The Preacher's Bride (13 page)

He was touching her bottom? Her head began to swim with the indecency of her predicament.

“You must put me down,” she whispered, unable to meet his gaze.

He stopped. The low rafters and narrowness of the stairwell forced him to stoop his head and shoulders so that his face was only a breath away. “Methinks you will like it much less if I put you down here. For then I will be compelled to pick you up once more. And this time I shall have to sling you over my shoulder like my sack of tools.”

Her eyes, as if they had a will of their own, were drawn to his. “Then I shall have to beat my hands on your back like anvils.”

A grin flirted at the corners of his lips. “Then we are agreed. I shall finish carrying you to the top this way.”

She did not dare contradict him. The picture of being slung over his shoulders with her backside sticking into the air was a horrifying thought. And yet the nearness of his eyes, the heat of his breath, the power of his presence surrounded her, overwhelmed her.

He resumed his halting climb, and her breath wouldn’t budge past her throat. “Lucy?” She squeezed out the word.

“They’re taking her by cart to Sister Norton’s cottage.”

“She’ll live?”

“Sister Norton will tend to her.”

Elizabeth knew by his tone and what he left unsaid that Lucy was in danger of losing her life.

“You must rest now,” he said as they came to the top of the stairs. “Your father has ordered it.”

He carried her to the bed and lowered her to the sagging mattress. Instead of backing away he hovered over her. His breath fanned warmth over her forehead.

She sucked in a gasp of air and waited—waited for something she couldn’t name.

At the echo of voices in the stairwell, he straightened and bumped his head against the slanted ceiling. He ran his fingers through his hair and then glanced around the room. His gaze came to rest on the candlestick, only a hand’s distance from her head.

“I see you got my gift.”

She tipped her head and let her gaze caress the dotted pattern once again. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered past the lump in her throat.

“I made it for you.” He looked from the candle holder to her face and then back again.

Her heart constricted with a tremor of delight. “Thank you.”

He shifted his feet and glanced around the room again. “The children miss you,” he finally said.

“Tell them I miss them too.”

His eyes strayed to her bruised cheek.

She raised a hand and covered it.

“I despise whoever did this to you.” He hesitated. “I realize working for me will put you in danger. But if you’re willing, I’d like you to resume your duties once you’re able.”

Had Catherine failed to win John’s heart as she had hoped?

He tilted his head and raised an eyebrow.

Relief slipped through her, and she smiled. “Are you actually admitting you need a housekeeper?”

A grin tugged his lips. “I know we didn’t get off to a good start—I was proud and naïve. But I clearly see now what a help you’ve been. We can’t get along without you. I need you to be my housekeeper.”

She wanted to throw caution away and shout out that she desired nothing more than to return to her housekeeping position, that she’d been afraid of losing it and couldn’t dream of doing anything else.

“If you’re willing,” he added.

She held her emotions in check and nodded. “I’m willing.”

She was always willing to serve the helpless and needy, and the Costins certainly fit those qualifications. She would serve them as she did anyone else in need.

Her willingness had nothing to do with John.

Nothing at all.

Chapter
14

Elizabeth grazed her fingers across the grainy paper, one of the many scattered on John’s desk. Her hand quivered and she pulled back.

Dare she take one? Her pulse quickened, and she cast a glance over her shoulder to the other room. Silence stared back at her. No one would know if she slipped a sheet into her pocket.

Now was her chance to get something—anything—to give the dangerous stranger. She’d been back more than a week and hadn’t seen him, yet she knew it was only a matter of time before he returned.

Her fingers hovered above the paper. Surely if she took it, the Lord would understand. She would only borrow John’s writing, not steal it.

A quill pen lay on top of a stack that had been tied with twine. The handwriting on the upper piece was small and sprawling, as if he’d been in a hurry to reach the end of each line. Even as her head screamed at her to stop, to flee from temptation, her heart pulsed with the fear of what would happen the next time the man came and found her empty-handed.

She brushed her fingers across the words, picturing John’s strong hands forming each stroke—his callused yet gentle fingers. She could imagine the scratchy roughness of his fingertips caressing her cheek. Her stomach whirled, as it did each time she relived the attention he’d paid her—the closeness of his face, his penetrating gaze locking into hers, the solidness of his arms carrying her.

She traced his words again. Surely John would want her to take the paper—to protect herself.

She glanced out the oilskin window overlooking the garden and cottage plot. Mary held Thomas near the tree. Betsy and Johnny ran in the tall grass, taking a break from drying plums. They had helped her pit and lay them on coarse canvas frames she had erected in the sun. But now they were running in circles until they dropped with dizziness. Then they picked themselves up and did it again.

If she quit housekeeping as Samuel wanted, then she wouldn’t have to worry any longer about the stranger. Certainly she’d make Samuel happy. And Catherine too. The girl still talked about becoming the next wife of John Costin, albeit less ardently after her week of vigorous work.

Elizabeth had no such dreams. God had already determined her place in life. She would become the wife of the cooper. Samuel made certain she didn’t forget it. Nor did he let her forget summer’s end was fast approaching.

