Her mind stuttered. “A little north of Lord Baltimore’s settlement.” All right, so her directions were slightly off. “Early on,” she babbled, “I lost my father and brother – and our tobacco farm – to the savages.” Tobacco farm? Her brother always said she had a vivid imagination. “Until recently I have been taking in wayfarers. At an inn, little north of here,” she corrected.
He fingered one end of a thin mustache pomaded to a curl. “No need to present your passport and papers tonight. I am sure the Croxtons will vouch for you – Mistress Wainwright, is it not?”
She lowered eyes. “Aye, my lord.”
“However, I do count our community most fortunate the day you agree to become a subject of Sweden –and shortly, I prithee.”
She lowered her head and dipped another curtsey. “But, of course.”
The bowing of her head in submission appeared to release the room’s tension. People began talking, and Risingh signaled to the musicians in a corner near one of the fireplaces. ‘The Lord Monk’s March’ was struck up, and he turned to her. “Will you honor me with this dance?”
Could things get worse?
Even with her inn twenty-odd miles removed from Fort Christina, travelers laying over at the Virgin Queen reported that Risingh had written home to Sweden for a wife to counteract the former governor’s daughter. Rather than return to Sweden with her father and husband, the woman had remained and insisted on presiding as First Lady, causing conflict throughout the colony.
Evangeline did not want to be his quarry for an immediate wife. A tight smile accompanied the reluctant extension of her fingers. “Aye, my lord.”
Her hand in his sweaty one, she and the governor joined the other dancers. The quiet, elegant music was accompanied by the gentle swish of silk clothing and the scrape and click of leather-sole shoes on the wooden floor.
The steps were not complicated; short and gliding to a rhythm of eight, the pattern of the steps separated the couples and brought them together again. Feet pointed, the dancers moved with graceful deportment and self-absorption.
She should have been pleased when the dancing came to an end without her making a misstep, until she glanced toward the front of the room, lined with tables of sweetmeats, delicacies, and beer kegs – and spotted Adam Sutcliff.
Tankard in hand, bucket boots crossed at the ankles, he lounged not far from the double-door entrance and watched with his air of casual superiority. That deceptively cheerful smile that did not conceal his hot animal threat. Clearly, he was not one to be much troubled by what others thought of him.
Whatever he hoped to accomplish by confronting her before the Governor and his court on such a trivial matter, reneging on a wager, caused her but little concern. What afflicted her greatly was Sutcliff’s link with William Craven, which meant her former betrothed had to be somewhere in the immediate vicinity.
Her eyes darted around the room and found no avenue of escape. She whirled to Risingh. “Please you, sire, I am feeling somewhat faint with the press of people.”
He proffered an arm, its slashed sleeve exposing the linen shirt beneath. “But, of course. The fresh air of my gardens should restore you, my dear.”
She placed her hand upon the back of his, letting him lead her toward the double doors and the great hallway where the cloaks had been stowed – and toward Sutcliff. The chandelier’s multitude of overhead candles dripped wax, but it was sweat that dripped from her temples.
Unlike William, Sutcliff was unpredictable. What was he doing here? And how much did he know about her past? She was no good at blustering, but surely feminine wiles she could wield. A renowned fencer, Sutcliff was said to be formidable with the blade. She thrust first. “La, if it isn’t the esteemed English peacock, Adam Sutcliff!”
Adam looked pained. “Awww, you bruise my heart.”
“But not your august ego.” She parried. “It is beyond bruising.”
His gaze ran over her bodice appreciatively and returned to duel with hers. “Come, come, let bygones be bygones, Eve.”
The implied familiarity in his tone caused Risingh to lift a brow.
Holding his tankard out to the side, Adam executed a short bow. “Governor Risingh, Lord Lieutenant Adam Sutcliff of Our Lord Protector’s Sovereign at your service.”
“The Sovereign – the warship spotted off our bay? It would seem I am besieged by the English tonight.”
