A Newfound Land (28 page)

“Okay?” she asked after a long while, tilting her head back to regard him.

He nodded, struggling with his boots.

“God, I’ve missed you,” she said.

He threw her a look, thinking she was right bonny in only her shift and her cloak.

“Here I am.” He reclined against the wall. “Have your way with me, woman.”

She laughed, placing a hand on his crotch. His cock swelled under her touch, and he spread his legs for her, closing his eyes as her deft, strong fingers caressed him through the heavy cloth of his breeches. She had a good hand, his wife, and his member stretched and preened, warmth pooling in his loins.

The water came to the boil, and Alex rose and retook her hand, leaving him bereft. She filled the wooden tub and steam enveloped them, the scents of crushed lavender and rosemary making him sniff in appreciation.

“Come here.” Alex beckoned, and he complied, shedding clothes in his wake. Hot water sent painful tingles through his cold extremities, his skin going from white to bright red in a matter of seconds. His wife knelt by the tub, dipped the washcloth and began washing him. Hands, shoulders, stomach...he sat forward to give her better access to his back. Her arms came round his neck, her mouth leaving a series of soft imprints down the side of his face. The washcloth travelled over his chest. She repeated the movement, but this time she rubbed the wet cloth over his left nipple. It hardened into a miniature pebble.

“Close your eyes,” she murmured. He did, and the cloth traced the scars decorating his front, stopping for a while to inspect his bruised ribs.

“What’s this?”

“I fell off my horse.” Albeit with a little help… He grimaced, shoving the unwelcome images of the Burley brothers away from him.

“You fell?” She sounded incredulous.

“Not now; we can talk about that later. Go back to your work, lass.”

“My work?” She kissed his shoulder. “Aye, aye, sir.” Slowly, she dragged the cloth down his front to his privates. The cloth stroked his crotch, his balls. He opened his eyes.

“Close them.” She stilled her hand. He closed his eyes. Her tongue flicked against his lips, but when he opened his mouth in expectation of more she laughed. The washcloth on his member, wrapped around him as she moved her hand up and down, and Matthew groaned, lifting his buttocks off the bottom. That tongue again, now on his chest, her mouth closing round his right nipple. Teeth nibbled him, her grip on his cock tightened, and he opened his eyes again.

“Kiss me, wife.”

Alex brushed her lips against his.

“I said kiss me,” he growled.

“What, like this?” She took hold of his ears, holding him still as her lips moved against his. He raised a hand to her head and kissed her back, his tongue invading her mouth. She spluttered and tried to rear back. Matthew took a firm grip of her waist and pulled her into the tub.

Alex gasped. He kissed her again. Her wet shift clung to her skin, outlining her breasts, her swelling belly. His woman. He suckled her nipple through the sheer linen, and her mouth fell open, hands fluttering around his head. Blood rushed through his body, his pulse pounding loudly in his temple. His cock thudded, his balls near on ached. So many weeks without her, so many nights longing for her warmth. He gripped her round arse and lifted her on top. With a little sigh, she took him inside. He lay still, she moved – up and down, up, up, down. Alex leaned over him, her eyes burning into his.

“Welcome home,” she said. “Welcome home to me!”

Chapter 33

“For God’s sake, Alex, you’re what? Seven months pregnant? Let me do this, okay?” Magnus snatched the spade from her.

“For God’s sake, Magnus, you’re what? Seventy-two and with brain cancer? I can do this myself,” she bit back, attempting to take the spade off him. She scraped one clog off against the other to dislodge the damp earth that had gotten stuck underneath and inspected her little kingdom. Magnus began to laugh, but insisted that she wasn’t doing any more digging.

“You know Matthew would agree with me, so no digging. You have sons to help you if you consider me too decrepit.”

“Decrepit? With the amount of food you put away, how can anyone consider you anything but hale and hearty?” Mrs Parson made an amused sound and bent down to inspect the lavender bushes.

“Look who’s talking. It’s not as if you live off salad leaves and water, is it?” Magnus extended his hand to help Mrs Parson straighten back up. “I’ll take the girls with me and go nettle hunting. I’m sick of cabbage and wrinkled carrots.”

