Ignoring the small branches that tugged at their clothes, they rode for the next fifteen minutes without talking. As soon as they were in the barn they unsaddled the horses and put them in stalls for the night. Finally, when all the work was done, Abigail turned to Samuel.
“You make a fine Satan,” she said, laughter bubbling beneath her words.
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.” He brushed a twig from her hair, his fingers lingering to trace her cheek. He’d never tell her, but he was more than a little relieved that her “magic” had not actually conjured up a hoofed man with a pitchfork tail.
“Believe me, it is.”
“I’d better wash my face and hurry to the Graysons’ home. I wonder what story Silas will have for me about his visitor?”
Abigail detected the worry in his voice. “How will you explain where you’ve been?” It was a matter she’d failed to think through. The idea that she might have put Samuel in danger made her heart beat faster.
“I’ll think of something, but I have to get this charcoal off my face. It’s more than a little incriminating.”
Abigail got the bucket of water she’d left in the barn and the soap and cloth. She lit a small lantern and then sat on her milking stool as Samuel removed the cloak and his shirt and bent to wash his face.
The lamplight played across the muscles of his back as he leaned over the water. The night had gone better than even she had expected, but her mind was not on Silas Grayson and the effects of his unexpected visit from the Dark One. Instead she found herself remembering the way Samuel’s lips had felt on hers. His kiss had been sensual, tender yet hungry. She was tempted to go over and help him wash away the evidence of his adventure, but she knew that he had to leave immediately. Once she touched him, she wouldn’t want him to go.
He dried his face on the towel she handed him and brushed the damp hair from his forehead. “You’re very quiet. Do you regret our actions?”
“No.” She stood. “I regret that we’re here, in a place where we don’t belong. I can’t help but wonder what we would be doing if we were back in Washington in 1995.”
Samuel held the towel bunched in front of him. He wanted to reach for her, to pull her into his arms and kiss her lips, which were slightly parted with the desire he saw so clearly in her eyes. Was she a witch? At the moment he didn’t care.
Abigail broke the tension by handing him his shirt. “You need to go,” she whispered, her voice husky. “You’d be shocked by my thoughts.”
He took the shirt, his fingers catching hers and holding them. “I find I like to be shocked by you.”
Abigail wanted nothing more than to feel his arms around her, to surrender to his kiss, but there was no time. “Then hurry to the Graysons’ so we can both remain free to shock each other another day.” She held herself away from him by sheer will. They had played the scene successfully so far. It was dangerous to tempt fate by making any mistakes.
In a moment Samuel had his shirt and coat on. Abigail blew out the lantern and together they crossed the moonlit stretch of yard to her house.
“Tomorrow? There’s a secluded area about a half mile along the eastern bank of the Mill Pond.”
“At four,” Abigail said. “You really can’t be seen here, Samuel. It could mean your life if Silas persists in accusing me.”
“At four.” He turned and walked away, his long stride taking him into the darkness in only a moment.
Opening her door, Abigail slipped inside and lowered the heavy wooden bar. Now that the evening was over, now that Samuel was gone, she felt her knees weaken with fear as she sat down in a chair beside the cold fireplace. Although she’d hidden her deepest fears from Samuel, she was no fool. She had just played her hand at a game where the stakes were high. Very high. If her luck held, she’d bought herself a reprieve from Silas Grayson’s unexplained wrath. If she’d failed, the next morning could bring a summons to the magistrate and a charge of witchcraft against her.
THE MORNING HOURS dragged by with a slowness that made Abigail want to scream. She was afraid to go into the village proper to see what the news was. No one had come walking down the road whom she could ask for news. She tended her sheep and horses, milked Sally, and waited for four o’clock.
Unable to eat, she cooked lobster for Familiar and then sat with him on her lap and waited for the afternoon to pass. The black cat seemed restless, too, and though he asked repeatedly to go outside, she refused to open the door.
“They’ll string you up, foolish cat,” she cautioned him. He didn’t argue, but he sat by the door, waiting.
