As the storm gradually wore itself out, Hannah pressed a clean linen into Bristol’s fingers for nose and eyes. She curled Bristol’s limp hand around a fresh mug of steaming beer. Bristol stared at the golden foam with dull eyes, deep shuddering breaths shaking her whole body. No. Oh, no, her mind repeated senselessly. No.
Hannah frowned, squinting to see. She did the only thing she knew to do. Hannah set a slab of Indian pie near Bristol’s elbow, even though she knew the girl couldn’t swallow a bite. It was Hannah’s offering, all she had to give.
Sinking to the settle, Hannah gazed into the fire, listening to Bristol’s quiet weeping. Five sons she’d given to the village cemetery, and with each went a piece of herself. Now she must surrender another slice of body and soul. Hannah listened to the moist noises choking her daughter’s throat and heard them with a mother’s heart. No one else would have noticed the subtle change, that slight alteration of despair that signaled the assertion of youthful resiliency. A resigned acceptance hovered near the edge. Pain, aye, there remained a deep pain, and it would be long before the hurt eased, but thankfully, the girl refused to be broken.
Hannah rose, her spine erect, her shoulders tall. After a gentle touch for her daughter’s cheek, she tied her cloak and opened the buttery door. The chips of heart and spirit that rested in the cemetery and those that would sail to England with Bristol were not Hannah’s alone. Another felt a pain as deeply as she. She hurried through the drifts of snow, calling Noah’s name.
To be alone in the silent house, surrounded by all she held dear, was more than Bristol’s aching heart could tolerate. But her dazed mind refused to move her body. She remained at the table, rigid with shock, moving only when a convulsive breath shuddered past her dry throat.
Aunt Prudence. England. It all seemed unreal and terrifying. Any moment she prayed to wake beside Charity’s orange curls. They would smile at each other and laugh over Bristol’s nightmare.
Bristol closed her eyes, fresh tears leaking beneath her dark lashes. Would she ever laugh again? Her eyes opened and crept to the crumpled pages scattered over the table. If that letter was anything like the others Aunt Prudence posted each month, not a hint of gaiety would be found. No laughter existed in Aunt Prudence’s austere world; her letters were gray tracts reading like sermons.
Bristol called up all she could remember about Aunt Prudence. And the picture tallied with the cramped tight handwriting. Such terms as autocratic, somber, stiff, colorless, hollow, self-righteous, and juiceless—these images surfaced to taunt Bristol’s thoughts.
Such a woman could write sermons like the one before her eyes. Such a woman could choose to remain unmarried after all the years. Such a woman could take a young niece under her dark wing and mold the girl into a dry replica of herself.
Distraught, Bristol shoved at the tangle of red curls falling past her eyes. How would she breathe in such a choking atmosphere? She would wither like a flower plucked before its time. The barren woman of those long godly letters—what could she remember of young love? Did Prudence Adams recall how a pair of eyes could quicken a heart? Had she ever cherished a tender word or a stolen glance?
No. The fingers penning those rigid unbending letters knew nothing of gentle touches. Aunt Prudence’s cottage would be cold and astringent, loveless and stifling.
Drawing a deep shivering breath, Bristol searched her apron pocket for a linen to blot her eyes, and her shaking fingers touched the scrap of white cloth. Tremulously she withdrew the fabric and pressed it to her cheek. Caleb’s hands had touched this strip, his fingers had tied it to the well bucket.
Caleb, Caleb. A heart-tearing sob caught hi Bristol’s throat. “Oh, Caleb.” When would she ever see him again?
Bristol’s head jerked up; her green eyes popped wide.
Caleb waited in the forest! Sweet heaven, she’d forgotten! Every thought in the last hour had centered around Caleb Wainwright so intently that she’d forgotten that the object of this storm waited patiently in the woods!
Springing to her feet, Bristol dashed into her bedroom and splashed icy water over her eyes. She peered into a small hand mirror. Her eyes looked red and swollen, but it couldn’t be helped.
She paused with her hand on her cloak. Running off to meet Caleb secretly was exactly what Noah most feared, she was being sent to England to prevent this very thing. Being exiled from home. Her emerald eyes stung, and Bristol passed a hand across her face. Wouldn’t it be best to forget that Caleb waited for her?