“Oh, not besieged, Governor. In fact, General-at-Sea William Craven will doubtless be calling upon you soon – very soon – to pay his respects.”
Her stomach plummeted to her toes.
Adam’s penetrating glance flicked to her. With a certainty, she realized then he knew her identity. Had known it all along. And had betrayed her to William. Why should she expect Adam to have cared about their encounter, after all? To him, after so many female conquests, those hours of intimacy must have seemed inconsequential but sufficiently self-gratifying.
Walls were closing in on her, and she could not breathe. Her vision went cloudy. She picked up her skirts and made to move past the knot of people barring the tall, double doors’ entrance. “I shall leave you two to your diplomatic discussions.”
Despite the buzzing in her ears, she recognized the authoritative voice she next heard and went into instantaneous and uncontrollable shudders.
“I see you found her, Sutcliff,” said William Craven
Then to her, “Your leave-taking will not be necessary, my dear. You are part of the reason – the main reason – I call upon His Excellency.” Backing him up, his retinue of six Ironsides musketeers stood at attention.
Where now to turn? For so long of time she had been running from persecution. But now she was running out of courage. Running out of perseverance. Running out of stamina. Running out of hope.
William made a leg, and said, “Baron Craven of Harrington presents our Lord Protector’s respects, my lord.”
“You are well received, Baron – and I presume from your previous statement you are acquainted with our Mistress Wainwright?”
“Well, actually, she is our Lady Evangeline Bradshaw.” William spared her an inquisitive glance. Expecting what from her? “And she is wanted for treason, for murder, for – ”
Her spine stiffened. “Have you any proof of such slanderous charges, my lord?” It was a slippery slope she was sliding.
“The warrants are aboard ship in my keeping.” His harsh features were taut with both anger and agony. “But if you willingly accompany me back to England, I can guarantee you safe passage and a fair trial.”
Rage contracted her facial muscles. “As my father and brother received?”
Behind them, once again the revelers halted their boisterous festivity; for what could be more entertaining than the spectacle at hand? Even the musicians ceased playing. Speculative murmurs and mutterings flitted around the Banquet Hall.
Risingh smiled. “This is a matter that can be adjudicated forthwith.” He turned his solemnly thoughtful gaze on her. “Do you challenge the baron’s charges?”
The words struggled forth. “I do. Aye, that I do, my lord.”
“And what part of his charges do you deny?”
“Everything. Nothing I have done has been treasonous toward the Commonwealth.”
“She and her family aligned themselves with the late King Charles,” William said, “who the Commonwealth found guilty of treason.”
Her fists knotted. How could she ever have entertained affectionate feelings toward William? “We aligned ourselves with the Hippocratic Oath – to help the sick and abstain from intentional wrongdoing.”
His ferocious gaze turned on her. “Not only did you side with King Charles, but your family did nothing, while the Lord Protectorate’s son lay dying.”
“That is a lie! My brother did all he could, but it was not – ”
Risingh held up a beringed hand. Impatience was clearly etched in the compressed line of his mouth. “Rationalizations are irrelevant. If Baron Craven
can supply a substantiated warrant of your arrest, well – your being a citizen of England – I can do nothing but comply in accordance with the pact Sweden has with England.”
It was as if she had drunk too much wine. She could not comprehend what was afoot. The room was swirling.
Surprising all, John Croxton stepped forward, woolen cap in hand. “With all due respect, my lords, if the Lady is married to a Swiss citizen, then she cannot forcibly be handed over to the English, is that right?”
Risingh said, “I believe the man may have a point, Baron.”
William’s expression was thunderous. “But she is not married to a Swedish citizen.”
“Sire, Peter Erichsson, here,” Croxton gestured behind him with his thumb at the corpulent young man, rubbing his hands anxiously, “would wed the lady in the church, here on the island – before whatever arrest papers could be fetched from the ship. The Reverend Campanius is here for St. Knut’s and could officiate.”
Delighted by this latest turn of events, Gertrude shoved forward with one gloved hand a shambling Peter. He doffed his cap to reveal his flaxen, higgledy-piggledy hair.