The road outside was bare of all traffic. Neither human nor animal came along to catch Abigail’s eager eye. It was as if everyone had gone into town—and intended to stay.
At last the sun began to shift down the western sky, and Abigail picked up the picnic basket she’d packed with such care. She had to hear what Samuel had learned, but almost as important, she had to see Samuel. The only pleasant moments of the day had been while she’d cut the bread and cheese and prepared the small delicacies that she’d found in her kitchen. There were jam and cookies, and an intriguingly dusty bottle that contained some type of homemade wine. She’d buried that in the bottom of the basket knowing that such liquor would be in the top “sin” category of the Puritan village. Well, she intended to drink the wine, and indulge in a few tempestuous kisses with Samuel. To hell with the 1692 values of a bunch of drab men and women.
“Familiar, you stay put,” she ordered the cat. It wasn’t that she didn’t want his company, but she was afraid that he’d stray out in public and someone would see him. As smart as he was, he wouldn’t stand a chance with an entire village chasing him, intent on killing him.
She slipped quickly through the door, taking care not to let him out. She hesitated, wondering if she should put him in the safe hiding place behind the chimney. Surely he would stay out of the windows. He’d displayed incredible good sense so far.
Eager to meet Samuel, she hurried around the house and to the old trail they’d ridden the night before. The longer she stayed off the main road, the less her chance of running into Silas Grayson or one of his finger-pointing minions.
The Mill Pond and Courtney’s Hollow were some three miles from her house. It would be a good forty-five-minute walk in Reeboks and gym shorts. In tight underclothes, layers of petticoats and a heavy flannel dress, Abigail found that she had to stop and rest every half mile. By the time she got there she would be a hot, sweaty mess. She had the impulse to rip off her clothes. The underwear—any one particular layer of it—was heavy enough to hide her body, but if she were caught traveling down the road in her chemise, they’d lynch her without a trial. She tried to find the humor in the situation and keep moving.
At the end of the road was Samuel. That was what she had to keep in mind. Samuel and news about what effect their prank had had on the witch trials.
At last the trail fed back into the main road and Abigail forced herself to ignore the sweat trickling down her back and walked faster. It was almost July, and the days would get hotter and hotter. She could only wish that if she were going to be forced to wear such clothes that she could have visited 1692 in the winter months instead of summer. But she hadn’t been given a choice.
She passed the time by trying to remember who she was in 1995. What did she do for a living? An artist, perhaps? A teacher? Maybe a mother? She felt a tickle of certainty that she was not a mother. Surely if she had children of her own, even at a distance of three hundred years, she’d be able to remember. Maybe a jeweler? She remembered the crystal pendant and the fine craftsmanship that had gone into it. Yes, she was a jeweler. Too bad the women of Salem had no use for gewgaws and trinkets.
She saw the pond up ahead and increased her lagging footsteps. She was still half an hour early to meet Samuel. Although she’d never been to the pond before, she found the secluded place he’d mentioned.
She spread out the linen cloth and the food item
s. There was still time to kill, and Abigail cast a longing look at the cool water. She had no swimsuit, but even if she did, it would still be thought indecent. At the idea of herself in a bikini in a crowd of Salem Villagers, she chuckled out loud.
Even as she tried to mentally talk herself out of it, her fingers worked the coarse buttons of her dress. She stepped out of it, then the heavy cotton slip, then another, until there was only the plain cloth of her last layer of underclothing. Stepping out of the poorly fitting clogs she’d found to wear, she stepped into the water.
It was an initial shock, but in six strides she was shoulder deep and feeling as if she’d been set free. The water was cold, but not unbearable. She bobbed down into the water, executing an underwater flip and then surfacing to shoot a stream of water into the air. She hadn’t felt so carefree or childlike since she’d awakened to find herself in the middle of the witch trials.
For the first time since her arrival she could see the beauty of the area. The land was harsh and unforgiving in some regards, but it was also starkly beautiful. She could only imagine the fall when the leaves would turn into glorious reds and yellows.
