Her Wicked Sin (13 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Lydia woke the next morn with her heart bursting. The night’s fire had grown quiet and the first rays of dawn had yet to light the room, but she did not need her eyes to see the man at her side. His warmth was greater than any she had known, and over the night he had fulfilled her again and again with his desire for her to believe. Though she wanted not for his wealth to decide for her, the very knowledge of his transition for her honor indicated what an overwhelmingly genuine man he was. In his arms, she wanted desperately to believe the accusations would fade and she could be blessed lifelong with the task of simply being Henry’s wife. She did not know how long he would remain content in Salem Village, but it mattered not. She would be with him, and he with her.

He stirred, and in short time he found the narrow of her waist. Before she could gasp, he had pulled her close, every bit of him hard where she was soft. Growling playfully, he went for her neck, biting it between tender kisses.

She squealed and only feigned her protest, bracing her hands on his firm, wide shoulders when he rolled her to her back and maneuvered himself between her thighs. But he did not take her as she expected. Rather, he saw fit to kiss every spot of her, paying ruthless attention to her aching breasts.

“How long?” he asked between wicked ministrations of his tongue.

Several responses rushed to her lips—each one more wicked than the last—but he had rendered her so far beyond thought she knew not which he might find appropriate. “How long for what?”

“How long may I enjoy your instigations?”

She laughed heartily, his innocence of expression not at all in line with the mischief he created beneath the covers. When she caught her breath, she said, “I will not grant your claim of instigation with the slightest protest, for it is preposterous beyond words.”

“Your lack of protest is precisely the response for which I hoped.” Scarcely had the words left him when he closed his mouth over her pebbled flesh.

Stunned, she gasped and held tightly where he found her hands and laced together their fingers. He drew away so she saw nothing but the darkened hue of his eyes, from which exuded passion the depths of which she had not dreamed could exist.

Without breaking his attention, he maneuvered their joined hands so they lay against the bedtick, just above her head. His firm, gentle hold rendered her without recourse, and the observation sent new seeds of desire coursing through her.

“Do you trust me?” he whispered.

“I do.” Never had she thought she would believe so fully, but her heart could not deny this man. No amount of pain in her past would change that.

Still holding eye contact, his grip on her hands still firm, he shifted and entered her. And this time he did not wait for her to acclimate, though there was little need, as her desire for him had not waned since the first she had known his touch. She reveled in his domination, craving what she had once feared so very much, and it was in those breathless moments she realized the truth: Henry had saved her. He had breathed life into what was broken, and in every way had made her whole again.

“Are you well?” he asked when he later eased his weight from her and tried to extract his fingers from hers. His eyebrows lifted when she did not relent her own grip, and he responded by rolling so they were facing one another. He pulled down her hand with his and traced her cheek with a fingertip. “You astonish me,” he said.

“I should say the same.”

He grinned. “Then why do you not?”

“It would be silly to repeat you,” she said.

“Perhaps, but you may profess your love for me with as much redundancy as you wish.”

She pressed together her lips. “Very well then. I find you quite tolerable.”

He erupted in laughter, and in the moment managed to free himself of her grip. “It is time to rise, though I cannot fathom reason well enough to leave this bed.”

She brushed her hair from her face and threw back the covering, grateful for the cool air. “I bear witness to the fact you have already risen once this day,” she said.

His appraising stare of her bare flesh heated her more than any fire ever had. “If you choose to provoke me, lovely Lydia, there will be but one task to fill the noon, and it will not be preparing the bread.”

She gave him a swat to the shoulder and climbed out of bed. “It is not bread-making day. Today is for sewing.”

“I trust I may be excused from this activity?” His playful tone did not match the sensual, half-lidded gaze that followed her round the bed to the stack of her neatly folded clothes.

“Of course,” she said, suddenly shy under his intense appraisal. “You render me with nerves.”

“Worry not. I am merely enjoying the finest view in all of Massachusetts Bay Colony.”

