Interlude November 1691
Interlude
The waves that roared and crashed along the coast were not a pleasant blue. Here, against the rugged coastline, they were gray, ever roiling with great ferocity, as if they promised death from the sea.
It was a lonely place—forlorn, many would say.
Grass did not grow like velvet over the rocky mountains and plains—growth here was tenacious.
The mauve shrubs and occasional weeds that grew high were stubborn and tough, as were all the coastal inhabitants of this stretch of Wales, Sloan mused as he stood on the high and ragged cliff and stared out broodingly over the ever-changing sea. Then he closed his eyes and shuddered.
He had long ago learned not to think of her.
He had schooled himself to follow his quest, to pitch his thoughts and strength and mind into battle.
But today, today he could not help but think of her with longing.
Perhaps it was being home, perhaps it was staring out at the tempest of the sea.
Whatever the reason, she was in his thoughts today, filling his heart with nostalgia and pain.
She was well, he knew. Well, and fine, and happy. He knew because friends of his had been to the Bay Colony, and they had carried tales home. She was so extraordinary lovely that no man who had seen her had ever forgotten her.
“Aye, I know of her,” old Captain Ben of the Inverary had told him when last they’d met outside Dublin.
And his eyes had taken on a faraway look; his parched and weathered lips had twisted to a smile.
“She lives in the village, she does—Salem Village, that be. I saw her at the tavern near the dock; they had come for wool. Brown wool, and unadorned, but”—the old man shrugged—“I heard her name, and it seemed to linger on my lips. For in that very plain garb she was more beautiful than a woman full adorned. When she walked, it seemed she floated; she was soft-spoken and sweet and her scent was one of summer flowers. She seemed happy, and yet sad.…”
The old captain had gone on. About her husband—“A rail of a man, he was, but e’er gentle to the woman and the boy. Did I tell you of him? Ah, he’s not more than a year or so in age, but hale and hearty, with a look o’ the devil about him to catch your heart and bring a smile to your lips.”
Sloan stretched his hands out before him and saw that they were trembling. She was happy. And if the child was his, he had no right to interfere. As it was then, so it was now. If he loved her, he would stay away.
He sighed and turned from the sea to stare up at the great gray pile of mortar and stone that was Loghaire Castle, his home.
It was drafty and cold; the foundations dated back to long before the coming of William the Conqueror.
But as forbidding as the gray stone walls could be, it was home.
It was beautiful to him. The land, the sea, and the rugged castle rising like a natural butte against the terrain.
When he’d fought the Irish under the Prince of Orange’s command, it had been here that he had dreamed of; his land, a place of solitude and peace.
William had quite easily walked into England. It had been all that Princess Mary had envisioned it might; a glorious, “bloodless” revolution. Her father had been forced to flee; the crown had been offered to William and Mary by the people.
But a number of Scottish lords had rebelled, and they had been crushed.
Worse still had been the battles in Ireland.
War had seemed interminable there, and through every victory Sloan had felt nothing but sorrow and pain.
The Irish had stoutly defended James, even after he had fled.
The Battle of the Boyne had brought about the end of the conflict, but even there Sloan had known no triumph.
A multitude of fine, noble Irish lords had chosen exile rather than bow down to William.
The death in Ireland had wrought fiercely against Sloan’s heart, gnawing at his reason.
He had fought hard, but no longer for vengeance; he had fought only for loyalty, and perhaps, out of a flirtation with death.
Sloan suddenly clasped his hands to his head and sank down among the pebbles and the weeds. He wanted so badly to forget Ireland, and the screams of the dying and the wounded. A shudder ripped through him, weakening him, and he took a deep breath and stared out to sea.
He loved the sea. It seemed to beckon to him.
But then he pivoted on his heels and once more stared up at the castle. He couldn’t put out to sea again. Not yet.
Alwyn had been very strange. When he had first returned, he had taken great care that she not see him in his battle garb.
He had spent long hours bathing, and dressing to please her.
But when he had tried to bring her a present of fine Irish linen, she had screamed so at the sight of him that he had quickly left her chambers and had spent the next days keeping himself out of her sight.
