Table of Contents

Cover Page

Praise

Excerpt

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Copyright

Praise for Illusion by Emily French

“…witty and fast-paced…”

—Affaire de Coeur

“…the voltage of the love scenes is no illusion.”

—Romantic Times

Praise for her first novel, Capture

“The sexual tension never ebbs…”

—Romantic Times

“5*s.”

—Heartland Critiques

“…fast-paced, action-filled, and beautifully romantic…”

—Affaire de Coeur

“…a gripping tale of survival and love.”

—Rendezvous

Charity tried to control herself, but her mind was running at full speed.

“Master Trehearne—Rafe…I have a suggestion to make. I suggest you and I should marry.”

“No.” His lips snapped together like a trap. The line of his jaw was taut, and his golden eyes gleamed with hidden fire.

Charity hunched her shoulders. “’Tis only common sense, after all. A practical proposition, based on matters of mutual convenience.”

“I daresay.”

“Did you think otherwise by chance? I don’t love you. I’m a widow with two sons, not a foolish, romantic girl of fifteen! ’Tis simple. An unmarried woman is always at a great disadvantage in this world. I therefore want a husband.”

“If that’s all it is, you’ll soon find one easy enough.”

“But I happen to want you!”

Dear Reader,

Although she has published only two books, Emily French is already gaining a reputation based on the emotional impact of her stories. In this month’s novel, The Wedding Bargain, widow Charity Frey defies her Puritan community and marries Rafe Trehearne, a bondsman who has been wrongly accused of treason. Rafe is a man tortured by his past, but Charity’s loving strength and determination make him whole again.

RITA Award finalist Laurel Ames is back with Tempted, her new novel that Affaire de Coeur calls an “exciting, unusual, and delightfully quirky Regency.” Don’t miss this story that features wonderful characters and a touch of intrigue.

Ana Seymour’s sixth title for Harlequin Historicals, Gabriel’s Lady, is the first of two connected books set in the wilds of the Dakota Territory. And for those of you whose tastes run to medieval novels, look for Knight’s Ransom, the next title in Suzanne Barclay’s dramatic ongoing series, The Sommerville Brothers.

We hope you’ll keep a lookout for all four titles wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., PO. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

The Wedding Bargain
Emily French

www.millsandboon.co.uk

EMILY FRENCH

Emily French comes from a family of incurable romantics but never dreamed her love of reading would turn into a writing career. Now she can’t imagine a life without writing. Her novels are laced with action and are filled with sizzling romance.

Emily draws on the colorful past for background whenever she writes. Patient and painstaking research of the Connecticut probate records gave a detailed description of indenture in American colonial society. The private diary of a Connecticut farm woman disclosed a turbulent tale of endurance and hardship and gave a peek at a passionate heart’s intense inner struggles to conform.

These brief and forgotten vignettes of a turbulent period in American history were the inspiration for Emily French’s latest exciting historical romance novel.

To my parents: Emilie Le Feuvre and Samuel Beattie

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal’d: I strove against the stream and all in vain: Let the great river take me to the main No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield; Ask me no more.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The Princess

Chapter One

Connecticut, August 1757

“Are we really going to buy a man, Mama? If so, ’tis best it not be that one by the auction block. He looks desperate.” The boy’s high-pitched young voice was as sweet as clear water running over smooth stones on a summer day—and as piercing as the winter wind.

Charity Frey smoothed the ribbons of her bonnet and allowed herself a wry smile, directed downward. “Hush, child. Such candid observations should be made in an appropriate tone of voice. A lowered tone.”

“I heard tell there was a convicted felon who escaped the gallows on account of his friendship with General Pakenham. Will Sutcliffe says that the magistrate at New Haven considered those serious defects of character the prisoner exhibited could be overcome through servitude. Is that true, Mama?”

“I know not, Isaac, but if a man’s soul can be saved, and he be prevented from committing further atrocities or pernicious acts through such a concession, then the Lord be thanked.”

“What has faith got to do with per-pernicious acts?”

The blue green eyes that met hers looked so serious. A soft warmth welled up in Charity. It was all very well encouraging children to work things out, answering their questions honestly and helping them develop their powers of independent reasoning. Only every now and then it led to something like this, and the views of an outspoken nineyear-old would lead to a complaint at meeting house that Charity Frey was an unfit parent.

“More than you might imagine, Isaac. However, the poor creature has enough humiliation to bear, and ’tis impossible to avoid hearing your hurtful remarks even twenty paces away.”

“A convicted felon has no rights.” Isaac’s lowered his voice, but his expression was unyielding. He might be only nine years old, but he had his own ideas of right and wrong.

Charity lightly patted her son’s springy, auburn hair. “Hush, child. ’Tis not seemly that you should speak so unkindly.”

Isaac moved back, not wanting to be touched. “But, Mama, there be evil demons in that one’s eyes. Milk would curdle in the pail if that man were to watch it the way he is watching you.”

Charity clenched her hand and took a deep breath. “That will do, Isaac. ’Tis not the way of a gentleman to make rude comments,” she said crushingly. “You should be profoundly ashamed of such odious statements.”

Isaac seemed a little taken aback at her vehemence. He flushed and hung his head. He stood passive, but there was a suggestion of resistance about him notwithstanding.

“I’m sorry, Mama, but I didn’t think you’d want to invest in one of Lucifer’s minions.”

Charity made a sharp, involuntary movement, then restrained herself. She felt it best not to acknowledge such an ignoble gibe. Out of the mouths of babes…Her mouth flexed faintly. In spite of herself, she slid a glance toward the bound prisoners and indentured servants waiting to be sold.

And went utterly still.

The man shackled to the auction block was nearly naked. The ragged garment that served as his shirt was so torn, so tattered, so full of rents that it hardly served its purpose, scarcely covering the solid chest or the muscular arms that showed through the holes. Even his breeches were almost indecent.

Behold the lilies in the field…

Charity colored a guilty scarlet, realizing where her eyes were drifting. Wicked creature! Using the Bible to clothe her own wanton imagination! Her gaze shifted to the felon’s face.

The man’s unshaven, weather-beaten visage had an untamed, primitive look about it, as of one born to the wilderness. He was looking straight at her, his expression cold, composed, a study of hatred and defiance. His scowling focus was unnerving.

Through a tangle of hair, dark brows lifted arrogantly as he faced her. Tawny eyes met hers, bored into her with a concentration that seemed to pierce straight through her.

Intensely alive, they were not the eyes of civilization, but glowed with some deep, primitive emotion. Charity felt as if they saw too much. They made her vividly conscious of her flushed face and the indelicate familiarity of her scrutiny.

Still she did not move. She was not sure she could have if she’d tried. Her spine was poker stiff, and her legs refused to obey her commands.

Sheer fascination immobilized her as she regarded the disheveled creature before her with shameless curiosity. She felt paralyzed—a rabbit confronted by a mountain lion.

He was magnificent even as he stood there before the block in provocative disrepute, wrists locked in iron fetters, legs braced for balance, an insolent Lucifer brushed by dark, invisible wings.

Charity experienced a queer and unbearable weakness, as though something deep inside her had come undone. A throb of excitement, as intense as a sudden realization of the presence of an enemy, coiled in her belly.

He made no movement, but it seemed his whole body was tensely strung to combat, unseen, the ripple of muscles contracting for a spring. Though he stood motionless, he seemed menacing.

His legs are as pillars of marble…

The blaze of color that overspread Charity’s pale face at the thought faded as rapidly as it rose. Wicked, sinful creature that she was, she was doing it again! Using biblical words to express her own secret sentiments. She glanced at him again, under fluttering lids.

No. She was not mistaken. There was something dangerously lynx-like in the smoldering regard, something so deliberately intent that it seemed formidable. Those golden eyes shone with an intimacy and connection that she felt throughout her being, with a flush of painful pleasure.

Once again Charity’s eyelashes flickered. Unspeakable images roared in her head. Thoughts she had locked away securely tore from their moorings, whirling upward in chaotic disarray. And with them came doubt.

She should not have come.

She should have heeded the elders.

Pride and independence were fine and proper, but in striving so much for worldly things, was there a danger that she might forget the eternity that awaited her? Each day she sinned in so many small ways.

These poor creatures were to be sold like horses to the highest bidders, to become pieces of property and used as forced labor until the expiration of their sentences. In purchasing such a man, even if he were an indentured servant and not a slave, was she not simply gathering to herself an even greater burden of sin?

Every fiber of her being cried out to her to retreat, to give up her foolish dream of independence, her desire to hold her land against all who coveted it. If she were a truly respectable woman she would conform to the wishes of the elders. Why was that so difficult?

She focused her attention again on the restrained man, and her world tilted sickly. Again the color started and died in her cheeks.

For an instant she, too, was as afraid as her son Isaac had been. Her heart gave a quick, hard throb and she caught her breath for a moment, suspended, waiting.

Then she reminded herself that the man was naught but a convict, about to be auctioned to the highest bidder. And she had come a long way in the ten long years of her marriage to Ezra Frey. No longer would she subjugate her own wishes and opinions to those of any man.

Even so, this unwelcome and almost painful spasm of response was bewildering. It made no sense. She was no stranger to the male form. She had been wife and healer, and knew what a man looked like. Yet never had she felt this inner foolishness, this forbidden, feminine elation.

Charity’s whole body flushed with shame.

Ezra, kind and good husband that he had been, had not tempted her weak, sinful flesh. Ezra had not been that type of raw and selfish man. Austere and upright, Ezra had sought his redemption in prayer.

A cold fist gripped Charity’s insides as she realized the malefactor before her would entertain no such foolish notion.

He would take what he needed, give what she wanted.

The idea hit her with such stunning force that Charity was sure her shock showed in her face, for a strange light flashed in the man’s tawny eyes, making them glow suddenly, hotly, giving him the appearance of some predatory animal. She shuddered, gripped by a terrifying sensation that he could see into the inner recesses of her mind.

There was something about him. Something elemental. Something…dangerous. Yet danger was a spur. It made one feel alive. It seemed a long time since she’d truly felt alive.

A confusion of half-formed, insidious thoughts rushed through Charity’s head, one superimposed upon another. If only…No, wishing was a weakness she had been careful all of her life not to indulge in.

The temptation was there to let things flow naturally forward, in whatever way they liked. But Charity was consumed with impatience. She didn’t like to think that her future rested in other hands—indifferent hands—that could clamp into fists, crush her independence.

Instead, life might be renewed, might take strange paths to unknown destinations. There were other hands—powerful hands—that might open and set her free. And the temptation was there, shackled to the auction block, sent by the devil to entice her from the staid pattern of her life.

The idea was unthinkable!

Oh, if only…

Ezra had been dead these four months past, and Charity was considered too young to be irreproachable. The tithing man appointed by the elders to look after the morals of those families settled on Mystic Ridge had said so. He had also decreed that the twins, though only recently out of petticoats, were not kept in due subjection by their mother.

Under the circumstances, the elders counseled making a second marriage. A husband would take over the heavy tasks of clearing the forest and tilling the soil. The tithing man, ever ready to serve the Lord and make a profit on the side, had offered himself as a candidate.

There were not many unmarried men of proper standing and ability in the small community, and the tithing man was eminently suitable for the task. His suit had the sanction of the elders, but did that make it right for her to marry him?

Charity shrank from binding herself to any man. Matrimony would cede her land and body to her husband. Goose bumps crawled over her skin when she contemplated the intimacies of the marriage bed with Amos Saybrook. So why did this scruffy, dirty, unprincipled man cause no such revulsion?

Suddenly, standing there in the summer sun, she tensed and trembled. It was an odd sensation, as though her immortal soul was in danger.

All rubbish, of course, but for an instant Charity was terrified. Not for herself; she no longer mattered. Rather for the sons who needed her, who had only her.

With an effort, she cast down her eyes. It was impossible to look at the convict without experiencing this foolish distraction. Really, what did it matter that one could be flustered by the sight of a man’s naked flesh?

‘Twas pure, biological response, nothing more. Charity turned away, reproaching herself for restlessness and discontent. Chastity was an admirable thing if only she would have it so. She forced herself to relax, using every reserve of willpower to control her trembling.