“That makes two of us.” Alex waved him off.

“How can he eat so much and dwindle as quickly as he does?” Alex asked Mrs Parson once Magnus was out of earshot. The last few weeks had tinged Magnus’ skin a permanent grey due to fatigue and illness.

“It eats him from within, and I think he’s in constant pain.”

“How much longer do you think?”

Mrs Parson muttered that she had no notion but thought it doubtful he would live over the summer.

Alex looked in the direction of their little graveyard, and a whisper of cold crawled up her spine.

Increasingly, Magnus began escaping into the woods, ostensibly to collect nettles, or check on his maple trees. He’d spent the winter carving a number of wooden spouts and now had several trees from which he was collecting sap. In reality, he wanted to be alone, and during the long walks he took mental stock of his life, from those early years of protected childhood in the far north to these last few years in a day and age he shouldn’t be in. Sometimes he spoke to Matthew about God, amazed and reassured by Matthew’s bone-deep conviction that God did indeed exist.

“Do you truly believe that you’ll go on living after you’re dead?” Magnus said.

Matthew looked down at his long legs and inspected his hands. “Not in this form, and I’ll find it a great loss not to have carnal knowledge of my wife in the hereafter, but aye, I do believe that somehow we will still be here.” He looked up at the spring sky and pointed at a spot high up above. “Somewhere up there, so that I can peek at my bairns from time to time.”

“...so that’s where I’ll be, I hope,” Magnus said to Jacob some days later, pointing at the sky.

“Like Rachel.” Jacob nodded. “You’ll like Rachel, I think. I don’t truly recall her, but I know she was a high-spirited lass. Like Mama, Da says, and then he laughs.”

“I’m sure I will.” From above came the honking of a V-shaped flight formation and they craned their heads back to look at the geese.

“Every year they fly all the way back north,” Magnus said. “It always impresses me that they do that. It’s like swifts: they come back year after year to the same breeding place, and when the parent birds die, the young still keep on coming back.”

“How do they know where to go?” Jacob asked.

“I don’t think anyone really knows, but it might have something to do with magnetism.”

Jacob gave him a confused look.

Magnus smiled. “Like a compass. The needle points to the true magnetic north. The birds seem to have an inner compass, and as long as they have that they can always find their way back home.”

“So how do sailors find their way?” Jacob said, lugging the bucket full of sap he had insisted on carrying – fortunately, as Magnus had to stop frequently to catch his breath, a numbing exhaustion creeping up his body to centre somewhere in his brain, where a small voice was pleading with him to lie down and die – get this over with.

“I told you,” Magnus snapped, irritated by Jacob’s youth and apparent health, by the fact that he had all his life in front of him while his, damn it, was turning into its final, very short stretch. “Compasses, remember? And quadrants.”

Jacob ignored his tone and helped Magnus sit on a log, waiting while Magnus drew in huge gusts of crisp spring air.

“Do you need such to find your way to heaven?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Magnus said with a weak smile. “I think that sorts itself.” Or not, he added darkly to himself.

*

Matthew waited until Jenny was safely inside her cabin before returning to the big house. Not that he got much more than a grunted ‘thank you’ for his efforts. The lass was right ill-tempered at present, cranky and sore with the bairn that seemed in no hurry to leave the comfort of her womb. It made him smile; Ian was somewhat intimidated by his great-bellied wife, and so it fell upon him to help the lass as well as he could. He strolled across the yard, stopping by the oak. The spring evening was scented and warm, and he stood for some moments enjoying the silent peace.

“It makes you feel very patriarchal, doesn’t it?” Alex said once he was back inside.

“Hmm?”

“Jenny. You hover around her, always there to help.”

“The lass is having a hard time. No harm in making things easier for her.”

“I can’t recall ever being that pampered.”

“That’s because you don’t like to be pampered,” he said, receiving a black look in return.

“Yes, I do. It’s just that I don’t remember what it feels like.”

He caught the edge of reproof in her voice and opened his mouth to list examples of how he’d pampered her, but shut it when he realised he couldn’t cite one occasion in the near past. Somehow he suspected letting her sleep late those nights when David had been feeding round the clock wouldn’t count.

