Her Wicked Sin

by Sarah Ballance

  Lydia stilled but for fingers fretting about her neckline.

  “Don’t you see? You cannot damage a name not of your association.”

  “Are you mad, Henry? It matters not what name you give. The truth will come soon enough. Even if I am free from charges of witchcraft, I will be named an adulterer!”

  Henry ached so thoroughly for this woman he had to force each breath. “You are not an adulterer. The husband of whom you speak is gone.”

  “Do you not see? There is no way out of this. I will have to confess myself a liar. One sin will only provide evidence to another, and if I am accused a witch I will be convicted without pause!”

  “Lydia.” Gently, he took her to the bed and pulled her to sit next to him. “Let me tell you who I am.”

  She shook her head. “I know all I need to know.”

  Henry was not sure how to react to a woman who was not interested in his wealth, but he longed more than anything to offer comfort. “Your words are true in many ways,” he said, “for what exists between us is all that matters. But perhaps your fears will ease—”

  “Please understand. I cannot live with the thought of damaging your reputation.”

  Henry swore under his breath. Whether or not this stubborn woman wanted to know, he would tell her. “My name is Dunham,” he said. “Henry Dunham. Of fur and timber, and most notably of the shipbuilding trade.” He braced himself for the impact the words would surely have over her. He hazarded to guess few in New England were not aware of his family—one of the wealthiest and most influential in the colonies.

  As expected, her eyes grew wide.

  He grinned at the astonishment playing over her delicate features. “You know the name?”

  “I cannot believe this.”

  “You find my words untrue?”

  “No, of course not. But why, Henry? Why would you settle here? And for me?”

  “Do you not see? I have not settled. As I have told you before, my father has tried to match me with one patrician after another, and the parade has grown quite tiresome. But more than that, I never once felt a desire with anyone as I have you.”

  “I am no patrician,” she said quietly. “We cannot be.”

  He touched her chin, turning her so she faced him, and his heart warmed when he found familiar warmth and affection shining in her eyes. Verily, her protest was of her voice and not her heart. And in meeting her gaze, he rather dissolved within her ardor. The woman—his wife—had to be the most stubborn he’d ever known, but she was his. His.

  And he intended to make sure she knew it.

  With a growl, he captured her wholly and turned so he caged her over the bed. He tasted the squeal on her lips, then kissed her until he was left heaving for breath. When he broke free they were both smiling—hers so genuine her face lit with her joy. Looking into her sapphire eyes, he wanted to tell her he was his own man and his decisions would be his own—no amount of his father’s wealth would change that—but he had no desire to revisit the subject of their sole disagreement. So rather than dispel the mood, he maneuvered his way under her skirts and found powerful delight in the shivers he evoked from her lithe body.

  “You are a scoundrel!” But she laughed and wound her fingers in his hair, pulling him closer.

  “I thought,” he said through his explorations, “I was an instigator.”

  “I have a feeling you are a great many things.”

  “And if I have my way, you shall delight in learning every one of them.”

  “Under those circumstances,” she said, “You may very well obtain your way.”

  “I shall count on it,” he said. “Time and time again.”

  “You are incorrigible,” she whispered, gasping when his lips found her neck. He wasted no further time with permissions and did not bother to fully undress. His indulgence was a matter of freeing himself from his breeches, and in no time he relieved her of the undergarments hindering access. She needed no readying—his intimate ministrations made clear she was ready for him—and he took great delight in plunging well within her depths.

  She cried his name, and he quickly looked to ensure the source was of pleasure and not pain. In truth, he could not tell from her expression, but the way she grabbed his hips and pulled him deeper within was answer enough.

  Henry was instantaneously frantic for her, but just as quickly as she responded to him, she froze.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Did I hurt you?”

  “I think I just saw someone in the window.”

  He turned, his mind and body a tangle of urges. He was still fully seated inside, and she still hotly welcoming. But her limbs were stiff, her eyes frantic. Henry saw nothing in the window, but wanted very much to ease her worries so he withdrew from her and tucked himself in his breeches as best he could under the unwieldy circumstances.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  “In search of your watcher,” he said. He leaned over and kissed her, righting her skirt as he drew away. “Let us not give him anything more over which to gawk.”

  Lydia smiled, but it was a halfhearted gesture. Already she stared at the glass, which appeared little more than a rectangle of pitch against the dimly lit walls. Privately he thought the flicker of firelight might have caused her worry, but he did not want to diminish her fears so he pulled on his topcoat and his shoes, then stepped from the warm room into the frigid night.

  He looked first to the horses, neither of whom bothered to look his way. They stood with their noses to the ground, though from the dark distance he could not tell if they were grazing or in slumber. In either case, nothing had riled them.

  Quietly, he stepped from the back porch and rounded the small house. Scarcely more than a divided room, the structure did not boast an impressive footprint. As such, circling it only occupied a couple minutes of his time. Finding nothing—and seeing no shadows upon the road—he returned to the rear of the house, pausing to look for movement. The woods stirred in a cold breeze, but nothing stood out. He could not discern the crack of brush underfoot or the crush of forest litter. The night’s chorus rang without concern.