Lydia’s face flamed hot and, while she appreciated his attentions, she wasted little time in slipping into her chemise.

Henry sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His movement was not altered, and she was pleased to find upon her approach that the damage to his knee was mere discoloration, the swelling gone. “While you tend to the sewing, I would like to visit Salem Town.”

“If you are sure you do not want to join the wives for mending,” she teased, “I suppose that is a suitable alternative.”

“There are other alternatives.” He captured her and pulled her close, kissing her deeply and nearly pulling her back into the bed.

“Henry!”

He sighed, his agony clearly exaggerated, and looked to her with woeful eyes. “Very well. I know when I have been cast aside.”

“You know nothing of the sort. I will be the one—” Lydia snapped shut her mouth.

Henry frowned, his brows narrowed with questions, but quickly his countenance lightened. Still, he said nothing. Rather, he stood and pulled on his breeches, the air thick with the quiet scuffle of his motions.

Was he angry? He did not seem to harbor ire, but it was unlike him to remain silent. He maintained his quiet until he had fastened his clothing, after which he came to her and took her hands, relieving her concerns with a gentlemanly kiss to the back of each one. “I will seek my brother,” he said, “but whether or not I find him, you remain my wife. There is not a night that will exist that I will want for your touch, and there is no greater blessing than to wake with you by my side. I need nothing more from this life than to share it with you.”

She blinked back tears. “Henry…”

“I am true. I will be by your side. No matter the path we take, we will take it together.”

Lydia bit back her protest, not sure how to voice her concerns. She believed him, or rather believed that he believed. But when his brother was found and Henry’s world righted, could she truly remain a part of it?

She did not have the chance to ask. He kissed her once more, then went out of doors to see to the chores and the horses.

Still a bit unsteady with his touch and her worry, Lydia prepared the morning meal, over which they discussed the rather mundane topic of the weather.

No mention of witchcraft.

No mention of Henry’s brother.

And then it hit her. Later, when Henry handed her Benedict’s reins, she asked, “Why is there no talk of your brother’s disappearance? The Dunham family is well-known throughout the colonies. Surely news of a disappearance would be well-gossiped.”

Henry swung into Willard’s saddle before answering. “He carries his father’s name,” he said. “And considering the depth to which his hatred of my father has grown, I am quite certain my brother has long shed any association with the Dunhams.”

“Have you used your status in your attempt to find him?”

“I am afraid it hinders more than it helps. However…” He broke free of the thought and stared at her.

“What is it?”

“You may have just helped my cause. Are you willing to ride Willard this day?” He slid from his mount, not waiting for an answer.

“Of course, but whatever for?” She, too, dismounted, and removed the sidesaddle from Benedict’s back. It was far too narrow for Willard, so she would again ride bareback, save for the saddle pad.

Henry did not explain until after he helped her onto Willard and himself settled onto Benedict. “It is human nature to be wary of outsiders, and poor Willard is no kind of disguise. I suspect if those with whom I speak are banded against the higher class, they are not likely to surrender their knowledge. This is especially true if my brother has found friends in Salem Town, but I suspect if not, there still remains unity against the wealthy.”

“Your logic appears true.” Lydia measured her words, biting back an edge of discomfort. Much ado had been made over Willard, and a second trip through Salem astride the so-called devil’s horse would only fuel the rapid rise of witchcraft rumors. But the charges were without merit, and surely she was not the only one of Salem to have previously noted the Abbot children’s abhorrent behavior. Furthermore, though she was but a year in the community, she was also well-respected as a physician and—save for Rebecca’s erratic moods—counted everyone she met as a friend.

Still, her nerves did not dissipate.

Henry, buoyed with his new plan, kept a rather cheery monologue of winter’s softening in the woods around them. Indeed, the darker cold had given way to the scent of fresh earth, a sure sign spring was on its way. Though Lydia did not look forward to the muck of the deep thaw, the warming sun made for a most welcome morning.

“Worry not,” Henry said softly.

