by E.B. Brown
“What do you have there, Finola?” Maggie asked.
“Sit down, dear,” she ordered as she unwrapped the bundle. When it was unbound, Maggie did as she was directed and sat down on a chair, nearly missing the seat but finding it with two outstretched hands.
From Finola’s thin white fingers hung a pendant on a thick gold chain, the center of the setting a fat, shining, Bloodstone.
“Before ye ask, child, this is my Bloodstone. I cannot give it to ye, nor may another use it. It marks ye, you see. I have the same mark as ye,” she explained, holding out her palm for inspection. It was true. They shared the same brand.
“But how does it work? Why am I here?” she asked, her questions running together in an incoherent jumble of nonsense. “Tell me!”
“Aye, of course, I will tell ye! I do not know where yer stone is hidden. My grandson kept his secrets well,” she said softly. Maggie felt a surge of despair at the revelation, but she knew the outcome had bound her to the time more powerfully than any shackle could. “The stone needs your blood to work the magic, and once you use it, it bonds to the bearer. My mother taught me how to use it long ago.”
“Oh,” Maggie said. “Blood…I cut my hand before I picked it up.”
Finola nodded. “So it knows you now, and you cannot walk again without it.”
“There has to be another way – have you tried to use another stone?” Maggie asked.
“But child, if I had your stone here to give ye now, would ye truly want to use it? I think your heart lies here, and this is the time ye now call home,” she said. “The babe in your belly belongs to this time, does it not?”
“But,” she began, but then her lips fell silent. She wrapped her arms around her body, trying to wash away the doubt the woman brought forth. Would she leave, if she could? Could she walk away from this time? She shook her head. The thought of leaving Winn’s memory in the past hurt more than the notion of what she left in the future, the door to the fable of her old life clicking shut with a gentle tap. By staying in the past, would her son know his father? Or would they both be better off in the time she was born to?
“Nay, no need to answer me, dear. It is as it should be,” she sighed.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, the Bloodstones are curious things. They have been used by my people for centuries, and have been known as powerful talismans. Only the most skilled Blooded Ones can truly harness their power, and once used, the Bloodstone marks its bearer, ye see,” she said.
“Wait, wait a second! Blooded Ones? What does that mean?” Maggie interrupted.
“It is what my people are called. Blooded Ones, those who can use powerful magic. Here in James City, a witch,” she answered.
“So the Weroance was right. You are a witch.”
Finola shrugged.
“Opechancanough is an old fool, he knows nothing.”
“What lies between you? He told me he spared my life, as he once spared yours,” Maggie said. “What was he talking about?”
“A tale best left buried, is all. It is true, he let me leave. He fears too much what he canna understand. Enough of him,” she muttered, shaking her head. “He is too stubborn to see the truth.”
Maggie swallowed despite the dryness in her throat. “Were you born here, in James City?”
“Och, no! My Bloodstone sent me here many years ago, with my son, Dagr. It is a long story for another time, but it is how we arrived. I was born in a place called Eystribyggo, in the country of Greenland. My mother was a powerful Blooded One, and she passed her gift to me,” she said softly, her eyes staring off, seeming lost in her memory for a moment. Her clear blue eyes glistened, but she shook her head a bit and continued. “Mayhap you have some powerful blood in yer veins, child. Who are your kin?”
“No, I don’t come from—from anyone special. I don’t even know my parents, my grandfather raised me in after my mother abandoned me. I never had anyone else.”
“But now ye know where ye belong. I saw it in a dream, Winkeohkwet with his Red Woman.”
“Did you see his death, as well?” she asked, her voiced edged in more bitterness than she intended.
“No,” she answered. “I did not.”
*****
Maggie let out her breath in a long sigh before she entered the parlor. Benjamin was waiting to announce their plans, eager to tell her guardians they would marry in the morning.
