Salem's Daughter

by Maggie Osborne

  Quietly Bristol rose and knelt by Jean Pierre’s side. She laid her cheek on his thigh and offered her nearness for his comfort. Jean Pierre’s hand dropped to her head, and he stroked her hair with long gentle movements.

  “I love you, Bristol,” he said in a low voice. “You are the one shining truth in my life, the island of sanity I cling to.” A short, bitter laugh escaped his lips. “I, who have never clung to any person, to any thing.” His hand caressed her hair, the silky strands rising under his fingers. “I cling to you. I think of you when all around is black; I see the softness in your eyes, and I know there is still beauty and meaning in the midst of chaos.”

  Hearing his words, listening to his low quiet voice, Bristol understood she could not leave Hathaway House. The letter to Noah would never be written. Knowing Jean Pierre loved her would be enough; knowing he needed her would sustain her life.

  She lifted her head and gazed deeply into his steady, serious eyes. “Where is Diana now?” she asked, her heart glowing on her face.

  He stared, and she saw he understood. “No, Bristol. I would not ask it of you. I know your beliefs, the guilts and torments you would suffer.”

  She almost smiled; what guilt, what torment could be worse than the pain she lived each day? Looking at the firelit ridge of scar along his jaw, she lifted her fingers. Her eyes saw the tightening of his lips and the hurt in his dark eyes. “Where is Diana now?” The quiet passion of both lay in her voice.

  He closed his eyes, then opened them and searched her face. “Asleep. Dr. Weede left an hour ago. He bled her and sedated her.” His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

  Rising, Bristol took his hand in both of hers and guided him from the chair. She looked up and showed him the love shining in her soft green eyes. “Please,” she said. “I love you.”

  She led him to the bed, and he followed with wooden steps. She undressed, and he watched without moving. Then her fingers trembled at the fastenings of his coat, his white shirt, his cravat. She fumbled with the string at his waist and pushed him gently to the bed while she pulled away his breeches. At last he was naked. She touched his lean hard chest in wonder.

  Jean Pierre caught her hand. “Bristol,” he said in a husky groan. “Don’t do this. Stop while we still can. This is no good for you.” He turned his eyes from her body glowing in the firelight.

  “Jean Pierre,” Bristol whispered. “My Jean Pierre.” Her fingers pressed him back; then she lay beside him and lifted on an elbow to kiss his eyelids, the line of his jaw, the corner of his lips.

  He tried once more. “Bristol, I’m too exhausted to be strong for you.” He captured her hands and stared into her eyes. “I’m a man, little one, not a saint; I can’t resist much longer. Take this moment and cover yourself!”

  She stopped his words with a kiss, tender, clinging. Then she ran her fingers across the dark hair curling on his chest, and felt him shudder. She looked the length of his naked body and drew in her breath. Cupping his face in her small hands, she smiled into his dark, troubled eyes. “I do not take an unwilling man,” she teased softly, smiling at him.

  She smelled the freshness of his hair, buried her hands in the dark curls tied at his neck. She laid her cheek against the crisp hair covering his chest, so different from the rest. And his hands moved over her satiny body with joy and astonishment, with the wonder of love. Seeing her as if for the first time, as she saw him.

  Then he moved over her, slowly, unhurried, and he brushed long hair from her cheek. “I love you,” he said. Intensity quivered in his hard face, his eyes, his voice. “I love you, little one.”

  He entered her as his lips met hers, and they moved together in a new rhythm; quietly, deeply, building a gentle symphony of tender touches and soft murmurings. And this time, as she soared toward climax, it was not the crashing ending of before, but a shared intimacy of expanding bliss taken together.

  “Bristol, chérie.”

  “Shhh. Rest now, my love, my Jean Pierre. Rest now.”

  And he slept, finding the first peace in weeks, sleeping with his dark head cradled against the fullness of her breast, pillowed in her love.

  She guarded him through the deep snowy night, leaving but twice. Once to bring Seven into the warmth of their bed, and once to add logs to their fire. Her arm went to sleep, and fiery needles shot up to her shoulder, but she did not move, would not disturb his rest. Only when faint light struggled against the cold black outside the windows did she look from his face and allow herself to stir. Gently she shook his naked shoulder, her fingers stroking his smooth, muscled skin. “Jean Pierre,” she whispered, kissing his forehead, his eyelids.

