Chapter 16 #3
“There’s nothing more to discuss. I came here for help and I can tell I shall get none.” She tilted her head to the side, determined not to cry, or beg. “Don’t you recall?” she taunted him politely. “I remember a day when you told me I might come to you if ever I found that I was in need.”
“Ah,” he returned in mocking kind, “but I loved you then. Fool that I was, I loved you.”
Her lashes fell, her heart felt as if it were slowly crumbling. She had been the fool, to love on when love had been lost.
She raised her head again. “Could I please step by, My Lord Treveryan?”
“I’ve yet to hear what you have in mind.”
Brianna took a step back, narrowing her eyes while her breath seemed to catch and rasp. “What game are you playing, Lord Treveryan? I told you—”
“You told me that you wished to leave Salem. Am I supposed to drop everything and take you away—you and your husband, and your son—is that it?”
His tone was too polite; she had not seen him for a long time, but once she had known him well, and his quiet tones were still, it seemed, his most dangerous.
“Yes—and you’ve refused me, so let me by.”
He backed against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. “Oh, I’ve not refused you—yet.” He lifted an arm toward the settee. “Sit, Goodwife Powell.”
She turned, and sat once again upon the settee. Sloan went down upon one knee to pick up the remnants of the glass she had dropped. She stiffened, feeling his dark head near her knees.
“How is Lady Treveryan, my lord?” she queried with quiet and caustic rebuke.
“Dead,” he answered bluntly, not looking her way.
Her heart seemed to catch in her throat. “How convenient for you,” she murmured.
He jerked up, swinging an arm back with such murderous loathing in his eyes that she cried out, scrambling to the edge of the settee. Dark lashes fell to conceal his eyes; his arm dropped to his side and he walked to the hearth and tossed the fragments of crystal into it.
“I—I’m sorry,” Brianna said at last, miserably. She did not turn to look at him.
Silence came between them and then he spoke again. “Well, madam, I can’t say that I quite understand why you are here. There are other ships.”
“I cannot pay for passage.”
“Can’t you?” he queried cruelly. “I seem to remember that you are not averse to hiring out—in desperation, that is.”
She rose again, her heart and mind a tempest, wishing she could tear him limb from limb. She stared at him then, watching his casual, negligent stance against the mantel, clenching her fingers into fists at her side to keep from lashing out.
“Or,” he persisted, “did you come to me specifically knowing that I just might be an easy mark?”
The taunt was more than she could bear. She flew at him, her clenched fists flying hard against his jaw and chest as she sobbed out furious curses.
He caught her arms, locking them with his own behind her back. She struggled with little success, then leaned against him, cheeks dampened by the futility of her action, by her rage, by the wrenching agony of seeing him again.
His hand came to her throat and her cheek, gently caressing as he raised her eyes to his.
“I could demand it,” he told her raggedly.
“I could tell you that, yes, I would take you away, but that you must pay for the passage. And by God, if you did not agree, you would be a fool, for this place is quick becoming a cauldron of insanity. You would do anything to save your child and your husband. It would make things easy in your heart and mind.”
“No,” she whispered. She could do no more. Staring in his eyes, feeling the fascination, the pulse and heat of his body pressed so naturally to hers, she could do no more.
His lips twitched into a bitter and pained smile. His thumb continued its tender graze over her throat and chin, and the soft flesh of her cheeks.
Then his mouth slowly lowered to hers, taking it, softly, in gentle exploration.
But that touch was like fire, burning, melting her.
His mouth fused to hers then, hot and demanding, sending desire, pulsing and vital, raging through her.
His arms wrapped around her, his palms found the curve of her breasts and her hips; his fingers found the pins in her hair and flung them aside until the dark mass, rich and luxurious, cascaded all around them.
Brianna choked out a cry, and turned her face from his.
She vaguely heard him draw a hesitant breath and his hand fell tenderly to her head.
Ah, how easy it would have been! She had not forgotten him; she had not forgotten how they had loved.
Had he forced his bitter taunt, she might have been his again, here, now, upon the clean-swept floorboards of Lord Turnberry’s elegant drawing room.
But he could not. She was married, and not—as some ladies of the courts often were—oblivious to such commitments.