Evangeline felt as if the rug had been yanked from beneath her, staggering her. Indeed, she fell back a step, trampling on boots – Sutcliff’s high boots. From behind her, the despicable man steadied and held her shoulders, but she bothered with neither apology nor thanks.
Her frantic thoughts were like hands grasping in the air for other options. Peter was younger than she, both in years and maturity. Further, she was repulsed by him.
But it was more than that. She had been on her own for so long. She would not be trafficked like a movable commodity. Could she surrender her autonomy and the inn she had scratched out of this wilderness? The laws of coverture prohibited a married woman from owning property, even if the ordinary was hers before the marriage.
However, the alternative to marriage with Peter – the executioner’s axe – was, of course, not an option. All of this went through her mind in but the skipping beat of her racing heart. She glanced panicky around the room. The blurred sea of faces presented a formidable barrier to flight. Yet she must have made a move to dart, because Adam’s hands gripped her shoulders tighter.
“I lay claim to this sweet strumpet,” he said. “At least, for the night.”
Among those who understood English, a collective whoosh of inhaled breaths could be heard. Those who could not understand English, nevertheless, perceived a drama such as they had never witnessed in the settlement was taking place. All eyes swerved from her to him.
Astounded, even she, like an owl, swiveled her head around and up to stare at him, aghast. Then she glared at the other men. “Have you asses spared me any honor?”
“You piss-drinking bastard,” William said, springing forward.
Adam glanced inquiringly at Risingh, in tacit recognition that he presided there
Risingh put out a restraining hand. “Prithee, Baron Craven, hear what your countryman has to say.”
Adam’s fingertips pressed once against her right upper arm and then again. “My claim to her supersedes that of the other two, Governor Risingh. I bedded the . . . uhh . . . milady here within the last fortnight. She may even carry my bastard child. Of course, one doesn’t need to post the banns to take the marriage vows with a woman – and God knows many a man chooses to take the vows in front of a comfy, canopied bed with a woman they have no intention of breakfasting with.”
He grinned at Peter. “However, if young Erichsson here still wants her, then one more night of my bedding her won’t make a difference, will it? And, Craven, by the time you would return with your warrant, milady and I will have been done with our pleasuring, and she will be yours – for another one-hundred Dutch guilders. Given into the keeping of the Governor for me.”
“I’ll see you at the bottom of the sea, before I pay you another red cent for her,” William growled.
Adam canted his head to better view her countenance. His own was lively with amusement. “The ultimate choice with whom you spend this night is yours, milady. Marriage with Erichsson, arrest by Craven, or bedded by my illustrious self?”
A reprieve – her choice was obvious. Her only chance of survival was to outwit Adam before William returned with the warrant. The air was so thick with tension she could hardly breathe. The words she gritted were like sand in her teeth. “You should know I prefer you above the other two – just barely.”
Peter wore the resentful expression of a rejected suitor. William’s was baleful. And Adam’s was one of half-mocking amusement. “Then I suggest,” he said, “we repair to the Cock and Bull Tavern for the remainder of what promises to be a highly entertaining night.”
§§ CHAPTER SIX §§
Once again, Evangeline faced Adam in a bedroom, if this, one of the tavern’s four bedrooms, could be designated as such.
Not much larger than a horse stall, the sparse room contained a rope-strung bed overlaid with a straw mattress barely wide enough for two. Three wall pegs for hats and cloaks, topped by a shelf with ceramic pitcher, basin, and chamber pot, completed the room’s furnishings. His russet cloak hung from one peg, along with his hat.
“Another one-hundred guilders?” Her chin jutted and her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. “William had already paid you to find me – and then you had the gall to bed me, as well? Mercy me, aren’t you the opportunist?”
“Well, not quite in that order.” He dribbled wax from the candle stub he held onto the shelf and anchored the candle in it, then he tossed his saddlebags on the warped, pine floor beneath. “And you do recall that it was you who sought me out in my bed,” he added, as nonchalantly as though he were discussing livestock breeding.