  Gray eyes opened, and he looked up with a clear gaze. She saw that his face looked less tight, less strained. “Chérie. Little one.” He reached for her. “I can’t bear to leave you.” His arms tightened, and he pulled her close against his body, warm with sleep. “I cannot leave you,” he murmured, his voice thickening. His kiss was urgent and demanding. And his body awakened and found her ready for him.

  Later, when he’d slipped from her room, Bristol lay in the suddenly empty bed, the taste of his kisses still burning on her swollen lips. She turned her face into the bed linen and inhaled his male scent, the smell of love and salt and perspiration. Jean Pierre. Placing her body where he had lain, pressing her face into the pillow his head had touched, with his scent lingering in her nostrils, and Seven pressed into the hollow of her waist, finally Bristol allowed herself to sleep.

  When she awoke late in the morning, she couldn’t be certain what time it was. The sky was dark and heavy with thick falling snow. She dressed and stood at her front window, peering down toward a lost ground. Up and down seemed indistinguishable in the white blur. A flash of red caught her attention for an instant, but vanished before Bristol could be certain she’d seen anything. Perhaps someone braved the storm, though she couldn’t imagine anyone so foolish. Bristol stretched and yawned; she drew a heart on the clouded window and smiled at herself, at her lightheartedness. Today, she thought, she’d think only happy thoughts, treasure her memories of the night. Returning to her chair by the fire, she settled Seven into the nest of her lap.

  She’d nearly fallen asleep, a smile on her full lips, when a violent pounding jerked her rudely awake. Hastily placing Seven in the bureau drawer, Bristol ran to throw open her door.

  Diana leaned in the doorway, her golden eyes wild, her crimson cloak swirling. Tendrils of honey-colored hair streamed down the shoulders of a snow-dusted cloak and flew about her face. “Robbie!” she cried. “Robbie’s been hurt... a terrible accident... he’s calling for you. Come quickly!” Diana turned and raced down the corridor, not waiting to see if Bristol followed.

  Bristol’s face froze, and her heart stopped. She felt the color blanch from her cheeks. Jean Pierre hurt? For an instant she swayed dizzily; then she snatched up her green cloak and flew out her door, dashing down the hallway and tumbling down the stairs, taking them two at a time. She ran past Bridey Winkle and pulled frantically at the heavy double doors in the entry.

  “What... where are you going?” Bridey’s dour face stared in disbelief. “It’s a blizzard out there!”

  “Jean Pierre! There’s been an accident! He’s hurt!” Bristol pounded the door in frustration. Would it never open? “Damn!” The door burst open, and Bristol dashed outside, her thin at-home slippers skating across snow and ice. Slipping and sliding, Bristol descended the stairs to a coach she could barely see in the curtain of snow. A driver Bristol didn’t recognize assisted her up, and Diana’s strong hands pulled her inside and out of the blinding swirl of snow.

  “Go!” Diana shouted to the driver.

  Before Bristol leaned against the seat cushion, she saw a spill of light as the house doors opened and a figure ran out on the porch. She couldn’t make out who it was. Bristol clasped her hands together and caught her breath. She absolutely would not feel guilty about not waiting for anyone else. Jean Pierre was hurt; he needed h
er.

  She closed her eyes, struggling for breath. Where was he? What had happened? The snowstorm blanketed the carriage windows, and Bristol could see no more than a few feet past the panes. She wondered how on earth the driver would manage to get them through the storm.

  “Diana, where are we going? What happened? How badly is he hurt? What...?” Bristol stopped and sucked in her breath at sight of Diana’s face.

  Diana leaned against the cushions, a strange satisfied smile curving her lips. In the gray half-light of the storm, her eyes glittered tiger-gold and icy. “You’ll see,” she purred, and the whispery voice sent a chill up Bristol’s spine.

  A thousand questions sprang into Bristol’s mind. And looking at the odd smile twisting Diana’s mouth, Bristol felt a leap of alarm. She peered down at her hands, away from those golden eyes. She’d forgotten her gloves, and already her hands felt cold and were turning pink.