She turned back to the desk and pushed down the irritation that had a habit of surfacing too oft when she thought of Samuel. She didn’t need his constant reminders. Ending her housekeeping would be hard enough without them.

All the more reason to take one of John’s papers. She’d ensure her safety until summer’s end. Then she’d put it back. He’d never need to know it was gone.

Elizabeth studied the top paper. The gray was flecked with the imperfections of the paper-making process and the stray drips of ink that had dried. The letters and words were as foreign to her as if they had been another language. Since she could neither read nor write, how would she know if the sheet contained anything of value, anything the man would want?

She peeked over her shoulder again. John had left for the day, but that didn’t mean she was safe in his study. Anyone could enter the cottage and catch her going through John’s desk.

Anyone
could enter the cottage. She was well aware of that now.

She shuddered and raised a hand to her cheek. The bruise was gone, but the memory of the attack was still vivid—his grip pinched the flesh of her arms, his fetid breath suffocated her, and the luridness in his tone crawled over her skin.

But it was the gleam of lust in his eyes that had birthed the deepest fear. She might be naïve but she knew enough. He would corner her and brutally steal her purity and innocence.

Would today be the day—the day he returned? Her heart thudded against her chest with a swell of fear.

She grabbed the paper. Her fingers fumbled to fold it and faltered at the drawstring of her pocket. She stuffed the paper inside, heedless of wrinkling it.

Then she took a step away from the desk and crossed her arms to still their trembling. She was only doing what was practical and necessary.

The next time her assailant came she must have something to give him, a paper, information, anything. She dared not fail again.

Wouldn’t John be grateful she stopped any rumors about them? His ministry was more important to him than anything else. He would be glad she was taking steps to prevent his good name from being tarnished.

Yes. If he ever discovered what she’d done, no doubt he’d fall at her feet in thankfulness.

* * *

“Will we have enough bread for everyone?” Anne swung her basket at her side. “I would like to save a loaf for Lucy.”

Elizabeth’s basket, like Anne’s, overflowed with the bread that had not sold that week. She suspected her father always made more than they needed. Each Sabbath, without fail, they had plenty to take to the poor, always enough to fill her basket and another.

“This bread won’t last long,” Elizabeth said, knowing that no matter the generosity of her father, they would never have enough to feed all those who had need. “We shall take Lucy and Sister Norton fresh bread on the morrow.”

“May I take it to them?”

“Surely.” Elizabeth smiled at her sister’s eagerness.

Elizabeth lifted her eyes to the clear morning sky and gave a silent prayer of thanksgiving. Lucy’s recovery was God’s blessing. Although Lucy gave credit to her strong back, which had already survived many of Fulke’s beatings, Elizabeth didn’t doubt God was rewarding her for serving Him well.

They knew naught of what had happened to Martha, and Lucy didn’t pretend she would ever see her sister again, especially if the Bedell of Beggars had taken her to the bridewell.

“I only wish we’d been able to rescue Martha too,” Elizabeth said as they turned the corner away from the marketplace and headed south to the wharves along the river.

“Sister Norton could have taught them both bone lace-making,” Anne said.

The Sisters were teaching Lucy many things, among them bone lace-making, a craft many unskilled women used to earn money. ’Twas laborious toil, involving hours of weaving intricate patterns with threads attached to bobbins made of bones. Even though the demand for lace had diminished over the years of Oliver Cromwell’s protectorate and his conservative ways, the craft still provided a small income for poor widows like Sister Norton and Sister Spencer.

The clopping of horse hooves echoed behind them. Elizabeth edged Anne to the side of the street and glanced over her shoulder to see the lone figure of a man coming toward them.

The plume of his hat was long and bobbed up and down in rhythm to the horse’s cantor.

Fear jabbed Elizabeth.

The dashing hat, the tailored clothes with their rich colors and fine laces—they could belong to any Royalist gentleman. But the plume, with its jaunty, almost arrogant tilt, reminded her of one man.

She halted Anne with a touch of her hand and scanned the cottages. Only a few shutters were open. Would anyone hear her if she screamed?

She peered down the street to the wharves, to the hovels and dilapidated cottages crowded close together. Several men loitered—the drunkards who hadn’t yet made it home after a night of carousing. They would be of no help to her.

The clomp of hooves drew nearer.

“Run home.” Elizabeth turned to Anne. “Run as fast as you can.”

Anne gave a start but didn’t move to leave.

“Go. Now.” Urgency made her tone sharp. She grabbed Anne’s basket of bread and tugged it from the girl’s grasp. “You must go tell Father to send help.”

“What’s wrong?” Anne’s voice rang with concern.

“ ’Tis him, the man who hit me.”

Anne gave a cry of alarm.

“Go!” Elizabeth shoved the girl. Anne would be in danger too if she stayed.

“I can’t leave you,” she whimpered.

“You must get help.”

Elizabeth pushed her sister again, and this time the girl stumbled away as the man drew his horse alongside them. From his perch atop his saddle, he tilted up his hat.