“And now this – this latest escapade of yours.” She jabbed her finger at him. “How did you delicately word it before God and the world at Printz Hall tonight?”
But he was not listening. He had gone to the window and unbarred the shutter, opening it only slightly. A rush of cold air fluttered the candle. His and her shadows combined to waver eerily on the wall. He appeared to be intent on the comings and goings of the late-night merrymakers on the street below. Their laughter and good-natured shouts mocked her foul temper.
“A strumpet you called me.” She ranted on, both thoroughly humiliated and, aye, nervous. The hint of danger about him she had perceived at the Virgin Queen Tavern was more pronounced now here, at the Cock and Bull. What had transpired between them at her ordinary had occurred by mutual consent. But this, this was cold-blooded, heartless, and hurtful.
“And next, if I recall correctly, you announced that by the time William returned with his warrant, we will ‘have done with our pleasuring tonight?” She grabbed at the bed’s lumpy pillow and hurled it at him.
With a grin, he moved his shoulder only slightly to dodge the pillow but kept his eye trained below.
“If that is what you are planning,” she gritted, “then you might as well couple with a corpse, for that is all the response you will get from me.”
At this, he shifted his gaze from whatever was outside that elicited his interest to her. His eyes were intent with the same concentration he might use when focusing solely on his fencing foe. “I am tempted to challenge your assertion. However, we have only a few hours left here, and anything trifling or casual would be a waste after what we had Christmas Eve. So, cease your fretting. We have far more important matters to address.”
Her heart stumbled. Had she been wrong? What had happened between them that night, what she had experienced – that intensity and intimacy, relieved by a nigh euphoric feeling of . . . of being where she felt she belonged; of feeling safe, at last; of verging on discovering something vital to one’s well-being . . . had he felt it, as well?
If she was honest with herself, she would have to admit that had it been Peter or William to whom she had lost in that chess game at the Virgin Mary Tavern, she would not have felt obligated to give herself in repayment for the s
econd chance, which Adam had given her.
A queer eager expectancy swept over her when he was near. She had fallen hard for him, mayhap from that first moment she had set eyes on him, when she had opened the Virgin Queen’s door to admit him, but most certainly at that tender moment he had cradled Robbie in his arms.
“This land purchase you have undertaken for that religious, sadistic bigot Cromwell,” she asked, “can it be worth so much that you would risk thwarting Craven, even risk losing your life?”
He did not look at her again, only continued to watch the street below, but the rich timbre of his voice betrayed the gravity of his intent. “To regain Sutcliff Manor and my family’s estates and all the vital memories bound up with them is life itself to me.”
“That I can understand,” she murmured. “To have my home once again with its many precious memories of my father and brother . . . rather than being estranged in this God forsaken wilderness . . . ”
At that thought she paused and looked up at him. “What happened to your family estates?”
“They were confiscated after King Charles had ordered my father’s execution – and I, I was bound for Barbados.”
That close, she noted the burn’s ruddy blister on his cheek had healed to a mere pinkish speck. “So, we have that in common. The loss of a father due to an execution. Except the executioner’s orders were issued from opposing regimes.”
“We have nothing in common.” He closed the shutters and headed for the door, pausing to look over his shoulder at her. He grinned affably, but faint lines of fatigue bracketed the outer corners of his eyes and mouth. “I will return shortly. I know plotting a flight is on that clever mind of yours. But William has posted musketeers from his Regiment of Foot below.”
Eyes narrowed, she watched as he closed the door behind him. Then, it was as if the whole room lit up with phosphorus. She saw with horrible clarity that her quick thinking, on which she prided herself, had lagged behind his.
He cared not for her, nor was he greatly interested in bedding her; no, he was not even interested in the paltry 100 guilders William would pay for her deliverance. Paltry in comparison with what Adam stood to gain in the long term. He still needed her to complete the land purchase to seal his position with Cromwell and regain his family’s estates.
AT FIRST SIGHT: A Novella Page 6