Somehow, she drew a folded sheet of heavy paper from her pocket. It was a printed handbill. She opened it and read it for the twentieth time. Listed for sale were fifteen males and one female.

“I think perhaps that a servant who can hew wood and plow fields would be a more valuable acquisition to Mystic Ridge than one whose needs are somewhere been damnation and salvation, Isaac.”

Charity spoke almost mechanically. She was trying to estimate, from the brief descriptions given, the lot number of the man with the tiger eyes. Was it Lot 16? The caption read: Male. Aged about 30. Former valet to Lord Brougham. Sold by his order.

No. This man was no valet. He was too elemental.

Relieved, she refolded the paper. “I don’t think the man by the auction block is for sale in any case, Isaac. There is no one listed that matches his likeness.”

“Maybe he’s to be hanged from the gibbet—or lashed, or placed in the stocks!”

“Isaac! Such excessive eagerness for any form of barbaric punishment is not worthy of you!”

“Which one, Isaac? The one tethered like a beast? He sure does look scary!” Benjamin’s high-pitched young voice was an echo of his twin’s.

Cautiously, Charity glanced at the man again. No, her eyes did not cozen nor deceive. If he were a beast, he was a magnificent one, grime encrusted though he be.

Unruly curls of shaggy hair and a growth of stiff black beard could not disguise the elegant shape of head and jaw. The sun, shining on the crisp dark hair on his chest, revealed a powerful musculature. Broad shouldered and strong limbed, the man looked to be a good worker.

With an effort, Charity dragged her eyes away from the man and spoke to her other son. Her words were gentle but firm with authority. “Benjamin! ’Tis not a beast, but a person.”

In spite of the gentle rebuke, Benjamin stamped his foot in a gesture he surely hadn’t learned at the meeting house. “Then why is he tethered like a beast?”

Charity hesitated, searching for a suitable explanation. Standing in the lee of the auction block, the man seemed very large and intimidating. She was far too conscious of his size and strength—and of something else.

Inevitably, she thought of the elders, and her face flooded with scalding shame at her iniquitous thoughts. Drawing a deep breath, she gathered her senses and stepped back a pace, aware that she was trembling. The only way to cope with this was head-on. Accordingly, she drew herself up and looked straight into the tawny eyes, which were appraising her as thoroughly as she had him.

“The man has offended against society and must pay his dues.” Her voice was calm, but she was sure that her face was fiery as she turned her back on the auction block.

“Have we enough money to purchase a bond servant, Mama?”

Still vexed with herself, Charity’s hand rose instinctively to her throat. She had ten five-pound notes and one precious gold coin. Would that be sufficient?

“If God wills it be so.”

Sometimes it was hard to accept the burden Providence dealt without feeling bitter. Charity knew her own assets and liabilities, and meek acceptance wasn’t on the list. She did try to take the restless center she’d discovered within herself and make stillness and serenity of it. She did try. The Lord knew she did.

But prayer and penitence were not enough to stifle the bothersome energy within her. There was something inside her, some force that drove her, made her want to defy convention, to be her own woman, independent of any man. To laugh aloud as she had before her marriage to Ezra Frey.

Charity sighed. Such things could never be. Life moved forward, never back. Ezra was dead. Her twin sons, Benjamin and Isaac, needed guidance.

Somehow, she should carry out God’s words with meekness. Yet God Himself had not given clear instructions about the right road. And Charity was not convinced that the elders knew best, simply because they were men. She knew she was neither ignorant nor simple, and there came a time in a woman’s life when she had to stop being sensible, when she had to stand up and be counted…

That time had come.

If she did not wish to marry Amos Saybrook, she would not.

Her decision made, Charity felt as if a dark weight had been lifted from her soul. She became aware of the world around her. Like a torrent of molten gold, sunlight poured into the open marketplace, intensifying the cleanly pungent odors of farm animals, fresh picked vegetables, hemp and ripe cheese.

Dismayed, Charity also espied a small, terrierlike figure with fair hair and a lean, jutting jaw hurrying toward her.

“This idea of yours is repulsive, Charity!” the newcomer snapped. “These are the misfits of society. Surely you’d not demean the memory of our poor, departed Ezra by replacing him with such trash?”

Resentment stirred within Charity. Never once had she spoken to another creature in the insolent tone Leah Saybrook used with her. Charity might be headstrong, defiant, and might often act without thinking, but she always told the truth as she saw it.

“The simple fact is that Ezra is dead. That is precisely why I need a man about the place.”

“You need a husband. Isaac and Benjamin need a strong hand so they learn right from wrong and keep their backs turned to all evildoers.”

Oh, the insolence of the woman! Charity was shaking inside, but she held her ground.

“That will do, Leah Saybrook. I do not need your advice on how to run my affairs. Now that Ezra is gone, my life is my own to do with as I choose. I have brought up my two boys to fear the Lord and never take His name in vain. If I choose to purchase a bond servant, I will, and that is that.”

“The elders become more incensed with each reckless action. Why are you so obsessed with independence?” Leah waved her arms angrily. Hot color flooded her face, and she gave a queer, gasping little laugh. “I fear Amos will think you have contracted a leave of your senses in pursuing such a foolish course.”

A fury of resentment possessed Charity, but sensing her self-control to be tottering, she dared not give vent to her feelings. She was pleased to hear her voice held naught but tender reproach as she answered, “’Tis better to have an indentured servant, even one who is the devil’s bait, than another husband.”

If possible, Leah Saybrook’s fair skin flamed more brightly. “There’s no need to be so uppity, Charity Frey. My brother asks to wed you only because he feels beholden.”

Charity stifled an angry retort, and allowed her face to beam as brightly as if she had swallowed a piece of the summer sun. “Then tell him from me that he need not feel beholden. Ezra’s death was caused by his own foolishness, not by a reprisal of the Pequots because Amos Saybrook saw fit to seduce one of their women.”

Though a mocking smile formed on Leah’s full lips, there was a tinge of annoyance in her voice. “You have the arrogance of Beelzebub himself, Mistress Frey. The only way you’ll keep your land is to wed. Good help is hard to find, and Amos is prepared to take on your two hellion sons and raise them as his own. You have their future to think on.”

Charity struggled to control her anger. She raised her shoulders slightly, and her delicate nostrils flared. Her eyes narrowed. “My sons are my concern, just as my land is mine. I intend to keep it that way.”

“You’d take a convict to lodge with you? What will people say?” Leah’s voice became a hiss.

“That I’m as much a fool as ever.”

“And Amos?”

Charity made a sharp movement—a gesture that was almost passionate, before it became a slight shrug. “Precisely the same.”

“Perfidious creature. To live only in the flesh!”

The injustice burned Charity. Never had there been any slackness in her morals. Had Ezra not sworn them both to celibacy after the birth of the twins had been decreed by the elders to be a result of excessive fornication? And not once in nine long years had they broken that solemn vow.

She locked her hands together in front of her. “That is not very generous of you, Mistress Saybrook. Didn’t Bible readings tell you not to judge others by yourself?”

“What’s the use of trying to reason with you, Charity Frey? You have made up your mind to take a felon rather than a respected citizen.” Leah’s voice was colder and harder than the thick ice that formed on the river throughout the winter months.

The indecency of it! The common, wretched vulgarity of it! Spoken to as if she were some loose servant girl!

“Even so, I’ll take my chances,” Charity resolved. “A graduate of New Haven Prison is a better proposition than Amos.” She lifted her hand and made an airy gesture, expressive of semihumorous regret. “I’d rather house a genuine convict, with hair looking like bog weeds and reeking of the swamp, than a sly, avaricious man who holds the Bible in one hand and gropes at a girl’s leg with the other.”

Charity turned toward the auction block to hide her face, knowing it must be cherry red. How had those vile words escaped her mouth? It was nothing to her if Amos Saybrook was a lecherous philanderer intent on bedding every girl in the Commonwealth of Connecticut.

Still, it was not like her to be so rude, and what a supremely contemptuous example she was setting for her sons! She glanced at the boys, raising her brows in mute interrogation, but they were busily scuffing at tufts of grass and did not seem to notice anything amiss.

“The tongue is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison, Charity Frey.” There was more than a hint of sharpness in Leah’s rejoinder. “You will live to regret your wicked words. I’ll report your disgusting lies to the church elders, and let’s see how haughty you are when you are forced to ask pardon before the entire meetinghouse.”

Abruptly, Leah turned and walked away, light-footed, swift as a bird. A hard lump of anger formed in Charity’s throat. She had made an enemy there, she knew, when before she had looked on the Saybrooks as friends.

She shrugged mentally. There was no help for it. Now that she had been so foolishly outspoken, she was obliged to refuse Amos before she was good and ready.

To the devil with the whole stupid business of attending market today, anyway. But for the dire necessity of obtaining a laborer, she would not have had to confront Amos Saybrook until Sunday.

“Charity?” The voice of Thirza Arnold, her neighbour and friend, broke through her reverie. “You look a bit strange. Are you all right?”

“Yes.” With a shake of her head, Charity forced herself back to the present. Her voice remained carefully casual. “Boys, go with Mistress Arnold and help set up the refreshment stall. Take a care of Jemima, now. I’ll join you after the auction.”

Isaac and Benjamin dutifully clasped five-year-old Jemima Arnold’s hands and sedately followed Thirza. Charity rejoiced to see the little girl’s pretty face so animated and cheerful. Lately Charity had begun to feel twinges of anxiety about Jemima, but was able to banish them at least for today, for she chattered to the boys like a merry bird.

Charity turned back toward the auction block. Everything within her was resisting the task that lay ahead. She would coddle her conscience until Sunday’s lecture—and by then it would be too late for the elders to interfere.

* * *

Raphael Trehearne licked his lips, a gesture that spoke more of common impotence than his aristocratic background. The sun’s molten heat beat on his head, rousing a dull ache—something he noted only vaguely. Nothing for several days had had the power to upset or worry him. Not since he’d tried to escape and had received a blow on the head with a chain for his efforts.

He had been drifting in a gray, lifeless landscape that had no secure points of reference and from which there seemed no deliverance. If he thought of anything specific at all for any length of time, the thrumming in his head began again.

At the back of his mind, he knew he was to be sold, like a beast at market. Somehow that didn’t seem to matter anymore. Nothing mattered. He was too tired, too bone weary, to care.

It was the sound of a child’s soprano voice that penetrated the colorless miasma, rousing him from endless inertia, bringing him back to the present. He clung to the sound. Heard the woman’s soft response, warm as honey, from far away.

It was the longing to know the owner of that sweet, feminine voice that made him open his eyes. She stood there, a thing of infinite daintiness, so exquisite in her fairy grace. Pale skin tinged with pink, high cheekbones, a delicate chin and eyes of blue green rimmed with sooty lashes enhanced the fey image.

The very freshness of her was a danger that put him on his guard. There was a lack of humility in those strange, sea-colored eyes, which sat oddly under the hooded coif that most Puritan women wore to hide their hair from the eyes of men. Her simple black dress gave her a quaintly demure air that was belied by the rounded bodice and tiny waist. This was a woman to cherish, not scorn.

She glanced up at him without fear or modesty, and then changed into a veritable wanton, her full lips open, as if she would eat him for supper. His eyebrows arched in sudden suspicion.

He blinked, trying to marshal his thoughts, but suddenly his mind rolled back to the terrible slaughter of the militiamen as they fought a rearguard action against the French. There had been guns that had harried them all the previous day. It had become a matter of necessity to silence those guns. So the effort had been made, a glorious effort crowned with success.

How long was it since the fight at Beaver Creek? It had been a desperate battle, in which quarter had been neither asked nor given. Hand-to-hand and face-to-face they’d fought, with wild oaths and dreadful laughter.

Rafe recalled the terrible night he had been thrown into New Haven Prison, the dreadful morning of the trial, and the worst nightmare of all, the afternoon his whole world had fallen apart…And now he was here, chained like a slave in the marketplace.

For an endless, agonized, intimate moment, the woman held his eyes. Tension seemed to vibrate through the air, as loudly as guns during combat.

Then she touched her hand to one of the two coppercolored heads bouncing boisterously at her side. He recognized the relationship immediately. How could he not? The boys were her in sturdy male miniature. Undoubtedly, her hair was red also.

