Her Wicked Sin

by Sarah Ballance

  “Did he mind his manners?” Henry asked, reaching to scratch Willard between the eyes. He returned the affection with a solid nudge that nearly landed Henry on his backside.

  Lydia stifled a laugh, losing the battle when Henry’s woeful, brown eyes found her.

  “I am afraid the oaf has taken your side,” he said.

  “Your oaf is as gentle as I suspected.” She maneuvered him closer to the porch and used the extra step for a glimpse of his back. Once the saddle and pad were straightened, she secured the pillion and threaded the girth.

  Willard turned to inspect her work, casting a look as dubious as ever managed by the equine eye.

  “He will hold his breath to expand his belly when you tighten the saddle,” Henry said, gripping the girth. “He thinks himself quite clever.”

  Lydia patted Willard’s shoulder while Henry secured the tack. “What is his breeding? I’ve never seen an animal so impressive. He is most unusual.”

  “He is largely of Friesian blood,” Henry said. “My father’s father secured several from a shipment arriving in New Amsterdam more than seventy winters ago. Though the pure lines have since been lost, our breeding efforts have produced many with striking characteristics.”

  “Indeed,” she said, running her fingers over the animal’s rump. Once she had given her presence, she reached for his tail and began to pull free the leaves and sticks. She held no concept of Willard’s probable immense value, but found herself doubly grateful he had not wandered off into the night under her watch.

  “Do you need a leg?” asked Henry.

  Lydia laughed and released the tail. “A generous offer, but you have not one to spare.”

  He smiled and offered a slight bow. “Very well, wife. Perhaps you will offer one to me?”

  Lydia’s insides shook. Her ruse of a husband set her fate as a lonely woman, and the abuse she had suffered as a wife led her to an easy acceptance of her plight. Though time had passed and her innermost wounds had begun to right themselves, she harbored no romantic urgencies. Not until this man, for whom sunlight spilled from the sky and offered unseasonal warmth for one of winter’s last days.

  She gave him a boost onto the horse, then accepted his arm so he could assist her onto the pillion.

  “I expect you will be pleased with Willard’s gait,” he said. “But feel free to hold fast to me so as to secure your place.”

  Lydia settled easily on the horse’s wide back, her legs drawn to one side and her arms lightly circling Henry’s waist. She had ridden extensively, though it had been some time since her last trek on horseback. And never had she been on a horse as large as Willard. She guessed him seventeen hands, and nearly twice as broad as had been her beloved mare. He made for a most comfortable seat for the woman rider, for whom propriety dictated her legs stay together, as should her skirts.

  Henry clucked and Willard set off on an easy pace past the house. When they stepped on the lane, Lydia’s breath caught as they settled into a fast gait that felt like floating above ground.

  She gasped in delight. “How did you ever fall from such a smooth mount?”

  Henry’s laughter enveloped her. “This is the easy part. It is when he indulges in sideways leaps that my balance suffers.”

  The ride to Salem Town passed quickly—more so than she might have desired for the lovely warmth of the day and the exceptional feel of a horse beneath her, to say nothing of her company. As they approached the bustling merchant area, Lydia offered direction and was able to procure a small number of staples in quick order while Henry waited on his mount. She did not miss the number of stares Willard earned as they passed through, and when she returned with her supplies she found Henry in conversation with a pair of townsmen.

  She halted her approach, unsure if it was her place to insert herself in the vicinity of their talk. Most of what she knew of a wife was to cower, though Henry brought forth no such urge.

  “Ah, there you are!” With a parting nod toward the men, he circled toward her and offered his arm. She accepted the boost from above, marveling at his exceptional strength, for he made her feel light as a feather in his grip.

  “Are we rushed to get back?” he asked.

  “We should return this daylight.”

  A crooked, boyish grin split his face. “Worry not, wife, for I would not miss the chance to retire with you this evening.”

  Lydia’s face grew hot. As a distraction, she busied herself adding her wares to the saddle bag.

  “If you do not object,” he said, “I would like very much to familiarize myself with the town’s grid.”

  His quest to find his brother somehow warmed and emptied her all at once. “Of course,” she agreed. “Would you prefer to ride alone? I can wait here.”

  “Not in the least. Perhaps if you assist now with my assimilation, I will not wander lost upon my return another day.”

  Over the next while they traversed the busy streets, Willard drawing a great deal of attention with his fine arch and high steps. The entire town seemed anew from her perch on the animal’s wide rump. Henry spoke little, but he seemed to study every detail they passed. Did he seek faces of strangers for his brother? He must, but from her position he seemed just as keen to study the walls as the faces of the townsfolk.

  As they neared the edge of town, he drew Willard to a halt in front of a grain merchant. “Is there feed available in Salem Village?”

  “It is sparse. Winters are harsh, and there is not enough feed for each man’s own livestock. They must all make do.”

  “Then I would like to procure here a supply for Willard, if you do not object. Perhaps they will deliver.”

