When it all ended abruptly—the colors, the enchantment, the kiss—her head was spinning.

Reaching for something to hold on to, her hands found Richard’s. The moment his fingers grasped hers the spinning stopped, but the light inside her didn’t fade.

“Marina?”

She shook her head, trying to remember where she was, who she was. As that all became clear, she asked, “Why did you do that? Why did you kiss me?”

“I don’t know,” he said, dropping her hands. “I shouldn’t have. Forgive me.”

Marina closed her eyes briefly, still trying to make sense of what had happened—not the kiss or his apology, but the change inside her. Everything about her was warm and bright.

“It’s you,” he said roughly. “You’ve put some sort of spell on me.”

Author Note

There are many myths behind the Salem Witch Trials—including stories shared within my own family.

I’d heard for years that there were ‘witches’ on my paternal grandmother’s side of the family, but it wasn’t until my son was digging deep into an online ancestry programme that I actually researched any of those stories. It turns out that my eighth great-grandmother was accused and imprisoned for being a witch. However, she never stood trial because her son-in-law petitioned for her release and paid her bail. He also promised to return her to the courts for trial within a few months, but that didn’t happen because the trials ended almost as swiftly as they started. I say ‘swiftly’ only in reference to a period of time, because I can only imagine that for the people who lived through this horrific event their lives were changed for ever.

Upon researching and reading many different viewpoints of the cause and effects of the trials, I was so captivated I decided to write a story set in that era. I used bits and pieces from my research, but Saving Marina is purely a fictional story. A tale of a sea captain and a woman who has been led to believe she’s a witch. I hope you enjoy Richard and Marina’s story as much as I enjoyed creating their journey to happily-ever-after.

Saving Marina

Lauri Robinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

A lover of fairy tales and cowboy boots, LAURI ROBINSON can’t imagine a better profession than penning happily-ever-after stories about men (and women) who pull on a pair of boots before riding off into the sunset—or kick them off for other reasons. Lauri and her husband raised three sons in their rural Minnesota home, and are now getting their just rewards by spoiling their grandchildren.

Visit: laurirobinson.blogspot.com, facebook.com/lauri.robinson1, twitter.com/laurir.

To my Johnson aunts:

Mable, Violet, Pat, Linda and Faye.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

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

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Massachusetts, 1692

“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

Exodus 22:18, King James Version

The beast of burden beneath Richard Tarr was aptly labeled. With a broad, short back and powerful hindquarters, the horse was more suited for labor than riding. No amount of prodding could urge the massive brown steed into a pace faster than the jarring trot that had threatened to rattle the teeth right out of his mouth. Appreciating the teeth that had never given him any trouble, Richard resigned himself to letting the animal trod along. Unused to such travel, Richard found the saddle awkward, and the hot summer sun had sweat trickling down his back. All of it, the horse, the heat, the very mission, spurred his frustration.

His own two feet would have been faster. Or a rowboat. That would have been his choice. Water travel was in his blood, even when his feet were on solid ground.

A boat hadn’t been an option, not unless he’d wanted to portage across several miles of swamp. Therefore, he was atop the dull brown beast, plodding along as if time made no difference.

He’d traveled this land route before, the road of less than twenty miles that led from the Boston Harbor to the village of Salem. It was a long and lonely trek, and he was accompanied only by a dark dread that sat in his gut like a sleeping giant awaiting an opportunity to wake. Stretching and yawning, the giant seemed to take great pleasure in rising from an eternal sleep to trouble Richard’s mind and soul. Sometimes it was for no more than a flickering second; other times it would fully wake and haunt him for hours, never remembering its presence did not need to be verified.

That sleeping giant had taken root years ago, and though Richard chose to believe it rested comfortably while he was at sea, his soul knew differently. It knew he’d made a choice based on carnal and selfish needs and that the outcome of it had left a heavy grudge inside him. Therefore, the inner part of him that housed the sleeping giant relentlessly assured Richard he’d never know complete peace again.