Then it struck him. She was married!

For some absurd reason, a wave of treacherous disappointment almost overwhelmed him. Rafe closed his eyes, unable to bear the unfeigned affection of this small domestic tableau.

Time passed. Just how much time, he did not know, but the sun was high, and a raging thirst burned him fiendishly.

Gradually, he became aware of activity around him. Where was he in the disorderly mass of movement? Was he riding hell-for-leather to escape the savages, or was he trying to stem the terrified retreat?

A hot shaft of pain burned through his temple as he shook his head, clearing his vision.

The auction had started. Bidding went slowly at first, then started to gather speed. Arms were raised, heads were shaken, nods were given. Men shouted, and women hid their expressions behind their fans.

One by one the other bond servants took their place on the wooden block and were sold to the highest bidder. Then it was his turn. Awkwardly, his arms and legs still shackled, he was led to stand before the many faces looking up at him, fear and dread on their faces. Several women gasped and raised their fans.

“Are you the man who is known as Raphael Gabriel Trehearne?”

Rafe stood without answering. Only the expression in his eyes indicated that he had heard the question.

The long-nosed Puritan acting as auctioneer stared at him, awaiting an answer. When none was forthcoming, he rapped the wooden block with his staff.

“Answer me! I am the law in this county!”

There was a buzz of excitement. Fans clicked open and shut. Whispered conversations took place behind them.

“Yes, I am Rafe Trehearne. I have dispensed my share of death. So buy me, if you do not fear to be murdered in your bed!”

The words rang out impulsively and were greeted by a deep silence. Not a hand in the audience was raised, not a voice spoke.

Then a woman stood up and faced Rafe. It was she! He had some vague hope that he was mistaken in her intention, but when she smiled at him, a peculiar little smile, that illusion vanished. She stood there, her head angled to the side, giving him a searching look. Rafe glared back in violent disapproval.

Twisting her hands together, she turned to the auctioneer. In her smooth, melodic voice, as if carefully measuring each word, she placed her bid. “I will offer fifty pounds for the bond servant, Raphael Trehearne.”

There was a hushed silence. No one moved. Time stood suspended until the auctioneer banged on the post three times with a wooden mallet.

“Sold…to Mistress Charity Frey.”

Chapter Two

“Isaac! Benjamin! Into the wagon. Hurry now, and leave sufficient room for Master Trehearne. Are you ready, sir?”

Rafe heard the words from some far distance. They danced in the air, one after the other, like soft notes of music, separate and ethereal, hanging there, spinning into infinity, their pure…

“Mr. Trehearne, please, we must go now, else we shall not make Mystic Ridge by fall of night.”

Slowly, it seemed, Rafe became aware of a hand plucking at his sleeve. Then the meaning penetrated and he started as from a deep slumber. The clanking of the chains fastened to his wrists and ankles reminded him of his plight. He peered down at his feet.

“I cannot.”

“Cannot? What are you saying, you cannot? You will! You must! It cannot be any other way!”

Rafe felt the strength ebbing from his legs. His feet felt leaden. His body ached, and his head was spinning. Exhaustion was beating a familiar tattoo behind his eyes and he knew his mind teetered on a yawning chasm. He blinked, trying to make his brain function again.

“Not quite. I beg your indulgence, ma’am, but these shackles will make it extremely awkward for me to attend to the wagon in case of accident. ‘Twould be best for all concerned if you order they be removed before our departure.”

He frowned. His voice was surprisingly clear and firm, even though it was taking a great deal of concentration to keep the pain in his head from overwhelming him.

“No! Do not take me for a fool!” Charity paused, then added “Couldst you not crawl into the wagon on your knees, Master Trehearne?”

The man looked at her hand-embroidered coif for a moment. He growled, a strange sound, soft, wild and breathless. He cleared his throat twice and seemed to find speech difficult.

There was a red glow in the golden eyes, despite his proud stance. He reminded her of a trapped, feral animal, fierce and irrational, ready to lash out even at a helping hand.

Her first instinct—to extend that hand—was immediately suppressed. Instead, she clutched the iron rim of the wagon wheel for support. She didn’t seem to be able to move.

Rafe swayed a bit, looked up, found the blue green eyes, focused. His vision clear now, he took an unsteady step forward and bowed from the waist, carefully, formally, correctly. He had no conscious sense of control over his movements, but felt as though strings jerked by unseen hands were starting and stopping him.

“I may be a bondman, sworn on penalty of death to serve you, ma’am. Your wish is my command. I come to you in chains, but not on my knees, Mistress Frey. Never on my knees.”

The bravado touched Charity’s warm heart. To be honest, she welcomed it. Fear was no tool with which to chop out a living in this wilderness, and Charity Frey intended to use this man to hold her land against all who would covet it for their own.

“Master Trehearne, I do not ask you to kneel to me. I ask only that you climb aboard the wagon!”

“And I say I cannot accomplish such a feat when I am tethered like a beast!”

If he had been one of her offspring, she would have delivered a sharp slap to teach him sense. “You have made no attempt to do so, sir, so how do you know whether or nay you can or cannot?”

He stepped close to her, so that she had to tilt her head to see his face. With her back pressed against the wagon, she lifted a slender hand as if to ward him off. He leaned forward slowly, deliberately, pushing against her hand, forcing it back, finally trapping it between his solid body and her soft breasts.

Charity drew in a hard breath, mastering panic. Her lips opened soundlessly. She felt taken, possessed, completely captive. A faint tremor began at the corner of her mouth. “Can you…” She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue and tried again. “Do you mean you cannot…”

Rafe Trehearne’s eyes narrowed briefly, as if he heard the trace of fear in her voice. “Have the fetters removed, Mistress Frey.”

It was an order, sharp and decisive.

With a shock Charity suddenly realised every nerve in her body was aware of the challenge in him. And yet she was not truly frightened. He might be formidable, but she did not sense the evil in him she saw in Amos Saybrook.

Eyes wide and anxious, she stared up at him, seeking some sort of guidance. The man’s gaze locked with hers, with an intentness that was almost alarming. She had never seen brazen resolve in a man’s gaze before, but she recognized it instantly.

A deep, vibrating rumble resounded through her fingers. She felt a warm tingling sensation move through her, stirring all her nerve endings, the way a summer breeze stirred leaves. Her back and shoulders grew tight. She sucked in a strangling breath.

Unable to hold his gaze any longer, she lowered her head. “If you would stand back a little, Master Trehearne, I will have one of my sons pass me a tool.”

Hands clasped behind him, Amos Saybrook watched Charity thread her way toward her wagon. In her modest black dress, with its white, starched collar that came all the way up to her chin, and wearing a black bonnet that hid all of her hair, she still had an air of conceit about her that sat ill with him.

Following that thought came another that dwelled longer in his mind. Leah had come to him with her tale of outrage. Charity’s forthright manner was discomposing, and she had the manners of a Hottentot, but she had land, valuable land, and a spirit that he would enjoy taming.

Amos scanned the rapidly thinning crowd. There would be no militia parade today. The crowd had already watched a better show, and audience and amateur soldiers alike were starting for their far-flung homes before dark.

He frowned, thinking of the poor, miserable specimens who had been willing to sell themselves for the price of passage to the American colonies. Vermin and trash for the most part. Out-and-out heathens to boot. Probably never in their lives had they been to church. They were no better than a pack of savages.

Look at the big fellow now! Shuffling like an old man, as if he was so tired he could barely stand. And Charity Frey preferred to take that trash instead of a good, Godfearing, law-abiding man such as himself.

If there was anything Amos could do about it, well, then it would be different. But hadn’t he already eliminated his friend, Ezra Frey, and made out that those damn thievin’ Pequots had done it?

His anger grew to a new peak, almost of frenzy. Leah might rant and rave and urge him to take what he wanted, but he knew better. Behind those luminous, blue green eyes and that soft voice, Charity Frey had quite an independent mind and a strong will.

And her will said no to the giving of herself—for the moment.

A sly and malicious feminine voice spoke so close to his ear that Amos jumped. “It appears all your conniving and scheming have been to no avail, Brother Amos. The pigeon has escaped.”

“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”

In spite of his efforts to keep his voice calm, Amos’s ruffled ego betrayed itself in his voice, and Leah’s head came up sharply. “It could be beneficial to your cause to give the Lord a hand in this matter, Amos.”

Her brother’s eyes were on Charity and her bondman, standing ever so close, almost intimately, beside the wagon, and he spoke as if he was thinking of something else. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways, Leah.”

Amos stood for another moment lost in thought. He nodded his head slowly as if in full agreement with some unspoken conviction of his own, then abruptly walked stiffly toward the couple.

Leah had the idea he had been about to tell her something of importance, and she wanted to hear it, but he was gone.

“Can I help you with that vermin, Charity?”

Amos Saybrook looked down his great long nose and spoke in a high, squeaky voice that completely belied his heavy jowls and enormous bulk. “Thank you, Amos. I have but to loosen this last link.

There, ’tis done.” There was a satisfying clatter as the shackles hit the dirt. The boys cheered loudly at the sound.

Charity smiled softly and turned to Rafe. He was staring at his hands as though they were strange objects. She heard him draw a deep breath. Her smile broadened. “There would seem no reason to delay our departure further, Master Trehearne.”

Rafe curved his hand as though he wished he had something to crush in it. He looked up. For an instant, their eyes met. He blinked. “Thank you, Mistress Frey.” It was barely a whisper.

Amos made a harsh sound and straightened his hat. “Charity, do you think it wise to release this vagabond like this? Are you not aware of the charges that were brought against the man? How dangerous he is? How foolish you have been to defy the elders.”

Charity had expected a lecture. What she had not expected was that Rafe Trehearne and her sons would be witness to the reprimand. She bit her lip in vexation, then controlled herself and answered calmly, with an inflection deliberately devoid of expression, “Amos, your voice is so loud, I think that God himself hears every word you are saying, and I think He must be as perplexed as I am.”

“Charity, you are blaspheming!” The stiffening of his shoulders beneath the sturdy gabardine jacket was obvious.

A renewed surge of resentment flowed through Charity. Guilt lanced through her, as sharp as any knife. Would she never learn to curb her tongue? She concentrated on relinquishing to Benjamin the ax she had used to pry open the iron links.

“I am aware of what I am doing, Amos. I am ensuring that my sons receive their rightful inheritance. If this requires forbearance and fortitude, then I will praise the Lord for His generous gifts.”

“’Tis arrogance and you know it, Charity Frey. ’Tis better you pray for humility.” Amos slid his thumbs behind the lapels of his frock coat and rocked back on his heels. “As tithing man and your prospective husband, it is my duty to question the wisdom of your actions.”

Eyes narrowed to thin slits under the overhanging eyebrows, Amos looked very intently at Charity, as if waiting for a response. When she did not reply, he addressed himself to Rafe.

“I’ve been talking to Silas Deare, the magistrate at New Haven. He says those Iroquois savages who were so abandoned in natural loyalty and decency as to take up arms against their rightful king claim you as a blood brother. Do they?”

“If they say so, they must.” Rafe’s heart had begun to pump, and for a moment he felt slightly dizzy and light-headed. His breath came a shade too rapidly. He swallowed hard. She was not married! A covert smile was struggling on his lips. He tried to say something, but the words caught in his throat.

He wanted to tell her his whole story. Explain that he had become a bond servant through no fault of his own. That, on the contrary…No, there were some things you couldn’t explain because no one would believe them.

“Charity! This most abandoned of mankind, forgetting his allegiance to God, has, according to his own confession, supported these savages, putting his hand and seal to a bloody truce, full of the knowledge of what mischief this treachery will cause. And he impudently calls on the intervention of Sir Thomas Pakenham to spare him the rope!”

Charity was annoyed. What business did Amos Saybrook have, spreading such vile slander? She glared at him, but the tithing man went on, speaking harshly, rapidly, not giving her a chance to say anything at all.

“Chances are this thieving scoundrel will disappear with half your possessions.” Amos allowed himself the luxury of a sneer. “Or get drunk and give them away to the enemy.”

