Teresa Medeiros (43 page)

He recovered himself with admirable aplomb. An icy sneer chilled his voice. “Why, hello, Tristan. Did you come all this way just to see little old me?”

Arian could almost see Tristan’s lips slant in a mocking smile, almost feel the flawlessly balanced weight of the gun as he leveled it at Linnet’s treacherous heart with deadly grace. “I wouldn’t walk across a New York alley to spit on you, Arthur. I came for my wife.”

Joy and pride surged through Arian’s heart.

“Soon to be your widow,” Linnet snapped, “if you don’t hand over Warlock.”

“Now, Arthur, I’m not that same gullible boy you
left in New York. Surely you don’t think I’d be stupid enough to carry it on me.”

“I’ve already searched the Indian. I know he doesn’t have it. That just leaves you and my devoted daughter. And if you don’t tell me where it is, I can promise you she’ll be begging to tell me before this night is done.”

“Oh, yeah?” Tristan drawled. “What are you going to do? Bludgeon her to death with that Bible?”

“Ah, my poor misguided brother,” Linnet said gently. “You should never underestimate the mighty power of the Word of God.”

The Bible thumped to the floor to reveal the flared muzzle of a blunderbuss. There was no time to warn Tristan. No time to scream. The click of flint striking steel echoed in her ears at the exact moment she slammed the door on Linnet’s wrist.

His howl of pain was cut short as the blunderbuss exploded right next to Arian’s ear. She sank against the door, clutching her head in a vain attempt to silence the bells ringing inside of it. Tristan sat on the floor where the blast had knocked him, his lips moving in a soundless curse. A smoking crater marred the plaster a few inches from where he had stood.

His face was ashen. “Sweet Jesus, I thought Puritans only carried muskets.”

Realizing her hearing had been restored, Arian scrambled over to him and threw her arms around his neck. But there was no time to explain the primitive magic of gunpowder and flint, no time to rescue the Glock from the dusty corner where it had landed after spinning out of Tristan’s hand, no time to pry Warlock out of its hiding place and use it as a weapon.

The door crashed open and men swarmed around them. Linnet watched, his wounded arm cradled to his chest and his mouth set in a gratified sneer, as they tore her out of Tristan’s grasp. It took five of them to do so and she knew Tristan only surrendered her then because
he feared her arms would be wrenched from their sockets.

“Arian!” he shouted as they bound his wrists behind him with a raw length of hemp. “What day is it?”

Trapped in Constable Ingersoll’s relentless grip, she flung back her hair, shooting him a tormented glance. “Friday? Saturday?”

“No! What day of the month?”

Her ears were still ringing. She shook her head, trying desperately to clear it of an echo from the past. Tristan’s laughing voice saying,
Don’t you know that tonight is the night when werewolves howl at the moon and witches take to the windy skies on their brooms?

“ ’Tis October the thirty-first!” she shouted. “All Hallows’ Eve!”

Bleak dread seized his features, only to be replaced by a composure so absolute it chilled Arian to the marrow.

He refused to even meet her gaze as they were led past a smirking linnet and shoved down the stairs into the waiting arms of the mob.

The mob surged around them, herding them toward the forest in a pulsating prison of flesh. Faces twisted with hatred shoved themselves at Arian. She recoiled from their hot breath only to slam into the stalwart bulk of Constable Ingersoll’s chest. His fingers dug into her bound wrists, shoving her into Copperfield, who was still being dragged along by the tanner.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Cop murmured. “I had hoped we’d meet again in less dire circumstances.”

“As did I,” Arian muttered, craning her neck in a frantic attempt to spot Tristan.

As she was shoved up the mossy bank into the woods, she caught a brief glimpse of his rigid back. Not once did he glance over his shoulder at her.

Dark shapes swelled and receded in the smoky light of the bobbing torches. Some of her tormentors had thought to disguise themselves, like the man who stalked past, his cape rippling around his ankles and his hat brim drawn down to shield his features. Others like Goody Hubbins screeched their accusations openly.

