The King's Mercy

by Lori Benton

  He took her hand and placed it flat against his chest. His heart beat beneath it, as strongly as her own. “And you want those things of me?”

  “Only if ye want them too.”

  Words abandoned her, but when he pulled her to him, she went willingly, going up on her toes to meet him as he lowered his head. An instant before their lips met, he stopped.

  “Dinna do it unless ye mean it,” he whispered against her mouth.

  “I mean it,” she breathed, past reason now.

  It wasn’t the brush of lips she’d imagined her first kiss would be but deep and full, even before he picked her up and held her tight against him, their bodies molded until she lost track of her edges, felt herself bleeding into him. Then her feet felt earth, and though he’d set her down gently, it felt like crashing from a great height.

  He was breathing hard, a look of urgency in his eyes. “Joanna, I need to hear ye say it—that ye’ll wait for me to serve out my indenture. I didna think I could last seven years in this wretched place, but I’ll do it for ye. I’ll serve my time for Carey if I ken ye’ll be mine at the end of it.”

  He’d brought reality down hard. “You mean…Are you asking me to marry you?”

  “I’m asking, what is it ye want? Not for Severn, or your stepfather, your sister, or anyone ye’ve the looking after. For yourself.”

  Had anyone ever asked her such a question? She spread her hands across his chest, over his beating heart, and knew what she didn’t want—to marry Mister Reeves or any other man who wasn’t Alex MacKinnon. She wanted him with a hunger and a tenderness she’d never imagined. He was head and shoulders above all other men, in ways beyond the physical.

  And he wanted her. He cared for her.

  Joy swelled in her chest, even as dread bubbled beneath it. Papa had spurned Elijah’s suit. What was she to say to convince him of Alex’s suitability? I’m in love with your indentured blacksmith, who rebelled against our king and got himself exiled. I mean to marry him, not the man you’ve chosen. Was she brave enough to defy Papa’s wishes so she might stake claim to Alex’s love, and a life together?

  “I want freedom,” she said.

  “Then come with me.” His blue eyes were earnest as he grasped her hand again. “Take it.”

  “Come with you…where?”

  “Wherever we will. Whenever ye’re ready.”

  Joanna’s heart gave a thump. “But it’s not lawful for an indentured man to marry—I do know that. You’re obliged to serve a full seven years. I’d wait for you, but we needn’t go anywhere.”

  The curving of his mouth bordered on a wince. “Surely ye ken your stepfather wouldna permit us to marry, not were I free today. Even should he, I could never step into a planter’s shoes, become an owner of other men. I willna remain at Severn a moment longer than I must. Neither will ye, if ye mean to be my wife.”

  Joanna grew aware of the chill seeping in from the open smithy door. The smell of iron and earth. The beating of her heart. “Go with you and leave Charlotte? Papa?”

  Leave. Walk away from it all.

  For a heady moment the bars of her cage flung wide. Standing outside it was a man she desired, beckoning her to walk out to him—or promise to do so—abandoning everyone she loved. Everyone but Alex, in whose eyes disappointment was welling.

  “So your answer is no?”

  “I’m not saying no. I need time to think about this. Pray about it.” The words tumbled out, panic nipping at their heels, afraid she might lose him if she couldn’t make him understand. “There’s no hurry. We’ve time to find the right way. The best way.”

  They had years, didn’t they?

  He was quiet for too long before he asked, “It’s a thing ye need pray about?”

  “Of course.”

  She could see he put little credence in the need. It jarred her more than anything thus far. Was she truly contemplating marrying a man who didn’t trust the Lord? Who wanted nothing to do with Him?

  “Either ye havena decided what it is ye want,” he said, “or ye lack the courage to grasp it. I’ll not take from ye what ye canna give freely.”

  “Alex.” Was he telling her he would give her time? Or telling her this was at an end? There was one way to know, though such brazenness brought a furious blush. “Will you kiss me again?”

  “No.”