  Her mind spun. Jean Pierre hadn’t left Hathaway House in weeks—why now, in the midst of London’s worst winter storm? And Diana—had Diana been out too? Had she been with him? Bristol rubbed her hands nervously. Bridey Winkle knew everything that occurred in Hathaway House—why had she looked so surprised? And why wasn’t Aunt Pru with them? And where was Benton, the regular coach driver?

  Bristol cleared her throat and glanced uneasily at the vacant white windows. She blew on her fingers.

  Diana laughed. Her own gloves were fur-lined and warm; she wore fur-topped boots and a thick wool jacket beneath the crimson cloak. “Cold?” she inquired pleasantly, and Bristol stared in horror at the blaze in Diana’s eyes, the triumph. Diana Thorne Hathaway wore insanity like a perfume; it rose up from her and permeated the coach.

  “Oh, Diana...” Silvery vapor clouded Bristol’s lips, but no sound emerged. She tried again. “Please, Diana...”

  Diana smiled.

  Swallowing hard, Bristol rubbed her pink hands together. Her feet were cold and rapidly numbing. “I know you don’t mean to, but you’re frightening me.” Bristol spoke as if to a child, quietly, calmly, praying her thudding heart and shaking hands didn’t betray the growing fear tightening her stomach.

  Diana smiled and said nothing.

  Drawing an icy breath deep into her lungs, Bristol tried to control the frightened quiver in her voice. “Please, Diana, let’s go back.” Diana smiled and stroked her cheek with the fur on her glove. “He’s not hurt, is he, Diana? This is just a little game, isn’t it?”

  That awful golden stare turned Bristol’s knees to jelly, and she dropped her gaze. She saw there was no point in trying to reason with Diana; she’d see the ride through, it couldn’t go on forever. Diana would have her joke; then they’d go home. Bristol stamped her heels on the carriage floor, feeling a tingle like needles shoot through her feet. Her toes stung and her hands felt like chunks of ice. She wished she’d thought to change shoes and snatch up her gloves. But of course she hadn’t. Thinking Jean Pierre needed her, she’d flown from the house without thinking. Without thinking.

  And she couldn’t think now. Fear crouched at the edges of her mind, whispering terrible possibilities. “Are we going much farther?” Bristol asked haltingly. This was a cruel joke; it was so cold inside the coach. Bristol stared at Diana’s smile, and her heart lurched in her breast.

  “Oh, I don’t think it will be much farther. Anytime now, I should think.” At last Diana moved her golden empty stare from Bristol’s face and directed a lazy glance toward the frosted white windows.

  “Diana,” Bristol whispered, her voice fading behind a mist of vapor. Her jaw knotted, and she shook her head, trying to clear the terrible thoughts. Fear rose in an icy wall. Why had Diana brought her out into this storm?

  The answer came swift and certain. Diana was insane; Diana did not function with the same reasoning and motivations as other people. Bristol glanced quickly at the blank windows. Quietly, forcing her voice to sound reasonable and light, she attempted a smile. “Diana, Jean Pierre will be very angry when he discovers what you’ve done. If we go back now, right now, I promise not to mention this.” Bristol rubbed her stinging fingers, feeling the false smile on her lips stiffen and freeze.

  Diana laughed, and the whispery sound curdled Bristol’s blood. Lifting a wooden stick, Diana rapped the roof of the carriage. “Robbie will never know, little cousin.” The carriage rocked to a lurching stop. “Your journey is ended.” Silent snow enfolded the coach.

  Diana shoved the carriage door open to a whirling white world, sightless and deadly. Bristol could see no more than three feet, four at most. A thick white curtain enveloped London. And muted silence hung over the frozen lane.

  Bristol’s eyes flared. The fear was no longer a dormant thing, but real, a force gnawing her mind. Growing, sapping her strength. “Diana, no!” Her voice emerged strange, not like her own. Outside, the snow fell in a solid blanket, like an icy white shroud. And it was quiet. “Don’t do this,” Bristol pleaded. “Don’t!” Her voice came in choking vapory gasps.