Charity’s hands were clasped together so tightly that her knuckles showed white. She felt the blood recede from her face. Her lips, her face, her whole body felt stiff—but with fear now, not anger. She opened her mouth, but it was several seconds before she spoke, and her voice was unsteady.

“Drink accounts for all manner of derangements.”

Something in her tone drew him to her wide and dismayed eyes. Rafe’s brain whirled giddily before the words made sense. He turned them over in his mind. As far as he was aware, strong liquor was not a failing of most Puritan men.

She made another peculiar sound and smoothed her skirt awkwardly. The boys began to busy themselves rearranging the pile of sacks already stacked neatly on the wagon tray. He wondered when—and how—she had gained her fear of a drunken man.

His hands started to move, but he restrained the gesture. He was nearer to collapse than he would have allowed, for there was a curious catch in his voice when he finally spoke. “You can relax, Mistress Frey. Though I have many vices, a fondness for alcohol is not one of them.”

Amos Saybrook’s watery blue eyes moved to Rafe. He cleared his throat impressively. “Do you know what you have done, Mistress Frey? You have endangered the lives of these precious infants. Suppose the Pequots decide to support the Iroquois and capture them? What then?”

Three pairs of anxious, blue green eyes swung toward Rafe. A stab of anger shot through him. Trust the Puritan ignoramus to raise the fears of a lone woman and her children. He squared his shoulders. He knew that if he allowed the anger to overcome him, he would explode. He had to remain in command of himself.

“There’ll be no trouble.” He was relieved that his voice sounded quietly confident. “A little common sense would tell you I’m not likely to have any friends among the Pequot.”

Charity’s fingers closed convulsively over those of the nearest twin, and for a horrified moment Rafe thought she was going to burst into tears. Then she rallied.

“Amos, it is you who preach that sin is permitted by God, for it tests men and proves them in God’s eyes. It is only through prayer and penitence that men attain salvation.” She raised her eyes in unconscious appeal. “Surely you would allow this sinner the same chance?”

A explosive sound burst from Amos Saybrook’s thick lips. “Once a killer, always a killer—that’s a fact.”

For a long moment Rafe stood without moving, expressionless except for the fire of anger in his eyes, which surveyed the creature before him with utter contempt. He had never known anything like the blistering fury that gripped him now.

It took iron willpower to control the anger to a point where he could function, and then it was with discipline and nerve alone. His shoulders moved in an uneasy, uncharacteristic gesture, and then he stepped forward. He moved with striking grace, but he was not quite steady. “Men have died for causes before, and I imagine they always will. I’m not such a bloody-minded fool that I can’t see that Mistress Frey needs a man to help hold her land against bigots and thieves.”

Charity glanced at Rafe momentarily, from under fluttering lids. There was a promise in her eyes he couldn’t fathom. A tiny frown crinkled his brow and he made a slight gesture with one hand.

She stood on tiptoe and put her hand up to his throbbing temple, pressed lightly. The touch, careful though it was, arrested his breath, centered all his consciousness on exploding pain, annihilated him. His jaw grew tight with agony. To breathe took a jerky effort.

Her mouth moved. She spoke. He knew she did because her voice echoed inside his head. “Once he has paid his dues to society, whatever his crime, Master Trehearne is a free man.” She brushed her hand against his unshaven jaw. “Until then, he is mine.”

Somehow the wall of darkness receded, and he was dimly aware that Amos was nodding his head in agreement. There was a perceptible thaw in the man’s attitude, as if he had decided to retreat a little, give himself a chance to revise his strategies.

The preacher began to rock back and forth slightly on his booted feet. He spoke with heavy delicacy. “Though the present circumstances make me wish otherwise, I’m bound to agree with you, Charity.”

Rafe could see the relief flow through Charity, washing away her tension and uncertainty. Of course, this scion of respectability had not surrendered completely. The Puritan turned away from Charity and took a step closer to Rafe. He smiled, a thin, humorless little smile, his eyes gleaming with scorn and anger. “In truth, sire, you are a rascal and a villain, but with a scrub and decent garb, some of the prison stench may leave your body, if not your soul. Prayer and penitence will do that. No doubt you’ll be seated with us at the meetinghouse on Sunday?”

Rafe bowed deeply from the waist, then looked Amos full in the face. He made a valiant effort to give one of his sweetest smiles. The strain was making him light-headed. His tongue felt thick.

“You are too kind, Master Saybrook. While you honor me beyond my wildest hopes, it would never do for someone in your high position to be seen consorting with a servant, especially a miserable creature whose indenture has seven long years to run.”

Rafe’s head ached dully. He remembered other pain. The heat. Flames that lapped intermittently at his bare feet, his ankles, for they would not allow the redcoat warrior to die quickly. He recalled the fierce glare of the sun, searing his eyeballs and drying his throat painfully. The pull on his wrist increased to agony…

He blinked, looked around. The compound was empty, the distant mountain mute and green. A boy was doing a balancing act on the edge of a wagon. He saw the freckled face, the shining eyes, the wide, white grin. There were other faces that should be here, but weren’t.

They’re inside your head.

He could not endure the thought, but there was no escaping it. He heard a sound, metal on metal. Danger. Was it the snick of a rifle trigger? He blinked again.

For an instant, light flooded his brain—light so cruel, so bright, that it was like staring into the sun—and the woman was in its path! He exploded into action.

The hatchet’s bright blade came at him. His momentum took him toward it. Past it, a dark blur. Plant the feet, breathe in, swing with the mass of his frame, pushing from his ankles. A heaving, rounded breast. A flurry of skirts.

He regained his feet and pivoted again to meet the threat.

There was none.

Charity Frey lay on her face, her breath making small puffs in the dust, so he knew she was alive. The tithing man was standing in the same posture as moments before, but now his mouth was agape, as if he was trying to figure out what had happened. The Frey twins were leaning over the wagon edge gazing at him in open admiration, identical freckled faces alight with excitement. One spoke.

“Can you show me how to do that, bondman? Did you see him, Mama? He moved quicker than lightning!”

Rafe panted, gulping for air as the woman scrambled to her feet. Irritably she shook away his extended hand. “I’m all right!”

She stood before him, staring at him, nervously brushing at her skirt, attempting to straighten her bonnet. A lock of copper hair had escaped the confines of her coif.

Rafe knew he didn’t belong to himself. His skin still burned from the brief contact of his palm on her breast. His insides trembled. Damn it. He had survived every torture devised by man while a prisoner of the Iroquois. Why was his body doing cartwheels now?

The high-pitched, nervous giggle of a small boy splintered his brain and body. Panic clutched him. A gray mist was swirling around the edges of his vision.

“Isaac! What tomfoolery have you been up to?”

Rafe heard the boy’s answer, trembling, remote. His voice was hollow, coming from a formless, shifting wasteland, slightly off-key. “Oh, Mama! I was only reflecting light off the ax head—making secret signals to Benjie like the Indians do. And it was his turn, only I dropped it onto the wagon wheel!”

Reflections! Rafe Trehearne, you’ve been to hell and back. Heard men scream until their voices were gone and after that go on screaming with their eyes until they died. And you perform like a monkey on a string at the antics of a couple of boys!

The tithing man spoke. “That boy needs a good beating!”

Charity whirled, hands on hips, a tigress protecting her cub. She drew in several deep breaths.

She was scared, Rafe realized numbly. Trying not to show it, but scared.

“He’s only nine!”

It was a cry of desperation. Rafe could see the heaving of her sweetly curved breast.

Amos shrugged. “Isaac is behind every mischief. He can’t be allowed to smile and laugh and entice others to the same evil.”

“I know that,” Charity said. “But I also know there are other ways to discipline a small boy than by beating him!”

Time was suspended. Charity gazed at the tithing man, wide-eyed. He was staring at her too, his expression aghast.

Rafe yielded to a sudden, fierce and irrational desire to protect her. He was swaying on his feet now but didn’t know it. He stood in front of Amos Saybrook, all dark, masculine arrogance, wearing his tattered convict garb as proudly as if he wore silken robes of majesty. It was odd how pride remained when all else had vanished.

“The boy is not to blame, Master Saybrook. It was all my fault—and there’s no damage been done.” He gave another deep, formal bow. “If you’ll excuse us, we must be leaving now.”

He bowed again and was in the wagon before the dark color appearing on the tithing man’s cheeks had risen to his brow.

The exertion was too much. There were hammers at Rafe’s temples. Drums. His tall body went suddenly limp, and he slumped, then crumpled to the wagon floor as darkness swallowed him up.

The diamond-paned window was wide open, and the night air blew in fresh and pure, fragrant with the rich scent of dew-drenched pines and the cool of the mountain behind.

There was a large moth in the room. Attracted there by the light of the candles, it seemed to be dashing to and fro now, in a wild search for freedom. Shadows bloomed against the ceiling, shifting, reforming, as the moth flitted dizzily round and round the candle.

Charity followed its movements, fascinated, as it circled closer and closer to the flame. Suddenly, it made a headlong dash for the fire. There came a sharp crackle and then a dull thud as it fell upon the floor. A great shudder caught her, almost convulsed her.

At that same instant the door opened. Charity looked up. A head appeared, eyes widening as they met hers. Isaac hesitated, drew back, slid around the door, looking guilty but determined. His twin followed.

“Is he dead, Mama?” Benjamin asked in a breathless rush.

Charity shook herself, put a lock on her thoughts. The child was making reference to the bondman, lying on the parlor sofa, not to the small, dark object on the polished wood floor.

Limbs loose, hands limp, Rafe lay unmoving, only the rise and fall of his chest suggesting life. He was waxy pale, but the soft sigh of his breathing sounded normal.

“No, Benjie.”

Isaac bit his lip. “Will he die, Mama?”

“No, Isaac. At least I don’t think so.”

A heavy, still-raw wound slashed his temple. Ever so gently, Charity ran an index finger across Rafe’s swollen brow and traced the jagged, purple line that disappeared into the dark tangle of hair. A fresh injury atop an old one.

“Then why has he been unconscious for five whole hours?”

“When there’s a blow or an injury to the head, sometimes it takes days before the patient comes to his senses.”

And sometimes they never did, she thought with a touch of panic. Sometimes such a wound affected their mind. They were witless or could not talk…or proved dangerous.

She slid her strong, competent fingers across Rafe’s moist, hair-roughened chest. She was not sure whether the pounding that vibrated through her fingers was from his heartbeat or hers. But whatever its source, it was strong and rhythmical. There was nothing ominous about the steady thump-thump-thump.

“I did not mean for this to happen, Mama.”

A flicker that was scarcely humorous touched Charity’s soft mouth. Neither did I, she thought ruefully.

She looked down at Rafe. He was a mysterious man. A bondservant. An unknown quantity. After all, he could prove violent. His instantaneous reaction to some perceived danger this afternoon had shown her that. Then she had felt vaguely responsible. Now she felt vulnerable.

“Of course not, Isaac.”

Isaac frowned, crinkling his brow fiercely. “Can you cure him?”

“A poultice to reduce the swelling on his temple, a draft of herbs to ease the pain in his head, and he’ll regain his senses in no time.”

Isaac sighed dejectedly. “Will the tithing man beat me?”

“Of course not!”

“Was playing with the ax a sin? It did not feel like one!” Isaac’s blue green gaze was wide, innocent.

Charity stood, lightly smoothed his tousled hair. She drew in a slow breath. She gave Isaac a warm, aching smile.

“Ill-advised and a little reckless, Isaac, but not a sin.” She curved an arm around each of her sons. “Come. It is time for prayers and bed.”

At what point the wandering wit failed to return to its earthly host, Charity did not know precisely, although she suspected time was running out for Rafe Trehearne. If the vital signs were depressed for much longer, logic dictated the coma could be permanent, the mind caught forever between life and death. Her own mind baulked at the possibility. She bit her lip and closed her eyes.

“Charity! Charity!”

Thirza Arnold’s worried tone and light tap on her arm brought her out of her thoughts. It did little good to shut eyes and mind against Thirza when her neighbor was in a crusading mood. She would stay there until Charity opened them or plague her until she yielded.

“Don’t.” The one word Thirza spoke held a volume of meanings, all warnings.

Charity felt herself stiffen. She gripped her hands together. “You almost sound as if you are chiding me.”