She leaned against the buttery wall, pressing her face into the folds of her cloak and touching the scrap of cloth in her pocket. This might well be her last opportunity to be with Caleb; almost certainly she wouldn’t have another chance. Bristol groaned. She hated deceiving her parents. But it was Noah who denied her Caleb, Noah who sent her to the lashes in punishment... and it was Noah who planned to ship her across an ocean. She couldn’t bear to think of leaving; her heart clutched in a spasm of anguish.
Everything was Noah’s fault. Abruptly, her mind made up, she lifted her cloak from its hook. If this opportunity with Caleb was to be the last, then she would seize what she had. She would treasure his beloved face, the last sound of his quiet voice.
She ran to the musty warmth of the barn and saddled old Brown. Digging her heels into Brown’s sides, Bristol raced across the snowy fields toward the towering forest edge, toward Caleb Wainwright.
She guided old Brown into a dangerous jump, the wind stinging her cheeks, pulling at her hair. Then Brown landed with a jarring thud, and she shouted him on, racing like a leaf before a storm, galloping furiously toward another storm she couldn’t foresee.
One last fence separated field and forest, and rails rushing toward her. Bristol urged old Brown forward, leaning over his mane and soaring into space, her desperate heart as wild and reckless as the jump.
3
Earth and sky spun in a crazy tumble. Brown’s forelegs slid and stumbled in thick snow; his head lurched down, and Bristol flew forward. She cried out, feeling herself hurtling past Brown’s bent neck, spinning, then landing hard and deep, plunging into a bank of wet cold.
For an instant she held herself perfectly still, her only movement the wild hammering of her heart against her ribs. Slowly her dazed mind cleared, and gingerly Bristol righted herself, testing first one arm, then the other. Nothing seemed broken, although she suspected she’d ache with bruises tomorrow.
She pulled upright with a frown, assessing her situation. She stood buried to the waist in a drifted snowbank. Beneath her shoes, an embranglement of snow-clogged branches strained under her weight, not feeling the least secure. Carefully Bristol attempted to free a foot, and discovered she could not. Thorny twigs held her fast, her efforts succeeding only in cracking a few slender branches and causing her to slip deeper into the snow. She drew a calming breath, willing herself to quell a rising sense of alarm.
And there was Brown. Her eyes narrowed. If she’d hurt poor old Brown with her foolishness, she deserved whatever punishment Noah would devise. With a whispered prayer she turned her green eyes to the right.
Brown’s quivering body stood quietly, his head down, great plumes of silvery vapor blowing from his nostrils. Thank God, Bristol breathed silently, squeezing her eyes in gratitude.
She studied the horse thoughtfully. Now, if she could only coax Brown closer, she might be able to catch hold of his mane. He could drag her out of the snowbank before she sank farther. Thank heaven Brown hadn’t broken a leg—he easily might have!
“You can thank God you didn’t kill that horse with such a foolish stunt!”
The words tracked so closely with Bristol’s thoughts that it was an instant before she realized she hadn’t spoken. Her startled movement drove her deeper into the snow, and she heard small branches breaking beneath her shoes. Now she stood thoroughly wedged, unable to wriggle, her young breasts nearly resting atop the snowdrift.
“Who’s there?” Carefully, hoping not to disturb the
uncertain sprigs beneath her feet, Bristol swiveled her head, but she couldn’t turn enough toward the trees to find the voice.
“Such rash acts are the very events that earn you colonists your heedless reputation. Are caution and sense unknown qualities in the Bay Colony?”
An embarrassed flush rose from Bristol’s neck. This unseen man with the rich, lightly accented voice had obviously witnessed her failed jump. And was rude enough to berate her. She bit her lower lip. Bad enough to have such a foolhardy act observed by a neighbor who might grin and tease, but to have a stranger happen on her predicament, and one with such brash manners—it was humiliating.
Bristol sighed heavily, and her shoulders sagged. In the last weeks she’d experienced enough humiliation to endure for a lifetime. And humiliation was not a condition that sweetened with repeated exposure.
“I need assistance, sir,” she called in a small voice, resigned to the fact that, humiliating or not, she’d been granted a stroke of good fortune in having assistance nearby.