  With a second look around the back porch, Henry walked quietly to the horse shed. It, too, he circled, seeing nothing. If a man lurked, he did so with remarkably even steps, for Henry found no trace. As a final precaution, he checked inside the shed before returning to the house, where he found Lydia sitting nervously by the fire.

  “Did you find him?” she asked.

  “No trace,” he said. “Are you sure you did not see a reflection from light inside?”

  “I am certain I saw a face,” Lydia said. “Perhaps it was conjured by my witchcraft.”

  Fearful his frustration would show, Henry tried to still his emotions, but it mattered not, for he was wholly convinced her bitter tone would be neither soothed nor marred by his countenance. When he gathered himself enough to look at Lydia, her eyes were downcast, her skirt once again fisted. He tried to pull her into his arms, but she resisted.

  “This will ruin you,” she said. “It has ruined others already. Arrests have been made. No one can fight this spectral evidence, Henry. How can anyone disprove the movements of a ghost?”

  “Your spirit,” he assured, “has been as much with me as have you.”

  “They say the devil rides a great black steed. They say that it is Willard!”

  Henry lost a piece of himself then. He had given her Willard to ride that day—he had rather insisted upon it. And while his claims of separating the horses until the fence could be repaired were true, his options were not limited to Lydia’s dispatch of Willard. He could well have tied the animals to different trees until the work was complete.

  “I am truly sorry for that. You must blame me.”

  “I do not place blame. He is but a horse.”

  “And you are an innocent woman.”

  “You do not understand. There have been arrests. A number of them, just in the past few weeks. Privately we doub
t the accusations, but neighbors cannot speak out lest they, too, are charged of bedevilment.”

  As she spoke, she craned her neck, looking past him toward the window.

  “Have you seen something?”

  “I cannot explain it. I feel as if there are eyes upon me. It is a disturbance I cannot shake.”

  “I checked thoroughly. There was no one out there. Even the horses are at ease.”

  “Perhaps a stranger has made their acquaintance—they would not be disturbed by someone familiar. There is little doubt of this man’s existence, Henry. I have been told on numerous occasions someone seeks me. There could well be someone there.”

  “This person who seeks you may just be curious of the new physician. He has not approached, has he?”

  “No, he has not. And that is part of my concern.”

  Henry gathered her close. “Perhaps your questions fuel your unease. His interest is likely benign, but your worries build fear. You worry someone seeks you, so you begin to feel his attention where it is not.”

  “I cannot explain it, but I do feel it.”

  He leaned and kissed her. “It is my vow to you, we will see to this. Worry not for what waits outside those doors, for we have so very much within.”

  Her eyes met his, and her affection shone through the shadows of her distress. “You distract me, Henry.”

  He glanced to his groin, still at half mast. “It is my fondest wish to distract you further.”

  Lydia laughed. “You are quite persistent.”

  He captured her mouth in a kiss, not releasing her until she relaxed thoroughly in his arms. “You are not alone, Lydia. No matter what trials are presented, we will face them together.”

  “I can only hope you are right.”

  “There is more than hope, for I give you my word and my honor. You will never again face the night alone.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lydia woke the next morn with her heart bursting. The night’s fire had grown quiet and the first rays of dawn had yet to light the room, but she did not need her eyes to see the man at her side. His warmth was greater than any she had known, and over the night he had fulfilled her again and again with his desire for her to believe. Though she wanted not for his wealth to decide for her, the very knowledge of his transition for her honor indicated what an overwhelmingly genuine man he was. In his arms, she wanted desperately to believe the accusations would fade and she could be blessed lifelong with the task of simply being Henry’s wife. She did not know how long he would remain content in Salem Village, but it mattered not. She would be with him, and he with her.

  He stirred, and in short time he found the narrow of her waist. Before she could gasp, he had pulled her close, every bit of him hard where she was soft. Growling playfully, he went for her neck, biting it between tender kisses.

  She squealed and only feigned her protest, bracing her hands on his firm, wide shoulders when he rolled her to her back and maneuvered himself between her thighs. But he did not take her as she expected. Rather, he saw fit to kiss every spot of her, paying ruthless attention to her aching breasts.

  “How long?” he asked between wicked ministrations of his tongue.

  Several responses rushed to her lips—each one more wicked than the last—but he had rendered her so far beyond thought she knew not which he might find appropriate. “How long for what?”

  “How long may I enjoy your instigations?”

  She laughed heartily, his innocence of expression not at all in line with the mischief he created beneath the covers. When she caught her breath, she said, “I will not grant your claim of instigation with the slightest protest, for it is preposterous beyond words.”

  “Your lack of protest is precisely the response for which I hoped.” Scarcely had the words left him when he closed his mouth over her pebbled flesh.

  Stunned, she gasped and held tightly where he found her hands and laced together their fingers. He drew away so she saw nothing but the darkened hue of his eyes, from which exuded passion the depths of which she had not dreamed could exist.

  Without breaking his attention, he maneuvered their joined hands so they lay against the bedtick, just above her head. His firm, gentle hold rendered her without recourse, and the observation sent new seeds of desire coursing through her.