Thirza was very small, a little brown bird, all bones and temper. Her eyes snapped with reproach. “Maybe I am.”

Charity didn’t move, but there was tension in every line of her body. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “Heavens above, Thirza! ’Tis not some den of iniquity!”

“How can you be so calm about it, Charity? Even without Amos Saybrook’s natural jealousy, as tithing man he will argue that you are lost to all sense of propriety to have a man lodge here without a chaperon.”

There was conviction and something more in the look Thirza gave her. Charity realized her mouth was open, gaping. She closed it with a snap and suddenly laughed. “The man is unconscious, Thirza!”

Her neighbor was stubborn. “It is not circumspect.”

“You don’t think the parlor is the most logical place to put him, under the circumstances?”

“Why don’t I have Hiram bring the trap over and remove the bondman to Longacre?” Thirza persisted doggedly.

“No! That is out of the question!”

“Not even for your children’s sake?”

Charity went stark white. Suddenly she felt extremely tired, emotionally deplete and on the verge of tears. “No! If Master Trehearne is moved, even greater damage could occur.”

“It is up to parents to set a good example for their children, and the example you are setting does not fall anywhere near what is required by the elders.” Thirza pressed forward, as if sensing victory.

Charity lifted both hands, palms forward. “I have attended to the ills of this entire community for nigh on five years. I am charged with the bondman’s welfare.”

“My dear, of course you are. Perhaps I misspoke. But you cannot have a man in the house. ’Tis preposterous.”

Charity leapt to her feet, her shoes making a loud thud on the wooden floor. “The elders have always respected my powers of healing. I’ll not have it said that my conduct is suddenly unbecoming or improper because I use the gifts the Lord has given me!”

“You are making a big mistake, Charity.” Thirza’s words were clipped and precise. She rose and stomped to the door where she paused. “This bid for freedom will end in disaster for you and the boys. Think on it.” An angry rustle of skirts and Thirza was gone.

Charity stubbornly lowered her eyes.

At her feet lay the charred remnant of the moth that last night had fluttered on impotent wings, trying to escape. It lay there, shriveled, lifeless, the wings that had beaten so madly for freedom now singed by the flames.

She stood there, not moving, for a long, long time.

Chapter Three

It was the old game; Rafe knew it well. The place was silent as the grave, but he was not dead. Half opening his eyes, he could see a pattern of sunlight, golden, hazy, dancing on a timber-paneled wall. Opening them a little farther brought into his vision the edge of a richly carved wooden dresser and a fringe of some heavy cloth.

He opened his eyes wide. On the wall above the dresser hung a text in a crisscross frame, bearing the words Thou God Seest Me and illumined with an enormous blue eye.

The room was strange. He had no idea where he was or how he had got there. Rafe lifted his head cautiously, frowning for a moment down the long length of white shroud, the swathed hillock of his feet. He bent both elbows and examined the wrist wrappings. He put his hands to his head, felt the wadding.

Nothing made any sense. Was he dead? No. His head ached too damnably. Death was no difficult matter—he was convinced of that. Yet somehow it was denied him. He had a distinct recollection of the battle.

Great numbers of the enemy had swept suddenly upon them, had surrounded them and swallowed them up. He was the only man left. His sword arm was leaden and his feet dragged. Before him was a blur of movement, of faces and bayonets and hatchets. The ground trembled and his ears were filled with noise. With feet apart and knees bent, he raised his sword instinctively.

The next second the combined weight of four soldiers bore him struggling to the ground. He threw them off and, grasping a man’s arm, snapped it like a twig, but another smashed the heavy butt of a rifle across his brow. His senses reeled, but, shaking his head, he climbed to his knees. A second blow, on the nape of the neck, felled him…

Slowly, cautiously, he curled and uncurled his fingers, then passed them over his face, feeling the normal early morning roughness. How had he escaped—if he had? He had nothing to live for. Yet it seemed that he could not die.

Why was he not dead? Perhaps it was illusion and he was taking a long time to die. He sighed and turned on his side. Chance was undoubtedly working in his favor. The tide of battle had swept on, and he was…

Rafe caught his breath at the faint scent of lavender. His nostrils dilated. Memory came flooding back. The mulestubborn little Puritan!

He recalled the warm, soft body twisting under him, her legs tangled with his. His head felt oddly light, as if it were full of air, a bubble of prismatic colors that might burst into nothingness at any moment. But his body was heavy, taut with denial, the intoxicating female smell reminding him of needs almost forgotten.

A little aching sound came from his throat. He must think! Rafe’s fingers gripped the edge of the sheet. For a moment he felt angry, afraid, betrayed and lost.

There had been accusation of collaboration with the enemy…His own indignant protestation of innocence…His colonel looking sick, casting him off…

The pain of it! That moment when Sir Thomas had turned away from him, given orders for Rafe to be locked in one of the stone-built storerooms at the fort to await punishment…as if the years of loyalty and commitment to the Crown had been for nothing…

“Let him be hanged as a traitor!”

Rafe supposed he must have protested. He could only remember staring at them in disbelief. True, the colonel’s personal papers had been found in his knapsack, but how they got there he had no idea. Or at least, he had some idea of how the trick had worked, but it was impossible to accuse the colonel’s faithful and trusted batman of theft or of bearing false witness against him.

General Pakenham had presided over that travesty of a court martial, listening to accusations and half-truths that could not be disproved, only denied. It was Sir Thomas who had pleaded extenuating circumstances, recalling Rafe’s previous gallantry under fire and reminding the court that the accused was Viscount Litchfield, Lord Brougham’s son and heir.

To the devil with armies and battles and honor! Now Rafe had seven years to serve in the colonies. Seven years of bondage to Charity Frey. Well, let it be so!

Yet though he told himself that all would be well, he was filled with a feeling of depression he could not shake off.

So what was bothering him? That the woman had shown kindness and compassion to a known rogue? Or that the courage of a woman determined to hold her own against insurmountable odds stirred long-forgotten feelings? Why read into her motives some sinister meaning?

Charity. The name meant giving, or Christian love. It was a good name for her. He wished her well, but, hell, he wanted out. He wanted his freedom—not further complications.

He heard a gentle movement—felt it, really, as one catches the whiff of a scent—and his body knotted from throat to thigh. A new fear washed over him.

She was coming! He trembled. His gaze moved beyond the end of the couch to the open door. It was not her.

Isaac Frey stood by the door, one hand on the knob, as if about to flee. How Rafe knew it was Isaac when the twins were alike as two peas in a pod, he could not say. He just knew.

“You are awake?”

Isaac pressed his back against the door, working his fingers around the handle. He tilted his head gravely, his blue green eyes watchful, as if he was waiting to see whether Rafe dared to lie to him.

Rafe’s limbs were so stiff from the effort he had made to control himself that at first he could not move. He could not understand why the thought of facing Charity Frey again distressed him—had he not faced greater hazards? Lying quite still, he inclined his head politely and smiled.

The boy hesitated. After a moment he left his place by the door and inched toward Rafe, sidling, stopping, never taking his eyes from the bondman’s face. “You have been asleep a long time.”

How long was a long time to a nine-year-old? Where was Charity Frey? Playing for time to think, Rafe pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose.

There was a long silence.

Isaac glanced at Rafe from the corner of his eye and bit his lip. He shuffled his feet and frowned, crinkling his brow. “Does your head hurt very much?”

Rafe shook his head. “No. Not much.”

“Oh.” Isaac seemed disappointed. Warily he edged over to the middle of the room. “Mama sent me to keep watch on you. She’s real cross.” His small chin jutted and the frown became a scowl. “Betsy Ann was in the henhouse again.”

Rafe’s body tightened for a second, but years of discipline kept his body language neutral and controlled, his expression blank as he repeated, “Betsy Ann?”

The boy grinned, a tiny mischievous lift of his lips, then sobered immediately. More boldly now, he approached until he stood directly beside the couch. “Our pet raccoon. It steals the eggs. That makes Mama mad.”

Rafe began to smile inwardly. It seemed idiotic in the extreme, a schoolboy pleasure, but he wanted to see Charity Frey all cross and angry, her Puritan cool ruffled. Energy, renewed by sleep, flowed through him, clearing his mind.

“Something of a dilemma. Seems your mother needs a hand.”

From utter stillness, he shot up on one elbow, throwing back the sheet. He halted halfway, his dark hair falling over his forehead. His whole body went hot as he realized he was naked under the covering—and how he must have got that way. “Christ Almighty! She’s not mad! The woman’s a raving bloody lunatic!”

There was a moment of silence. Isaac fidgeted, edging away. His eyes were wide, his mouth open slightly. “You lie! The tithing man says Mama is simply im-imimpetuous.”

Rafe flushed a little, pulling the linen to his waist, hugging his knees. “That’s putting it mildly. What’s she done with my clothes? Where are my pants?”

“Mama burnt them.”

“Bloody hell! What a foolish woman!”

Isaac took Rafe’s statement at face value. His stick-thin body straightened, and his pint-sized hands balled into fists, his very stance transmitting to Rafe the fact that Charity had a small protector, that she wasn’t alone.

“Mama is not a fool! She burned your clothes that were mal-mal-malodorous. Same as she washed you all over ‘cause you stunk worse’n a skunk when it lifts its tail.”

Rafe swallowed hard. A muscle twitched at the side of his mouth. She had seen him mother naked—washed him all over!

As if he could feel the touch of her fingertips, Rafe shivered with a tingle that slid the length of his spine. In an effort to dispel the sensation, which was rapidly radiating into his loins, he launched a verbal attack. “No need for chains of brass or bars of iron at Mystic Ridge. Charity Frey finds it easier to keep the beast naked—he’ll not wander far.”

The words would hardly come out. To Rafe’s mind his voice sounded somewhat breathless. An awkward silence followed his outburst.

Isaac slanted a look at him, as if unsure what to do next. Rafe returned the look evenly, unblinking. It would be easy to stand up, shove past the boy. It would be easy to escape. The idea gnawed at him.

Isaac chewed his lower lip, straightened his shoulders and shifted his feet, as if the steady gaze made him uncomfortable, the uncertainty almost too much to bear. The floorboards creaked.

A bolt of alarm shot through Rafe. He swore under his breath. This wasn’t going to do at all. The boy would scuttle off in a minute. Distract his attention. Reassure him. Get him talking. Ease his fears.

Rafe laid a hand over his heart. “I’m not about to leap on you and break your neck. I’m after bigger game.” He allowed a slow smile to curve his mouth. “What are your orders, lad?”

“I’m s’posed to call Mama if you wake.” The boy gave a very faint answering tilt of the lips. “But if your head does not pain you overmuch, perhaps you would prefer to dress first?” Isaac’s unease had vanished, and he chattered on. “Mistress Arnold called by on her way to meeting, es-es-especially to bring some clothes that would make you decent.”

Charity Frey should quiver in mortification at the prospect of her rash and imprudent trick being discussed over the teacups. The idea cheered Rafe. Some perverse sense of childish revenge made him want to laugh. His lips twitched. It took every bit of will to keep his voice even. “‘Twas very kind of Mistress Arnold, I am sure.”

“Mistress Arnold said that she would ask the meeting to cast an eye away from the im-impro-impropriety of Mama’s actions, but there were more ways to kill a flea than burn the blanket!” The blue green eyes lit with mischief. “I think she was trying to say that Mama had fallen overboard.”

“Gone overboard.” Amused at the boy’s innocent gossip, Rafe quietly corrected Isaac’s grammatical error.

“Yes. That’s what I said. I’m glad Mama cleaned you up. You are not so fearsome now.”

Rafe rubbed absently at the dark shadow of his beard. “A razor and some hot water and I’ll be a new man.”

Head on one side, the boy examined him for a moment. Then, as if a sudden, momentous decision had been reached, Isaac grinned. “Will Sutcliffe says that if a man attends to his external self first up, then he can spend the rest of the day attend’n to his inner needs.”

“Isaac! I have told you not to associate with Will Sutcliffe and his scandal-mongering tongue. ’Tis not seemly!”

Rafe’s head jerked up.

Dressed in prim gray, with the strings of her bonnet falling untied about her shoulders, Charity managed to look like a veritable hoyden. Her face was flushed, much of her hair had escaped its confining coif and bits of dried grass clung to her skirt.