This, he thought as the horse clip-clopped over a crusted trail sprouting barely a blade of grass, is my punishment. My sentence, and I have no choice but to abide by it as if it were decreed upon me by the king of England.

The child wasn’t to blame. No child ever was. He’d come to accept that years ago. Born a seaside waif, he’d never known his parentage. Never knew how he came to be living on the streets of London, stealing scraps of bread and drinking from rain barrels. Those were his earliest memories. Whether he actually remembered those incidents or whether they’d been placed in his memory by Captain Earl Burrows, Richard wasn’t sure. Earl claimed Richard had been about five when Earl found him scavenging along the docks. Although not known for deeds of charity, Captain Burrows had taken Richard aboard his ship. Perhaps Earl had figured that was the only act of benevolence he needed to provide. Either way, some twenty-odd years ago, Richard had begun his life of sailing. He rose up the ranks from cabin boy, and five years ago, when Earl knew his days were numbered, the captain turned over the love of his life, the Concord, to Richard.

All his years at sea had played well in Earl’s favor, and that too had been bequeathed upon Richard. The Concord was but one sea vessel—albeit his favorite—in his fleet, which sailed from England to the colonies, then on to the West Indies and Spain before returning to England. The fleet served Richard well and would continue to for years to come.

The trail upon which the horse trod widened, suggesting they would soon arrive at their destination. Bracing himself, for he knew the inner giant would soon stir, Richard scanned the horizon. Blocked by trees, it was nothing like the image he was used to seeing, where if a man didn’t know better, he might believe he’d sail right over the edge of the world. From the deck of the Concord, the horizon was always a glorious sight. Water as far as one could see—an image that always stirred the part of his soul he did know. The part of him that relished his life at sea. The life he was born to live.

That wasn’t so today. Around the bend would be a village. The one after that was where he would collect his daughter. A child spawn from his loins and born on land after he’d taken to sea again.

His breath tightened in his chest, and he transferred the reins to his other hand in order to dig into his shirt pocket for the crisp slip of paper. It was a brief note, simply stating the death of his wife and where his daughter was awaiting his imminent arrival. A daughter he had no idea what he would do with other than collect. That much he understood as his duty.

Without guidance from him, the horse rounded the corner. Then the heavy hooves stopped, and everything about Richard went still as he lifted his gaze.

The horse stomped and tossed its broad head, sensing the death Richard’s eyes had locked onto. A single large and gnarly tree stood upon a hill on the edge of town, next to a rocky cliff that bespoke an ominous aura even as the summer sun shone above. Off the lowest branches hung several ropes and at the end of those ropes was the most catastrophic sight his eyes had ever gazed upon.

Eight—he counted them twice—bodies dangled eerily. Although he was a distance away, it was apparent the poor souls, whoever they may have been, had their hands tied behind their backs and their legs bound.

Closing his eyes, questioning the sight, Richard drew a breath before lifting his lids again. The image hadn’t changed. If anything, it appeared darker, more sinister. A curse rumbled deep in his throat. The majority of the bodies were clothed in dresses.

A shiver crawled up his spine at the evil gloom that seemed to penetrate the entire hilltop and block the otherwise bright sunlight from shining down upon that singular tree.

It was then he noticed the crowd gathered lower on the hill. Not on the rocky side, but the grassy side that gently sloped downward and eventually opened up into the village green of the community. A plethora of sounds reached him, or perhaps they had always been there and he’d been deaf to them, too stunned by the sight to take in more.

The horse tossed his head again and took a step backward, as if unwilling to go any closer. Richard didn’t blame the animal. There wasn’t crying or protests. Instead, an almost joyous chant echoed through the air. As if the bodies swinging from the tree were a glorious sight to behold.