If she did love him now, she would despise him if he forced her, no matter how deep her need.
A woman like Brianna would live with the torment of the damned for her betrayal.
Nor would she be wrong in suffering, for Sloan still could not deny that she had married a good man, weak in body but strong in heart.
Holding her gently, he smoothed back her wild display of midnight hair. “Don’t fear me. I ask nothing of you. I never would have. I just needed to hold you again, and believe that you still loved me. Forgive me.”
She could stand no longer. She slid along his length to sink to the floor at his feet, sobbing softly. He knelt down beside her, pulling her work-worn hands from her face, clutching them tightly in his own, swallowing back his misery.
“Sloan,” she whispered, not raising her eyes to his, and speaking with anguish tearing at her every word. “I do love my husband. Not as I … have ever known love with you. But he is a good man. He does not deserve this from me. Sloan! I am so frightened!”
He set his arms about her again; this time with no passion, and no heat. “I will take you from here. You and Robert—and Michael. He will never know that you came to me, I swear it. I will come to your home and speak to him.”
She couldn’t seem to stop crying. He rose, refilled her port glass, and forced her to drink.
And kneeling again before her in front of the hearth, he tried to smile, although the effort was bitter and weak.
“I had to see Michael. I don’t believe that I can ever reconcile myself to not being able to call him mine. ”
“You couldn’t take him from Robert! Please, Sloan!”
“Nay, love,” Sloan said bitterly, “I wouldn’t.
” He rose slowly, painfully. He made her rise then, too, brushing the tears from her cheeks.
“I will take you to New York. The governor is a friend of mine, and though the city is in English hands now, it still retains some good Dutch practicality. There is no talk of witches there.” He paused, swallowing fiercely.
“Go home, Brianna. I will send to Boston for my crew, and I will come and speak with Robert.”
Brianna nodded slowly, and walked woodenly to the door, as if each step were a great effort.
Once there, she turned back to him. He felt her stare, but he couldn’t look at her.
He gazed into the fire, afraid that if he saw the haunting blue beauty of her eyes again, he would cry out and race to wrench her into his arms again.
“Sloan … thank you,” she said.
He lifted a hand, not sure that he could speak.
She gave out a little gasp, then cried, “I do love you.”
The door swung open and then she was gone.
By the time she neared her farmhouse, she was composed. She had indulged in an orgy of tears on leaving Lynn, but by now she had dried her eyes. She squared her shoulders, and was practicing a composed, peaceful smile.
She could never let Robert know where she had been, or the tumult that she had suffered. Tomorrow night they must both be surprised; she must play the very meek wife while she let Sloan and Robert discuss their future—and their flight.
As she turned down the path to the house, she began to frown. It seemed unusually dark, as if no candles were burning inside and the fire had almost died. And the door stood ajar.…
Brianna leapt from the mare, heedless of where she might wander. She tore through the front door, calling out Robert’s name, then Eleanor’s, then Michael’s. No one replied.
A gust of wind slammed the door behind her. An eerie gleam of stunted gold and burnt orange from the dying fire was cast about the house as she stared in shock, then raced to the bedroom.
Panic struck her as she continued to call out names and hurried back to the main room and kitchen. “Robert! Michael! Eleanor—Where are you?” The wind howled in reply.
Then she saw the parchment. Before she touched it, she knew what it was, but she forced herself to sit and focus her eyes on the page.
To the Marshal of Essex County or his Deputy or Constable;
You are, in Their Majesties’ names, hereby required to apprehend and forthwith secure, and bring before us, Husbandman Robert Powell on Tuesday next, being the thirty-first day of this Instant month of May, at the house of Lt.
Nathaniel Ingersoll’s in Salem Village, who stands charged with having Committed Sundry acts of Witchcraft on the Bodys of Mary Warren and Abigail Williams and Ann Putnam to their great hurt and Injury, in order that Robert Powell may be examined by us.
Relating to the premises abovesaid, fail not.
Dated Salem May 27, 1692
John Hathorne
Jonathan Corwin Assistants
Brianna read the warrant several times over. Then she dropped it and started to scream. But there was no one to hear her, only the wind to carry her screams to places unknown.