“As for you, Master Trehearne, I will not accept that you are still incapacitated when you can lay abed and gossip. I have paid good coin for your indenture—seven years of fair labor. After which you will be a free man and able to lay about in indolence if you so desire. Until then I expect a fair day’s work. Get up, sir!”

Rafe’s heart beat with sudden violence. The humiliation was galling. Surely she was not going to ask him to parade his nakedness. He watched her, waiting.

Charity opened her mouth as if to say something else, then shut it again, her expression suddenly wary. Rafe pulled at the sheet. He swung his legs to the floor and sat on the edge of the couch, the linen draped across his thighs.

“I’m hardly in a fit state to…” He lifted his eyebrows a little, as if to ask if she wished him to continue.

Charity set him straight. Her tone would have done justice to a sergeant-at-arms. “I don’t expect you to stand up in your present condition, Master Trehearne. I will give you ten minutes. When you are decent, I will be in the kitchen.”

Isaac sidled toward the door. “Mama says it’s a wise chicken that runs for cover at the first clap of thunder!”

Rafe closed one eyelid in a wink. “Your mother is a very wise woman.”

The kitchen was hot and full of the smell of freshly baked bread. Rafe stood in the doorway and scanned the place slowly.

It was a long room, with a fireplace and closed bread oven at the end. A neat pyramid of chopped wood filled one corner, and a round pine table and slat-back chairs nestled in another. There were shelves along one wall and a step-back hutch opposite. Two high windows allowed the light to filter in.

Cooking utensils hung above the hearth; a woolen throw draped one of the chairs. A basket of mending lay on a shelf beside a bowl of potatoes and a bunch of leeks. Jars of apple butter, pickles and plum jelly packed the shelves.

Clean as a pin and shiny bright, the kitchen was lovingly cared for. The homey clutter was somehow comforting. It told Rafe a lot about Charity Frey.

The object of his thoughts was standing by the fireplace preparing tea. She swirled hot water round in the pot, emptied it into the ashes in the hearth and took a brown pottery tea crock down from the mantel. He walked slowly down the length of the kitchen and stopped a little behind her.

“Fresh bread!”

A choking sound passed her lips as she swung to face the bondman. He sniffed the air with such obvious delight that Charity felt much of her ill-humor fade. He was too close, so near she could see the darker motes in his golden eyes. When he looked at her, those eyes seemed to take in at one glance everything about her, from her hastily pinned hair to the sturdy shoes on her feet.

She knew her color was still high, but her coif was securely fastened, and the muslin scarf that now crossed her bosom demurely covered the square neckline of her gown.

He was wearing a linen shirt, pulled tight across the shoulders, the front gaping to reveal crisp, dark chest hair. The ruffled cuffs ended a couple of inches above his bandaged wrists. Hiram’s knee-length breeches fit him no better. The fastenings remained undone because of the sturdy nature of the bondman’s legs.

It would seem, from the easy way he walked, that the buckled shoes were a comfortable size. He had eschewed the woolen stockings, however. Perhaps the knit would not stretch over the thick ankle dressings?

He leaned forward, his gaze on her parted lips, a kissing distance away. A mocking smile played over his mouth. “What would I have to do to get a slice?”

“This is not a game of forfeits.” She put out her hand to push him away, then snatched it back. She did not want to touch him.

He surveyed her gravely for a moment, then bowed low, but his voice quivered with hidden laughter. “I did not think a Puritan lady would think of, let alone speak of such things.”

The heat from his closeness was making her knees weak, and Charity wondered if he could sense their trembling. She swallowed and said a silent prayer for help.

“Must you make a jest of everything?” She twisted her head away sharply, but not before she saw his lips part in a grin, which for an instant showed a gleam of white teeth.

“It helps when things are not going as planned. Are you always so shrewish, or is it that you’ve not broken your fast yet?”

Her temper was cooling but it smoldered still. Charity opened her mouth to utter another rebuke, but the kitchen door banged open. Benjamin and Isaac charged in, bringing with them a rush of fresh, sweet air. She turned to them in relief. “I’ve boiled you each a nice fresh egg for your breakfast, boys, so don’t be too long about washing your hands. Take a seat, Master Trehearne.”

Without a word, Rafe came and sat down, and she poured his tea. A slice of baked ham, a pat of butter, a bit of comb honey, a spoonful of plum chutney and a scrap of cheddar cheese were separate and distinct temptations alongside his egg. As though this were a normal family breakfast, and he was the head of the household!

The thought was unsettling. Particularly when he couldn’t remember anything after attempting to play the hero after the auction. Vague memories haunted him. He could still sense that soft, faintly perfumed warmth around him.

For a fleeting, arousing instant, he had an erotic vision of the woman lifting his head, pillowing it against softness unrestrained so that he could feel one of those firm, widely separated, twin fire points probing into the flesh of his cheek.

Which was absurd.

Charity cut thick slices of the crusty bread and set them on a plate beside two mugs of milk for the boys. Her slender fingers trembled as she set the jug on the table. She peeked at Rafe and found him staring at her. The heat of his eyes was a palpable sensation, and a small, expectant shiver ran along her nerve endings.

She quickly bowed her head in prayer.

During the blessing, Isaac exchanged a glance with his twin. Both bright heads were bowed, but to an astute observer the slight quiver of the boys’ lashes betrayed their intent.

“Thanks for the doctoring. I appreciate the trouble you went to.” Busy buttering his bread, Rafe addressed Charity briefly.

Holding her teacup between her hands, she blew on the hot tea. Watching him over the rim of the cup, her eyes crinkled a little against the steam. “I did it for me as much as you. A crippled bondman would be useless.”

Rafe picked up his own cup. He sniffed at the contents before he sipped experimentally. “Doesn’t it worry you that I could be unsafe, even dangerous? Mayhap my purpose is as sly and avaricious as any other man who seeks land and fortune,” he said silkily.

There was no doubting the veracity in the softly spoken words. His low-pitched voice came as a gentle caress and sent an eddy of sensation curling through her stomach.

Charity felt a childish urge to strike out at this man, at the world. Until yesterday morning she had felt, if not emotionally complete, at least sanguine that at last she could cope with whatever the Lord required of her. The past and its hurts were behind her. Mystic Ridge was hers. She was confident she could guarantee her sons a secure future She knew her way forward in life.

And now this smiling devil, whom she herself had thoughtlessly brought into her own life, had come to torment her. To arouse long-forgotten or suppressed, unwanted emotions and feelings to churn uncomfortably inside her.

Irritated by her reactions, Charity savagely hacked another slice off the loaf. She forced a tight smile. “As the proverb says, I am snared with the words of mine own mouth. I’m not sure that I considered the matter thoroughly, but then I didn’t have any choice!”

He drained his cup, grimacing briefly. The empty cup was turned upside down. She offered him more bread, but he shook his head.

“Thank you, but no. I’ve already lingered too long. It’s time I was attending to the chores.” Rising to his feet, he shoved the chair back to the table and straightened. He looked at Benjamin over her head. “But that was the best cup of tea I’ve had in years.”

A frisson of alarm leapt along Charity’s spine. She recalled Isaac pouring the tea, Benjie fussing with the cups for a second. It made her go hot and cold again as she thought of it. She poured him a fresh cup.

It was as the tithing man had predicted! Without a man’s guidance the boys were headed for perdition. Her stomach curled at the idea of having to confess their misdeeds at meeting. “Do you like children?” she asked breathlessly.

Rafe Trehearne swallowed the tea before answering. He seemed cautious, as though he had invaded foreign territory and was about to face some kind of enemy.

“Used to be one myself, but since then haven’t had much to do with them.” He tilted his head to one side, and his golden-colored eyes lit with inner laughter. “Why?”

Charity firmly suppressed the little flicker of irritation that immediately assailed her. She made a slight, scarcely perceptible movement of one hand, clenching the knife she held. “You have not accused either of the boys of indulging in an untoward prank, or suffering an excess of rebellious spirit.”

“I’ll grant you that tea and salt don’t blend well, but ‘twas only a lark. There was no intent to poison me.”

“Oh.” She stood as well, abashed. She felt she had made a fool of herself, and a brief glance at Rafe Trehearne’s face showed her that he was highly amused. Something moved in her throat, and she heard herself mumble beneath her breath, as if she were in pain, “Are you defending them?”

“Heavens no! I’m simply turning a blind eye because this is their first offense, and it’s easy to say you’re sorry when you don’t mean it.”

“Justice is mine—” She broke off, meeting Rafe’s steady gaze, and flushed.

A slow smile gathered on his lips as the moments went by and she did not continue. The tiger-bright eyes that met hers held a challenge, a dare. She lifted her chin and was glad anger was replacing her guilty feelings.

“Benjamin! Isaac! Apologize to Master Trehearne. Don’t stop to argue who was to blame! Do you hear me, boys? Apologize!”

Benjie sniffed loudly. “I’m sorry I put salt in your tea…”

Isaac sighed heavily. “…But you should not have drank it.”

“I am, too. More sorry than you’ll ever know.” Rafe lifted his eyes to Charity again. “I need to have a look around. Check on the barn and the sheds.” He smiled conspiratorially at the boys. “Would you like to show me?”

The twins knew the signs of a scold coming on from their mother. They went.

Head bent low over a boy’s shirt, fingers nimbly plying a needle and thread, Charity replaced a torn seam, her thoughts far removed from her actions. The twins had gone off to bed without protest, their natural ebullience a little subdued for once.

The boys’ predilection for getting into all the more damaging and perilous forms of mischief worried her. Her tawny brows pleated in a frown as she nipped a piece of thread with her teeth and rethreaded the needle.

Picking up another garment, she absently began to repair a three-cornered rent, her mind calling up images of Ezra. Tall, his fair hair and blue eyes making him seem younger than his years, he had impressed her father with his serious mien and devotion to the Scriptures.

Ezra had turned his back on the false and dangerous English church and had followed the Bible’s clear words and truths. He had been so persecuted and plagued by the clergy and authorities in his hometown that he had been forced to emigrate.

After seven years in Boston, he had joined the small Puritan settlement at Mystic. A marriage had been quickly arranged between sixteen-year-old Charity and this enlightened man of God. Ten years they had been wed before Ezra’s untimely death.

Charity could still feel a terrible heartache when she thought of Ezra, good, kind Ezra, lying motionless and silent, his head at an awkward angle, his chest pierced by a bloody, feathered shaft. Yesterday a surge of that remembered pain had swept over her as she knelt beside the limp figure of her new bondman and realized the extent of his injuries.

The needle moved slowly as she analyzed that flood of feeling. Fear? Guilt? Concern? Physical awareness? A combination of them all? Her thoughts collided, merged.

She shouldn’t have been so impulsive as to purchase a bond servant. She’d never known a man who could call up such conflicting emotions in her. She had wanted to throttle him, only fate had already done that for her.

Initial fright and indignation had been quickly swamped by concern. Between them, she and the twins had managed, with no little effort, to transfer the unconscious man from the wagon into the parlor and onto a couch. He had been no mean weight!

And yes, there had been an element of physical awareness when she had attended him. Warm sensations had enveloped her as she removed the tattered shirt.

Charity’s hands stilled with the memory. The sight of that hair-roughened chest, crisscrossed with recently healed wounds, had made her fingers tingle with the urge to feel the warmth and texture of him. She shook her head and grimaced. Lord, what a ninny she was, having such wondrous and shocking fancies at her age! Why, she was no better than a foolish, lovesick girl!

“Where do you keep…”

Charity jerked, dropping the shirt she had been mending. Her heart started to thunder sickeningly in her breast. The bondman stood framed in the doorway, shoulders square, feet apart, still and taut. In his hands was the heavy old wheel-lock rifle that was always left hanging on a special brass hook above the mantel.

Why had she not thought to secure the weapon?

“Sorry.” A rueful expression crossed his face. He propped the rifle against the hutch and bent to retrieve the shirt. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Charity flushed. Her hands trembling, she tucked an errant strand of hair beneath her coif. “‘Startled’ is an understatement,” she managed to say.

