Chapter 17 #3
It was near dawn when he finally returned to the farmhouse. Eleanor had been dozing in the deacon’s bench. Brianna, awake and furious, was pacing the floor. He approached her, ready to reassure her, but was given no opportunity to do so.
“Damn you, you bastard! How dare you do this! You are not husband or father to me, you are not anything to me!” She lashed out at him then with the strength of her frustration, fear, and fury. Her nails caught his cheek; her fists, his throat.
And he was far too tired and dispirited to take it from her. “Bitch!” he seethed in return, struggling for her arms. Eleanor awoke, concerned. From the bedroom Michael could be heard to whimper.
“Please,” Eleanor began.
Sloan did not feel like fighting before an audience, nor did he want to wake or upset the child. With a deep-throated rumble of fury he caught her wrists with a steel-tight grasp and dragged her along behind him, back toward the door.
“I’ve a few things to say to Goodwife Powell, Eleanor, and if you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll say them outside, where perhaps the cool air will keep me halfway sane!”
“Eleanor, stop him,” Brianna gasped out, aware that she had provoked him past a reasonable point. But Eleanor did nothing.
Brianna stumbled along behind Sloan’s furious strides until they were out the door and she was suddenly freed—sent flying to land indecorously and ironically in a patch of wild and beautiful lilacs, so recently sprouted from the slush and snow.
Gasping for air and dignity, Brianna looked up to see that he was no less furious now that he had released her. His face was severe with tension.
“Madam, perhaps I am nothing to you, but your good husband just gave me his full blessing to beat you black-and-blue!”
What was there that made her lose all reason?
Perhaps it was his power over her. Perhaps it was because he had come back into her life and he was, once again, the greatest threat she had ever known.
He had, in the space of hours, erased all the time that had passed between them.
She thought herself good and decent, and resolved to her life, but when he stood by her, the air became charged and her blood boiled.
She couldn’t help herself; madness directed her words and actions as she lashed out at him.
“Get away from me, Lord Treveryan. I’m sorry I came to you.
You are eager for his death! God knows you might take any woman, and yet she whom you cannot obtain holds a fascination.
You wish that he would die!” Shredding the lilacs through her fingers, she pushed her way to her feet.
“You think to take his son. Well, you will not do so! Dear God, how I despise you!” Her voice was rising, shrill and laced with laughter.
She barely saw his features, the whiteness that touched his flesh beneath the sea-bronze or the constriction of his jaw.
She didn’t even realize that despite the cruelty of her words, he was calm—as if he knew something about her she did not know herself.
“Dead, dead, dead!” she screamed. “Dead—as your own wife!”
One step brought him to her, and he slapped her a stinging blow across the cheek.
There was no power behind the slap. It only stung, but had, perhaps, exactly the effect she needed.
She became silent, stunned by the torment in his eyes.
He stood not a foot away, this tall, broad man who had battled against the injustices of the world.
She was miserably ashamed of the things she had said.
Her shaken fingers rose to her cheek. “Sloan, I am so sorry,” she whispered.
“I didn’t mean any of it. I just don’t know what to do.
He cannot endure much hardship. He will die!
Sloan, I have to see him! I have to let him know that I’ll not desert him, that—” She ran out of words because there were no words to explain her feelings of absolute desperation.
He lifted his hands hesitantly, as if he were afraid to touch her, but he enveloped her in his arms, and the vibrant warmth of his body did give her comfort.
“Be calm, my love,” he told her. “Brianna, be calm. You’re wrong.
I do not seek his death.” He pushed her away gently, looking down into her eyes.
He smiled slightly. “I know, as well as you do, what it is to love in different ways.”
She trembled slightly. She could not ignore the strength of his arms. He, too, felt the tension building between them and released her, offering her his hand.
“A truce, milady? Then we might be able to help Robert,” he said in a light and teasing tone, and she was reminded of the buccaneer who had kidnapped her long ago to save her from peril.
“A truce,” she replied.
He led her back to the house, and his speech became that of the ship’s captain—the man who brooked no opposition to his orders.
Eleanor, sitting by the hearth, jumped to her feet and surveyed them both anxiously, decided that they had done no harm to each other, and sat again.
Sloan brought Brianna to take a place beside her and spoke to them both.
“Robert and Philip both come up for examination in a few days’ time.
Then, beyond a doubt—since no one seems to escape unscathed—they will be returned to prison to await trial.
Brianna, once that is done we can have Robert removed to better quarters.
The right sum of money, it seems, can buy a certain freedom.
He’ll be under guard, but you’ll be able to care for him.
Eleanor, I’m afraid Philip must wait in the jail because he is young and healthy, and nothing I say can change that.
” He continued, “You both must realize that we are playing a game where rules of reason do not exist. I don’t suggest that we behave as cowards—when it is possible and reasonable, within the law, we’ll all speak.
But to shout out, to fight, will do nothing to free them. Understand?”
Both women nodded gravely. Sloan eyed Brianna skeptically.
“Do you understand?” he repeated.
“Aye!” she stated again, irritably, and he smiled, because though he did not like her hysterical, he did not like to see her beaten and hopeless either. “I’ll take you to see your husband tomorrow,” he told her softly, “as soon as we’ve seen Michael off.”
“Michael!” she gasped, and was then on her feet again, facing him. “You can’t—you said—you wouldn’t …”
He placed his hands on her shoulders and pressed her back to the bench. “No!” he said harshly. “I’m not stealing the child! Would you have him be here for this?”
She shook her head, and he saw that she was swallowing back tears. “He’ll be safe in. New York, Brianna.”
She stared down at her hands.
“Now go to bed, both of you, for what is left of the night.”
Brianna looked up at him with surprise. “Go to bed?” she queried blankly.
A smile tugged at his lips. “And sleep. The days will be long from here on out.”
“You’re staying?” Brianna queried.
“Aye—I’ve spent nights in worse places than upon a floor before a warm hearth. Now go.”
Eleanor obediently walked into the bedroom.
Brianna followed her, then turned back. He had an elbow rested on the stone mantel; his fingers moved over his temple in a slow, taut rub, as if his head were splitting.
He suddenly realized she was still standing there.
“Go to bed!” he snapped to her. She hesitated, thinking there was something that she should say, but there wasn’t really anything that could be said.
She went on into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Eleanor was on Robert’s side, already stripped down to her shift.
Brianna removed her shoes and stockings and dress, but before she crawled into bed, she picked up her son—and brought him with her, curling his little body to her own.
She needed him there. She didn’t think that she could send him away, but she knew that it would be best. And yet she was afraid.
She was handing her child over to his natural father—a man who longed for a son.
Eleanor shifted suddenly, saying in a fervent whisper, “Whatever he asks of you—do! Robert and Philip have a chance because of him. Please … I’d have a hundred men myself, if but one of them could do something.”
Brianna went very tense and swallowed. “Eleanor, he is asking nothing of me.”
The bed heaved as Eleanor twisted about. “Then how long do you think he will stay?” she demanded. Her voice was touched by anger, fear, and the hysteria that came easily these days. “I will pray that you rot in hell if you let him leave, Brianna! I will pray that you will rot!”
Brianna could not be angry in return. She understood too well the meaning of fear. “I won’t let him leave, Eleanor,” she promised.