Benjamin stepped toward her with his gloved hand outstretched, and Maggie walked toward him, although she was unable to curb a low cry when he squeezed her bruised upper arm in his excitement. His brows darted downward, tiny creases spreading out from each corner of his troubled blue eyes at the sound of her pained noise.
“Sweetheart, what troubles you?” he asked softly. She squeezed her eyes shut when his hands closed around her shoulders and when he pulled her into his arms she let out a moan as his embrace tightened around her ribs.
“What is it?”
“It’s nothing,” she lied.
She shook her head, more to herself than to him, not wanting to let a single word loose lest she scream out her pain and never stop. His jaw flexed as he looked down on her and he reached a purposeful hand to her collar, which he gently pushed aside. She made no effort to stop him, beyond caring what twisted perception he or anyone else held of her, letting him see the lacework of blue and purple bruises that marked her skin. He tilted her chin with shaking fingers, his lips mashed in a single thin line as he drew away. When he spoke, his voice cracked through his gritted teeth.
“I will be right back. Keep ye here until I return.”
Maggie watched him swing abruptly around, his cloak whirling in a halo around him as he shoved his hat on his mass of thick black waves and left the house. Alice was nearly knocked over by his exit, and Maggie was surprised to note Benjamin failed to acknowledge Alice as he left.
Alice swatted fresh snow off her bonnet and dropped a bundle of kindling next to the fire.
“Did you chase him away, niece?” she asked.
“No. I did nothing,” Maggie answered with a shrug. She had no idea what was going on in Benjamin’s head, nor did she care. She reached back and loosened the apron at her waist, and then settled down on her knees by the fire. The flames licked her skin, casting a spreading heat over her face as she leaned close. If she stuck her hand in, would she burn? Or would she wake up from the nightmare she was in and find her husband waiting to welcome both her – and the babe?
A baby. The last thread pulled from an unraveling yarn, a splinter from the heartwood of a forest, a pledge of his love left nestled within her. Her hand slipped over the gentle bulge of her belly and rested there.
“Well, he looks to be in a rare temper,” the older woman sniped.
It was not long before the door slammed open again and Benjamin returned. This time he failed to remove his hat, and he stalked purposefully across the room to the fire where she sat. He held out one gloved hand to her.
“The minister is waiting for us now, my dear.”
Alice gasped. “Now, you say?”
“Yes.”
Maggie looked at his outstretched hand, his long fingers covered by the fine black calfskin glove. She turned her gaze to the fire. She wondered if she could just continue to stare at the flames and forever remain there, eventually melting into its core to disappear into nothingness.
Another presence filled the doorway, wind chapped cheeks stunted and beady eyes narrowed, and when Maggie realized it was Thomas, she slowly placed her hand into the palm Benjamin held out to her.
*****
She clutched her cloak around her shoulders as Benjamin hurried her toward the church, barely able to keep up with his rapid pace without jogging alongside him. His stride was long and propelled by his quiet anger, his displayed emotion clear yet much different than she was accustomed.
The church stood up ahead, the lights blazing, like a beacon to guide them. The faster Benjamin w
alked, the more she slowed, and finally she grabbed his arm with both hands and urged him to a halt.
“Benjamin. Stop, please, stop!” she insisted. He swung around to her, his cloak whirling, snow quickly covering the brim of his hat and the tops of his broad shoulders. His cheeks were reddened, from the cold or the anger she knew not, and his soft eyes looked pleading as he gazed down at her.
“Sweetheart, we can talk inside, after our vows,” he promised. She shook her head. She would tell him she could not wed him, that her heart belonged to her husband even if she could not join him yet in the afterlife.
“No.” She raised her chin and looked him in the eye. “I cannot do this.”
His brows creased and he shook his head, a strange crooked tilt reaching his lips as he paled, his mouth falling open before he spoke. He still held her hand, but more tightly now, as if he could mask the sting of her words from it.
“Maggie…I –”
“I cannot,” she said softly. She had no idea where she would go in the dead of winter without his protection, but she knew it would not be back to that lying, abusive, bastard Thomas. Perhaps Finola would take her in.
