The despair of last night was gone, replaced by a steely determination to seize whatever joy she could from her life in this dreary colony. Unlike Simon and Travesty, she wouldn’t be set free at the end of her indenture. She was bound to John for life, and the prospect of living that life filled her with dread that gnawed at her insides and hollowed her heart until it felt like an empty shell, completely incapable of feeling anything other than burning rage.
Mary went back to the creek several times over the next two weeks, but Walker was never there. The strip of fabric hung limply on the branch, its frayed edges as ragged as Mary’s patience. She felt more despondent with every passing day, certain she would spend the rest of her days in this remote cabin with no one to talk to, and not even a child to love. She’d been married to John for nearly three months now, but there was no sign of a child growing in her womb. She bled regularly, and every time she got her courses, she was torn between relief and disappointment. The colony was a strange place, the settlement soulless without children or domestic animals. It was the home of tired, frustrated, rugged men, who’d lost whatever veneer of civility they’d once had after years of hard work and no female company.
Even the ruling class, which included the governor, the secretary, the marshal, and the reverend, had acquired something feral in this wild land. The governor could be seen striding about in nothing but his shirt and breeches, and the marshal was always on edge, his eyes constantly scanning his surroundings for signs of trouble. It would take no more than a spark of hostility to ignite a war in this dung heap of a colony. No wonder the Virginia Company was sending out women. The women were the water to the flame, coming to douse the passions that were running high and were desperate to be satisfied.
When the next dozen brides arrived, the men stood about as the ship docked, tense and grim-faced, terrified that the woman assigned to them might have died during the crossing. It happened often enough. Mary, who happened to be in Jamestown for Sunday service, watched, enthralled, as the tired, dirty women came trudging into the settlement, led by a well-dressed man. He didn’t appear to be the quartermaster and carried a curious wooden case that had many tiny drawers which were held shut by lengths of rope that encircled the polished wood.
Governor Yeardley came forward and shook the man’s hand. “Glad to have you with us, Doctor. We’re a hardy bunch, we’ve had to be, but having a physician among us is a step toward a civilized society and not just a settlement carved out of the wilderness. Secretary Hunt has prepared a surgery for you. I hope you’ll find it to your liking.”
“Thank you, Governor. I’m sure it will be most satisfactory.”
The doctor was not yet thirty, in Mary’s estimation. He had dark hair, and eyes so light, they reminded her of a sheet of ice reflecting the pale winter sky. He wore a neatly trimmed beard and was somberly dressed in russet and brown velvet. He was as tall as the Governor, who stood several inches above most men. The doctor was lean, and his calves, clad in remarkably clean hose of mustard yellow, were well muscled. Several women threw him admiring glances, but he ignored them and urged the ladies to adjourn into the church, where the next spate of marriages would take place shortly. The prospective grooms were already inside, waiting anxiously to face their future.
“He’s a handsome devil,” Betsy said softly as she came up behind Mary and Nell, who’d been allotted a few minutes by their husbands to socialize before returning to their wagons for the ride home.
“With an impressive codpiece,” Nell added, her eyebrows nearly disappearing beneath the rim of her cap.
“Roll up a stocking and stuff it into your man’s breeches,” Betsy advised. “He’ll be just as impressive.”
Nell giggled. “My Tom wasn’t blessed with razor-sharp intellect, but he doesn’t lack distinction in that area.”
“Lucky you,” Betsy replied. “My husband’s cod is more of a goldfish.” Betsy glanced toward Mary and smiled. “You must really love your John, Mary,” she said.
“Why do you say that?” Mary asked, stunned by Betsy’s observation. Her gaze strayed to John, who was engaged in conversation with several men, one of them being the marshal. Simon stood off to the side, his gaze fixed on Secretary Hunt. He seemed to be studying the man as he welcomed the doctor to the colony and led him toward his new quarters. The secretary was dressed in a suit of dark blue velvet, the fine fabric set off to perfection with a stiff white ruff and hose of cream silk. He wasn’t a handsome man, but he exuded an air of competence and authority. Simon saw her watching and looked away, fixing his glance on Travesty, who stood alone in the shade of a tree.