Richard reined in the horse to keep it from twisting about. In doing so, the note crinkled in his hand. Once the horse was settled, he flattened the paper on his thigh before holding it up to read where his daughter would be located. Urgency arose inside him. The sooner he completed his business, the better. He’d entered corrupt ports during his voyages and instinctively knew this place hosted a sinister core.

Staying near the outskirts of Salem, as far from the hill as possible, he steered the steed onward. With little more than a tap of his heel, the horse’s speed increased, putting distance between them and the hill. Like him, the animal was leery of entering the town.

The note described a large home between Salem Towne and Salem Village. The two were no more than five miles apart and, as he’d learned before, very separate communities. One more welcoming than the other. However, the spectacle he’d just witnessed had him wondering if his recollection was correct.

Not that it mattered. He’d leave both villages before nightfall and never return.

A short distance later, he crossed a bridge. On the other side farms scattered the road, some close by, some set back. Locating the one he was looking for among the smaller, more crudely constructed homes became an easy task. It stood out, if only because of its size.

Richard rode to the back side of the house, where a water trough would quench the animal’s thirst and hopefully keep it occupied while he gathered his daughter. He was thankful the tree upon that rocky hill was miles behind him and far from sight, yet he couldn’t help but turn in the direction from which he’d traveled, wondering again if he’d truly witnessed what his mind continued to recall. The roadway had been empty, the yards and houses along the way quiet, which added to the growing foreboding inside him.

With the horse secure and drinking, Richard made his way around the house to the wooden stoop of the front door. It was indeed a large home. Whitewashed and rectangular in shape and shaded by tall trees. The steeply pitched roof framed two tall and wide gables, and the sunlight glistened against the four symmetrical windows on both floors.

A long, narrow awning shadowed the stoop, blocking the sunlight from shining on the windowless door. Richard raised a hand to knock, but the door opened inward before his knuckles touched the wood.

“State your business.”

The woman’s tone didn’t match her structure. She was tiny, with a mass of curls as golden as the sun rays on his shoulders. The straps of her stiff cap were tied beneath her chin, leaving the curls to burst out from beneath the cloth like a bundle of wool tied in the middle. He’d expected an old woman, not one with skin as milky white as her linen cap.

“I’m looking for—” His mind went momentarily blank. Lifting the note still clutched in one hand, he scanned it for the name at the bottom.

“Step inside, Captain,” she said briskly.

Richard made no attempt to move. Having noted the signature on the paper, he stated, “I’m looking for Mrs. Lindqvist. Mrs. Marina Lindqvist.”

“I’m Marina Lindqvist,” she answered, stepping aside while moving her arm in a graceful wave to indicate he should cross the threshold. “Your daughter is here. Please enter.”

An unusual chill rippled his spine. His daughter. Richard had acknowledged he had a daughter. A small infant the one and only time he’d laid eyes on her. Yet having this woman say it aloud made the child more real than his own thoughts ever had. “I’m here to collect her,” he said, not taking a step forward. “To take her back to Boston. If you’d be so kind as to call to her, we’ll be on our way.”

“That’s impossible. Do come in.”

Richard refused to take a step. “How can that be impossible? Your note said I was to collect her posthaste.”

“I’d prefer not to stand on the stoop and discuss this matter, sir. It requires more privacy than that.”

The sharpness of her tone couldn’t cover how her voice shook; nor did it hide the apprehension shimmering in her blue eyes. When she shot a nervous glance around his frame, he instantly recalled the sinister hillside and revolting tree. Anger rose, burning his throat as he growled, “What kind of trap have you set here? Where is my daughter?”

“There’s no trap,” she insisted. “Your daughter is here. Just, please, enter before you are seen.”

An uneven clip echoed inside the house, drawing his attention beyond the woman.

A short man with a wooden leg crossed the room. “She speaks the truth, Captain. Enter swiftly. I swear on my sailor’s oath there is no trap set in this house. However, I give no promise for what lies beyond my yard.”