She was stunned when his cold hands slipped around her face and his breath warmed her skin. His eyes were tinged red about the edges as he looked into hers, searching for something she knew she could never give him.
“Maggie, I love ye. I have loved ye since the first moment I saw thee in Finola’s store, yer hair in braids, a pale beauty among all the rest.” He bowed his head away from her gaze for a moment. “I wish I was the first man ye lay eyes on in this fearful new world. But I take thee whole, as ye are, with all that has happened. Without all those of things, I would not have thee,” he said softly. He kissed her then, his lips cold at first but heated with their connection, then moistened by her salty tears. “Ye did not deserve what Thomas did to ye. I promise you, I am not that kind of man. I would never lay hands to my wife in such a way.”
She closed her eyes to the memory of the beating, and struggled to make him understand.
“But Benjamin, what if there is a child? I don’t know for sure.”
“Hush. I take thee before God as my wife, and any child will be ours. Now, take my hand,” he said. “The minister is waiting for us.”
*****
Maggie sat with her hands folded on the edge of the bed. She was no idiot, and she was fairly certain her new husband would expect to share her bed on their wedding night. Men of the time were predictable in their ways, and when it came to both sex and religion they gave no leeway for compromise. Her bruises were tender but healing, and she knew prolonging the matter would only cause more strife. She reminded herself of the reasons, but in the end, the thought of sharing his bed felt akin to a stake through her spine.
Benjamin was a man of his time. Although he seemed more reasonable than the others and had already pledged he would not be the sort of husband to lay hands on her, she did not expect him to forgo his rights as her spouse.
The act would hold no meaning for her other than to placate him, yet still she thought of the way Winn made her body sing with a simple touch. What would the rest of her life be like without Winn? Trapped in the past facing a loveless marriage, the specter of what could have been hanging between them, she hated herself for agreeing to the façade even while she knew there was no other option. As capable and independent as she was in her own time, it was no consolation. She needed the protection and resources of the colony if she held any hope of caring for her child.
When she murmured goodnight and left a chaste kiss on his cheek, he stepped into the room with her and closed the door. He reached to snuff the single candle in the room, then peeled off his calfskin gloves. Always dressed as the proper gentleman, he had several layers of clothes to shed before he took her hand again in the dim light. He turned her slowly back to him, the longing evident in his gaze and building rapidly as he placed his hands on her shift. His fingers shook as he untied the laces, plucking the delicate rounds free one by one. In her flat bare feet her head only came to his collarbone, and she closed her eyes as he bent down to kiss her, his hands sliding around her waist.
“Will ye have me, dearest?” he asked. When she nodded, he closed his eyes briefly before he drew her close. What did it matter anymore? It was only her body, not her heart. A flicker of his memory surfaced, and suddenly it was Winn’s hands on her body, Winn’s breath on her skin.
“Then if you only pledge your heart with your body, do I have your love when I do this?”
Benjamin parted her shift and it fluttered down to her feet, and then he quickly lifted her into his arms. He placed her on the bed as if she were a delicate thing, destined to break, and she feared he would never carry on if she did not speed things along. When he stood back from the bed looking down on her, she took matters from him and tugged on his hand.
It was Winn she saw above her, looking down at her with the light of love in his eyes.
“Come here,” she said softly.
She could see he shook nearly as much as she did beneath him as he kneeled over her. She closed her eyes when he ran his hand over her breast and her nipple hardened, hating her body for responding to him when her blood screamed for the touch of another. Yet she knew his touch was all she would have forever more.
“Oh, Maggie,” he whispered, his mouth exploring her. She flinched at his adoring words and kissed him full on the mouth to stop him. She knew little of performing the act in a loveless manner, but it appeared all men showed their readiness in a similar way. He was ready, she could feel him, and so she raised her hips against his to speed the task.
“Are ye sure, sweetheart?” he asked. The whisper of him came again, Winn’s voice an echo over Benjamin’s ragged breaths.
