Revenge and Retribution (The Graham Saga)

by Anna Belfrage

  *

  It took him some time to ask, but late next evening, Henry strolled over to where Lucy was sitting and lowered himself to meet her eyes. “Have you seen Barbra?”

  Lucy smiled and shook her head. Not since the morning, she thought, not since she’d been swallowed by that small, churning hole through time. Afterwards, she could hear Barbra’s voice among all the others, a thin plaintive cry, a plea that someone help her back. Lucy ducked her head to hide the satisfied gleam in her eyes. No one would ever know. It was as if Barbra had never existed, and now she was gone, with her dark red skirts and golden hoops. God alone knew where she had ended up.

  Lucy lifted her face to her husband and extended her hand to him, indicating that she had to get up. She took his other hand and placed it on the kicking children inside of her.

  Chapter 7

  A lot of things had happened during their time away from home: Mark had finished the extension to his cabin; Jacob had taught Tom and Maggie to swim after saving the latter from a premature watery grave in the river; Hannah held up a foot to show them she no longer had a nail on her big toe; David had shot his first deer; and Adam had saved yet another animal from imminent death. But, most importantly, Betty had made it back just in time to give birth to her second son.

  “Touch and go,” Mark grinned, before turning his attention to his father, his brow creasing with concern. “Are you better, then?”

  “Aye,” Matthew replied, before swinging himself off Aaron and slapping the big bay across its rump. To his left stood the big house, and as always his chest expanded with pride at the sight of his home, nestled against the slope. A soft weathered grey, it stood two storeys high and consisted of three bedrooms upstairs, and a parlour, a kitchen and two wee rooms downstairs. And every plank, every beam he had set in place himself. Not that he ever intended to admit it to Alex, but the feature he most liked were the windows, all of them with panes of glass so expensive he’d grumbled loudly over every single one of them. Alex had insisted, and he had given in, secretly most pleased to have a home so full of light. Flanking the house were the barn and the stables. There was a line of smaller buildings containing everything from dairy to laundry shed, and in the centre of the resulting enclosed yard stood a huge white oak. Just beyond the barn were Mark’s and Ian’s cabins, and further down the slope, Matthew could make out the river, a glittering band of silver in the late afternoon sun.

  Jacob dismounted and came to stand beside Matthew, giving him a one-armed hug.

  “Home, hmm?”

  Matthew nodded in agreement. “Home.”

  He looked towards the foundations of the big house and the corner where together they had buried Jacob’s gift to Matthew when he came home from his time in London, a piece of stone brought all the way from Hillview. Matthew smiled as he remembered how serious his son had been when he’d handed him that bit of Scottish granite.

  “When you miss it badly, it may help to know you have a piece of it here,” Jacob had said. And it did, even if there still were days when Matthew was inundated by a homesickness so sharp it twisted through his bones and left him aching with loss. To see it once more, to stand right at the edge of the moor and see the gorse flare a bright yellow. And the heather… Matthew was aware of Jacob’s worried eyes and cleared his throat, banishing his maudlin thoughts to the back of his brain.

  “Will you see to the horses?” he said and followed Alex inside.

  *

  One of the more obvious advantages of her age was that she no longer had any small children to take care of, Alex reflected, watching Naomi, Mark’s wife, lift a squirming Lettie off the floor. Instead you only borrowed them when you felt the urge to hold a little one again, as she was doing now with Betty and Ian’s newborn son in her arms.

  “Strong genes,” she said, smiling down at the little boy. “A Graham all the way.”

  Little Timothy yawned, small hands fisting themselves as his back went stiff like a board before he slumped back in relaxation against Alex’s chest. Matthew extended a finger and ran it up and down the downy head.

  “Like his mother, this bright fuzz,” he protested.

  Alex laughed and replaced the cap she had taken off to study her new grandchild. Behind her, Matthew stood silent.

  “What?” she asked, turning so that she could see him.

  “I miss it. I wouldn’t mind a new bairn of my own.”

  “Definitely not with me,” Alex told him, “and forget about making any with someone else.”

  “Don’t you?” he asked.

  Alex handed him the baby and shook her head. “No way. I’ve done more than my share in that department – look at you, surrounded by seven healthy sons and two daughters. Now it’s time for me – and you.”