The man laughed. “Indeed you do! Some patient soul needs to take you in hand and teach you something about horses. That aging specimen has long passed his days of sailing over fences.” Behind Bristol, twigs snapped, and she heard a horse move forward. “And young ladies of your age should be past such antics as well.”
A sharp retort sprang to Bristol’s lips, quickly repressed. She was in no position to argue. For one thing, the man’s opinion was correct; and for another, she doubted she could extricate herself from the snowbank without aid. She shivered uncomfortably in the cold and wet. Fervently Bristol hoped the embarrassed pink coloring in her cheeks would diminish before the man rode into view. She doubted it would. Sighing, she waited quietly.
A magnificent black stallion pranced from the forest rim, drawing to a halt beside Brown’s bowed head. Two wild turkeys swung from an ornate saddle, their bound feet tied near a musket across the man’s knees.
The man leaned to stroke Brown’s neck. “Courageux cheval,” he murmured soothingly, clicking his tongue. Bristol’s mind raced, placing the accent underlying his excellent English. The man was of French origin.
And obviously wealthy. While he carefully examined old Brown, Bristol studied him from beneath her lashes, gaping at the expensive fabric and cut of his clothing. Only those able to prove an estate in excess of two hundred pounds were allowed by law to wear such clothing. Heavy silver buckles gleamed at his boots and on the band of his hat. Beneath his cloak she saw a repeating flash of silver buttons. Fine lace frothed from his jacket sleeves, and his white collar appeared to be of the best Holland linen. A satin bow tied his dark hair at the neck.
Only a handful of village people dressed as richly, and Bristol knew them all by sight, if not personally. She guessed the man to be a guest of the Porters or the Caines, the village’s wealthiest residents. Or perhaps he came from Salem Town, larger than the village and less familiar to Bristol.
As she watched him, her cheeks burned with rising anger. There he sat atop the finest mount she’d seen, dressed in an impressive array of expensive finery... and he wasted his attention on a horse! He fussed over Brown as if old Brown were comparable to the stallion. While, for all he knew, Bristol might be lying in a broken heap, racked with terrible pain. If she’d been capable of stamping a foot, she’d have been tempted to do so. As it was, all she could do was wait and fume. What sort of person valued animals above people? she wondered angrily.
At last he appeared satisfied that Brown had sustained no permanent injury, and he turned to study Bristol, leaning casually on his saddle, not the least hurried.
Beneath a broad-brimmed felt hat, his gray eyes examined her with a twinkle of amusement. Looking into those bold eyes and the grin widening his generous mouth caused the pink in Bristol’s cheeks to deepen. In her heart, she’d hoped the man atop the stallion would reveal himself to be much older than this man. Finding her rescuer to be under thirty somehow added to her embarrassment.
With sinking dismay she suspected he relished the scene before him. She sensed his laughter. Her chin rose, and she opened her lips for a curt word, then halted at closer examination of those gray eyes. Beneath his amusement flickered a hard center, a hint of ruthlessness. Quite suddenly Bristol could imagine this man pointing his musket at another man as unfeelingly as he’d discharged it at the hapless turkeys dangling from his saddle. Her eyes focused upon an old scar running jaggedly along a strong jaw and disappearing into his white collar. Instinctively Bristol sensed he’d given as well as received in whatever altercation had produced that wound. Her eyes darkened to emerald, and her brows came together. All in all, he was startlingly handsome.
The man’s grin widened at Bristol’s unconscious frown. “With the color in your cheeks and your hair tumbled about your shoulders, you look like a poppy blooming in the snow.” He narrowed his gaze, mimicking a limner, one of those painters who traveled from village to village painting barns and an occasional portrait. “No, I believe you remind me of a figurehead. Aye, you belong on the prow of a noble ship, exactly as you look now.”
Bristol’s face flamed scarlet. For the first time she became agonizingly aware that her breasts above the snow did indeed jut forward, emphasized precisely as those of the exotic figureheads decorating the ships in Salem harbor. Quickly she wrapped her arms over her chest, the sudden movement bending fragile branches below her feet and sending her another inch into the snow. Now her breasts carved twin nests in the chill bank.
Face burning, she lifted her chin and glared at a point above his head. “Are you going to help me or not?” she demanded coldly.