“So I have you love, you say?”
“Yes, please,” she urged.
She shuddered at his entrance, glad for his lips on hers as he moved, the silence much easier to live through than listening to the ghost of her past. The demons, however, had other ideas, and later, when he lay sleeping peacefully beside her with his long arm thrown over her belly, she stared up at the ceiling and silently cried in acknowledgement of the devils.
CHAPTER 32
Maggie wiped her hands on her apron as she watched the wagon approach the farm. It was not long before she spotted the two passengers, Charles Potts and Jonathon Pace, and decided she should join Benjamin in the barn before they arrived.
Benjamin lived on a small croft on the outskirts of Martin’s Hundred called Wolstenholme Towne. It lacked the protection of the stockade walls, but it had a separate enclosure of shoulder-high log barriers that appeared to provide adequate security against wildlife and other dangers. Maggie knew Benjamin was quite friendly with the natives and considered them little threat. Yet she knew better than he as to the danger that would come, and she was torn with the urge to alert him to the potential disaster. Of course, she could only offer her womanly advice, for as much as that was worth in the despicable century, and bat her eyelids when he laughed off her ideas. Why on earth should she help any of them, anyway? They deserved to be run off after what the English were bound by history to do to the Natives, but the resolution seemed less clear when the victims in question were living, breathing, human beings who gave her food and shelter. They had no idea what the Indians would do to them in a few short weeks and Maggie could not fathom what her role should be in the tragedy.
Benjamin stood by the barn, shirtless and sweating and not the least bit unattractive when a wide smiled creased his face at her approach. She grabbed her skirts up above her ankle and made way toward him with his midday meal in a basket. Although married only a few weeks, they settled into a comfortable routine that she could tolerate without resistance. As long as she cooked for him and allowed him to share her bed, he was pleasant to live with, quite the contrast to what her life would have been like had she remained in the Martin household.
“Wel
l, it is mighty fine to see yer pretty face, sweetheart,” he said. He let the axe handle rest against a stump and met her halfway, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm and grinning at her as if he had committed a heathen crime.
“Thank you, Benjamin,” she replied. She glanced anxiously around him, peering over his shoulder toward the barn, hoping to get a glimpse of the new foal. She missed Blaze terribly, and longed to regain some normalcy in her very un-normal life. Spending some time with a new foal would prove quite the distraction.
“They’re in the barn,” he explained. He reached out as if to take her arm but pulled back, apparently unwilling to mar her new dress with his grime. She was happy for the distraction and brushed past him into the barn. She found the mother eating peacefully with the foal curled in the straw at her feet, and sat down beside them in the large loose box.
She filly nickered when she scratched her chin, and Benjamin joined her in a smile at the new life before them. He leaned over the wall of the box, watching her as she petted the foal and cooed to the mare.
“Pretty girl,” he commented, a teasing twinkle in his blue eyes. Maggie ducked her head and shrugged.
“She’s a nice filly, for sure,” she agreed, deflecting the comment because she knew full well it was not directed at the horse. Charles Potts finally made it to the doorway, his chest heaving with effort when he entered the barn. He leaned on the doorjamb, spit out a chuck of dark tobacco, and glared at the two of them.
“Ye hardly look ready to go into town, Dixon!” he complained.
“Doona worry, Charles,” Benjamin offered. “I will not take long to be ready.” Charles scowled, but apparently thought better of complaining further.
“Well, then make haste, and we will go.”
Her hand paused in mid scratch against the filly’s ear, and Maggie held her breath in as the men spoke, wishing she could curl up into herself and disappear. If there was one thing she hated most about the century, it was being disregarded as if her presence held no meaning. She was bone tired of being told what to do every second of the day, shushed when she dared object, and generally talked down to as if she was worth little more than a sack of oats. If not for the baby she would have taken her chances in the wilderness long before, preferring the risk rather than remain stuck in such a life.