  His long mouth curved into an expectant smile at her words, and when he raised his face from the inspection of his grandson, she caught his eye and winked.

  Alex left Matthew cooing over the latest addition to their family and went off in search of Mrs Parson, finding her in the kitchen. She stood for a moment in the doorway, regarding the old woman, her best friend in the whole wide world. As always in black, as always with impeccable linen, and as always with ears as sharp as a bat’s.

  “There you are,” she said without turning around. “How’s Matthew?”

  “Well enough. And Betty?” Alex came over to hug Mrs Parson, and was hugged back.

  “It was a difficult birth. The lass isn’t built like you, aye? Not as broad over the hips.”

  “I’m not broad over the hips,” Alex protested, trying to study her backside.

  “Aye, you are,” Mrs Parson snorted, “and you would never fit into those wee breeches you wore the first time I saw you now.”

  “Of course not! That was twenty-six years ago!” Alex smiled at the memory of her beloved jeans.

  “It didn’t help that she insisted on accompanying us down to Providence,” Alex said, returning to the subject of Betty.

  “Nay, but in that she is like you – stubborn like a mule.” Mrs Parson pulled out a pie from the baking oven and placed it on the workbench to cool. Pecan pie, Alex concluded after some sniffing, and her stomach growled happily.

  “She must be careful,” Mrs Parson said. “One more may well kill her.”

  “Not all that easy, is it?”

  “Nay, but that lass has no choice. You must speak to them.”

  “Me?” Alex squeaked. “Why not you?”

  “You’re the mother.”

  “His, not hers,” Alex said.

  “I don’t think Esther Hancock will come with much valuable advice, do you?” Mrs Parson pursed her mouth in a gesture of extreme displeasure. Seventeen times poor Esther had been pregnant. Thirteen children had been born alive, and six had died in infancy.

  “No,” Alex agreed with a sigh, “probably not.”

  She met Agnes on her way to Ian’s cabin, and rolled her eyes at yet another huge belly. The fact that she didn’t have any small children didn’t mean that her home wasn’t overrun by them. Mark and Naomi had three – Hannah, Tom and Lettie – with a fourth on the way; and Betty and Ian had little Christopher and newborn Timothy as well as Ian’s two eldest children, Malcolm, of an age with her own ten-year-old Samuel, and Maggie, a wild and constantly talking four.

  “Are you sure it’s only one?” she teased Agnes.

  “Nay,” Agnes groaned, sinking her knuckles into the lower part of her back. “I suspect it may be a litter.”

  Alex smiled at her serving woman. “We’ll soon find out.”

  Agnes nodded morosely.

  “You’ll be fine,” Alex said. “The best midwife in the whole colony, Mrs Parson is.”

  “It isn’t her that will be hurting.” But Agnes smiled all the same, and placed a soft hand on the swell that was her child. “I think it’s a lass. I want it to be a lass.”

  “Really?” Alex was surprised. Most women in this day and age wished for sons – at least as their first
born.

  “Aye,” Agnes replied, “a wee lass with John’s hair.”

  Alex suppressed an amused snort. John Mason, their field hand, had golden curls that would have made Shirley Temple jealous and that was about it. A good match, Agnes and John: hard-working and loyal but with a combined intelligence that, in Alex’s opinion, fell well short of Hugin’s, Adam’s tame raven. Both of them had been transported here, Agnes as a consequence of the religious upheaval in Scotland, John for stealing from his master to feed his ailing mother, and both of them had long contracts to work off as indentured servants. Not Agnes, not anymore, but John had two or three more years to go, and Alex doubted they would ever want to leave – Graham’s Garden was their home now, the place in which they had finally found soil fertile enough to put down roots. She made a face at her own weak simile and with a pat on Agnes’ arm, hurried on to hold an impromptu lesson in sexual education.

  With relief, Alex left Ian’s cabin five minutes later. Boy, had that been embarrassing, and even more so due to the way Ian and Betty kept on smiling at each other, indicating to anyone but the truly brain-dead that they were quite capable of handling their sexual dilemmas by themselves.

