Devil's Mistress

by Heather Graham

  “I don’t care.”

  “You have to care, Sloan, for the child.”

  Sloan went dead—still, startled that Cedric Turnberry knew about Michael—and that he himself had forgotten.

  “Very well,” Sloan said, exhaling a long breath. “I’ll be discreet. But if they come for her, Rikky, I’ll say damnation against William and Mary as well as James.” He inhaled deeply, then took Rikky’s hand. “My thanks, good friend.”

  Rikky smiled. “My horse is outside. Go.”

  He went, riding like the wind that had arisen—a wretched, cold wind that chilled the bones. Before he reached the path to the Powell farm, Sloan slowed his gait, narrowing his eyes against the darkness. There was a woman moving along in the darkness at a hurried pace; a woman clutching a child who whimpered, and fought her hold.

  It was not Brianna. The moon glowed down on hair that was very blond. He nudged the horse forward; she turned and saw him and started to run.

  “Wait!” Sloan cried out. His heart was hammering, for the child she carried was Michael. “Wait! I swear before God, I am a friend!”

  She paused, clutching the child very tightly. He cried out in protest, trying to beat at her breast with chubby fists. “Papa! Papa! I want Papa back! Where is Mama, ’Leanor? Let me go!”

  “Hush, Michael!” The woman commanded distractedly. She looked at Sloan nervously while he dismounted from his horse. He came to her, and she shrank away. “Who are you?” Her eyes raked over his clothing, which was clearly not the simple fabric of their Puritan homes.

  “Treveryan, girl. My name is Sloan Treveryan.”

  Her eyes, large and dark and very lovely, widened. “Lord Treveryan! The ship’s captain!”

  “Aye, and who—”

  “Did she come to you, then? Did you see her, Brianna Powell? Oh, it’s too late!” The girl wailed, hugging the child. “They came today, with a warrant for Robert. I told them he was too ill, but they would not even leave him in his home until the examination! Robert would not protest; he was anxious to leave with Brianna still gone!”

  “Where did they take him? Salem—or Boston?”

  “Salem—they do not transfer prisoners to Boston until they have been examined. Oh—oh, dear Lord!” she said, and then she burst into tears, which started the little boy crying too.

  Sloan stepped forward to grip her shoulders around the child’s quaking body. “Stop, lass, you must,” he said quietly. “We will do something. But first, where is Brianna now?” He longed to wrench the boy—his son—from her. It was good that the situation was so urgent.

  “I don’t know. When they took Robert, I ran with Michael. They’ve arrested even a five-year-old, you know. I wanted to bring him home, to do something. You don’t know where she is?”

  “No,” Sloan said worriedly. “Could you two have crossed one another without meeting?”

  “Yes, yes! I came through the woods. Our property adjoins.”

  “I’ll find her,” Sloan promised, and he leapt back on his mount. He couldn’t believe that she could have outdistanced him so completely, and started for the farm at a gallop.

  He had not gone far along the path when he saw her. She was mounting a haggard old mare.

  “Brianna!” Sloan shouted, moving to block her escape.

  She didn’t seem to recognize him, as her wild eyes seemed to look through him. “Give way!” she demanded hoarsely.

  “No!” He twisted his mount about and caught the mare’s reins. “Stop this!” he commanded her.

  Some flicker of recognition flashed through her eyes, but was quickly gone. Her jaw hardened. “Give way. I’ve got to get to town.”

  She wrenched so hard on the reins that the horse neighed and she broke Sloan’s grasp. The nag took off.

  Sloan chased her. It was not difficult, because his mount was stronger. He reached for her reins but could not grasp them. He was forced to lean forward and pushed her from the saddle. He leaped from his horse as she rolled into slush and foliage, the breath knocked from her. Their horses, unattended, ran away.

  “Damn you!” Brianna raged, staggering from the mud. “Damn you! You don’t understand. They’ve taken Robert!”

  “And damn you for being an idiot!” he charged, trying to hold her. She was wild; never had she fought with such ferocity. He realized that she was beyond reason.

