Devil's Mistress (33 page)

Holding her gently, he smoothed back her wild display of midnight hair. “Don’t fear me. I ask nothing of you. I never would have. I just needed to hold you again, and believe that you still loved me. Forgive me.”

She could stand no longer. She slid along his length to sink to the floor at his feet, sobbing softly. He knelt down beside her, pulling her work-worn hands from her face, clutching them tightly in his own, swallowing back his misery.

“Sloan,” she whispered, not raising her eyes to his, and speaking with anguish tearing at her every word. “I do love my husband. Not as I … have ever known love with you. But he is a good man. He does not deserve this from me. Sloan! I am so frightened!”

He set his arms about her again; this time with no passion, and no heat. “I will take you from here. You and Robert—and Michael. He will never know that you came to me, I swear it. I will come to your home and speak to him.”

She couldn’t seem to stop crying. He rose, refilled her port glass, and forced her to drink. And kneeling again before her in front of the hearth, he tried to smile, although the effort was bitter and weak. “I had to see Michael. I don’t believe that I can ever reconcile myself to not being able to call him mine.”

“You couldn’t take him from Robert! Please, Sloan!”

“Nay, love,” Sloan said bitterly, “I wouldn’t.” He rose slowly, painfully. He made her rise then, too, brushing the tears from her cheeks. “I will take you to New York. The governor is a friend of mine, and though the city is in English hands now, it still retains some good Dutch practicality. There is no talk of witches there.” He paused, swallowing fiercely. “Go home, Brianna. I will send to Boston for my crew, and I will come and speak with Robert.”

Brianna nodded slowly, and walked woodenly to the door, as if each step were a great effort. Once there, she turned back to him. He felt her stare, but he couldn’t look at her. He gazed into the fire, afraid that if he saw the haunting blue beauty of her eyes again, he would cry out and race to wrench her into his arms again.

“Sloan … thank you,” she said.

He lifted a hand, not sure that he could speak.

She gave out a little gasp, then cried, “I do love you.”

The door swung open and then she was gone.

By the time she neared her farmhouse, she was composed. She had indulged in an orgy of tears on leaving Lynn, but by now she had dried her eyes. She squared her shoulders, and was practicing a composed, peaceful smile.

She could never let Robert know where she had been, or the tumult that she had suffered. Tomorrow night they must both be surprised; she must play the very meek wife while she let Sloan and Robert discuss their future—and their flight.

As she turned down the path to the house, she began to frown. It seemed unusually dark, as if no candles were burning inside and the fire had almost died. And the door stood ajar …

Brianna leapt from the mare, heedless of where she might wander. She tore through the front door, calling out Robert’s name, then Eleanor’s, then Michael’s. No one replied.

A gust of wind slammed the door behind her. An eerie gleam of stunted gold and burnt orange from the dying fire was cast about the house as she stared in shock, then raced to the bedroom.

Panic struck her as she continued to call out names and hurried back to the main room and kitchen.
“Robert! Michael! Eleanor—Where are you?”
The wind howled in reply. Then she saw the parchment. Before she touched it, she knew what it was, but she forced herself to sit and focus her eyes on the page.

To the Marshal of Essex County or his Deputy or Constable;

You are, in Their Majesties’ names, hereby required to apprehend and forthwith secure, and bring before us, Husbandman Robert Powell on Tuesday next being the thirty-first day of this Instant month of May, at the house of Lt. Nathaniel Ingersoll’s in Salem Village, who stands charged with having Committed Sundry acts of Witchcraft on the Bodys of Mary Warren and Abigail Williams and Ann Putnam to their great hurt and Injury, in order that Robert Powell may be examined by us. Relating to the premises abovesaid, fail not.

Dated Salem May 27, 1692

John Hathorne

Jonathan Corwin

Assistants

Brianna read the warrant several times over. Then she dropped it and started to scream. But there was no one to hear her, only the wind to carry her screams to places unknown.