  No sooner had she stepped off the stoop, but she was ambushed by Adam and dragged off to inspect the latest victim to his veterinary ambitions.

  Hugin cawed at Alex, bobbing his head a couple of times.

  “Hi yourself,” Alex replied, running a finger over his black plumage.

  “Don’t talk to him,” Adam said. “I’m angry with him.”

  “Oh?”

  “He ate one of the babies.” Adam pointed at the wicker cage in the corner.

  Alex peeked down at the possum, receiving a hiss in reply. The pouch bulged impressively, several distinct small shapes moving about restlessly. Hugin flapped over to sit on her shoulder and the female possum growled.

  “She doesn’t like you,” Alex told the bird, receiving an affectionate peck in her hair in return. She turned to her eight-year-old son. “You have to let her out. She looks well enough now.” Adam looked at her entreatingly, making Alex exhale loudly. “Adam! This is a wild animal, not a pet. It’s cruel to keep it in a cage. You’ve sewn up the gash, you’ve fed her for a number of days, but now she has to make it on her own.”

  “But she’s pretty,” he tried.

  “Pretty? She looks like a giant, white-faced rat!”

  “But—”

  “No buts. You set her free tonight, after dark.”

  *

  After a few minutes spent hugging David and Samuel, moments they rather reluctantly took from their wild game, Alex decided she’d earned herself a nice cup of tea and a slice of Mrs Parson’s pie. Besides, she hadn’t even told Mrs Parson about Don Benito’s son yet.

  “A son?” Mrs Parson blinked with exaggerated slowness. “The priest with the hair shirt?” She laughed out loud, showing off her remarkably well preserved teeth. “And now he’s here?”

  “Officially, I suspect he isn’t. Catholic and a Spaniard to boot – it’s like walking about with a noose already half drawn round your neck to announce your presence here.” Alex sat back on the kitchen bench, cradling the mug of precious tea in her hands. She threw a pleased look at her surroundings. She loved her kitchen, from the well-scrubbed floors to the whitewashed walls. As always, a small cauldron was simmering in a corner of the large hearth, an assortment of pans stood neatly stacked beside the baking oven, and on the workbench stood a pitcher and basin and a couple of clay pots, one of which housed Alex’s aloe vera plant. On the huge table that took up most of the floor space, Mrs Parson had placed a jug of white roses, the floral arrangement further complemented by strands of grass and lavender.

  “But why would he come here?” Mrs Parson asked.

  “Well, I suppose to catch up on all those things a priest tends to do: hear confession, baptise, marry, say last rites…”

  “You can’t say last rites after the fact,” Mrs Parson pointed out. “If he’s dead, he’s dead.” She shifted on her chair, lifted her feet to rest on a small stool.

  Alex gave her an irritated look. “Okay, so he blesses the grave or something.”

  “And do you plan on telling him his father died because of you?”

  Alex squirmed. “I don’t know what his uncle told him but if not, I suppose I must. And, anyway, it wasn’t as if I asked him to jump in to defend me, was it?”

  “No,” Mrs Parson said, “but if he hadn’t—”

  “I would have kicked that overblown planter’s ass.” Alex slid over to make room for Sarah, and gave her youngest daughter a quick squeeze.

  Mrs Parson’s face crinkled into a wide grin. “Aye, I suspect you would, lass. But not any longer, hmm? Too old, too out of practice.”

  “Oh, shut up.” Alex glowered. “I can still defend myself if I have to. And talk about the kettle calling the pot black. If I’m old, you’re positively ancient.” Beside her, Sarah giggled, the sound cut short when Mrs Parson told her there’d be no pie if she disrespected her elders.

  *

  The comment regarding her general fitness rankled, and Alex decided very late in the afternoon to escape into the woods for a physical evaluation, throwing several very guarded looks in all directions before she got down on the ground.

  “Ugh!” Alex collapsed into a heap and glared at her hands. “Bloody fucking hell,” she said out loud. “You’re getting old and flabby, Alexandra Graham!”