  “Do you trust me?” he whispered.

  “I do.” Never had she thought she would believe so fully, but her heart could not deny this man. No amount of pain in her past would change that.

  Still holding eye contact, his grip on her hands still firm, he shifted and entered her. And this time he did not wait for her to acclimate, though there was little need, as her desire for him had not waned since the first she had known his touch. She reveled in his domination, craving what she had once feared so very much, and it was in those breathless moments she realized the truth: Henry had saved her. He had breathed life into what was broken, and in every way had made her whole again.

  “Are you well?” he asked when he later eased his weight from her and tried to extract his fingers from hers. His eyebrows lifted when she did not relent her own grip, and he responded by rolling so they were facing one another. He pulled down her hand with his and traced her cheek with a fingertip. “You astonish me,” he said.

  “I should say the same.”

  He grinned. “Then why do you not?”

  “It would be silly to repeat you,” she said.

  “Perhaps, but you may profess your love for me with as much redundancy as you wish.”

  She pressed together her lips. “Very well then. I find you quite tolerable.”

  He erupted in laughter, and in the moment managed to free himself of her grip. “It is time to rise, though I cannot fathom reason well enough to leave this bed.”

  She brushed her hair from her face and threw back the covering, grateful for the cool air. “I bear witness to the fact you have already risen once this day,” she said.

  His appraising stare of her bare flesh heated her more than any fire ever had. “If you choose to provoke me, lovely Lydia, there will be but one task to fill the noon, and it will not be preparing the bread.”

  She gave him a swat to the shoulder and climbed out of bed. “It is not bread-making day. Today is for sewing.”

  “I trust I may be excused from this activity?” His playful tone did not match the sensual, half-lidded gaze that followed her round the bed to the stack of her neatly folded clothes.

  “Of course,” she said, suddenly shy under his intense appraisal. “You render me with nerves.”

  “Worry not. I am merely enjoying the finest view in all of Massachusetts Bay Colony.”

  Lydia’s face flamed hot and, while she appreciated his attentions, she wasted little time in slipping into her chemise.

  Henry sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His movement was not altered, and she was pleased to find upon her approach that the damage to his knee was mere discoloration, the swelling gone. “While you tend to the sewing, I would like to visit Salem Town.”

  “If you are sure you do not want to join the wives for mending,” she teased, “I suppose that is a suitable alternative.”

  “There are other alternatives.” He captured her and pulled her close, kissing her deeply and nearly pulling her back into the bed.

  “Henry!”

  He sighed, his agony clearly exaggerated, and looked to her with woeful eyes. “Very well. I know when I have been cast aside.”

  “You know nothing of the sort. I will be the one—” Lydia snapped shut her mouth.

  Henry frowned, his brows narrowed with questions, but quickly his countenance lightened. Still, he said nothing. Rather, he stood and pulled on his breeches, the air thick with the quiet scuffle of his motions.

  Was he angry? He did not seem to harbor ire, but it was unlike him to remain silent. He maintained his quiet until he had fastened his clothing, after which he came to her and took her hands, relieving her concerns with a ge
ntlemanly kiss to the back of each one. “I will seek my brother,” he said, “but whether or not I find him, you remain my wife. There is not a night that will exist that I will want for your touch, and there is no greater blessing than to wake with you by my side. I need nothing more from this life than to share it with you.”

  She blinked back tears. “Henry…”

  “I am true. I will be by your side. No matter the path we take, we will take it together.”

  Lydia bit back her protest, not sure how to voice her concerns. She believed him, or rather believed that he believed. But when his brother was found and Henry’s world righted, could she truly remain a part of it?

  She did not have the chance to ask. He kissed her once more, then went out of doors to see to the chores and the horses.

  Still a bit unsteady with his touch and her worry, Lydia prepared the morning meal, over which they discussed the rather mundane topic of the weather.

  No mention of witchcraft.

  No mention of Henry’s brother.

  And then it hit her. Later, when Henry handed her Benedict’s reins, she asked, “Why is there no talk of your brother’s disappearance? The Dunham family is well-known throughout the colonies. Surely news of a disappearance would be well-gossiped.”

  Henry swung into Willard’s saddle before answering. “He carries his father’s name,” he said. “And considering the depth to which his hatred of my father has grown, I am quite certain my brother has long shed any association with the Dunhams.”

  “Have you used your status in your attempt to find him?”

  “I am afraid it hinders more than it helps. However…” He broke free of the thought and stared at her.

  “What is it?”

  “You may have just helped my cause. Are you willing to ride Willard this day?” He slid from his mount, not waiting for an answer.

  “Of course, but whatever for?” She, too, dismounted, and removed the sidesaddle from Benedict’s back. It was far too narrow for Willard, so she would again ride bareback, save for the saddle pad.

  Henry did not explain until after he helped her onto Willard and himself settled onto Benedict. “It is human nature to be wary of outsiders, and poor Willard is no kind of disguise. I suspect if those with whom I speak are banded against the higher class, they are not likely to surrender their knowledge. This is especially true if my brother has found friends in Salem Town, but I suspect if not, there still remains unity against the wealthy.”