  She went from hot to cold. “I thought you wanted—”

  “I want ye badly,” he said. “But ye dinna ken what ye want.”

  “I want you. I think of you all the time.”

  He softened at that, and almost smiled. “I’m glad ye do, but that’s not what I’m saying.”

  “What, then?”

  “Listen to me. I can see this life doesna suit ye, that ye’re playing a role cast for ye by circumstance—what ye thought was expected of ye with your mother gone and no one else to step into her shoes. Ye’re longing for escape, but I willna let ye use me thus if all ye want is a moment snatched here and there. If ye truly want me, then ye must take me as I am.”

  Use him. Was that what he thought she was doing?

  “That’s not at all what I want, but tell me this: why do you want me?”

  “Why?” he echoed. “Only that ye’ve a heart as wide as that river yonder. Ye’re stronger than ye’ve any notion of. For years ye’ve borne a burden too heavy for ye, putting the needs of all around ye before your own, making the best of a life ye didna choose—one I canna fathom why anyone would choose. What man with half an eye in his head to see ye wouldna love ye, wouldna want to cover ye, protect and provide for ye—and set ye free of this prison?”

  Joanna thought her heart would actually burst. He saw her. More clearly than any man ever had. All but the one vital thing.

  “Alex…I’m also a Christian.”

  He had her by the shoulders before she could take another breath. “If that’s what’s stopping ye, lass, I’d never ask ye not to be.”

  She searched his eyes. “But you won’t be one yourself?”

  “No.” A sheen came over his gaze, unyielding. “If there is a God, I wouldna trust Him with anything of matter to me.”

  She stared, waiting for him to unsay those words. When he didn’t, the weight of what she must say next fell upon her, crushing.

  “Then I cannot be with you.” No matter she loved him, wanted him, could imagine doing with no other man what they’d done moments ago. Wanted no other man’s embrace. She could almost hear Reverend Pauling saying gently, firmly, “Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers.”

  Was there more binding a yoke than marriage?

  Alex dropped his hands from her. “There’s still Reeves. I ken ye dinna love him, but maybe his views on the Almighty are more suited to ye.”

  Something inside her tore asunder. She thought it was her heart. “Mister Reeves isn’t suited to me in any fashion, nor I to him.”

  Alex flinched. For an instant she thought he might soften, relent, but all he said was, “I’m sorry for that.”

  That seemed all there was to say.

  * * *

  He’d found Jemma awake after Joanna left the smithy, in too much pain to sleep. He helped her sit, checked her dressings, saw the lash marks were scabbing over, and asked did she mind if he worked. “I don’t mind. Can’t pull on that bellows yet, though.”

  “I ken that, mo nighean. I’ll manage. D’ye want to go to the kitchen, be with the women for a while?”

  “If you walk me over.”

  He’d done so. Moon still wasn’t there when he returned. That spike was. In short time he had the forge aglow, a hammer in one hand, iron in the other, the end of it starting to resemble the sword he’d long envisioned. Starting to resemble the battered flatness of his heart.

  Joanna. He’d won her heart, won it and tossed it back at her, broken.
And hated himself for it.

  But it was better this way. Better to excise her from his soul now. Not let this uncertainty stretch out for months, years. Otherwise she would hold him back, if the time came and he’d a chance to run as Jemma had done.

  Not if, he amended, hardening his will. When.

  He turned over the metal, brought the hammer down, and it struck him: what use was a sword in that land crowded with trees?

  It was an axe he should be forging.

  21

  MARCH 1748

  On a balmy March day that presaged summer’s heat, Azuba marched Marigold into the sewing room, where Joanna was instructing Charlotte in the stitching of a simple seam. For what felt the hundredth time.

  “Miss Joanna, Mari got something to confess.”

  The word brought Joanna’s head up faster than Azuba’s clipped tone. Marigold’s face held the puffy distress of long weeping. Slim fingers grasped the heavy shawl draping her form, holding it close. A shawl, on such a warm afternoon?

  “Mari, are you ill?”