The blood in his veins turned so cold Richard tightened his shoulders to ward off a shiver. He held no doubt the man was a sailor. His aged face was leathered from the sun and sea, and the lower part of his left leg, now a wooden stick, had been carved from a ship’s rail. Only a man of the ocean might recognize that, and only another would know the severity of swearing upon his sailor’s oath.

The woman moved farther to the side, giving him a wider entrance path. “Please, for your daughter’s sake, I beg you to enter.”

Her whisper sounded as if it could shatter as easily as glass at any moment. Richard crossed the threshold, and since the woman was no longer next to the door, he closed it behind him. “Where’s my daughter?” he demanded. Once he had the child in his arms, he’d mount up and whip that beast of a horse into a gallop the likes of which his kind had never known.

The old sailor stepped forward, his hand held out, not in courtesy but something that went deeper considering the sincerity of his gaze. “My name is William Birmingham, once the captain of the Golden Eagle. This is my niece, Miss Marina Lindqvist.”

“I’ve heard of you,” Richard acknowledged and shook the man’s hand. There was barely a ship or a captain that had sailed the oceans that he hadn’t heard of.

“As I have of you and your predecessor,” William said. “Captain Burrows and I sailed together years ago, on a Queen’s ship.”

Earl Burrows wasn’t remembered for his friendships or deeds of goodwill. However, Richard owed the man for everything he had, including his very life, and would forever remain devoted. At this point in time, he moved beyond whatever William might think of Earl and repeated, “Where is my daughter?”

William nodded toward the woman. “Marina, take the good captain up to see Gracie.”

Without a word, the woman turned about and headed toward the staircase on the far side of the room. Richard followed but eyed his surroundings. The furniture was sparse considering the size of the room. A long wooden bench and a couple of chairs with high backs and tapestry seat cushions, a desk with another chair. Several small tables were positioned throughout the area holding vases of wildflowers or candles. A Bible sat upon the table near the fireplace, pages open. The intricate carvings on the bulky furniture said it wasn’t homemade. Most likely the pieces had been hauled to the colonies on one of the ships William used to captain. If recollection served right, Birmingham had sailed passenger ships, people bound for the New World, but the holds would have been full of cargo, all the items those same passengers would need to start their new lives.

Richard glanced down a hallway as he started up the steps. A table surrounded by chairs suggested the kitchen was at the end of the hall. Again, the furniture wasn’t built of square wooden planks like that in the home he’d once visited in Salem Village. Briefly, for he really didn’t care, he wondered about all the furniture he’d had delivered to his wife’s family’s home. Expensive, solid pieces, for he’d never shied away from providing for his daughter.

The open-beam ceiling supporting the floor above grew near as he climbed the steps. The stairs turned a corner then, blocking the ground floor. Richard’s gaze landed on the skirt trailing each step ahead of him. The dull gray of homespun cloth went all the way up to her waist, where it was gathered and disappeared beneath the black formfitting sleeveless waistcoat over her white peasant shirt. The fashionable gowns worn elsewhere, including parts of America, were not welcome in this community. He’d discovered that on his last trip here. Just as he’d discovered he wasn’t welcome.

“I beg you to keep your voice soft,” the woman stated after they’d climbed the stairs and traversed a narrow hall with windows at both ends. She paused near a door, her hand on the knob. “Gracie frightens easily.”

He’d known the child had been given the name Grace upon birth but, until this moment, hadn’t thought of her as anything other than his daughter. Growing impatient with himself—and everything else, for that matter—Richard gestured for the door to be opened.

A beam of sunlight shone directly upon a bed of such a large size that the tiny child lying upon it was almost invisible. Her body was so small the blankets looked merely wrinkled. If not for the dark hair on the pillow, he’d have thought the bed empty.

The woman walked to the side of the bed. Richard followed, choosing the opposite side.

“Gracie,” the woman whispered, leaning down and brushing tendrils of hair off the child’s face. “Your papa’s here.”