“You revere him. It must be true love,” Betsy said, giving Mary a knowing smile.
“Come, Betsy. Leave Mary be. I think her pretty blush is admission enough,” Nell said, saving Mary the need to reply. “John is a fine man, and a caring husband.”
Mary glanced away, amazed by how far off the mark her friends were. It’d been several weeks, but she still couldn’t get the image of John and Simon out of her mind. She’d endured John’s attentions several times since that night, and thought she’d be sick with disgust. She didn’t blush because she was in love with her husband. She blushed because she was consumed with shame.
“Come, it’s time we went home,” John said as he startled Mary out of her reverie. “You’ve had your amusement for the day. Good day to you, ladies.”
Mary followed John obediently as they walked past the group of newly arrived women. Had she looked that bedraggled when she came off the ship? Had she had the same light of hope in her eyes? She was cleaner and better dressed now, certainly better fed, but the hope had ebbed away day by day, replaced by a bitterness she hadn’t realized she was capable of.
Chapter 32
February 2015
London, England
“Quiche Florentine,” Logan announced, handing Quinn a covered dish as he entered the flat. “Compliments of Colin. He’s taking a class, you know, and wielding a kitchen knife with as great a precision as he wields his scalpel at the mortuary. It’s so sexy,” Logan said with a wicked grin. “Every time he cooks a chicken, I almost expect him to give me the cause of death and enlighten me on the health of the victim before its untimely demise.”
“Yes, he did mention it,” Quinn said, returning Logan’s smile. “Thank you. Would you like some? It’s nearly lunchtime, or brunch, as Seth likes to call it.”
“Thanks, but I’m all quiched out. A cuppa would be nice though. It’s cold out there.”
Quinn filled the kettle and set it on the hob while Logan divested himself of his coat and came to join her in the kitchen. “Where’s my gorgeous nephew?”
“Sleeping. He’ll wake up the minute I pour myself a cup of tea,” Quinn said. “It’s like he has a built-in sensor. I have yet to enjoy a hot beverage.”
Logan settled himself at the kitchen table and leaned back in his chair, looking nonchalant, but Quinn could see the worry in his eyes. Now that she knew him better, she wasn’t buying into his carefree act. It was all smoke and mirrors. Quinn took out two mugs and a bottle of milk, going about her tasks silently. Logan needed to talk, and like most people, he’d jump into the breach to fill the silence.
“Have you heard from Rhys?” Logan finally asked.
Quinn sighed with frustration. “Yes, but he told me exactly nothing. He sent me a brief email two days ago, telling me that he’s all right and busy pursuing various leads.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Neither do I, but he hasn’t replied to my last email, nor is he answering my calls,” Quinn complained.
“You think he’s avoiding you?”
“Yes, I do.” She hadn’t realized it was true until she said it out loud. He couldn’t blame his lack of communication on a spotty signal or no access to the internet. He’d managed to email not only her, but his PA Rhiannan Makely, who’d been in touch with Quinn, per Rhys’s instructions, as well as several other coworkers who
worked on the Echoes from the Past series. Quinn’s calls to Rhys went directly to voicemail, but his mobile was operational since he’d upgraded his plan before leaving for Afghanistan. Rhys was purposely ghosting her.
Logan nodded slowly. “Right. Did he say when he was coming back?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“If Jo were dead, Rhys would have no reason to hang around Kabul. Since he’s not on his way back, he must have unearthed some useful information.”
“You think?” Quinn asked, her voice buoyant with hope.
“Look, Quinn, if Jo were that easy to locate, Rhys would have found her by now. The fact that he is still there after a fortnight means he believes there’s a chance. Do you think she might have been kidnapped? For ransom, I mean.”
“Generally, when a person is kidnapped for ransom, a demand for payment is made. As far as I know, no one has come forward.”