“Well, if it isn’t Costin’s whore.” Even from his position above her, the glint in his eyes was sharp.

The slap of Anne’s footsteps echoed in the quiet of the street as she ran.

The man cast a glance at the girl, and Elizabeth held her breath and prayed he wouldn’t try to stop her.

His fingers twitched on the reins.

“ ’Tis the Lord’s day.” Elizabeth squared her shoulders and faced him, determined to distract him from chasing Anne. “ ’Tis a day to put aside all quarrels and disputes and live at peace with one another.”

His gaze fell back on her and contempt curled his lip. “We will have peace only when commoners learn to stay in their place instead of aspiring to be more than they are.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw Anne turn the corner.

“What do you have for me?” His gaze slid down her body and then up.

She forced herself not to shudder.

“I have given you more than enough time,” he said. “I want information now.”

Muffled voices came from within the cottage behind her. Elizabeth took a step backward. Could she make her way to the door and find refuge within?

“Well, what do you have for me?” He pulled his riding switch out of his saddle and with slow, deliberate motions laid it across one knee and lightly slapped it against the soft skin of his leather jerkin.

The strips of leather and willow braided together sent a shiver to the core of her body. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was suddenly parched. What could she tell him or give him? She’d left the paper tucked in the pocket she wore with her everyday apron. As she had donned her Sabbath garments that morning, she had never imagined she would have need of it.

Perchance she ought to stand up to him, tell him as she had last time that she had nothing, that she never would have anything for him, that he could hurt her if he wished, but she would not betray John Costin.

He tapped the riding switch against his knee again.

“I do have a paper for you.” She forced the words out but despised herself for her weakness. “But I don’t have it with me at this time.”

“Then tell me something.” His voice was as tight as the lines of his lips.

She slid back and noticed the coat of arms painted on an ornamental shield attached to the horse’s leather strippings. The charge was a crane clutching a fish, its sharp bill poised to devour, set against a field of red and gold. Was she the fish, her flesh about to be pecked apart by this man?

“Well?” He lifted the whip.

Her mind scurried for something to say, some news of John she could share without having to disclose too much. But the plain truth was that she didn’t know anything. His preaching took him away from home most days, and tinkering demanded the rest of his time.

“You are a stubborn one, just like him,” he growled. “Give me the information I want, or you’ll wish you had.”

“I’m not trying to be stubborn.” Desperation cramped her stomach. “I don’t know anything of value to tell you. He’s rarely home. And he hardly speaks to me when he is.”

With startling quickness he lifted his riding whip and brought it whistling through the air. Even before it struck her, she screamed and dropped the baskets of bread. She held up her arms to protect her head, and the thin strips sliced through her sleeve.

The sting of leather bit into her flesh, and she cried out again.

He raised his arm and put the force of his body into the next swing.

The whip slashed through the air, and Elizabeth jumped against the cottage. The leather strips swooshed through empty air and narrowly missed her.

Frantic to escape him, she turned and pounded on the cottage door. “Help! Help me! Please!”

The whip fell across her back like the blade of a knife and took her breath away. The piercing pain ripped another scream from her. Before she could move, slap after slap caught her, slicing away her bodice and searing her back with a quickness and intensity borne of skill.

The horse whinnied and reared away. Her attacker cursed and turned his whip onto the beast.

Her body sagged against the door. Was this how she would die?

Just as her knees gave way, the door of the cottage opened. She fell forward and sank to the dirt floor within.

“What’s the racket?” a man’s rough voice demanded.

Elizabeth couldn’t speak past the tightness of her throat.

A woman kneeled next to her.

“What’s this all about?” the man asked again, louder. He scratched his stomach with both hands and squinted into the bright sunshine.

“It’s narry your concern,” her assailant replied. Horse hooves tapped against the street. “If you know what’s best for you, you’ll speak not a word about this to anyone. Now, hand the wench over to me.”

Fear pulsed through Elizabeth. She struggled to push herself off the ground, desperate to escape this madman.

The woman at her side took hold of her arm and helped her rise to her knees.

“This here is my cottage,” the man bellowed. “Think you, just because you’re a rich gentleman, you can come to my home and order me about?”

“I think I can do whatever I may please, you foolish old man. Now, give me the girl.”

Elizabeth peered around the dark shadows of the sparse room. Where could she hide?

“I may be only a thatcher, but I don’t take orders from arrogant young men such as you.”

“You better do what I say. I have the power to make sure you never thatch another roof.”

The old thatcher scratched his stomach again.

What if he handed her over? What would happen then? Fresh fear charged through her blood. “Please help,” Elizabeth whispered to the woman.

“Do not fret, dearie.” The woman patted her arm. “You’re safe now.”

Elizabeth gripped her hand.

“If this here’s your wife, I’ll give her to you,” the thatcher said. “A man has a right to do whatever he wants with his wife.”

“No,” Elizabeth cried, answering before her attacker could lie. “I’m not this man’s wife. I don’t even know his name. Please, I’m only a poor woman he’s trying to hurt because I haven’t done his evil bidding the way he has wished. Please help me.”