There was a shift beneath the bedcovers as the child rolled onto her back. Her eyelids, which were edged by long, dark lashes, lifted, exposing big brown eyes. Other than her eyes and her hair, the child was as white as the pillow she rested upon. A tiny smile tugged at her lips as her sleepy gaze settled on him.

The twinge that crossed his chest momentarily stole his breath. This was his child. The life of his loins. A miniature person as real as he himself.

“I prayed you were real.”

Richard knelt down, questioning if he’d heard her weak whisper or if it had been his own thoughts repeating themselves. “What?”

The girl pulled an arm from beneath the cover and lifted it so her tiny fingertips brushed his cheek. “I prayed you were real,” she repeated.

Her fingertips were cool, her hand shaking. As he curled his much larger fingers around hers, something happened inside him. An opening, a warmth as unique and precious as a sunrise the morning after a hurricane. “Of course I’m real,” he answered, wanting to offer some sort of assurance to this tiny being. His throat burned, an unusual occurrence, and grew thick. Almost too thick for him to whisper, “I’m your papa.”

Her tiny smile disappeared as she closed her eyes again and the thin arm connected to the hand he held went limp. His heart thudded and he shot his attention toward the woman on the other side of the bed.

Chapter Two

Marina Lindqvist closed her eyes and willed her heart to slide back down into her chest before it strangled her. Gracie was so tiny, so fragile. Turning the little girl’s welfare, her very life, over to a stranger tore at Marina’s very soul. It was what had to be done. She understood that, as unsettling as it was, as badly as it hurt. Soon she’d be unable to care for the child, to offer her protection.

The sigh that built in her lungs burned. She’d fought, she’d prayed, she’d begged for things to be different, to be like they used to be, but that wasn’t about to happen. There’d been no choice but to accept, so that was what she’d done and would have to again.

Perhaps it would be easier if Captain Tarr wasn’t so frightening to look upon. The moment she’d opened the front door, the terror she’d known once before filled her. If not for the innocent little child lying upon the bed, she’d never have led this black-haired man upstairs. Never have let him into the house. She had, though, let him in. She’d been the one to summon him to Salem Village. Therefore, for Gracie’s sake, she’d willed her mind to understand the difference between the past and present and did so again.

“Sleep is what Gracie needs,” Marina whispered, holding her gaze on the angelic little girl. The horror of what could happen to unprotected children was something else she’d never forget. At times it was hard to differentiate between memories and the visions that appeared in her mind, the very ones that left her with no choice but to accept they would become realities. Too many had already come true for doubt to linger.

It was a curse of who she was. Of what she’d become.

A loud sigh penetrated her musing, and for a moment, she wondered if the captain had feared Gracie had perished rather than fallen back asleep. Unable to look upon him, for he so closely resembled the heathens who’d shattered her life it made her tremble, Marina brushed aside yet another strand of Gracie’s dark hair. “I’m sorry you traveled so far, but as you can see, Gracie is in no condition for the ride to Boston.”

“Why is she so—so tired?”

“She’s been gravely ill,” Marina pointed out. “Hopefully, she can travel in a few days.” Upon sending the note to Boston, she’d assumed it would be a length of time before the message reached him. Not a great length, but longer than a single day. Uncle William hadn’t known when one of Captain Tarr’s ships would port, and they’d agreed sending a personal note to the captain was better than sending for an agent on his behalf at the seaport.

She should be glad he’d responded so quickly, but she wasn’t. Strangers were not welcome in the village, and the presence of this man wouldn’t go unnoticed.

“The pox?”

“No,” she answered. “She was spared the outbreak that took so many.” Her note had briefly mentioned his wife had died of smallpox last winter. Those were terrible messages to pen, ones of death and dying, things that had become too commonplace.

“Then what’s wrong with her?”

Gracie stirred slightly. Marina stepped back and gestured toward the door as she started in that direction.

“What’s wrong with her?” he repeated once they were in the hallway with the door closed behind them.

“I’m not a physician,” Marina said, “but I believe Gracie was close to dying from starvation.”