Sloan barely had time to reflect on the promises he had given Brianna before the door burst open again. He turned, somehow expecting her, yet not knowing what good it could do if she did return.

Rikky was back, not Brianna, and agitation was evident in his gray eyes and his quick stride.

“She is gone?” he asked Sloan.

Sloan nodded, frowning.

Rikky crossed the room, grabbing his arm, leading him from the room as he spoke. “Go after her. She will reach home to find that her husband has just been taken.”

“What?” Sloan demanded, drawing back. He stared at Turnberry, eyes narrowing. “What are you saying?” he demanded harshly.

Rikky shook his head with impatience. “Listen to me, please! I heard at the wharf that a warrant had been issued for her husband, Robert Powell—and that it was about to be served. Powell has been arrested by now, and there is nothing you can do for him had you a mind to. But you must get to her! If she creates trouble, I promise you that there will be a warrant out for her by tomorrow.”

“They can’t—” Sloan began incredulously.

“They can!” Rikky assured him. “It’s mad—but legal! The magistrates have been assigned by the royal governor! This isn’t James anymore, it’s William and Mary! Legal procedure, legal warrants, legal examinations—and public trials to come!”

“I’ve got to get her!” Sloan rasped out.

“Aye, aye,” Rikky agreed, but he was grasping Sloan’s arm in a desperate attempt to keep him back. “But you must use great sense and discretion! There are ways to get people out—jailers who can be bribed and the like. Let me work on it, Sloan. If you lock horns with the government now, it can never be reconciled.”

“I don’t care.”

“You have to care, Sloan, for the child.”

Sloan went dead—still, startled that Cedric Turnberry knew about Michael—and that he himself had forgotten.

“Very well,” Sloan said, exhaling a long breath. “I’ll be discreet. But if they come for her, Rikky, I’ll say damnation against William and Mary as well as James.” He inhaled deeply, then took Rikky’s hand. “My thanks, good friend.”

Rikky smiled. “My horse is outside. Go.”

He went, riding like the wind that had arisen—a wretched, cold wind that chilled the bones. Before he reached the path to the Powell farm, Sloan slowed his gait, narrowing his eyes against the darkness. There was a woman moving along in the darkness at a hurried pace; a woman clutching a child who whimpered, and fought her hold.

It was not Brianna. The moon glowed down on hair that was very blond. He nudged the horse forward; she turned and saw him and started to run.

“Wait!” Sloan cried out. His heart was hammering, for the child she carried was Michael. “Wait! I swear before God, I am a friend!”

She paused, clutching the child very tightly. He cried out in protest, trying to beat at her breast with chubby fists. “Papa! Papa! I want Papa back! Where is Mama, ’Leanor? Let me go!”

“Hush, Michael!” The woman commanded distractedly. She looked at Sloan nervously while he dismounted from his horse. He came to her, and she shrank away. “Who are you?” Her eyes raked over his clothing, which was clearly not the simple fabric of their Puritan homes.

“Treveryan, girl. My name is Sloan Treveryan.”

Her eyes, large and dark and very lovely, widened. “Lord Treveryan! The ship’s captain!”

“Aye, and who—”

“Did she come to you, then? Did you see her, Brianna Powell? Oh, it’s too late!” The girl wailed, hugging the child. “They came today, with a warrant for Robert. I told them he was too ill, but they would not even leave him in his home until the examination! Robert would not protest; he was anxious to leave with Brianna still gone!”

“Where did they take him? Salem—or Boston?”

“Salem—they do not transfer prisoners to Boston until they have been examined. Oh—oh, dear Lord!” she said, and then she burst into tears, which started the little boy crying too.

Sloan stepped forward to grip her shoulders around the child’s quaking body. “Stop, lass, you must,” he said quietly. “We will do something. But first, where is Brianna now?” He longed to wrench the boy—his son—from her. It was good that the situation was so urgent.