He laughed, a rich delighted sound that made Bristol furious. “A ‘please’ might be in order, do you not think so?” The French accent, faint but definite, lent an intriguing enigmatic quality to his resonant voice. Bristol ignored it. “Ah.” He smiled. “You think not.”
She maintained a stubborn silence, gazing steadily above his head. Her heart raged at his insolence and lack of common basic manners. He played with her! Well, she’d stand here and freeze before the word “please” passed her lips. Not to him. An icy trickle melted into her shoe, and Bristol shifted uncomfortably, but her lips remained pressed into a tight line.
He clicked his tongue softly, and the stallion obediently pranced forward. In no hurry, the man swung from the saddle and holstered his musket. He stood before Bristol, his hands spread on his hips. He grinned into her face. “If you are this lovely when you’re angry... Mon Dieu, what a beauty you must be with a smile on those lips!” His gray eyes touched the curve of her mouth. “I have half a mind to steal a kiss while I have you helpless,” he teased.
Shocked and appalled, Bristol stared. No one spoke like this! No one did such things as he suggested! The man was an outrage, an utter outrage!
For the first time she felt acutely uneasy, and her wide green eyes slid past his shoulder for a quick glance at the deserted fields. She swiveled toward the stallion, her eyes flicking to the musket, but it lay so far out of reach it might as well have been absent entirely.
Following her gaze, the man laughed. “I see I am confronted with a maid of virtue.” His tone implied a doubt, as if anyone foolish enough to stick herself into a snowbank would also surrender virginity as foolishly. Bristol glared at him as if he were a strange new species of animal. His grin widened. “A pity. But, as you wish. I prefer my women to be willing.” He shrugged. “It appears there’s nothing for it but to pull you out and send you on your way.”
He stepped closer, grinning when Bristol drew back. “Put your arms around my neck.” He spoke with easy authority, accustomed to being obeyed.
Bristol blinked. If Noah sent her to the lash for a glance, what might he do if he glimpsed her arms about a man’s neck? She saw no trace of Noah or anyone else in the snowy fields, but Bristol didn’t dare take the risk. “I... I can’t do that. Don’t you have any rope?”
Now it was the man’s turn to stare in disbelief. “M
on Dieu!” He lifted an exasperated eyebrow. “Mistress Whatever-your-name-might-be. Had I known when I set forth this morning that I’d be lassoing idiots from snowbanks, I would most certainly have included a coil of rope. Unfortunately, such an eventuality did not occur to me. Now, if you wish to place your feet on firm ground, put your arms about my neck!”
“I... I...”
He roared, “Around my neck!”
She jumped, slid, and reached for his neck, blushing to the roots of her hair.
Powerful hands reached beneath the snow, found her waist, and swung her up and free, as if she weighed nothing. For an instant Bristol’s face passed within inches of intense gray eyes, and she felt a rush of warm breath on her cheeks. A dizzying sensation swept her mind, and her hands on his wide shoulders trembled. Never had she imagined herself in such intimate proximity with a strange man. Hot color warmed her face.
He set her firmly on the ground, his hands remaining at her waist a fraction too long. Angrily Bristol bent away, hiding her face beneath a curtain of red hair while she brushed furiously at the snow clinging to her skirts. He watched steadily, and Bristol felt his grin without seeing it. The man was impossible! And tall. Standing beside him, she realized she could have stood under his chin with room to spare.
She slid a glance toward the silver buckles flashing on his boots. She should thank him. His lack of manners would not excuse an omission of her own. Bristol sighed and opened her lips, pausing at the sound of a woman’s laughing voice floating from the forest.
“Jean Pierre? Jean Pierre! Where have you disappeared to?”
Smiling at Bristol, the man called, “Here!” Immediately the forest crackled with sounds of several horses moving toward them, snapping low branches and plunging through snow-covered underbrush. Voices called back and forth, and laughter echoed from the pines.
The man answering to “Jean Pierre” continued to study Bristol openly, not bothering to disguise his admiration. “The figurehead has feet. Altogether, I’d say I’ve uncovered a sunken treasure.” He grinned approval, a glint of interest sparking the smoky eyes. “And you are Mistress...?”
Salem's Daughter Page 4