Feeling gauche, she shoved the shirt into her sewing basket. It was galling to notice that her fingers still shook as she fastened the lid and placed the basket on a small table. Straightening, she turned. He had moved. He now stood in front of her, feet squarely planted.

“I’d like to be frank with you.” His voice was purposeful, as if he had something momentous to impart. “I think you should know—”

He stopped abruptly, looked at her, his golden eyes glittering with some suppressed emotion. Charity felt the heat of his eyes as if it were a palpable sensation, and a small, expectant shiver ran through her. All her earlier uneasiness returned. She clenched her hands together.

“Do you intend to murder us?” She tried for a light tone. It did not work. His mouth went tight, and his eyes narrowed into shadowed slits.

“Hell, no! I came to say that I’ll keep watch outside.”

Charity sat forward abruptly, queasy at the thought that Rafe suspected the Pequots might be prowling around the farmhouse. Her heart lurched over, then settled into a rapid drumroll.

She lifted her chin challengingly. “You have some reason?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded sharp.

He shook his head swiftly. “The ‘coon has been tied up all day. She needs some exercise.”

Charity, however, was not deceived. She knew that a man fleeing from justice did not think clearly. He had a chance to get away now. The odds were in his favour. She clenched her teeth, suddenly feeling angry. Not only would she be fifty pounds poorer, but Amos Saybrook’s will would prevail. Terrified, she forced herself to breathe slowly. “You do not intend to try and escape?”

A curious stillness gripped Rafe. He stood there as if made of stone, his forehead whitely limned. A dull red stained the high bones of his cheeks, emphasising his jaw’s strength and sweep.

“You will stay?” Unspoken words—Please don’t do this to me—or to God—but most of all, don’t damn yourself—hung like tiny dust motes in a sunbeam.

A silence, heavy with significance, stretched between them. Charity stood there waiting, as if unwilling to break into his thoughts.

Rafe studied her a long time before he spoke. Then, in a single breath, he whispered the words she wanted to hear and shut the gate to freedom.

“I’ll stay.”

Chapter Four

From the top of Mystic Ridge on a clear day you could see forever. Today was such a one. There was not a hint of dampness in the air. Reaching the crest of the rocky outcrop, Charity sank down, breathing heavily, and unfastened her bonnet.

The rough, foot-worn track was a shortcut from Whitewater, but the hill was steep and the sun, two hours beyond zenith, simmered hotly overhead. Next time she went to visit Martha Schofield she would go the long way round and take the pony.

Charity swung her leather pouch off her shoulder and removed her bonnet. Her thick red braids fell to her waist. She lifted them from her shoulders, allowing the breeze to cool her neck as she thought about her visit to Whitewater.

Usually, Martha ran forward to hug her and exclaim delightedly. Today she had been grim and tight-lipped. Nothing, it seemed, would bring a smile to her face.

Cotton Schofield had appeared pleased to see Charity. He was a soft-spoken, almost inarticulate man with thick brown hair and skin the color of tanned leather. He grinned a shy welcome.

“How’s the baby?” Charity demanded tightly.

Martha did not reply.

It was Cotton Schofield who answered. “Oh, she’s thriving now. We’ve been giving her the cordial regular, like you said, ‘n’ now you’d hardly know her. Look.”

Relieved, Charity smiled. It must have been the longest speech he’d ever made. Cotton led the way to the wicker basket and turned back the shawl from the little face.

Charity felt her heart stir at the sight of the petite creature. “Oh, Martha! She’s truly bonny. There’s even color in her cheeks. You are truly blessed to have a girl child.”

“Perhaps when you and Amos marry, you will be as fortunate.”

“I don’t intend to marry Amos Saybrook.” Charity’s head lifted in its familiar, proud way. “I don’t want to marry at all. Nor do I need to. I have Mystic Ridge and the boys.”

“It isn’t good for a woman to remain single. No good at all.”

Charity was not so sure. An unwed woman might own her own property, contract debts and run her own business. But a married woman, so far as the law was concerned, existed only in her husband. He had the use of all her real property and absolute possession of all her personal property, even the clothes on her back, and he could bequeath them to somebody else in his will. He was entitled to beat her for any faults. He had complete power over his wife and children. A wife’s duty was submission to whatever a husband commanded.

It was far better and safer to remain unwed. Except to conceive a girl child, of course. A lump tightened in her throat. Why did she suddenly think of the bondman? Her heart palpitated at the thought.

“I’ll marry the man I want…” Her gaze went to the cradle. “And then maybe I’ll have…” She placed her fingers on the baby’s soft cheek, the touch as light as thistledown.

Martha’s lips twisted. She hesitated, but only for a moment. “Don’t get too high-flown, Charity. Ezra is gone. You’re bound to marry again. Amos Saybrook is a good size and as strong as an ox, well able to defend you if there is an Indian uprising.”

“I’m not high-flown, Martha. I just know what I want, and I intend to get it.” Charity was quite surprised to find that her voice was steady. “Same as Jeremy here. He wants up, don’t you, young man?”

Clutching her skirts was Jeremy, who could scarcely walk upright. The child’s small, unstable legs still betrayed him occasionally, and he was fretful with the fever that often accompanied a new tooth. Charity lifted him to her hip. He cried loudly and fiercely and clung to her neck with both arms.

Before Martha could reply, Cotton cut in. “It ain’t any of our business what you do, Charity. Just remember, you’ve got to be practical. Would you like some refreshment?”

Charity accepted the offer of some fresh milk and corn bread. She sat on a stool beside the table, Jeremy cuddled on her lap, and sipped at the cup of milk Cotton had given her.

There was talk of the weather, how hot summer was this year. No mention was made of the bondman, nor was there any embarrassing reference to the auction and her extraordinary conduct.

More important matters concerned the Schofields. It seemed that several sacks of corn had disappeared from their barn. The unspoken question hung heavily in the air.

Cotton again surprised Charity by launching into a long speech. “It’s not likely you came across any Indians. They’re like foxes, those Pequots. Nobody sees them till they’re ready to show.”

“Oh, my God.” Charity gripped her hands together around Jeremy, her drink forgotten beside her. “I didn’t see any.” Her voice had gone quite low.

Cotton spread his hands. His head shook from side to side. “I didn’t mean to alarm you, Charity, just wanted to warn you. I don’t think there’s any danger—not yet, anyway. You just drink your milk, and think about findin’ yourself a good man.”

A good man. Rafe Trehearne. The words forced themselves into her brain. She couldn’t understand what was happening to her. She seemed to be breaking up into two people. One part was sitting there listening to Cotton and Martha; another part was causing her fear and confusion by unexpectedly thinking about her bondman.

Cotton gave a slow, easy shrug and excused himself. He wanted to get the flax harvested before it rained. It always seemed to rain at seedtime and harvest. Just to spite a man.

The older children, Zackary and Caleb, went with their father to keep an eye out for wild beasts and Indians while he worked. Charity dutifully admired Martha’s brownand-white-speckled hen and the tiny chicks that poked their heads through their mother’s wings, the little beaks shining like pink flower buds. There was nothing so wonderful as new life.

Martha suddenly became tongue-tied. Taking Jeremy from Charity, she settled him on her hip. The boy whimpered, his face pressed in the hollow between his mother’s neck and shoulder.

Charity looked at her friend closely. She felt uncommonly disturbed. Martha’s eyes were dull and darkly circled, and her blond hair was lank and drab.

It was not like Martha to be withdrawn and secretive. To find the cause of her friend’s misery, Charity started small talk on a variety of subjects. How were the children? Had they enough food? Was there anything she could help them with?

Unexpectedly, Martha’s lower lip began to quiver and tears filled her eyes. Charity wondered if she was ill, but then it had all tumbled out: Martha was pregnant again. This would be her fifth child in as many years. She could no longer keep up with her market orders.

Charity thought her heart would break in sympathy. Martha was as industrious as her husband. With her spinning wheel, loom and dye pots, she produced clothing, blankets and quilts for her family. The balance was sold or exchanged on market day.

A good man. Cotton Schofield was a good man. He had cut a road from Whitewater to the King’s Highway wide enough for the lumber company to bring in their ox wagons and cart the timber he cleared to the sawmill at Mystic. He wanted to save his wife the effort of helping to make ends meet with her sewing.

And his wife had sobbed her heart out because of it!

On the way home now after her visit, Charity sat very still and gazed on the scene below.

Beneath her the ground fell in a gentle incline toward the river, a loop of which vanished from sight behind the farmhouse and reappeared just past the stone wall in back of the barn. From beyond the stream came the sound of chopping. The steady blows filled the air, permeating it so that it seemed to vibrate before her eyes.

She couldn’t help remembering what Cotton Schofield had said about Indians, although the one or two Pequots who came to Mystic Ridge always seemed peaceful enough. They had dark hair and eyes, and high, broad cheekbones like Rafe Trehearne, and like him, they went their own silent way.

The thought of Indians in the same breath as Rafe Trehearne made her uneasy. But she was soon soothed by the splendid view from her vantage point. Her sense of time slipped away.

Willow, birch, spruce, fir and buck oak merged in a sea of misty green. Sparks from a controlled burn-off of undergrowth in a small, cleared area sailed upward. Smoke billowed into the air and shimmered against the summer sky, dancing and distorting her vision.

The rhythmic thrumming was more insistent now. Balancing her elbows on the ground, Charity leaned back and closed her eyes briefly.

A good man. Rafe Trehearne. She let the word husband trickle through her mind. It dominated her senses, filling the air with a smoky tang, washing over her like the sea. The sensation was so strong that she felt as though she had experienced these thoughts before.

She wondered if she had.

Wondered, too, if this day, this moment would come back to her years later: this quiet contemplation, the sweet inconsequentiality of the whole scene. The smell of smoke, of summer grass and lady ferns, and the sound of Rafe Trehearne clearing the forest.

Like a child awakening, her eyes flew open. She was becoming fanciful. She turned her mind to more practical matters, like how to keep Mystic Ridge without taking a husband.

A dream no more.

Silence pervaded. Charity sat up, a small frisson of agitation ran down her spine as she tried to imagine the reason for such silence.

The cessation of sound was only momentary; the next moment there was a piercing scream. It was made by one of her sons.

Charity jumped to her feet. No sooner had her boots touched the ground than she was off down the hill, running as fast as her legs would move.

“We saw a snake, Master Trehearne!”

“A great big’un!” added Benjamin, all out of breath.

Rafe had removed his shirt, and his bare arms were slick with sweat. He had just driven the broad blade of the ax deep into a buck oak, and his hands rested lightly on the smooth hickory handle. “Sure it wasn’t a figment of your imagination?”

Isaac stabbed a finger in the air, and his blue green eyes sparkled. “I did see it! A green-striped adder, sir!”

Rafe was momentarily amused. This pair never gave up, he thought. “And where is this fierce serpent?”

“He crawled into the barn!” Isaac shuddered, just once, a pathetic gesture.

Of all the damned crazy notions. Rafe shrugged. He knew for an absolute certainty now that the boys were up to more mischief. He still felt nauseated from the salted tea he’d drunk out of sheer bravado. He wished they would go back to the house and leave him alone, but he was engaged in a contest of wills, so he calmly wrenched the ax free.

“Well, snakes will crawl out with the spring heat,” he said casually. “Better be careful, kids!” He returned to his labor.

Occasionally as he worked Rafe glanced over at the saltbox homestead and outbuildings. There was no saying what those rapscallions were up to. He had overheard Charity giving the boys instructions about learning some catechism for the morrow. While he was sure they were not attending to their lessons, they were quiet enough, anyhow.

Probably hatching up more pranks.

He could see them in his mind’s eye, bright heads bent together, blue green eyes shining as they concocted their mischief. Somehow, the image became overlaid with that of another.

It was Charity’s bright hair that he saw, mysteriously free of that starched helmet she wore and flowing over her shoulders like ribbons of red silk. Those luminous, sea-colored eyes, which seemed to trap and hold the light, were all misty admiration, as if he were a visitation from heaven.

Rafe felt the tension pounding behind his eyes. He shook his head. This was no time for romantic visions.

He bent back to his task. His body glistened with sweat as he hacked branches off the big oak. There was a sense of savage relief in the hard physical exertion. He had no time to brood, no time to think.