  “Best we talk private, Miss Joanna.” Azuba nodded at Charlotte, who was no longer feigning attentiveness to her sewing.

  Joanna rose. “Charlotte, we’ll stop for now.”

  Charlotte went with telling alacrity, beelining for the company of her dolls. For the past fortnight her sister had trailed Joanna dutifully around the house, gardens, and shops, but she wasn’t the least bit keen on sewing. Or perhaps Joanna’s company. Joanna had been admittedly short of temper, as well as sleep and appetite, since the day Alex kissed her and everything unraveled. She summoned the fortitude to meet whatever new crisis she was about to be presented as Azuba shut the door and turned on Marigold.

  “Best just show her.”

  Marigold slipped the shawl off her shoulders and straightened her spine, thrusting out a belly that strained her gown and the stays beneath.

  Worms. That was Joanna’s first thought—and how odd someone Marigold’s age would have such a severe case. No wonder she looked miserable. Then truth struck.

  “How…how long?” she finally asked.

  “She been hiding it half the winter under that shawl,” Azuba said. “Nigh six months gone, she reckons.”

  “Six,” Joanna echoed. “And the father?” There was a chance it wasn’t whose name flamed across her mind.

  Marigold stood mute, head lowered.

  “I caught on nigh a month ago, told her to tell you then,” Azuba said.

  She ought to have caught on as well, Joanna realized. Even with all that had distracted her the past few months, the evidence had been there. Marigold’s frequent visits to the smithy. Elijah comforting her at her brother’s grave. His absences from the forge with no explanation. When had it begun? Surely not before Elijah’s accident, for he’d sought Papa’s blessing to marry her. After, Marigold had been the only one he let tend his wounds, once he’d been able to make the choice.

  Had this been one of the reasons he’d pushed her away, so she wouldn’t see what was going on under her nose?

  Joanna’s gaze dropped to that rounded belly, another possibility occurring. “Not Mister Reeves?”

  That brought Marigold’s head rearing up. “I’d not let that man touch me save with a whip.”

  Answer enough. Unless…“He never forced himself on you?”

  “No ma’am. Never.”

  Joanna sighed. “What has Elijah to say on the matter?” she asked, weariness in her bones.

  Marigold’s chin quivered. “Reckon you best ask him, Miss Joanna, since I don’t rightly know.”

  * * *

  They waited in the study for Elijah to come. Marigold stood between Joanna and Azuba, gaze cast down. Papa, at his desk, appeared resigned. When Elijah entered and saw them gathered, he paused, glancing at each without meeting a single gaze. His hesitation lasted only a moment before he came deeper into the room, halting in its center where the window’s light showed his scars no mercy. His back was to Marigold, who stood with fists clenched, full lips pressed tight.

  “Elijah,” Papa said, getting to his feet. “You see what’s happening here. Marigold is with child and claims you are the father. Does she speak truth?”

  Elijah crossed his arms, tucking away his maimed wrist. “I can say nothing on the matter.”

  Apparently he meant it. He stood there, stubbornly mute. Papa came from behind the desk so that they stood toe-to-toe. “You deny the child?”

  “I can make no claim on it.”

  In the silence after the gruff reply, Marigold stifled a whimper.

  “Mari,” Papa said. “Come stand beside Elijah.”

  Visibly shaking, Marigold obeyed. They were nearly of a height, though Marigold seemed small beside Elijah’s broader frame. She splayed her hands over her belly as if to shield her child from his apparent indifference.

  Before Papa could speak, Mister Reeves appeared in the study doorway, gaze raking the room, coming to rest on Elijah and Marigold. As if she sensed him there, Marigold turned. His gaze fell to her belly with a look of swift comprehension.

  “Sir,” he said, addressing Papa, “I was coming to speak to you about a matter, but it can wait.”

  Papa beckoned. “Come in, Phineas. There’s nothing secret here now.”