“Perhaps a demand was made of someone you’re not aware of,” Logan theorized.
“According to Charles Sutcliffe, Jo’s agent, who’s known her for years, Jo is something of a lone wolf. There’s no husband or boyfriend, and no close friends that he knows of. He’s the most likely person a kidnapper would contact.”
“And he hasn’t heard anything.”
“No, he hasn’t.”
The kettle boiled and Quinn made the tea. She’d just added milk to hers when a thin wail erupted from the baby monitor. “Right on cue,” Quinn said with an affectionate smile, and set down her mug.
She returned a few moments later, Alex in her arms. He was still sleepy, his eyes hooded as he took in the new arrival. For a second, he looked as if he were about to cry, but seemed to change his mind as he pressed his face into Quinn’s shoulder.
“He’s hungry,” Quinn said.
“May I feed him? Mum said you’ve stopped nursing,” Logan added.
He reached out and Quinn handed him the baby, who eyed Logan suspiciously until he noticed the tattoos on Logan’s forearm. The interesting shapes and colors distracted Alex long enough for Quinn to take out a bottle from the fridge, warm it up in the microwave, test the temperature on her hand, and pass it to Logan. Alex forgot his misgivings as soon as he saw his food.
Logan settled the baby comfortably on his lap and gave him the bottle. “There, you can now enjoy your tea.”
“Thank you,” Quinn replied as she took a sip of her still-hot tea. “Wonderful.”
“How are you feeling?” Logan asked.
“I’m all right. Why?”
“I don’t know. You look a bit peaky.”
“I’ve been a little off, to be honest, but I think it’s just stress.”
“Off in what way?” Logan asked, instantly switching from brother to nurse.
“Tired, queasy, weepy, moody. I have an aversion to certain foods. Nothing I haven’t felt before.”
Logan’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. Quinn knew what he was thinking, and she shook her head.
“I’m not.”
“I think you should pay a visit to the clinic, nonetheless. Better safe than sorry.”
“I’m all right, Logan. Really. Don’t worry about me.”
“I think I’m just on high alert these days, what with Jude and all,” Logan replied. “Of course, you know best.”
“How is Jude? He came round to see me last week.”
Logan sighed and tilted his head, as if weighing his answer. “All things considered, I think he’s doing well. What would make his recovery easier is a bit of fun, a pleasant distraction, but getting involved in a new relationship is not advisable so soon after starting the recovery program.”
“Why is that? Don’t you think a new girlfriend might help raise his spirits and give him something to look forward to at the end of the day? I know he misses Bridget.”
Logan shook his head. “A new relationship can become an emotional crutch or a trigger. It can lead to him spiraling out of control. Jude is not ready for any emotional upheaval. What he needs is a comfortable routine and a strong support system, which we are trying to provide. He hates his job at the hospital, but having him there allows me to keep an eye on him, even when I’m not on shift.”
“You mean you have spies?” Quinn asked, smiling over the rim of her mug.
“On every floor,” Logan replied. He set down the bottle and lifted Alex onto his shoulder, patting his back gently until Alex belched.
“Hey, you’re good at this.”
“I love children. Maybe someday…”
“Have you and Colin talked about it?” Quinn asked. It had never occurred to her that Logan and Colin might want to start a family, but these days it was very possible for two gay men to have a child.
“We have.” Logan sat Alex up in his lap and reached for his own mug of tea, which had now cooled. “Colin would like to adopt. He says there are too many unwanted children in this world, and if we could help even one of them, it would make him happy.”
“And you?”
“I’d like a biological child. We could find a surrogate.”
“Is Colin open to that?”
“He wouldn’t refuse me the chance to become a father, but I think, on some level, he would feel like I would be more of a parent to that child than he would be. Adopting a child would put us on equal footing.”
“There is that,” Quinn agreed.
Logan took a sip of tea and made a face. “Stone cold.”
“I’ll make you a fresh cup.”