  “Brianna—” he tried one last time. She leaned her head forward, biting deeply into his arm. He swore, shaking off her hold. He knew that if he was to help Robert, he had to do it alone. Brianna would only complicate the situation and possibly put them all in danger. He had to stop her. Hating himself, he waited until she raised her head again, then locked his hand into a fist and struck her jaw.

  She went limp, falling into his arms. He picked her up and carried her back to the house.

  It was a small place, he discovered as he pushed open the door with his boot. A main room with a hearth and a side room. The door to that was open and illuminated by the dying blaze in the hearth. Sloan went through it with her, and laid her down on the large trundle bed. He sat at her side, running his fingers through her hair.

  He should take her away, he thought dully—let her scream and despise him. It might be better than what would come.

  A sound alerted him and he stood, ready to fight. It was just the woman he had seen on the road, holding the now-sleeping child. Sloan relaxed.

  “Is she—is she hurt?” the woman asked worriedly.

  “I’ve hit her. She should awaken soon,” Sloan replied tonelessly. And then he saw that the blond girl looked as if she, too, were about to fall. He came to her, at last having a chance to hold the child.

  “Let me,” he murmured, taking the boy from her. She gave him over easily, and as Sloan held him he felt both warm and shivery. This was his son—his own flesh, his own blood.

  He closed his eyes and felt the child’s little fingers close around his. Then he placed him in the small bed at the foot of Brianna’s bed.

  “I’ll bring you some ale,” the girl said dully. She left the darkened room. Sloan stared down at his son. He gently touched the pitch-dark hair and could not help touching his lips to the small forehead. The child sighed. Sloan was shaken.

  He went to Brianna’s side. Her cheek, when he touched it, was cold. Sloan pulled the covers over her and tried to see her jaw. She would have a small bruise. It hurt to see his own handiwork, but he’d had no choice.

  “Come, have your ale.”

  Sloan looked to the doorway and the blond woman stood there. She turned, and he followed her out to the main room, where she indicated the deacon’s pew. He sat and accepted the tankard she handed him.

  “I’m Eleanor, Lord Treveryan,” she told him, and he nodded at her, drinking deeply of the ale, which made him feel much better.

  Eleanor had prodded and fed the fire. Now it burned brightly, and there were two lanterns on the table. She was studying him nervously by the light.

  “You knew her before, didn’t you?” she asked.

  “Aye.”

  “She never said so,” Eleanor said. Her eyes came to his again, dark and troubled. “She did tell me that she had been condemned—and saved.”

  He grimaced and shifted his body on the pew. He felt suddenly tired, and too old for his years.

  “What will you do?”

  “I don’t know yet. Wait, I suppose. They haven’t had any trials yet. Perhaps all the wretches caught up in this will be released.”

  Eleanor shook her head, fighting back tears. “I do not think so. They took my betrothed today too. He had been a constable. He resigned his post, saying that he could not serve such warrants any longer. As soon as he resigned, he was accused.”

  “Easy, girl,” Sloan said, not sure he could console her.

  “If they’ve taken Robert, they will take anyone.”

  Sloan drank his ale and handed her the tankard. “I’ll have some more. Is there nothing to eat here?”

  She
filled his tankard and handed it back. “Yes, I’ll find something.”

  She found bread, cheese, and dried fish, and as she placed them on the table, she spoke more calmly.

  “You’re a friend of the king. You must be able to do something. This has gone too far. John Proctor said at the very beginning that the girls would make devils of the lot of us! One of them even admitted that they had first called out his wife’s name for sport. John was so right! As soon as he stood by his wife, he, too, was accused. He can be a harsh man—he is a great brute of a fellow—but if witches do exist, they can’t be the likes of him! His servant, Mary Warren, is one of the girls afflicted, yet she tried to deny what she had said, and when she did, they brought her forward for examination! Again and again—until she ‘confessed’ that John had come to her, demanding she sign the devil’s book. Yet”—Eleanor paused miserably—“you mustn’t judge us Puritans too harshly, for we truly wish only to do God’s work.”

