Devil's Mistress

by Heather Graham

  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 h
ysteria 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.

  Chapter Eighteen

  In the morning she found Sloan shirtless and shaving over a pitcher in the kitchen, wincing as he nicked his chin—and scowling when he saw her there. A fire burned healthily in the grate. Brianna gazed at his naked torso, lowered her eyes, and stepped by him. “I’ve tea and honey,” she murmured. “The bread will be stale, but—”

  He caught her arm. “It matters little,” he said.

  Eleanor came out. Silence reigned over the room while Sloan finished with the razor and donned his shirt, and the women laid out a meal. Then Michael appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes—and staring at Sloan curiously. She heard his voice as he went to the little boy.

  “Michael, I am a friend. My name is … Sloan.”

  Brianna did not turn around, but she sensed what she would see if she had: Michael, very uncertain and wary as he surveyed the stranger suddenly in his home. He would be about to rush past Sloan and race for the protection of her skirts.

  “Michael,” she said quickly, cheerfully, “Sloan is going to help your papa. Go with him and let him help you dress.” She held her breath for a long moment. Eleanor touched her arm and she turned at last to see that the two had gone to the bedroom.

  She could not eat. Then they heard Michael’s laughter from the bedroom and Sloan’s deep voice droning something that they could not understand. And then Michael’s delighted laughter again.

  At last the two reappeared. Michael crawled up on his mother’s lap. “Like him!” he said, pointing to Sloan. Sloan didn’t sit; he inclined his head toward the room.

  “Get his things,” he told Brianna. She nodded and set the child down to eat, and went to do as she had been told, fiercely fighting off tears as she packed the tiny garments she had sewn so lovingly.

  In time they were ready. Having only the one horse, Brianna put bridles on the ornery mules. They rode first to the jail. Sloan did not go in, but remained outside with Michael.

  Despite all her promises Brianna cried out when she saw her husband.

  “Oh, Robert!” she cried, sinking to his side.

  He smiled at her. “My wife,” he murmured, and he touched her hair, his eyes surveying her. “Brianna, don’t look at me so. Have faith in God.”

  “I do,” she lied. Since Pegeen’s death it had been difficult to have such faith. “Oh, Robert …”

  He pushed himself up and caught her chin between his hands, his eyes dark and serious as they stared into hers. “I do not want you here, Brianna. Treveryan can take you away; and as your husband, I order you to go.”

  She smiled and shook her head. “In anything else, Robert, I would obey. But at your trial I can testify in your defense.” She hesitated. “I am sending Michael to New York today.”

  He winced, and his pain touched her deeply, but as regarded the child’s safety, she knew they were both in accord. “Thank him,” Robert muttered, and she knew he meant Sloan. “Let me hold you,” he said, and they leaned against the cold wall.

  He was very warm, Brianna thought worriedly. But it was true that he seemed to have everything that could be provided here. Blankets, water, ale, and the crusts of his breakfast remained on a tray. The bread and the fish smelled fresh.

  In time he slept. She kissed his forehead and left him.

  On the street she could find neither Eleanor, Sloan, nor Michael. Eleanor, she assumed, was still with Philip. But where had Sloan taken her son?

  At last she hurried to the taproom of the ordinary. Sloan was alone at a table, a tankard of ale before him. With rising panic she rushed over to him and demanded, “Where’s Michael?”

  “I’ve sent him on.”

  “With whom? You didn’t let me see him, you didn’t let me say good-bye, you didn’t—”

  He caught her hand and pulled her down to sit opposite him, his eyes flashing a warning as he indicated that others were discussing the witchcraft arrests and the coming trials.

  “And what would that have done? You would have wept and he would have gone off in tears, fighting all the way! Your friend Sarah Ingersoll took him to Rikky’s.”

  “Rikky’s?”

  “Lord Turnberry’s,” Sloan explained impatiently. “Rikky will take him on to Boston. In Boston, he’ll find Paddy and the Sea Hawk will take them on to New York and Lady Eastwood, Rikky’s aunt.”

  Brianna stood, eager to rid herself of his presence. Michael was gone, and she knew she was going to cry, and she didn’t want to do so in front of Sloan.

  But as soon as she was on her feet, he was on his. She had barely reached the tavern door before he caught her hand, shackling her wrist with his fingers. He tipped his hat to a passing stranger as he led her back to the mules.

  “Leave me alone!” she insisted.