Deeper into the woods the mob danced, driving them along with pinches and taunts. As they spilled into a deserted clearing, the jeers died to a silence broken only by the shuffle of feet and the death rattle of the leaves against their skeleton branches.

A scaffold blacker than the moonless sky loomed in the middle of the clearing. The noose looped around its crossbeam twisted in the wind.

A terrible numbness crept through Arian’s limbs. She could already hear the tragic tale Linnet would tell the magistrates from Boston.
I did my utmost to save the poor child from the mob
, he would say, dabbing a tear from his eye with his bandaged hand. Mr. Corwin would shake his head in genuine regret and Mr. Hathorne’s nose would quiver as he agreed it was an ugly end to a lamentable story.

No trace would ever be found of the scaffold. Following the executions, the brush piled beneath the rough-hewn planks would be torched. The flames climbing into the night sky would consume the last trace of Arian Whitewood with no one the wiser that the man now climbing the steps to the scaffold had ever had a daughter.

Tristan mounted the steps behind Linnet with no visible trace of faltering, his hair gleaming like spun gold in the torchlight, his hands relaxed beneath their bonds.

Or a partner.

Rage swept through Arian, washing away the paralyzing terror.

“Bring the witch, Constable,” Linnet called out.

Arian kept her head held high as Ingersoll jerked her to the foot of the scaffold.

Linnet smiled down at her. “Let her watch her demon-lover die first.”

Arian’s anguished cry was drowned out by the cheers of the crowd. Tristan watched helplessly from the scaffold as she struggled to wrench herself out of Ingersoll’s grasp. He wanted to shout at her to stop before she
ruined everything, but he did not dare. So he simply averted his face and studied the grim reality of the noose dangling a scant foot from his head.

After Arian had been subdued, Arthur pointed at Tristan with his uninjured hand. “We hang this stranger first lest he summon a legion of demons to torment us. Tonight we shall know the righteous satisfaction of watching his soul descend to hell to meet its master.”

The mob roared its approval. Tristan yawned.

His deliberate nonchalance was rewarded with Arthur’s bitten-off words. “Have you anything to say in your defense,
warlock?”

Arthur was baiting Arian and Tristan knew it. The wretch was just waiting for her to start babbling, to confess Warlock’s location in a futile attempt to save her husband’s life. Little did he know that Tristan Lennox’s bride was made of sterner stuff. At least Tristan fervently prayed she was.

Refusing to let Arthur have the last word, he stepped forward, summoning the same cool charisma that had allowed him to rule a modern empire. Even with his hands bound, there was enough menace in his demeanor to send the crowd scuttling backward.

Acid mockery laced his words. “Good folk of Gloucester, I do have a confession to make.” He waited for throats to be cleared, brows to be wiped. “If you hang Arian Whitewood this night, you hang an innocent girl. Innocent in that she had no choice but to succumb to my demands. I bewitched her.”

The mob erupted into shocked exclamations. A withered old woman hovering at the edge of the scaffold howled at his blatant confession of witchcraft. Tristan felt Arian’s startled gaze burning into him, but he refused to look at her.

Shooting him a murderous glare, Arthur lifted his hands in a plea for silence. “Beware this scoundrel’s dark enchantment! He seeks only to free his whore!”

The crowd fell silent, but this time their rapt gazes
were locked on Tristan, not Arthur. He stepped to the edge of the platform and looked straight into Arian’s eyes.

The crowd was so still that the husky timbre of his voice could be heard from every corner of the clearing. It was almost as if they knew he was speaking from the heart. “From the first moment I laid eyes on Arian Whitewood, I knew I had to have her. She fought for her virtue wisely and well.” A wry smile curved his lips. “So I was forced to cast my web of spells to beguile her. When she would have turned me away, spurning my lustful attentions, I stripped her of her will and worked my dark magic on her until she was helpless to resist. I vow to you, she is innocent. Even now, she cannot remember the worldly acts I forced her to perform.”

