“I’ve been talking to Silas Deare, the magistrate at New Haven. He says those Iroquois savages who were so abandoned in natural loyalty and decency as to take up arms against their rightful king claim you as a blood brother. Do they?”
“If they say so, they must.” Rafe’s heart had begun to pump, and for a moment he felt slightly dizzy and light-headed. His breath came a shade too rapidly. He swallowed hard. She was not married! A covert smile was struggling on his lips. He tried to say something, but the words caught in his throat.
He wanted to tell her his whole story. Explain that he had become a bond servant through no fault of his own. That, on the contrary…No, there were some things you couldn’t explain because no one would believe them.
“Charity! This most abandoned of mankind, forgetting his allegiance to God, has, according to his own confession, supported these savages, putting his hand and seal to a bloody truce, full of the knowledge of what mischief this treachery will cause. And he impudently calls on the intervention of Sir Thomas Pakenham to spare him the rope!”
Charity was annoyed. What business did Amos Saybrook have, spreading such vile slander? She glared at him, but the tithing man went on, speaking harshly, rapidly, not giving her a chance to say anything at all.
“Chances are this thieving scoundrel will disappear with half your possessions.” Amos allowed himself the luxury of a sneer. “Or get drunk and give them away to the enemy.”
Charity’s hands were clasped together so tightly that her knuckles showed white. She felt the blood recede from her face. Her lips, her face, her whole body felt stiff—but with fear now, not anger. She opened her mouth, but it was several seconds before she spoke, and her voice was unsteady.
“Drink accounts for all manner of derangements.”
Something in her tone drew him to her wide and dismayed eyes. Rafe’s brain whirled giddily before the words made sense. He turned them over in his mind. As far as he was aware, strong liquor was not a failing of most Puritan men.
She made another peculiar sound and smoothed her skirt awkwardly. The boys began to busy themselves rearranging the pile of sacks already stacked neatly on the wagon tray. He wondered when—and how—she had gained her fear of a drunken man.
His hands started to move, but he restrained the gesture. He was nearer to collapse than he would have allowed, for there was a curious catch in his voice when he finally spoke. “You can relax, Mistress Frey. Though I have many vices, a fondness for alcohol is not one of them.”
Amos Saybrook’s watery blue eyes moved to Rafe. He cleared his throat impressively. “Do you know what you have done, Mistress Frey? You have endangered the lives of these precious infants. Suppose the Pequots decide to support the Iroquois and capture them? What then?”
Three pairs of anxious, blue green eyes swung toward Rafe. A stab of anger shot through him. Trust the Puritan ignoramus to raise the fears of a lone woman and her children. He squared his shoulders. He knew that if he allowed the anger to overcome him, he would explode. He had to remain in command of himself.
“There’ll be no trouble.” He was relieved that his voice sounded quietly confident. “A little common sense would tell you I’m not likely to have any friends among the Pequot.”
Charity’s fingers closed convulsively over those of the nearest twin, and for a horrified moment Rafe thought she was going to burst into tears. Then she rallied.
“Amos, it is you who preach that sin is permitted by God, for it tests men and proves them in God’s eyes. It is only through prayer and penitence that men attain salvation.” She raised her eyes in unconscious appeal. “Surely you would allow this sinner the same chance?”
A explosive sound burst from Amos Saybrook’s thick lips. “Once a killer, always a killer—that’s a fact.”
For a long moment Rafe stood without moving, expressionless except for the fire of anger in his eyes, which surveyed the creature before him with utter contempt. He had never known anything like the blistering fury that gripped him now.
It took iron willpower to control the anger to a point where he could function, and then it was with discipline and nerve alone. His shoulders moved in an uneasy, uncharacteristic gesture, and then he stepped forward. He moved with striking grace, but he was not quite steady. “Men have died for causes before, and I imagine they always will. I’m not such a bloody-minded fool that I can’t see that Mistress Frey needs a man to help hold her land against bigots and thieves.”
Charity glanced at Rafe momentarily, from under fluttering lids. There was a promise in her eyes he couldn’t fathom. A tiny frown crinkled his brow and he made a slight gesture with one hand.
She stood on tiptoe and put her hand up to his throbbing temple, pressed lightly. The touch, careful though it was, arrested his breath, centered all his consciousness on exploding pain, annihilated him. His jaw grew tight with agony. To breathe took a jerky effort.
Her mouth moved. She spoke. He knew she did because her voice echoed inside his head. “Once he has paid his dues to society, whatever his crime, Master Trehearne is a free man.” She brushed her hand against his unshaven jaw. “Until then, he is mine.”
Somehow the wall of darkness receded, and he was dimly aware that Amos was nodding his head in agreement. There was a perceptible thaw in the man’s attitude, as if he had decided to retreat a little, give himself a chance to revise his strategies.
The preacher began to rock back and forth slightly on his booted feet. He spoke with heavy delicacy. “Though the present circumstances make me wish otherwise, I’m bound to agree with you, Charity.”
Rafe could see the relief flow through Charity, washing away her tension and uncertainty. Of course, this scion of respectability had not surrendered completely. The Puritan turned away from Charity and took a step closer to Rafe. He smiled, a thin, humorless little smile, his eyes gleaming with scorn and anger. “In truth, sire, you are a rascal and a villain, but with a scrub and decent garb, some of the prison stench may leave your body, if not your soul. Prayer and penitence will do that. No doubt you’ll be seated with us at the meetinghouse on Sunday?”
Rafe bowed deeply from the waist, then looked Amos full in the face. He made a valiant effort to give one of his sweetest smiles. The strain was making him light-headed. His tongue felt thick.
“You are too kind, Master Saybrook. While you honor me beyond my wildest hopes, it would never do for someone in your high position to be seen consorting with a servant, especially a miserable creature whose indenture has seven long years to run.”
Rafe’s head ached dully. He remembered other pain. The heat. Flames that lapped intermittently at his bare feet, his ankles, for they would not allow the redcoat warrior to die quickly. He recalled the fierce glare of the sun, searing his eyeballs and drying his throat painfully. The pull on his wrist increased to agony…
He blinked, looked around. The compound was empty, the distant mountain mute and green. A boy was doing a balancing act on the edge of a wagon. He saw the freckled face, the shining eyes, the wide, white grin. There were other faces that should be here, but weren’t.
They’re inside your head.
He could not endure the thought, but there was no escaping it. He heard a sound, metal on metal. Danger. Was it the snick of a rifle trigger? He blinked again.
For an instant, light flooded his brain—light so cruel, so bright, that it was like staring into the sun—and the woman was in its path! He exploded into action.
The hatchet’s bright blade came at him. His momentum took him toward it. Past it, a dark blur. Plant the feet, breathe in, swing with the mass of his frame, pushing from his ankles. A heaving, rounded breast. A flurry of skirts.
He regained his feet and pivoted again to meet the threat.
There was none.