  Sloan smiled dryly. “I do not judge you harshly. This is not a consequence of your creed, it is part of our time.” And, he wondered silently, was there a way to escape it?

  Eleanor paused as she set the food on the table. “Sarah Osbourne died in prison; she, too, was ill when they took her.”

  Sloan came to the table. “I cannot clear the prisons,” he told her quietly.

  She lowered her eyes and sat opposite him. “But you will try to free Robert and—”

  “Your young man. Aye, I will. I’ve a friend with better connections than mine who can help.”

  Eleanor chewed nervously on her lower lip. “Those who are cleared will be in such horrible debt. Few have much money, and none will be freed who cannot pay their prison costs.”

  Sloan reached out a hand. “Eleanor, times like these bring out the worst in men—and the best. There will be help from other sources.”

  She nodded slowly. “We can only pray.”

  Sloan rose, rubbing his temple. “I’ll go to the jail, and find out what I can do for Robert—and I’ll see to your young man too. What is his name?”

  “Philip Smith,” Eleanor replied quickly. “He met you in Boston, when you first came.”

  Sloan nodded and rose. “Now, get me some blankets and clothing for Robert and your Philip.”

  Eleanor hurried to do his bidding. Sloan took the things and came out to the yard. His own horse had apparently run back to Lynn and a feedbag, but Brianna’s wretched mare was in front, nosing the ground for grass. He caught her easily, and packed the clothing and food on back of the saddle. He saluted Eleanor and left.

  Sloan had no problem reaching Robert Powell. The jailers were stout fellows and solemn men, but seemed grieved by the overflowing of their cells. The elder of the two brought Sloan along the drafty facility never intended for this type of scourge, commenting reasonably on the course of events.

  “We had Mary Warren here, for a spell, we did. And when she was left alone, she was calm, swearing that her Master Proctor was no wizard. Yet the magistrates came again, and before long she fell down in fits the like of which could have twisted the hardest heart! It’s a sad thing, it is, the devil here in Massachusetts!”

  Sloan heard continued clinks of metal. “They are shackled?” he asked the man with a frown. The light was dim, but it was still apparent that most of the weary wretches resting on the cots were old men and women—except that it was shocking to see children here also, many no older than ten. “Official orders, Lord Treveryan. Seems that witches’ specters can fly and torture their victims unless they be bound.”

  Sloan spat out the word “Rubbish!” The jailer cast him a glance, but did not dispute him, for Lord Treveryan was a duke and a personal friend of their Majesties, William and Mary.

  “There’s your man, Powell,” the jailer told Sloan, clanking his ring about to find the proper key. “Now, sir, I mean no disrespect by this, but by the law I must ask. You’ve no files there, knives, or the like?”

  Sloan answered wearily. “No—I’ve no knives. Blankets and ale and clothing, and nothing more.”

  The man nodded and locked the door behind Sloan.

  Sloan blinked for several minutes before seeing the figure on the cot. There was a clink of chains, and he saw the figure rise.

  Sloan moved to him. Robert Powell looked like death itself; his coloring was gray, his cheeks were hollow, and his great dark eyes seemed sunken in his face.

  “Treveryan?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “Aye, Powell, ’tis me.” Sloan hunched down by the cot, spreading out the things he had brought, finding the spiced ale. Robert watched Sloan as he accepted the drink, and when he had swallowed it, he continued to stare at him with no malice.

  “Get her away from here,” Robert said simply.

  Sloan lifted his hands. “She won’t come without you, Powell.”

  “Make her.”

  Sloan rose and walked about the cell. “I can’t do that—yet. I’ve some powerful friends and we’re going to stand and fight this horrible madness.”

  Robert started to laugh but then started to cough. Sloan thumped him on the shoulders and the fit ended. He sobered quickly. “Treveryan, I do not believe that anyone can stop it. And I would rather see Brianna and Michael safe.”

  Sloan emitted a slightly impatient oath and with renewed determination came back to sit on the cot. “Powell, I’ll be damned if I’ll let you sacrifice yourself! You’ve not been examined yet or brought to trial. There is no evidence against you.”