“Don’t bother. I have to get going. I just missed you, that’s all,” he added shyly.
“I missed you too, Logan.” Quinn set down her empty mug and came up behind Logan, putting her arms around him. “I love that you’re in my life.”
Logan leaned back against her and covered her hand with his own. There was no need to say anything. They were thrilled to have found each other, but now the specter of Jo loomed over them, reminding them that they might lose their sister before having found her.
Chapter 33
February 2015
Kabul, Afghanistan
It took several days to finally get an appointment with someone at Camp Eggers, a U.S. Military facility in Kabul. Rhys was issued a visitor’s pass at the gate and had to navigate through several checkpoints before being finally admitted into the inner sanctum and allowed to meet with a two-star general, who hopefully had the power and, more importantly, the desire to help him.
Rhys was ushered into a waiting room and then invited into a utilitarian office dominated by a large desk and several cabinets. The papers on the desk were organized into neat piles, the exposed wood surface gleaming with polish. General Hewitt was a tall, trim man with the bronzed skin of someone who’d spent time in the field, and the gray hair of someone who’d lived to tell about it. His dark eyes gave nothing away as his gaze followed Rhys’s approach.
“Mr. Morgan,” the general said as he invited Rhys to sit down. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee…or tea?” he added, perhaps recalling that Rhys was British.
“Coffee, please,” Rhys replied. He tried to relax, but his injuries were paining him, especially once he lowered himself into the hard chair. It’d been several days since the attack and his bruises were beginning to turn a greenish yellow, a vast improvement on the angry black and blue of the morning after the beating, but his ribs still ached every time he took a deep breath, and his lower back was sensitive to the touch.
“So, what does the BBC want with us?” the general asked once the coffee had been served by his assistant. “I hear you pulled quite a few strings to get an appointment.”
“I’m here on a personal matter, General.”
“Oh?” General Hewitt leaned back in his chair, his dark gaze fixed on Rhys. He had the air of a man who was about to deny any request made of him, no matter how insignificant.
“General Hewitt, on December sixteenth, a young man by the name of Ali Khan was brought to the Cure Hospital of Kabul. He’d been severely injured when he drove ove
r an IED. He was brought in by American military personnel.”
“We don’t treat civilians at military facilities,” the general replied. “Protocol was followed.”
“I’ve no doubt; however, Ali was a guide for a British photojournalist. Her name is Jo Turing. I checked with all the other hospitals in Kabul and no British woman was brought in around that time, alive or dead.”
“I see. Was she one of yours?”
Rhys nodded. “If your troops came across Ali, chances are they also found Jo. I need to discover what happened to her, sir. For the sake of her family. If she’s deceased, then I would like to take her remains back to England, where she can be laid to rest by those who love her.”
General Hewitt laced his fingers in front of him and stared at Rhys. Whatever he had been expecting to hear, it obviously wasn’t a plea for remains. “Mr. Morgan, if you leave your contact information with my assistant, I will investigate and have someone get back to you.”
Rhys was about to protest, when the general held up his hand. “Mr. Morgan, you have my word. I will make inquiries. It might take a few days, but you will be hearing back from this office.”
“Thank you, General Hewitt,” Rhys said as he got up to leave and accepted the general’s outstretched hand. “I will wait to hear from you.”
“You will.”
Rhys was promptly escorted from the building and walked toward the gate by an armed guard, who remained in place until Rhys got into the Jeep and drove away. There wasn’t much for him to do but return to the hotel and await word from Camp Eggers.
Rhys left the car in the car park and entered the hotel, his eyes straying to the Internet Café sign in the foyer. He knew Quinn was going mad with worry, but he’d emailed her once, telling her that he was well and following Jo’s trail, and hadn’t contacted her since. Gouging out his own eyes was more appealing than telling Quinn that Jo was most likely dead, but he had to prepare her for the news that was sure to be confirmed in a few days’ time.
The Condemned (Echoes from the Past Book 6) Page 21