered hands.
Then he mounted the horse again and started back toward port. He wanted to reach the sea; she was his mistress, she would heal him; she would give him back his reason and passion for life.
And he would reach Holland. He would be there for William and Mary; he would fight with fury and vengeance, and cast himself into the tumult of battle and fray.
He would then go back to Loghaire. Perhaps he could not love his wife, but he would try to be her friend.
God, how he pitied her now, for she could never know just what beauty God could give—and take away.
His eyes carefully following the movements of his fingers, Robert Powell knelt beside the chair he had almost completed. His file moved quickly and fluidly in his hands; he touched the hard wood with an almost loving reverence.