At times, he took her far too much for granted, he admonished himself, expecting her to see to his needs but not always giving her quite the same attention back. Here she was, heavy with their eighth child, and he spent more time informing himself about Jenny’s present state of health than hers. So the next day, Matthew took a day off from the spring planting, leaving Ian in charge, and went to find his wife where he knew she’d be, tending the tender shoots in her garden.

“Will you come and walk with me?” All of him warmed at the pleased look of surprise in her face, at how her cheeks coloured a pretty pink. He offered her his arm, leading her off towards the river. It was a warm early April day, and he adapted his stride and pace to hers, strolling through stands of maples and oaks in the general direction of the beckoning blue of the water. Here and there could be seen a dash of bright yellow flowers, especially on the sunny southern slopes, and the huge stands of lupines Alex had been culling for flowers the last few years were already in full leaf.

“I miss the windflowers,” she said. “Do you remember the drifts of white blossoms under the trees back home?”

“Aye, of course I do.” And no matter that soon the woodslands here would be covered in flowers, it would never be the same as seeing the early anemones transform the bare ground below the trees into carpets of white and bright green as they did back home.

He spread a blanket for them and helped her to sit, using himself as her back prop.

“He’ll die soon,” she said.

“Aye, he’s busy making his farewells.”

Alex didn’t reply, grunting when his strong fingers massaged her neck and her scalp. She bent forward and piled her hair out of the way, baring her vulnerable and oh so white nape to him. He rested the back of his finger against it, running his digit up and down the downy skin.

“The first time you lay in my arms, crying for your wee lost son, Isaac, it was all I could do not to touch your exposed skin here. I’d never seen such an uncovered neck before, never seen a lass in short hair.”

“You must have thought me awfully forward; first I throw up all over you, then I cry in your arms...”

“... and then you turned to me when you heard me hurting and held me.”

“Yes, I did, didn’t I?” She threw him a look over her shoulder. “It was meant, wasn’t it? There was no choice.”

“Aye, I think it was, and I thank God nigh on daily for you.”

“Yeah, in between thinking I’m something of a handful, right?”

“The thought has crossed my mind.” He laughed, placing his hands on her belly. She covered his hands with hers.

“If I die—”

“Nay, Alex, don’t even say it.”

“I have to,” she said and turned round to face him, sitting with her hands on her crossed legs. “If I die…” she started again, and this time he closed his eyes but sat quiet. “Promise me that you won’t marry someone who isn’t good to our children.”

“Oh Jesus, lass, do you think I’d ever wish to wed again if you were gone?” It made his insides turn to gravel to consider a life without her, his woman, by his side.

She took his hands. “You’re a man – a relatively young man with a healthy libido. You can’t go through life in permanent celibacy.”

“And if it were you? If I died, would you wed again on account of you being incapable of sleeping alone?”

“If you died, I’d never marry again. I’d prefer living with my memories of you and me.” The thought obviously filled her with desolation, her spine curving into a dejected ‘c’.

“As would I,” Matthew said gently. “So don’t insult me by telling me I must wed on account of my cock. You won’t die,” he added, placing both arms round her to hold her to him. “I won’t allow it.”

“Well, that’s good to know.” She laughed against his linen shirt. “I had no idea I was married to God himself.”

Chapter 34

“Will that be all?” Mrs Redit placed the bundle of rolled hemp leaves on top of Matthew’s other purchases.

“Aye.” He nodded his farewell and exited her shop, only to run straight into Kate Jones.

“Why if it isn’t Matthew Graham,” she said, helping him retrieve the hemp leaves from the ground.

“Kate.” He dipped his head in a little bow. She smiled, fair lashes lowered to shade her eyes.

“So many years since last we spoke,” she said.

“Aye, at least ten.”

“No wife?” She fell into step with him.

“Wife? Oh, nay, Alex remained at home. She’s expecting – any day now.” Which was why he was riding home on the morrow after only two days here... He had promised Alex he’d be back in time, had even considered cancelling the trip down to Providence, but that was never a realistic option. They had no salt, he needed a new coulter and share as well as a large axe head, and Alex required spices and sugar – and the hemp, for Magnus.