But the thought of Charity Frey would not be denied. She had gone off to visit a neighbor whose child was ailing. It seemed the little Puritan was something of a healer.

Of mind as well as body? The previous evening she had stood there, anxious and afraid, and yet had been able to reach out and touch his mind.

It occurred to Rafe that he himself had manipulated Charity Frey earlier than that. He had provoked her into making a decision that went against all her Puritan principles.

Confused and dim-witted as he had been at the time, he had recognized the panic within her. She had been seeking protection, offering sanctuary. Across the distance between them at the auction block, the bargain had been sealed.

Last night she had called on him to honor that unspoken vow. Stay. Protect her. Keep her and her sons safe from harm. He had asked for sanctuary and been given it. Now he had to pay the price.

Rafe thought about that. It seemed ironic and proper that he now felt at a disadvantage. The ignominy of his position, a position due entirely to his own stupidity, bit deeply into him. He was caught in his own trap.

He vaguely recalled some ancient theory of sanctuary, whereby a man running from justice might run so adeptly that ultimately he entered into the place of refuge from which he could not be extracted.

Or was it that he did not want to be liberated?

The broad blade of the ax crashed down on an unoffending branch and buried itself in the wood. Rafe wrenched the handle free.

Struck again.

And again.

A peculiar certainty stole over him as he gripped the hickory handle, counterbalancing the quivering strength of the tree. As he worked Rafe absorbed the rhythm of the axe, his bonding with it the key to survival in this wilderness.

There was a bond, a link, between Charity Frey and himself as well, and such a connection could never be broken…

He heard a shout and twisted his head a fraction, but could see nothing amiss. Those pernicious children never gave up.

“A snake! Master Trehearne, a snake!”

Benjamin came tearing out of the barn just as Rafe swung the ax. It bit deep. He tried to wrench it free, but the handle came loose in his hand. Damnation! Now it would take him a quarter of an hour to repair the ax. It was all the fault of Charity Frey’s pesky sons.

Rafe’s head jerked up. “What proof can you give?”

“I tell you true!”

“How may I know that you tell the truth?” He did not even bother to sound contemptuous.

“You gotta believe me, sir. It’s gonna get Isaac!”

There was a peculiar, tense silence. Then, from the barn, came a high-pitched scream.

It was Isaac. The boy shrieked as if someone had stuck a knife into him.

Rafe knew the sound of terror when he heard it. His pulse leapt. Abruptly all his blood was alive, singing danger through his veins. He sprang forward.

Between the barn door and the first stall was a bundle of hay. In the hay a snake was coiled—light gray with brown diamonds along its thick, muscular back.

A rattler!

Rafe’s whole body tingled. His legs trembled, but not with fear. He flexed his thigh muscles and pushed off from the balls of his feet. The spring gave him the momentum he needed. His outstretched hands clawed, gripped onto one of the timber roof struts. He swung himself from beam to beam until he was directly above the petrified boy.

Dropping back to the ground, he grabbed Isaac by the shoulders, pivoted and thrust him to safety, looking all the while for something to kill the rattler with. He cursed himself for a fool for not believing the boys earlier.

“Don’t move!” he commanded. The order was an explosive inflection. Isaac opened his mouth, closed it. Rafe was already in motion.

Under the loft at the end of the barn was a pile of fence posts. Rafe grabbed one, took the scythe that hung from a hook on the wall and stole slowly toward the reptile near the barn door.

He was only a few steps from the snake when it raised its head, its sinuous body already in motion. A rattling sound was the only warning Rafe received before the serpent sprang forward, an elongated, blurred shape. With the scythe Rafe met it halfway, pinning its neck against the barn sill while he struck at its head with the post. A shiver raced up his arm and his fingers went momentarily numb.

He ignored the pain. Struck again. And again. The snake hissed like a boiling kettle as it tried to escape the killing blows.

There was a blurred sense of time shifting, of an element being acutely out of place. A ferocious howling filled Rafe’s ears until it became too painful to hear. Desperately he shouted to his men. There was a sense then of reality breaking up into tiny fragments, overlapping one upon the other until clarity was lost and only a dizzying impression was left, like shadows milling.

A swirl of movement from just behind him heralded another danger. He took a deep breath, straining for control, and swung to meet the new threat.

Poised in the doorway, Charity stifled a gasp. Heart pounding, she stood there, her lips blue white, every limb trembling. She put her hands over her heart as if the gesture could stop the painful pounding. She could feel the blood rushing in and out of her heart, the thump-thump of its beat.

Rafe’s hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. Rivulets ran down his neck, over his bare chest. Raw emotion was clearly etched across his face.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice a feathery whisper.

“It could have bitten me, Mama,” Isaac said, then launched himself against her, wrapping both arms about her narrow waist, his bright head pressed hard against her breast. Her own arms enclosed him, holding him tight, as she had when he was an infant.

“Hush, child. You are safe now.” Her voice fractured and failed her.

The bondman flung the scythe from him, and the serpent slid to the floor, still quivering in death. There was a peculiar tautness in Rafe’s face.

He turned his hands over, staring at the backs—at the clenched fingers, the white knuckles, the white dressings, like bracelets at the wrist. He slammed his hands together.

Charity was panting, from the emotion running through her as much as from her breathless race from the top of the ridge. So many questions chased through her mind. She wished Rafe would look up at her. She knew that what she couldn’t say must be plain in her face.

But he did not.

“I am trained to kill and to stay alive.” He said the words slowly and softly. “Now there are times when instinct takes over—pure and lethal—because there is no time to think. Hesitate and you are dead.”

Rafe took a deep breath, let it go slowly. He paused and spread his hands, then continued in a stolid manner. “I am sorry if I upset you with my violence, ma’am, but I had an obligation to fulfil.”

Sudden intuition flooded her. He thought she was repelled because he had lost control of himself and she had witnessed his descent into mindless savagery and blood lust.

Instead, she had this almost overwhelming need to throw herself against his sweaty, blood-splattered body. Hug him to her as she did her son. It disturbed her how vulnerable she suddenly felt.

Charity closed her eyes, then opened them again. Her lips were dry, and she moistened them with the tip of her tongue. She was silent a moment, and then blurted out, “I am obliged to you for your quick thinking, sir.”

“The snake was in the bin Isaac was emptying…”

Benjie lost his voice. His pale, little face, on which the freckles stood out like dark stains, looked stricken and wretched.

Charity put a trembling hand on his shoulder, drew him close, as she had Isaac. Her hair was in disarray, falling in thick locks about her pale face, but she ignored it. “Thank you for saving…”

The preoccupied expression left Rafe’s face. “You don’t have to trouble to say it again, ma’am. I always keep my promises. You may rest assured that you and your family are safe while I bide here.”

She wanted to say something else, but no words came to her. In spite of the relief of finding the boys unharmed, she was still disorientated. It had all happened so quickly. A menacing figure, a demon, had become rescuer and friend between one moment and the next. She needed time to catch up.

Even though it lay dead in front of her, the serpent still inspired fear in her. The glittering, sinuous body was both dangerous and beautiful. There was something strangely fascinating about the creature.

Never had Charity so surely and manifestly experienced God’s protecting hand. Perhaps the tempter, the devil himself, had assumed this serpent’s shape and sneaked into their barn with foul intent—only to be ousted by this good man who, to all outward appearances, seemed wicked.

Things were not always as they seemed.

At last she heard herself say, “Perhaps the child was saved because we gave shelter to a man in need of redemption.” The thought stayed with her long after they had left the place.

The sun had begun to make its descent, but still hung high in the clear sky, spilling its heat over the clearing, when Charity unpacked a jar of lemonade and some spiceand-ginger biscuits from her basket.

“It is time for some refreshment. You must be thirsty after such heavy labor. I have some fresh-made lemonade. Would you like that?” She was talking to fill in the gap, feeling as timid as a young maid.

Rafe had a short length of an oak log set up on a sawhorse of crossed stakes and was squaring it with the blade of his ax. The ax was so sharp that when he took the bit in his hands and pushed it against the wood, long, even shavings curled up as though he were using a drawknife.

He looked around at her, and his golden eyes seemed to take in at one glance everything about her, from her freshly ironed coif to the shoes on her feet.

“Lemonade?” The question was gentle, as if he understood what she really wanted to say.

Looking into his gleaming eyes was a task now, and after one glance, she wrenched her gaze away. She couldn’t meet those all-knowing eyes. She wasn’t ready. She’d never been ready for this…this invasion, this presence, this devil on the hunt for her inner self.

Only her body resisted her mind. Charity knew her figure hardly showed to advantage in the high-necked, longsleeved, drab gown, but the movement of her breathing made the fabric emphasize the shape of her full breasts. It was as if he had touched her there.

To make matters worse, her disturbed senses were responding, her breasts straining against their covering. She stole a glance to see if he’d noticed. He hadn’t. He’d resumed shaping the oak log.

“Do you want some?” she asked, nettled by his silence.

“Leave it. I’ll have some by and by.” He kept on thrusting the edge of his ax against the oak, producing the long, curling, pleasant-smelling shavings.

“If I do that, Betsy Ann is like to tip over the jug and spill it all,” Charity told him with considerable relish. “Raccoons are mischievous animals at the best of times, and we have pampered and spoiled Betsy Ann. Now the naughty creature thinks she can do what she likes. And not do what she doesn’t fancy,” she added tartly, thinking of how the pet raccoon had chewed through her tether this morning, brandished her striped tail in defiance and disappeared into the shrubbery.

Rafe straightened and eyed her coldly. Lines cut deeply into a face carved from chalk, the lips a chiseled slash. Just standing there, he gave the impression of controlled strength and energy. This was belied by his face, which was drawn and pale, the ragged scar adding a further dimension to the lines already etched into his features. He lifted his ax and tried the edge with his thumb.

“A ‘coon doesn’t like to be tied, any more than does a man.” He turned over the oak block and began squaring the other side.

Charity paled slightly at the implication inherent in the bondman’s words. She drew a breath, caught her lower lip in her teeth.

“I’m sorry.” She filled a horn beaker with the cool liquid. “I didn’t mean to remind you of your circumstances.”

For a long moment he looked at her, a searching scrutiny that was centered on her face and more especially her eyes. Charity refused to meet them, refused any hint of an answer to the question in them. She was still conscious of the ax in his left hand; it hung loosely, its blade resting on the tip of his boot.

Without a word, Rafe took the beaker in his right hand and swallowed the contents in one long gulp. The sleeves of his homespun shirt, rolled up to the elbow, revealed both the power of his forearms and the sensual shimmer of hair glistening with perspiration.

Charity took a deep breath. This man wasn’t going to harm her. She had to stop acting so anxious around him. She replaced the beaker in the basket. The silence grew unbearable and she had to speak. “You are bleeding again. Let me see.”

Rafe raised his dark eyebrows but held the palm of his right hand toward her, and Charity bit back the sudden wild longing to bend her head and press her lips into it.

“It’ll heal soon enough.” His voice rasped over her head.

She realized that her senses were full of the man. His bulk. His dark hair, carelessly tied back in a queue. His shirt with its damp masculine scent. His big, capable hand, resting on hers. The heat of the brief contact shot through her.

She lifted her right arm, and her fingers touched the contour of his scar, tracing it. She began hesitantly, searching for words to excuse her unusual behaviour. “It’s just that yesterday…”

“Ah, yesterday. I wondered when we would come to that!” He laid aside the ax.

Now that her uneasiness had dissipated, there was another kind of tension building. She couldn’t be near Rafe without feeling it. For some reason, this revelation gave her the courage to continue.

“Rafe…” It was the first time she had used his name, and she felt a shiver pass through him. His glance dropped to her mouth. She knew he was just as aware of her as she was of him. “It’s difficult for me to explain, but yesterday something happened that…”

The flawless blue sky suddenly tilted on its axis, twisting into a sea of green, as Charity was spun around like a top. Her upper arms felt as though they were in a vise. She winced as pain shot from her elbows to her shoulders.

“What are you saying, woman? What happened between us?” Rafe’s teeth almost snapped together as he spat out the words, his eyes narrowed to an amber gleam. Christ! He knew something had happened!

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