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t. Tomorrow at Robert’s examination, I will be at your side—ready to throttle you if you create a disturbance.”

  “You act as if I had no sense!” Brianna cried out, shaken. She couldn’t bear him so continually by her side. Alone.

  “Nay, Brianna. You have sense. But it can too easily be lost these days.”

  “I need to go home alone,” she rasped out. Again he shook his head and spoke bitterly.

  “I promised your husband I would let no harm befall you,” he told her. “Look—here comes Eleanor. We will ride back to the farm and wait for tomorrow.”

  Somehow, the night passed.

  The crowds were out for Robert’s examination, but then he wasn’t the only “witch” being examined that day.

  Philip English, a very wealthy sea merchant, did not hold his temper well. When questioned by Hathorne, he demanded to know, “Where, then, is your toleration?” His preference, all knew, was for the Church of England, and such a thing might well have stood against him.

  Martha Carrier was brought in, and remained in total fury throughout the proceedings. She brought her garrulous voice high over the ear-splitting screams of the girls. “You lie! I am wronged!”

  Though she was an unpopular old woman, Brianna quite believed that she was.

  Then it was Robert’s turn.

  Brianna, sitting between Sloan and Eleanor, knotted her fingers into her palms in such a tight clasp that she dug holes in her flesh, and only later noted the blood she had drawn.

  Hathorne began the examination.

  “Why do you afflict these girls?”

  “I do not,” Robert replied calmly, and the girls, from their place of importance near the front, began to scream. Brianna could not see which, but two of the young girls and one of the older teens fell to the floor in wild convulsions.

  “How can you deny it?” Hathorne’s voice boomed out.

  “As Christ is my witness,” Robert replied, staring straight at the magistrate, “I deny it.”

  “Oh! He pinches me! He pinches me!” someone cried out—Abigail, Brianna believed. Then that child, too, was on the floor, so contorted that her head snapped back to touch her heels.

  The room began to swim before Brianna. She had known it would be this way but she had prayed for strength. She couldn’t bear it …

  She hopped to her feet to defend her husband.

  But before she could, Sloan was dragging her out.

  “Listen, little fool!” he raged to her. “You’ll do nothing here but get your own name on a warrant! When the trial comes, we’ll be there—calmly, determinedly, and legally—to save him. Brianna, I swear to you by God and my own life, I will not let him die!”

  Brianna looked into his eyes, so intensely brilliant today. She smiled then, sadly, for the cast of the swashbuckler still sizzled there—and she believed him, and God alone knew why he stood by her …

  “Why don’t you sail away?�
� she asked him.

  “Because you are a witch,” he said lightly, “though we mustn’t let these people know. Because you’ve cast your spell on me. I cannot touch you, but I’d die a thousand times over for you. Neither time nor distance can change that.”

  “It’s … it’s my husband we are fighting to save.”

  Sloan sighed deeply and shook his head as if he were a bit puzzled himself. “I don’t know if it is because you love him—or because I have come so to respect him myself. It doesn’t really matter, does it?” he asked her, his tone suddenly bitter.

  She shook her head, lowering her eyes. “Everything that you want is out there now, Sloan. William and Mary sit on the throne. Your home awaits you. You are free to find a woman of noble birth—young and beautiful, willing and able to give you an heir. But here you stay beside a Puritan goodwife who has brought you nothing but heartache, death, and misery since the day you first saw her.”

  “I am a fool, aren’t I?” He tried to grin. “Before God, Brianna, I beseech you to stay silent! Right now, all you can do is be strong for him. Trust in me that I will take action when the time is right.”

  The afternoon brought no surprises. Along with the others examined that day Robert was to return to prison to await his trial. Because of his health and Sloan’s money, Sloan was able to obtain a mandate giving Robert the privileges usually reserved for the very prominent. He was to reside in rooms in the center of the village under guard, but Brianna could nurse him so long as his shackles were in place and he did not attempt to leave the building.

  They moved into those rooms on June second, the day of the first trial. Bridget Bishop was found guilty, and on June tenth the sheriff brought her to Gallows Hill, and she was hanged.

  Robert and Brianna spent the days in tension and misery, with Robert beseeching her to leave before her name could be brought forward.

  Sloan divided his time between Robert’s guarded rooms and the jail, for he had promised Eleanor he would support Philip Smith. Cedric Turnberry maintained his social status with the magistrates and justices, reporting all the news to Sloan as he obtained it.