“Again?” Kate’s brows rose.

“Aye.”

Matthew threw her a look. She was all in pale green today, skirts of shimmering velvet enhanced by a bodice he’d never have allowed Alex to wear, what with how it lifted and exposed Kate’s bosom. The linen of the shift beneath did cover most of her chest, but the fabric was rather transparent – too transparent.

“Finished gawking?” Kate said, and Matthew felt his face heat.

“You look well.”

Kate laughed, a low, sultry sound. “Why thank you, Mr Graham. So do you.” She leaned close enough that her exhalation tickled his cheek. “Almost as good-looking as you were last time we spent time alone.”

“Kate!”

“Well, it’s true; the years have been far kinder to you than to my beloved husband.” Kate’s mouth twisted into a sour grimace. “Fat and big, that’s what he is now.”

“That’s what he was then as well. Is he still…”

“Being openly unfaithful?” Kate lifted her skirts and sidestepped a puddle. “Yes, he is. She, apparently, understands him as I do not.” She snorted. “Understand him? What is there to understand? He wants to be petted and pampered; he wants her to gaze at him with adoring eyes – preferably while his member is in her mouth.”

Matthew choked.

“What? Do I shock you?”

“Aye.”

Kate shrugged. “’Tis the truth. My dear beloved husband doesn’t want a woman with whom to share his thoughts; all he wants is a strumpet that does as he bids her. Good riddance, I say.”

“It must be a mite lonely.”

“At times.” Kate looked away. Then she turned to face him. “Do you ever…” She broke off and cleared her throat a couple of times. “Do you ever think about those nights with me?”

Matthew shuffled his feet, not knowing quite what to say. Aye, of course there were times when he did – like right now, with her standing a scant foot away. But mostly he didn’t, and when he did what he felt was shame, for having used Kate and betrayed his wife. Kate’s eyes were hanging off him, two bright red spots on her cheeks.

“Now and then,” he said. “But it should never have happened.”

“But it did – and I think of it often.”

“Ah.” Matthew pretended an interest in his purchases.

Kate burst out laughing. “I’ve discomfited you – twice.”

“Thrice, actually,” Matthew muttered. Kate chuckled, placed a hand on his arm and pecked him on the cheek.

“I’m glad we met,” she said before dancing off on light feet. Just as she reached the corner of Main Street, she turned, sending him a mischievous look. “And it’s true; I do think of those long-gone nights – very often.” She winked, waved, and was gone.

*

Apart from his run-in with Kate, this had been an uneventful visit to Providence, Matthew reflected as he set out that evening. After an afternoon spent discussing kirk matters with Minister Walker – and it had gladdened Matthew to hear that Richard Campbell had chosen to leave Providence, called to serve elsewhere – he was somewhat late for his appointment with Thomas and Peter at Mrs Malone’s.

So far, he had avoided running into Dominic Jones, but the first thing he heard when he opened the door to the tavern was Jones’ voice, loudly calling for beer. Matthew vacillated, uncertain whether to stay or leave. Over by the counter, Jones said something that made Mrs Malone laugh, and there was Mr Farrell, tipsy to the point of requiring the support of a nearby table not to fall over.

As Matthew heard it, Mr Farrell had matrimonial issues that had him spending most of his evenings here, with the madam and her jolly whores, rather than at home. Not that such behaviour would endear him to Mrs Farrell, but mayhap she preferred it that way – at least for now. Minister Walker had confided certain concerns as to how to resolve the infected quarrel regarding Mr Farrell’s decision to sell Mrs Farrell’s childhood home without informing his wife beforehand.

“Matthew!” Peter stood up and waved. Jones swivelled on his toes and scowled. That sufficed for Matthew to make up his mind, greeting Mrs Malone with a bow before going over to join the Leslie brothers.

The meal was, as always, excellent. Matthew licked the grease from his fingers and sat back, shaking his head at the last of the pig trotters.

“You take it,” he said to Thomas, who eagerly complied.

Peter wiped his mouth and sighed happily. “Good food, good beer, pretty wenches; what more can a man ask for?”