  “Imaginary evidence.”

  “And what is that?” Sloan demanded.

  “Everything—or so it seems,” Robert replied dryly.

  “Listen! If you go to trial, we’ll do our best to free you.”

  “And when they condemn me anyway?” Robert queried politely.

  “Then you confess. They are not even planning trials for those who confess first.”

  “Only so that the confessed may testify against others.”

  “Damn you, Powell! Take an interest in your life.”

  Robert sighed and offered Sloan a weary smile. “I cannot confess to witchcraft. It would be against all that I believe. Perhaps it would be an answer to the court, but there is a far greater judgment. And who would answer unto God for my lie?”

  “God in His heaven, Powell! Where is your sense, man? Surely the Almighty sees what is happening!”

  Robert lowered his eyes and shook his head. “I will stand trial—and fight for all that I am worth. If you would help me, Treveryan, take my wife and my chi—Michael—far away from this madness.” He paused a moment. “I assume you have seen Brianna. I have been terrified since they brought me here that she would come, so wound and wild in my defense that they would lock her away, too, without bothering for a warrant. Where is she?” He came to his feet, gripping Sloan’s arm with a surprising strength.

  Sloan eased the grasp from his arm, pressing Robert back to the cot. “She’s fine.”

  “But she can connive, that one can! If she’s promised to stay behind, she will follow anyway.”

  Sloan could not help but grin; it seemed they both knew her well. “Powell, she can come nowhere. I knocked her unconscious.”

  Robert stared at him in wonder and actually smiled humorously. Then he closed his eyes and murmured, “Thank you.”

  Sloan noted how the shackles were grating against the man’s wrists, and he winced. He tapped Robert’s knee. “Take heart, Powell. There are things that can be done; I’ll see to it that you are cared for. And when the time—”

  Powell’s dark eyes opened. “I’ll not take your charity, Treveryan. Just take my wife—and go.”

  Sloan sighed with exasperation. “It’s not charity, Powell—and I won’t take your wife. We will fight—and if all legal venues fail, then we’ll revert to the illegal.”

  Robert, in return, shook his head with vast exasperation. “Treveryan, never have I thought you an idiot! She has always loved you. Make her go with you. Tie her, beat her, ca
ge her—but get her away!”

  Sloan smiled slowly, aware that he could have no greater adversary than this man he would never fight. “You’re wrong, Powell. Your wife loves you. I’m but in the sidelines of this. And I’ll not let them hang you—because she does love you.”

  Sloan turned to bang for the jailer to come and release him; but Robert called him back.

  “Promise me one thing.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll fight. I would do so no matter what, for I am not wizard or witch! But … if things should go badly, if it should become necessary—will you take her away, no matter what her protest?”

  “Aye,” Sloan said slowly, “that I will promise you.”

  He tried to give Robert an encouraging smile, then said “I’d like to get the boy away now. Would you object to his being sent to New York?”

  Robert closed his eyes again, casting an arm over them. “I would bless your efforts,” he said simply. Sloan nodded and called out sharply for the jailer.

  Before he left, he saw Philip Smith and promised the bitter young man that he would do his best. He managed to leave him a more hopeful, if not a more cheerful, fellow. Then he paid the jailers the price of a week’s stay in the prison for the two and added a generous sum to see that they, and the other wretches in the place, would receive the best care.

  He almost raised a fist against the younger of the two guards when he was asked to pay for the very shackles that were rubbing the flesh raw at Robert Powell’s ankles and wrists.

  But he cooled his temper and paid the price. Whether Powell and Smith were proven innocent or not, they would be responsible for their stay—and all materials, including the shackles.

  He did not want to make enemies with these men. Sloan knew that there could be no escape here such as they had ventured from the wild streets of Port Quinby. To pull off a jailbreak here he would have to bribe the guards and coerce their cooperation.

  Before he left, he warned the jailers that Robert was ill and that his health was in their hands. He didn’t need to threaten, for he was quite sure that his reputation with a blade had preceded him.