  Flabby was perhaps an exaggeration, she thought, rolling over to pinch the folds on her belly. A lot of muscle, all over, but unfortunately not enough for her to do the twenty push-ups she’d challenged herself with. She sighed and sat up. Sometimes she missed that old life of gym classes and energetic instructors that stood inches from your face and bawled at you to push and push harder. Even more, she missed her dojo. She studied her feet reflectively. Once she had killed someone with these – something she supposed her karate colleagues would have been aghast to hear. Now, despite her sporadic efforts to retain her martial arts skills, she barely remembered movements that had once been as natural to her as breathing, and she stood up to try and work her way through some of the more complex katas. Not entirely forgotten, but was it really supposed to feel that way down her back? And, Jesus, she couldn’t put the palms flat to the ground anymore.

  “What are you doing?”

  Alex leaped like a startled deer and landed like a geriatric elephant, turning a burning face in the direction of Mark.

  “Umm,” she said.

  He mimicked some of her sweeping hand movements and eyed her with interest. “You look dangerous when you do that.”

  “I am dangerous. I used to be able to fell a grown man with one kick – easily.”

  Mark made an incredulous sound.

  “It’s true, ask your father.” Alex did a series of swift chops and ended with a surprisingly agile kick, forcing Mark to rear back with a small yelp. She decided to ignore half her arse was screeching in protest at this sudden burst of unfamiliar activity. “Not at all as I used to be, but maybe if I make an effort…”

  Mark shook his head at her, saying that Da wouldn’t like it that his wife stood half-dressed in the woods and kicked at things.

  “Tough,” Alex said, making up her mind then and there that this was something she would begin to do on a very regular basis.

  Chapter 8

  All day she’d been longing for him. From the moment he rolled out of bed at dawn, his hair standing round his head, Alex had felt the lack of him, and now, well after noon, she just had to… The air hung heavy with humid heat, and her brisk pace across the ripening fields brought out patches of sweat on her back, below her breasts, and all along the insides of her arms. She took off her hat and tugged at her hair as she went, undoing it so that it hung loose around her shoulders. When she finally reached the outer field where he was working, she stopped just for the pleasure of watching him.

  Alex set down the basket with food s
he’d brought, and shaded her eyes with her hand. Alone and in the heat, he’d taken off his shirt, baring his scarred torso to the air. Floggings, sword cuts, deflected knife blades…life had left a patchwork engraved on his skin that he rarely exposed to the eyes of others. Half-naked, his hair tied back with a leather thong to keep it out of his face, he looked like a savage, his teeth white in his tanned face when he caught sight of her and smiled.

  Her toes curled themselves against the inner soles of her sandals, a rush of heat travelling like bushfire through her loins. He undid his breeches and let them drop. His genitals were a surprising dark against the light skin of his thighs and belly. He remained where he was for a couple of heartbeats, no doubt to let her feast her eyes on him, and then he took a purposeful step in her direction followed by another and another.

  By the time he reached her, Alex had wriggled out of her stays, her skirts a messy heap at her feet, her bodice thrown discarded to the side. She let him undo the drawstring of her worn chemise, standing perfectly still when he pulled it off her. As white as milk she was, his wife, her skin soft and well cared for. He sniffed at her, smiling as he caught the strong scents of lemon and lavender. She’d bathed herself for him, and he half closed his eyes to bring forth the image of how she would have looked when she scrubbed herself with that strange and expensive mixture of sugar and lemon juice, using the wrung lemon halves on her elbows.

  “You should have waited. We could have gone down to the river together, later.”

  “I could,” she agreed, kneeling down. “But then I wouldn’t have smelled as nice as I do right now.” Her mouth was soft and warm on him, and Matthew stopped thinking, concentrating only on the sensations that surged through his balls and his cock. “Besides…” She released him with a last kiss. “…it’s not as if I can’t go with you anyway, is it?”

  “Nay, an extra swim won’t kill you.”

  He shook out her skirts and spread them as a blanket on the grass. Her breasts, the silkiness of her inside thigh… He took a very long time exploring her, from her toes all the way to her neck and mouth. He kissed her just below her earlobe, laughing at how the skin on her thighs prickled in response. It always did, and he kissed her there again, hearing her bite back a pleased gasp as a shiver flew up her body. His fingers danced down her sensitive flanks, and she twisted. He slid his fingers through her moist and slippery cleft, and she moaned, her head thrown back.