  Diana’s mouth smiled above glistening teeth, and she laughed. Her golden eyes spun wild and mad. “Out! Get out!” Warm silvery vapor hid the terrible smile for a moment, but only a moment. Then Diana’s strong hands shot forward, and she dragged Bristol from the seat.

  “No!” Bristol screamed, finding her voice. “Help! Help me!” She fought Diana in the small cramped space, but she knew from the first it could be no contest. Diana was larger, heavier, warmer, and Diana had the strength of the insane. Bristol clung fiercely to the edges of the door, her cold fingers slipping, slipping. Desperately her eyes beseeched in a last appeal. “Please, Diana, I beg you! Don’t! I beg you, don’t do this!” Diana’s fur-topped boot struck Bristol’s chest and knocked her out of the doorway.

  Sprawling, gasping for breath, Bristol landed hard in the packed snow of the lane. Her bare fingers clawed in the snow, seeking purchase, and she scrambled to her feet, but thin slippers slid on hidden ice, and she toppled to her knees. “No! Oh, dear God, no!”

  Laughter, wild and exhilarated, spilled from the coach interior; then the door slammed and a whip cracked. The carriage vanished into a white wall.

  And then there was only deep frozen silence.

  19

  Numbing cold bit through her thin cloak and penetrated her flesh. Bristol swayed and took another step. She placed one foot before the other, and then again. She could no longer feel her feet; she may as well have been barefoot for all the protection of her satin slippers. Lifting a hand, she wiped snow from her face and blinked dizzily at the lane before her. Fresh snow had nearly filled the carriage ruts. The trail she followed would vanish entirely in minutes.

  Bristol bent her head against the icy pellets stinging tier cheeks. She pushed her red hands under her arms, seeking warmth. Never in memory had she been so desperately cold. But never had she ventured outside without adequate protection. She stamped her feet, hoping to restore the circulation. Snow clung to her skirt, weighing her hem down, heavy and wet.

  Think! She had to think! But her mind felt as numb and frosted as her cheeks, as her hands, as her sliding feet.

  A patch of ice skated out beneath her, and she fell hard, her raw hands plunging through the snow, scraping against small rocks and gravel. She sat where she’d fallen, staring at her hands, at lines of slowly welling blood. She scarcely felt the sting of the scrape.

  Slowly, slipping on the ice, Bristol struggled to stand. And fell once more. This time she made no attempt to rise. It was hopeless. She settled in the snow and watched fresh flakes drift over the billowed spread of her green cloak. How long she’d been walking, she could only guess—it felt like an eternity, but she knew it couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. Her hands and feet itched. She rubbed her nose, blinking at a painful tingle.

  “Stand up,” Bristol commanded herself. “Keep moving.” But she did nothing. An odd, pleasant warmth seemed to envelop her. Why should she move when it was so quiet and peaceful where she sat? And anyway, where
could she go? She had no idea where she might be, in the country or in the heart of the city. Dark shapes loomed on either side, they might be trees or houses. She should have investigated earlier when she had the strength instead of doggedly following the carriage tracks. Now she didn’t want to move... no longer believed she could. The snow was too thick to battle; she couldn’t see a few feet past her nose. This thought struck her as funny, and she touched the icy tip of her nose and smiled.

  She looked into the swirling blizzard, not bothering to brush away the snow clinging to her lashes. There were thoughts she should be thinking, words of contrition her faith demanded. She had not lived a blameless life.

  But Bristol’s sluggish mind veered from the concentration required to detail her offenses out loud. God already knew. After all, her sins had been programmed into her life; all she’d done was follow the path. She frowned. Maybe that wasn’t good enough. Maybe one was supposed to fight destiny. She lifted a pile of snow and watched it trickle through her red fingers.

  Her mind wandered. Pity the papists, she thought. A frozen Catholic’s God would require a full confession here on earth before the gates of heaven swung open. Death was less of a worry to Protestants. Protestants knew from the beginning that the gates of heaven were firmly closed. Only saints gained entrance. And Bristol was no saint.

  It was so cold. She shivered. “I’m going to die,” she whispered. Her lips were stiff. But she wouldn’t die with fear in her heart and a whimper on her tongue. And that surprised Bristol a little. Now that she faced death, it wasn’t as terrifying as she’d always imagined.