  “Of course.” Lydia could not imagine the appetite of the enormous creature, but agreed very much the forage in her slipshod pasture would not long satisfy. She dismounted easily, leaving Henry once again to wait while she fetched the merchant. He went readily to talk to Henry, and Lydia gave them space. When the man returned to his shop, offering a polite nod as he passed, she once again mounted and wrapped her arms around her husband, quite content to ride the hours that way.

  “You are warming in your manner to me,” Henry said once they were back on the road.

  She leaned against him and said nothing, though the truth of his observation startled her. She could not remember when she had last welcomed a man’s affections. For years, she had experienced little more than hurt and shame. And now, inexplicably, this stranger with his genuine nature made her want to move past it all—he made her want to feel. Never had she known such tenderness or been treated with such reverence.

  Already, he trusted her with his secrets.

  And no matter how logic tried to patch those crumbling walls or demanded she safeguard herself against his intentions, she could not help but want to trust him with her heart.

  …

  Lydia woke early to a knock at the door. Even though she had dreamed all night of Henry, the sight of him in her bed—a blanket tucked between them—startled her. But once the discovery wore off, the sensation settled into a quiet thrill that only heightened when she realized his eyes were upon her.

  Neither of them spoke, leaving the air heavy with intimacy that was torn in two by another thud against the door.

  “Coming!” Lydia called. She had once again slept in her clothes, so all that was required for presentation was to straighten the garments and pull back her hair. She completed both tasks as she crossed the room. She opened the door to a frigid blast and an unfamiliar face.

  Her breath caught. Was this the stranger who sought her?

  “Pardon the hour, Goodwife Colson. I am a servant of the Abbot’s. I have come to collect you to attend to the children. They are feeling quite poorly this morn.”

  “Of course,” Lydia said. The Abbot family was one of Salem’s wealthiest, their four girls Salem’s most spoilt. Rumored to be quite ungrateful in nature, they went through a number of servants so it was no wonder this man looked unfamiliar. She turned to gath
er her coats, donning them quickly, and reached for her bag. Gray, pre-dawn light gave the room a dismal hue, making it seem colder than it was.

  Henry, who had pushed up to his elbows, gave her a questioning look. His tousled hair lent him a boyish appearance, though sleepy, half-lidded eyes suggested something else entirely. Something she wanted far too much.

  Lydia snapped up her bag, hoping busy hands would distract from the urge to rake her fingers through his unruly hair. The effort would likely be futile, but it would give her an excuse to touch him—to feel that impossible warmth from which she had so long been denied. “I have to see to the Abbot children in the village. Will you be okay in my absence?”

  He bent a knee beneath the covers and winced. “Worry not. I will tend to the fire and thereafter return to my rest. All will be well.”

  Privately, Lydia found no truth in his assurance. How could all be well when she wanted nothing more than to crawl back beneath the covers and learn everything there was to know about this man? Though she could not fathom him dangerous, to allow herself to grow closer to him would be reckless. He’s your husband. No matter. He was still a stranger. She had been fooled before, and by someone she thought she knew. But thoughts of getting closer to Henry filled her hotly, bringing fire to her cheeks.

  A sharp wind cooled them, snapping Lydia out of her reverie. The Abbots’ servant waited, the door needlessly held open. She tightened her coats and, without looking back, crossed the threshold. The servant helped her into the wagon, then took his place at the buckboard. He barked an order to the horse, who took several obedient steps before raising his head with a riotous whinny.

  Willard. Henry warned the stallion could be a bit of a bully and now the strange horse had caught his attention. Would the fence hold? She would soon see, for Willard furiously ran the fence, his powerful chest bending the unsteady barrier with every switchback. He must have been asleep when the wagon arrived to have remained quiet so long. It was a good thing, too, for there was no way the fence would still be standing under such abuse.

  The Abbot’s horse danced sideways, causing the wagon to creak. The servant uttered a number of profanities, though he managed to keep the horse in hand.

  Lydia clutched the bench, fearing disaster.

  A sharp whistle split the air. Willard drew to an immediate halt, though with flared nostrils and a high, arched neck he looked anything but calm.

  Henry stood on the porch, his shirt flapping loosely at his sides. His injured knee was bent, his toes bare. He looked magnificent, and his power over the horse from yards away only added to the allure.

  The wagon jolted forward, stealing the direction of her thoughts. “Bloody devil,” the driver said, urging the horse into a trot.

  Whether he spoke of Willard, Henry, or his own horse mattered not. The assertion brought to mind Rebecca’s accusations, the memory of which made the morning far colder against her skin.

  A quick glance at Henry revealed his eyes upon her. He smiled, and the accumulated weight eased from her shoulders.

  The wagon lurched along the rutted path, but could not shake free the warmth of that parting glance. It stayed with her all the way to the Abbot home—a large house with a generous footprint in the center of Salem Village—wherein she was met by Goodwife Abbot.

  “Good morrow,” said Lydia.

  “It is about time.” Goody Abbot’s frown deepened. “I should have sent for a real physician. The girls are by the hearth trying to keep warm. See to them.” She turned and walked away, leaving Lydia to find her way.