Arian bowed her head, tears sparkling on her lashes. Tristan knew she remembered only too well the tender attentions he had lavished on her willing body.

“Hang him quick!” Ingersoll bellowed. “ ’Tis just as we feared. He is an incubus come to bring forth a new generation of witches. Hang all three of them before they join forces to destroy us all.”

Tristan swore as the tanner thundered up the scaffold stairs, dragging Copperfield behind him. This wasn’t going exactly as he’d planned.

“No!” A man in a long cloak shoved his way through the crowd to Arian’s side.

Tristan had no idea if the stranger’s appearance boded ill or well, but from Arthur’s bitten-off curse and the flicker of hope in Arian’s eyes, he suspected the latter.

The man pushed back the brim of his hat to reveal a stolid, weatherbeaten face. “If this wizard speaks the truth, then my stepdaughter is innocent. She is no witch, only a victim of this warlock’s lust. She is no more a servant of Satan than Goody Hubbins or Charity Burke. If she is hanged, then must they not be hanged also?”

A young girl slid to a faint in her mother’s arms.
Tristan suspected she just might be the aforementioned Charity Burke.

“Cover your ears. Do not heed this man!” Arthur shouted. “The witch has cast her wicked enchantment over him as well!”

Arian’s stepfather rested his hands on her shoulders. “Speak up, girl. Tell them what this man is to you.”

Arian lifted her gaze to Tristan, her eyes welling with unshed tears. His jaw clenched of its own volition, as if awaiting a blow he was helpless to dodge.

“I know him not,” she said softly. “I’ve never laid eyes on him before tonight.”

Tristan bowed his head. He knew he should be grateful to Arian for taking the out he had offered her. But her denial cut deeper than he had anticipated. Copperfield touched the small of his back with his bound hands.

Arthur bolted down the steps, knocking Marcus aside to capture Arian’s shoulders in his hands. He gave her a harsh shake. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

A sob tore from her throat. “I cannot remember him, good Reverend, truly I can’t! My head aches from trying.”

A malevolent smile curved his lips. He drew a dagger from his coat and sliced through her bonds. “Then prove your innocence, my child. Follow me and condemn his soul to hell for all eternity.”

Linnet turned and mounted the steps. Arian trailed after him, twisting her skirt in her hands. The tanner reached for him, but Tristan jerked away, moving to stand beneath the noose on his own.

As Arian drew near to him, Tristan would have sworn he could feel the warmth of her body, smell her sweet scent. He closed his eyes briefly to keep himself from burying his face in her disheveled cloud of hair.

The mob held its breath, spellbound by the sight of the dark elfin beauty facing the tall golden warlock.
Arthur jerked slack into the noose and laid it across Arian’s trembling palms.

Tristan inclined his head as if waiting to be crowned.

“Now, daughter,” Arthur whispered, just loud enough for Tristan to hear him. “Do it and I’ll spare your life. We’ll take Warlock and return to the future. You’ll inherit every penny of his wealth and we’ll rule New York together. We’ll create a dynasty of witches and warlocks, you and I.”

Arian stood on tiptoe and slipped the noose over Tristan’s neck. A sigh passed like a wave through the crowd.

Tristan smiled down into Arian’s eyes. “Would you grant a dying man a last request, Miss Whitewood? A kiss from your honeyed lips to carry his wretched soul through an eternity without you?”

Before Arthur could slip between them, Tristan bent his head and brushed his lips against hers, reminding her for the last time just how good it could have been. Arian burst into tears and fled down the steps to her stepfather’s waiting arms.

The tanner dropped the other noose over Copperfield’s head. “Hey!” Cop wailed. “Don’t I get a last request?”

The mob swarmed around the bottom of the scaffold, waving their fists and chanting a demand for witches’ blood. Arian’s stepfather whipped off his cloak and wrapped it around her slumped shoulders. Tristan watched them melt into the woods, his wife’s small form tucked beneath her stepfather’s arm. When she was gone, he closed his eyes and kept them closed until he could open them without crying.