  Mister Reeves stepped into the room, his gaze going to Joanna, who dodged it. She’d barely spoken to the man since the whipping. Jemma had resumed her work in the smithy, she’d been told. Joanna had stayed away. Not because she didn’t want to speak to Alex, or see him. Because she wanted to, desperately.

  “Elijah,” Papa said, as Mister Reeves went to stand beside him, the two confronting the silent pair. “Are you saying Marigold has lied? Because if this is your child she’s carrying, I’m prepared to let you purchase her. Choosing to manumit her would, of course, necessitate your leaving Severn, and the colony, but you’d have her and the child. They’d be yours.”

  Joanna’s pulse leapt, hope and dismay clashing within her. Marigold free. Marigold gone. Elijah gone.

  Marigold gasped and covered her mouth.

  “What…what is your price?” Elijah asked hoarsely, as if his throat sought to close over the words.

  Papa named the sum. Elijah was silent.

  Joanna stepped forward. “Why not simply give Mari to him? Why make him purchase her freedom?”

  “Miss Carey,” Mister Reeves said, cutting in, “given the loss of the Joanna, we’re in no position to be giving away slaves.”

  Papa cleared his throat. “I’ll say no more on the matter until I have a straight answer from you, Elijah. And I grow impatient. Did you father this child upon Mari?”

  She could hear Elijah breathing, could see his face in profile now. The scarred side. She saw his shoulders slump.

  “I’m no father,” he said and, without a by-your-leave from anyone, turned and left the study.

  Joanna hesitated, too stunned to move at first, but after meeting Marigold’s pleading gaze hurried after Elijah. She pushed her way out the back door. “Elijah, wait!” she called, and nearly ran into Alex on the flagstone terrace. Beyond him, Elijah was disappearing around the hedge. “Alex? What…?”

  “What just…?”

  They’d spoken over each other. He reached for her, for she’d drawn up abruptly, but his fingers barely brushed the shoulder of her gown before he dropped them again. Though the sight of him gripped her heart unmercifully, she drank in that bittersweet draught until she thought she’d drown in it. He was beautiful, her fair-haired, blue-eyed, towering warrior, and as unreachable as the mossy boughs of the oak tree beginning to leaf above them.

  “You knew about them, didn’t you? This is what Mari told you that day in the stable.”

  He didn’t answer that. “What happened in there? Did your stepfather threaten him?”

  S
tung, she said, “No. He offered to let Elijah buy Mari’s freedom, but Elijah never even admitted the child is his.”

  “It is,” Alex said.

  “Of course it is,” she said, wishing he’d told her. Wishing she could talk with him now, hear his mind on the matter, wishing they could deal with the situation together. And wishing they could sweep it all aside and just be free.

  Her resolve to stay away from him had nearly crumbled these past days in the face of her heart’s desperate reasoning. Alex had asked her to wait for him while he served his seven years. What if she agreed to do so? Perhaps in that time he would change his thinking about the Almighty. Change his heart. If he loved her, and she loved the Lord, wouldn’t that one day make a difference? It was what she prayed for every night before sleep claimed her. Every morning at its release.

  “Why are you here?” she asked. “At the house, I mean.”

  His hands were fisted. “I didna ken if it would help at all, but I thought, if Moon wouldna claim the child…”

  “That you would?” Their gazes met in a blaze of pain she was certain he felt, too, for his sharpened with question as though he were asking, What matter if I had?

  “Would it help Marigold in any way?” he asked.

  “Not unless you wish to buy her freedom.”

  “With what?” he asked.

  The constraint between them sucked the very air away, robbing her lungs. She was dimly aware of Azuba and Marigold leaving the study on the other side of the door, going deeper into the house together. “If you want to help them, then talk to Elijah, try to change his mind.”

  “I mean to.” He’d said it with determination, and certainty, as if he knew why Elijah refused to acknowledge his child, or accept Papa’s offer.

  “Thank you…Mister MacKinnon,” she said.

  His eyes flashed her a look that scored deep, before he bowed stiffly and left her.