Then one morning she asked to see him; she recognized him again as her childhood playmate.
It was strange, yes, very strange, to play hide-and-seek and chase his wife of a decade around the rosebushes. But her physicians had recommended that he indulge her in her whims, and he was very grateful to see her smile, and hear her laughter.
He loved her, yes: loved her as the child she sought to be.
Sloan stood, straightening his shoulders. Brianna was a dream denied him; Alwyn, sweet Alwyn, was his responsibility. He was all she had to shield her from harsh reality. He owed his wife his loyalty and care now. In time he would sail again and find his soul cleansed with the cool sea breezes.
She, too, stared out at the water at Salem Town, where the great ships brought news and supplies from the Mother Country. They had come today because the Marianna was due in—with news on the progress of the ambassadors the Puritans now had in the court of William and Mary.
The Massachusetts Bay Colony was still without her charter, and Increase Mather was working hard to convince the new sovereigns that the charter revoked by Charles Stuart must be regranted.
Brianna did not care much about news of the charter.
The Puritans were anxious that those who were not of their faith be forbidden to hold public office, but Brianna could not care much about such things.
She thought it an intolerant attitude for a people who had long sought toleration, but she kept her thoughts to herself.
She was getting along admirably well. Perhaps there were no highs to her life, no days of excitement, no nights of …
Love. Dear God! Would she never forget him?
She had carved out a life for herself. Robert was, if not all that a husband could be, her friend, and a dear, dear companion.
He was Michael’s father now, and at that he excelled.
He had given her a home, and he had given her respectability.
And he gave her, every day, his devotion and care.
If they did not have passion, they did have a form of love.
There was always work to be done, and if the sermons delivered in the Salem Town parish were a little strict to Brianna’s mind, it didn’t matter, because among these staid and God-fearing people—His “chosen,” as they called themselves—she had met good friends.
They did know how to laugh, and to care.
Some were gossips, and some were dear. “God’s Chosen” or not, they were people with the frailties common to all.
The breeze picked up from the harbor. From where she stood in the field across from the docks, Brianna felt it lift her hair and cool her cheeks.
The salt smell of the ocean was rich today.
And though she had long ago steeled her mind against fancy, the scent of the air brought with it a sharp pain that wound tightly in her abdomen and seemed to reach up and place a stranglehold about her heart.
She closed her eyes, feeling the breeze sweep by, praying that it would ease the pain it had brought.
Time … time should have eased the loss, and the longing.
His face should long since have faded from her memory, but it would not.
She could see him as clearly today as she had when she had faced him last. His eyes, with their searing, haunting gaze.
The height of him, the warmth of him, the strength when he had held her.
In her mind’s eye she could reach out with her fingers and feel his face—the contours of his jaw, the sun-bronzed skin of his cheeks, the thick dark brows that arched over his eyes.
Reach out … and touch him, and in turn, he would clutch her hand, and bring it tenderly to his lips. …
“Mama!”
The spell was broken. She opened her eyes. The sky was a dull gray today, for winter was coming. The grass was flattening in the field, and out on the sea the great sails of the ships coming to harbor were blown out wide and full.
She turned around. On sturdy little legs Michael was racing to her.
His long dark hair was clubbed neatly at his nape, but tendrils were escaping to the wind.
He smiled as he neared her, and his eyes flashed in the sunlight, as rich and radiant as the verdant field.
He wasn’t quite two and a half years old, but he was already tall and sturdy and vital and wonderfully bright.
“Rabbit!” he told her, catapulting into her arms.
“A rabbit, darling? How nice.”
She embraced him, lifting him even as he protested her crushing hold. He pushed his hands against her shoulders and stared down into her face with those beautiful green eyes that could wrench her heart.
Michael squirmed out of her arms, and she set him down on the ground, taking his hand.
“I want to tell Papa ’bout my rabbit!” he said.
“Yes,” Brianna murmured.
Michael was tugging her toward the street, toward the tavern where Robert was awaiting his friends from the ship. She was ready to follow him, but she paused without thinking, staring out to sea again.