Startled, she looked to him, whose height on Benedict was lower than hers on Willard. “What makes you think I worry?”

“I am learning you more and more each day,” he said, drawing his horse to a stop at the crossroad where they were to part ways—he to Salem Town on a quest that could change everything, and she on to sew with the goodwives. Such disparity in every facet of their lives!

Henry sidled next to her and managed to kiss her from his lower position. He’d nearly breached her mouth with his tongue before she got her wits about her.

“Forget not where you are!” She gasped, though more from pleasure than indignation. “We are among Puritans. Affections are solely for private display.”

“I did forget myself,” he admitted. After glancing around he gave her another quick kiss. “There is no one about. Your honor is preserved, though be assured I plan to rekindle my inappropriate display this very eve.”

“I am warned,” she said. “And eyes may have been upon us after all. Look. There is Andrew Bradshaw.”

“Just the man I wanted to see,” Henry said. “And worry not, for he will not dispel your honor.”

“Why do you wish to see Goodman Bradshaw?” she asked, but the words were for naught. Henry had already spurred Benedict into a gallop to meet the neighbor.

Lydia patted Willard, who danced beneath her in protest of being excluded from the race, and with a final glance down the road toward Salem Town, she gave Willard his head and proceeded to the tightly knit cluster of homes at the center of the farming town.

She hoped it might be her imagination, but the additional attention brought on her this day was far from subjective in nature. Willard did his part in ensuring eyes were upon them by fighting for his head, moving sideways away from her leg when she did not give him rein. By the time they neared her destination, he had worked himself into a lather. She dismounted and tried to cool him down, but he pranced at the lead, not the least bit interested in settling. Defeated, she tied him outside the Cromwell house and hoped he would find the tree a formidable enough opponent.

Lydia brought no mending of her own—what little she needed for herself she managed easily—so her purpose was primarily to help the other wives, many of whom had large families. Puritans were modest of dress and means, so even threadbare garments were maintained until they could be worn no more. Thus, the shared duties offered plentiful time for discussion, which encapsulated every subject from prayer to gossip. The unmarried girls would often sit together and giggle over the insinuations of the elders, who would sometimes speak plainly of topics untried to young ears, while women of child-bearing age found endless conversation over the antics of their babes.

As the physician, Lydia answered a number of questions for the women—in particular the new or inexperienced mothers, many of whom were concerned over one minor ailment or another. As such, on most days a rush of questions greeted her upon arrival. This day the room stilled into silence. Nearly twenty faces swiveled, their stares blank and mouths agape. Lydia stood frozen until Eunice Bradshaw grabbed her arm and pulled her back out of doors.

“You are here?” Eunice said.

“Of course I am here!”

“Lydia… the magistrate seeks you.”

A chill wrapped Lydia in its cold grip. “He does not seek thoroughly, then, as I have not lain in secrecy.”

Eunice looked over her shoulder, drawing Lydia’s attention to a number of faces pressed against the Cromwell windows. Even the elders of the group took witness, while to one side stood Anne Scudder, the young woman who had raced to warn Lydia that eve in the woods.

Lydia frowned and crossed her arms against the sudden cold. The day of Anne’s warning seemed so very long ago, yet mere days had passed. And so very much had changed. In the turmoil, Lydia had nearly forgotten the mysterious stranger who sought her, but the memory chose that moment to creep forth, adding to her growing unease.

A sharp whinny pierced the morning. Lydia spun to see Willard rearing, his neck bending against his ties. She rushed to him, calling his name in hopes of calming him. But the huge black horse would have none of it. His hooves sliced the air recklessly, though they did not deter Lydia’s approach. She grabbed a dangling leather and prayed the horse would find his manners before he flung her senseless.

She got her wish. As soon as she took the reins, Willard planted all four feet and hung his head to nuzzle shamelessly at her skirts. Relieved, Lydia turned to speak to Eunice and was shocked to see a crowd spilling from the Cromwell house.

The devil’s horse.

Only a witch could hold such power over a beast so wild.