  Real physician. Lydia bristled. Granted, she had not received formal training, but in the year following her husband’s death she had expanded on the midwifery skills she had learned from her mother. She had traded her assistance for room and board, and though she received only a meager wage, the physician for whom she worked was generous with his time and knowledge. Lydia preferred her position as a midwife, but she was more than capable of stepping in when Salem found itself without a physician. If the goodwife was so displeased, she could afford to import opinion from a neighboring town and leave Lydia well enough alone.

  But Goodwife Abbot had not, and that left Lydia to contend with her unruly offspring. Most mothers remained at Lydia’s side, eager to learn of their children’s afflictions, but Lydia had been left alone in the large, drafty home.

  Not wanting to be intrusive, she peeked around the nearest corner. All four girls were in the room. All four leaned close to the fire.

  The tallest of the group—seventeen-year-old Abigail—turned to her younger sister and whispered, “Closer now. You will not acquire a fever at such a distance!”

  Alarmed, Lydia walked briskly to the girls and pulled the youngest away from the fire. “What is this?”

  Abigail offered a demure smile as all the girls shuffled away from the hearth. “That’s Deliverance, of course.”

  “I know your sister’s name,” said Lydia. “Why are you urging her into the fire?”

  “To sweat away the fever, of course. Feel how hot she is!”

  Lydia obliged with a hand to Deliverance’s forehead. “Hot, indeed.”

  “We should rest today,” Abigail said. “Skip our lessons. That is the treatment for a fever, is it not?”

  Lydia returned the infuriating girl’s falsely sweet smile. Then she reached to feel the skin at the back of Deliverance’s neck, finding it cool. “For a real fever, perhaps. This child has no fever in her neck. Considering she held her face so close to the fire, I am quite certain this little spell has been caused by flame, not illness.”

  The other two girls—Mary, thirteen, and Susannah, nine—exchanged petulant frowns. “You said we could stay home from our lessons!” Mary cried to Abigail.

  Abigail shushed her, then turned on Lydia with a furious stare. “You have no way of knowing her fever did not pre-exist the fire. The poor thing was just trying to warm herself from the chills. What of the rest of us?”

  Lydia quickly examined the other two girls, finding them all cool—save for their faces—and bright-eyed. “I see no sign of illness. What lessons are you trying to get out of, Abigail?”

  Young Deliverance smiled widely. “She does not wish to help Luddy with the wash!”

  Abigail threw her hand over the little girl’s mouth. “Ignore her. She is feverish.”

  It took every bit of decorum Lydia had not to roll her eyes. “Mary, please fetch your mother so I may report my findings.”

  After the girl left, Abigail turned to Lydia. In a low voice, she said, “You will pay for this.”

  “For what? Witnessing your deception?”

  Abigail said nothing as Goodwife Abbot returned.

  Lydia took the woman’s scowl as anything but matronly. “The girls are fine, Goodwife. I find no signs of illness.”

  “She placed her hands on us, Mother.”

  With a steady voice, Lydia said, “I merely examined you, as was your mother’s request.”

  Goody Abbot looked from Lydia to Abigail. After a long moment, she spoke to her oldest daughter. “See that your sisters are ready for schooling, then take your place with Luddy.”

  With a look of pure venom, Abigail ushered her sisters from the room.

  The goodwife waved a plump, dismissive hand at Lydia. “Goodman Abbot will see to your fee when he returns from his trip. My servant is waiting to take you home.” The last words trailed behind her as she left the room.

  “Very well then,” Lydia said aloud to herself. Shaking her head, she gathered her things and let herself out of the house. The servant waited outside and offered assistance onto the wagon, which Lydia accepted. She could not shake the worry of Abigail’s threats, but the spoiled, petulant child’s own mother had seemingly dismissed her nonsense. Perhaps the girl’s threats would lay empty. Lydia forced the thoughts from her head.

  The road toward home lay ahead. And at the end of it, Henry. Her husband in name only.

  Dare she allow more?


  Chapter Six

  Henry fancied himself an outdoorsman, and as such, profoundly disliked his bedridden state. Yet there was a certain charm to Lydia’s small home that eased some of his burden. Back at his parents’ estate, nature dared not encroach on the well-tended lawn—rather, it lined itself precisely in the neat rows of an English garden and any plant that strayed from its allotted confines quickly met with precise pruning. The plants did not grow robust in that meek environment, and in many ways, neither had Henry. He had recognized his discomfort, though it wasn’t until he first traveled from the estate had he realized that he did not fit into the world his father had worked so hard to build. But he could not become the second son to leave his mother, so he had stifled the urge to escape into a simpler place. His travels had fed that urge, but nothing had ever quenched it like this quaint little home he now shared with Lydia.

  His wife.

  He had spent so long disparaging his father’s attempts at arranging matrimony that he wasn’t quite sure how to reconcile the heartfelt joy of having Lydia as his wife. And this modest home with the trees scraping the outer walls and air creeping through its joints made him feel alive in ways he had not before. His father would say the adventure would wear off and Henry would soon want for his better station in life, but Henry could see nothing better than what he was experiencing at the present.

  That was, not until Lydia let herself inside the home alongside a bout of cold air. Her cheeks were pink and a strand of loose blond hair rested across her nose. When her gaze rested upon him her eyes lit to a brilliant blue.