“I don’t know. When they took Robert, I ran with Michael. They’ve arrested even a five-year-old, you know. I wanted to bring him home, to do something. You don’t know where she is?”

“No,” Sloan said worriedly. “Could you two have crossed one another without meeting?”

“Yes, yes! I came through the woods. Our property adjoins.”

“I’ll find her,” Sloan promised, and he leapt back on his mount. He couldn’t believe that she could have outdistanced him so completely, and started for the farm at a gallop.

He had not gone far along the path when he saw her. She was mounting a haggard old mare.

“Brianna!” Sloan shouted, moving to block her escape.

She didn’t seem to recognize him, as her wild eyes seemed to look through him. “Give way!” she demanded hoarsely.

“No!” He twisted his mount about and caught the mare’s reins. “Stop this!” he commanded her.

Some flicker of recognition flashed through her eyes, but was quickly gone. Her jaw hardened. “Give way. I’ve got to get to town.”

She wrenched so hard on the reins that the horse neighed and she broke Sloan’s grasp. The nag took off.

Sloan chased her. It was not difficult, because his mount was stronger. He reached for her reins but could not grasp them. He was forced to lean forward and pushed her from the saddle. He leaped from his horse as she rolled into slush and foliage, the breath knocked from her. Their horses, unattended, ran away.

“Damn you!” Brianna raged, staggering from the mud. “Damn you! You don’t understand. They’ve taken Robert!”

“And damn you for being an idiot!” he charged, trying to hold her. She was wild; never had she fought with such ferocity. He realized that she was beyond reason.

“Brianna—” he tried one last time. She leaned her head forward, biting deeply into his arm. He swore, shaking off her hold. He knew that if he was to help Robert, he had to do it alone. Brianna would only complicate the situation and possibly put them all in danger. He had to stop her. Hating himself, he waited until she raised her head again, then locked his hand into a fist and struck her jaw.

She went limp, falling into his arms. He picked her up and carried her back to the house.

It was a small place, he discovered as he pushed open the door with his boot. A main room with a hearth and a side room. The door to that was open and illuminated by the dying blaze in the hearth. Sloan went through it with her, and laid her down on the large trundle bed. He sat at her side, running his fingers through her hair.

He should take her away, he thought dully—let her scream and despise him. It might be better than what would come.

A sound alerted him and he stood, ready to fight. It was just the woman he had seen on the road, holding the now-sleeping child. Sloan relaxed.

“Is she—is she hurt?” the woman asked worriedly.

“I’ve hit her. She should awaken soon,” Sloan replied tonelessly. And then he saw that the blond girl looked as if she, too, were about to fall. He came to her, at last having a chance to hold the child.

“Let me,” he murmured, taking the boy from her. She gave him over easily, and as Sloan held him he felt both warm and shivery. This was his son—his own flesh, his own blood.

He closed his eyes and felt the child’s little fingers close around his. Then he placed him in the small bed at the foot of Brianna’s bed.

“I’ll bring you some ale,” the girl said dully. She left the darkened room. Sloan stared down at his son. He gently touched the pitch-dark hair and could not help touching his lips to the small forehead. The child sighed. Sloan was shaken.

He went to Brianna’s side. Her cheek, when he touched it, was cold. Sloan pulled the covers over her and tried to see her jaw. She would have a small bruise. It hurt to see his own handiwork, but he’d had no choice.

“Come, have your ale.”

Sloan looked to the doorway and the blond woman stood there. She turned, and he followed her out to the main room, where she indicated the deacon’s pew. He sat and accepted the tankard she handed him.

“I’m Eleanor, Lord Treveryan,” she told him, and he nodded at her, drinking deeply of the ale, which made him feel much better.

Eleanor had prodded and fed the fire. Now it burned brightly, and there were two lanterns on the table. She was studying him nervously by the light.

“You knew her before, didn’t you?” she asked.

“Aye.”

“She never said so,” Eleanor said. Her eyes came to his again, dark and troubled. “She did tell me that she had been condemned—and saved.”