“Not much.” Matthew smiled at the lass who set down a new pitcher of beer before them.

“What did Minister Walker have to say?” Thomas asked. Matthew sighed. It was all about the Indians, about white man being threatened, about homesteads being razed to the ground.

“Ah,” Thomas said, and Matthew could see in his eyes that his friend was gripped by an urge to hasten back home.

“Not here, but in Virginia…” Matthew shook his head. It had surprised him to hear that the Virginia governor had so far shown little interest in organising a decisive action against the natives. As he recalled it, Sir William was a man of much courage, but mayhap the man was too old and too set in his ways to countenance military action.

“It will spill over on us soon,” Peter said. “Mark my words, if the Virginians don’t sort their Indian issues, we will have outright war here as well.”

“It’s the Susquehannock,” Thomas said. “It’s them that are the instigators.”

“It’s us,” Matthew said curtly. “We broke the treaties, aye? Not them. Not that it helps.” He drank deeply, wondering if Qaachow was involved in the ongoing hostilities in Virginia. He hoped not, because if he was… He drank some more, swallowing down on the fear that his home would end up a charred ruin, his family dead or destroyed.

“What else did you discuss?” Thomas asked, and Matthew was grateful for the opportunity to change the subject, spending the following minutes telling the Leslie brothers about the minister’s plan for a school.

He was halfway through when Thomas stood up. “Him! Here!”

“Who?” Matthew turned towards the door and near on choked. Sitting beside Jones was that accursed miscreant Philip Burley, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Thomas was already moving towards them, his hand on the handle of his knife. Matthew followed, fingering his dirk.

Philip Burley rose to his feet at their approach. “Mr Graham, Mr Leslie.” He sketched them a bow, his hand gripping the butt of his pistol. Burley must have come into money recently, Matthew concluded as he took in the velvet coat, the tailored breeches and the polished boots.

“What are you doing here?” Thomas demanded. “How dare you even show your face here.”

“Mr Burley is here with me,” Jones said. “We are discussing business.”

“Business? With him?” Thomas spat to the side. “And what services does he offer? Assassinations on request?”

“Among others,” Philip drawled, looking at Matthew. “But at present it is the slave business we’re discussing. Most lucrative, as you can see.” He leaned forward, bracing himself on the table. “Not that my recent commercial successes have made me forget my other pressing matters.”

“Such as being dragged to trial for your attempt to murder me?” Matthew shot back.

“I’d like to see you try.” Burley squared his shoulders.

“We’ll do more than try,” Matthew said.

“I think not.” Jones snapped his fingers. Four men stepped forward, armed to the teeth. “Mr Burley is my guest, and I’ll not have my guest arrested.”

“Your guest? Strange company you keep these days, Jones. A respectable man to consort with a villainous cut-throat… Ah, but I forget; it was you that hired Burley and his disreputable brothers,” Matthew said.

Jones stood. “I did? I think not and—”

“My brother is dead! Killed by you!” Philip interrupted, pointing at Matthew.

“One less to worry about, and once we’ve put you in chains, that leaves only two.” Thomas made as if to grab Philip but was shoved back. Steel grated on steel, a blade swished through the air.

“Enough!” Mrs Malone appeared at the table. “You know better than to have your men come in armed, Mr Jones. I’ll not stand for it, so take your quarrels outside, gentlemen. Now.”

“Gentlemen?” Thomas laughed. “Not these two, Mrs Malone. Dominic Jones and Philip Burley are scum, and you would do well to bar them from your establishment.”

“You impinge my honour,” Jones growled.

“You have no honour,” Thomas said. “A man who tries to shoot one of his own is a rogue.”

“I did not!”

“Aye, you did. We both know it,” Matthew said.

“And I’ll insist on it ’til my dying day.” Thomas shook his fist at Jones.

“Which might come sooner than you think if you repeat such slanderous nonsense.” Jones scowled.

“A threat?” Matthew shook his head. “Now, now, Mr Jones, we can’t have that, can we?”

“Outside, all of you!” Mrs Malone yelled, but no one moved.