She did several breaststrokes away from the shore and then struck out in a crawl. The exercise in the bracing water made every cell of her body tingle with life. But she knew her time was short. She had to get out and get dressed before Samuel arrived.
Any other man might relish the idea of finding her swimming in her underwear, but not Samuel. He’d be scandalized—and tempted. She burst to the surface of the lake, laughing.
“I know for certain you’re a witch. Witches can’t be drowned.”
At the sound of Samuel’s serious voice she looked up at the shore. He was sitting on the picnic cloth and watching her, her clothing in his hands.
She swam forward enough to put her feet on solid ground but to keep her body beneath the shield of water. “I meant to be out and dressed before you got here.”
“You swim like one of the sea animals. I’ve never seen a woman with such grace.”
Abigail felt a glow of pleasure at his words, but since she’d stopped swimming, the water was becoming chillier and chillier. “In 1995 almost everyone knows how to swim.”
“Do you have leeches in 1995?”
“Leeches?” Even the sound of the word was ugly. “Those bloodsucking parasites that look like snails?”
“Those are the ones.” His smile was slow. “The waters of the Mill Pond are famous for them. We capture them and sell them to the apothecaries all over the New World. Summer is the best time to catch them.”
Abigail didn’t bother to scream. She ran out of the lake heedless of the fact that her underwear, long and cotton though it was, clung to every curve.
Samuel stood, still holding her clothes. “Maybe I should check you for leeches,” he said, walking toward her.
“Oh, God, make sure those terrible things aren’t on me.” Abigail was searching her arms and legs, but she couldn’t see her neck or back.
“Take it easy.” Samuel lifted her sodden hair and looked at her back and shoulders. He turned her around, his eyes lingering on her breasts, which showed clearly under the wet cloth. “I think I need a closer look.” He leaned down and kissed her neck, his hands moving down her ribs to her waist. With sudden desire, he pulled her against him.
Abigail forgot the leeches and the cold wetness of her clothes. She forgot everything except the hot desire that Samuel Truesdale stoked in her. If she had thought she would scandalize him, she’d been mistaken. His reluctance to participate in sinful behavior had flown right out the window.
With his fingers at the laces of her clothes she knew a rush of need so strong she felt her knees weaken. Samuel took that as a signal to lead her over to the linen cloth that had been intended to serve as a table. It would serve as well for a bed.
“What about the leeches?” she asked. Once his lips were off hers, the concern returned.
“I was teasing,” he said.
“There are no leeches in the pond?”
“Well, there might be, but I haven’t seen any.”
“You lied.” Abigail was astonished.
“I fibbed,” he said, pulling her down onto the cloth beside him. “I thought it was the modern thing to do.”
“For what purpose did you fib?”
“I wanted you to come out of the water. I wanted to see what you looked like, but I didn’t want to tell you.”
Abigail saw the smile on his lips. He was hungry for her, but he was also amused, and a little sad. “But you’re telling me now.”
“I know. But now I’m positive you’ve bewitched me so it doesn’t matter if I confess my carnal desires to you. I’m already yours, to command to do your slightest wish. The way I figure it, I’m only doing what you have required me to do.”
She placed her hand on his chest where she could feel his heart beating. “Do you really believe I’ve bewitched you?” She didn’t want him to believe that. Was that the sadness in his eyes?
Samuel kissed her lips lightly. “No, I don’t believe that. Not really. But it makes it easier for me to touch you, like this, without regard for the consequences. If anyone saw us, Abigail if they suspected…” He kissed her again. “Are these not considerations in the world of 1995? Perhaps it would be best for us to go there, because I think I want to spend a great deal of time doing these things with you.”
Abigail laughed. “You are an unusual man, Samuel. Sometimes I’m positive you’re from the future, and then I think maybe I’m mistaken. I don’t want to…” She searched for the right word. “Corrupt you with modern ways and thoughts if you really belong here.”
“Corrupt me,” he commanded. “Now.”
He brought his lips to hers and his hands began again the exploration of her laces.
Abigail was only too willing to oblige. The buttons of his coat and shirt were thick and hard to work, but her fingers were determined. Samuel gave a soft sigh of pleasure as she finally managed to unbutton his shirt and free it from his pants. The release of her laces sent a rush of anticipation through her.
Her hand brushed along the flat planes of his stomach, giving him a hint of what was to come. Locked together in a kiss, she could feel his involuntary shudder of pleasure.
Abigail was completely unprepared for the shriek of pure terror that came not a hundred yards away. She sat up, her undergarments falling around her shoulders, as Samuel almost leapt to his feet, his shirttail flapping behind him.
“Please! Not the pond! Please! I cannot swim!”
The woman’s voice was pitiful, and Abigail reached for her laces and then her petticoats. She had no doubt what was happening. The poor woman, Elizabeth Adams, was about to be put to the water test for witchcraft.
“Samuel!” She looked up at him, afraid for Elizabeth, not for herself. “What can we do?”
He was already dressed and bending to gather up the picnic supplies. “I don’t know what we can do,” he answered, unable to meet her gaze.
“We can’t let them tie her to the dunking stool. You know as well as I that she’ll drown.”
“And be proven innocent,” Samuel said bitterly. He turned away from her abruptly as he tried to regain his temper. “It is unjust. And I don’t know how to stop it.”
From thirty feet in the woods came the sound of an enraged animal. Abigail, her arms caught in her dress, jumped to her feet.
With a quick jerk, Samuel pulled her dress down and freed her hands and head. “Let’s get out of here.” It was clear from his tone of voice that he knew exactly what was happening.
“What was that noise?” Abigail demanded.
“It sounded a great deal like an angry bear. A very angry bear. And it’s coming this way.” His prediction was punctuated by the sound of an animal crashing through the brush.
“Samuel.” Abigail held her ground and pointed just as a young bear cub came streaking out of the woods. Instead of anger, the three-hundred-pound cub wa
s squalling with terror. Caught up in its own fears, it ran by Abigail and Samuel without giving them a look. Five seconds later a large black cat leapt out of the bushes and swatted the cub on the rump, sending it shooting forward with another fearsome cry of horror.
“It’s your cat!” Samuel was amazed. “He’s chasing the bear cub.”
From the woods came the sound of a much bigger, more furious roar. “Sweet Moses,” Abigail said. “It’s the mother bear! She’s coming after her baby.” She grabbed the picnic basket and began hunting for something the mother bear might eat.
“I wouldn’t worry about feeding her,” Samuel said. “It’s the cub she wants. And Familiar’s hide, I’d say.”
Abigail turned back to glance in the direction where Elizabeth was about to meet her fate. It was exactly the same direction Familiar had been herding the cub. Was it possible? “Samuel, the cat is herding the cub over to disrupt the dunking.”
“But the mother bear will follow! And Elizabeth’s a prisoner!” Samuel took her hand and they darted into the cool shade of the woods as they made their way around the edge of the pond, careful to stay out of sight of the witch-hunters and out of sight of the mama bear.
They arrived just as Familiar drove the cub straight out of the woods. The young grizzly squalled in outrage and fear—and was immediately answered by the mama bear, who had gained ground. She came out of the woods, charging forward until she was within twenty yards of the terrified humans. Her eyes red with anger, she stood on her hind legs, a good three feet taller than the men, and swatted her deadly claws in the air in front of her.
The crowd that had gathered around the accused witch seemed partially paralyzed. They stood frozen, then slowly began to back away, never taking their gazes from the towering bear who roared her fury. Only Elizabeth, who was tied to the dunking stool, was unable to move.
Abigail scanned the crowd for Silas Grayson, but he was noticeably absent. It appeared that Ezekiel Lecter had taken over as lead persecutor of the witches, followed by several other men, among them, Mary Wadsworth’s father.
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