“I did not attempt to shoot you, Graham. That is a misconstruction. I have repeated over and over again that it was the Indian I was aiming at. To hear Mr Leslie insist I had my gun levelled at you…well, I find it most hurtful.” Jones placed a hand somewhere in the region of his heart. “And I will not tolerate such calumnies. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Aye, that you do; a reputation as a cold-hearted, greedy bastard who stops at nothing to line his purse with an extra shilling or two.”

Jones laughed. “That’s called being a trader, Mr Graham. Profit is always profit, however small the amount. And if you excuse me, I shall now comply with Mrs Malone’s wishes and leave – as should all of us.”

“Not him.” Thomas pointed at Burley.

“Oh, him as well. Or else I will be obliged to have my men kill you, which would, of course, be most unfortunate and cause Mrs Malone substantial distress.”

“I’ll kill him first!” Thomas pulled his knife. Peter grabbed hold of his arm, shaking his head.

“Most wise.” Jones nodded. “And one shouldn’t make threats one can’t deliver on, Mr Leslie. Philip Burley would make mincemeat of you – in a matter of seconds.”

Thomas blustered, Peter hung on to his arm, and Matthew could do nothing but seethe as Jones and his party made for the exit.

At the door, Philip Burley turned. “Just so you know, Graham, I don’t make empty threats. And one day…” He dragged his finger over his throat, laughed and hurried outside.

*

“You were there!” Matthew glared at Mr Farrell. “You heard the man, you saw that damned Burley.”

Mr Farrell squinted at the sun and muttered that, even if he had been there, he had no recollection of the events as such.

“He threatened me,” Matthew said, “and that Jones—”

“That Jones what?” Dominic said, joining them. He nodded at the two ministers and murmured a greeting to Mr Farrell.

“You’re harbouring a man who tried to kill me,” Matthew said, “at your behest, no doubt.”

“At my behest? And you have proof of this?” Jones looked Matthew up and down. “You must stop this, Mr Graham, all these accusations levelled against myself. Figments of an overheated imagination, gentlemen,” he added, directing himself to the ministers. “Yes, Graham and I have a past, but from there to want him dead? Really!”

“You do, and we both know why.”

Jones waved Matthew silent and pursed his mouth. “As to Burley, I dare say you’re right. The man is a scoundrel, and I have therefore decided not to do business with him, however lucrative. And I had him forcibly removed from town this morning.” His eyes met Matthew’s, a triumphant gleam in them.

“Forcibly? You had him aboard one of your sloops,” Thomas put in.

“Most forcibly. Burley had matters he wanted to attend to – here.” Jones grinned. “It may be I saved your life, Graham.”

“Saved it? It was you…” Matthew closed his mouth, irritated by the mild look of disapproval on the ministers’ faces. “You were there, Minister Walker.”

“I was. And while I saw the Burley brothers attack you, I did not see Mr Jones doing so.” Minister Walker patted Matthew on his shoulder. “I understand you find this most distressing, Brother Matthew. But leave Mr Jones out of it – unless, of course, you have proof.” With an apologetic shrug he was off, with the other minister and Mr Farrell in his wake.

Thomas said something about having to visit the farrier before they set off and left Matthew alone with Jones.

“I should tell them,” Matthew said. “And maybe I will; the whole sorry tale starting with Fairfax’s murder.”

“You do that and I’ll put you through hell.” Jones’ previously so affable mien was replaced by an intimidating scowl. “As I said, you have sons, Graham. One word from you and who knows what will happen to them?”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“I wouldn’t? I don’t make idle threats either. Best you keep it in mind.” Jones stretched to his full height. “As I said, stay out of my life and I’ll stay out of yours – well, what remains of it, now that Philip Burley has his eyes set on you.” Jones smirked and sauntered off.

*

“It’s all conjecture,” Matthew said some hours later. “I can never make a case against him. All I have is a murder and a last-minute will that named Jones as the benefactor of estates previously left to a relative.” He was still shaken by Jones’ parting comment, his mind invaded with images of his sons dead, he himself dead, his wife… Matthew took off his hat and scrubbed at his hair in an effort to dislodge these disconcerting visions.