“Starvation?”

“Shh,” she said as his voice echoed off the walls.

“Why was my daughter starving to death?” he asked more quietly but just as harshly.

Marina started down the hallway so Gracie’s nap wouldn’t be further interrupted. The child was on the mend, but just days ago she had barely been able to hold up her head and Marina had feared it was already too late. An unexplainable instinct had told her where to find the child, but she’d been shocked by Gracie’s condition—and infuriated. Her refusal to turn Gracie over to the authorities angered many, but that was also when she’d completely understood why she’d been chosen. The ability to save this child had been bestowed upon her, and at that moment, while defying Hickman, it truly had felt like a gift rather than the curse she’d believed it to be since awakening in Maine.

“And why is she here?” the captain continued. “Where are her grandparents?”

Marina was still trying to understand why she’d been chosen. Gracie, too. Why had this child had to suffer so? Answers weren’t easy to find, and right now, the captain’s massive bulk and looming presence had the walls of the narrow passageway closing in around her, making it difficult to breathe. Haunting memories started flashing in her mind, and she hurried toward the stairs. “My uncle will provide answers to your questions.”

A solid hand grasped her arm. “I want answers now.”

Her heart stalled and her throat tightened while the images flashing behind her eyes grew stronger. Indians with blood-covered tomahawks. Shoving her back and forth between them, pulling at her hair and clothes. She could almost feel how they’d torn little Gunther from her arms before—

“Captain Tarr!”

The shout echoing up the stairway shattered the dark memories, but fear still had her trembling.

“I am the man of the house,” Uncle William shouted, “and will answer all of your questions.”

Her uncle’s voice penetrated the pounding in Marina’s ears and gave her enough sense to know this wasn’t Maine. It wasn’t the dark of the night. It wasn’t cold or raining. However, the panic clawing at her insides remained, and she rushed forward, barely slowing her speed to maneuver the steep steps.

Uncle William stood near the bottom step. “Are you all right, child?” he asked softly.

“He must leave until Gracie is well enough to travel,” she whispered while hurrying off the steps.

Marina didn’t stop until she was in the kitchen. Standing there, trembling and clutching the edge of the table with both hands, she silently recited the Lord’s Prayer.

Asking for salvation from the very God who’d forsaken her had become the only thing that took away the pain.

In case God’s grace didn’t come soon enough, Marina silently told herself, Richard Tarr is not an Indian. He is Gracie’s father, and she needs him. Needs him as strongly as I needed Papa when small and scared.

The solid wood, the sunshine filling the room, the smell of the chicken soup she’d set to simmer and repeating the statement several times gradually eased her torment. As things settled deep within her, for her fears never truly completely disappeared, she drew in a breath and then another.

When her body stopped trembling, she released her hold on the table. Although she’d never forget the savages who’d attacked her home, the scriptures told her to forgive. Forgiving something so heinous was rather impossible, but she’d discovered the Indians weren’t to blame as much as the evilness that had possessed them. The same evilness that now had the inhabitants of Salem Village massacring one another as unjustly as the Indians had her family. Which was why she was here, witnessing people betraying one another, sentencing neighbors to death, just as it was written in the Bible.

If she’d been given mystical powers when the hand of God had touched her, she’d have already stopped it. But no one had that kind of power. Not even witches. Yet no one but her seemed to understand that. Nor did they understand that the evil upon them wasn’t witches. It was a false prophet. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.

Being a chosen one was far from a blessing, but she’d never shied away from work and wouldn’t this time, either. Her father had told her she must save others, and she would. After finding Gracie, she no longer questioned why she’d been sent back to earth, why she’d been turned into a witch, and understood there was far more to do than just save the child. Despite what the reverend thought, the bargain she’d made with him included her. Only her. Not Gracie. He’d granted her the time she needed to make Gracie well, but she knew he’d done that instead of imprisoning her because he was afraid. Afraid of her and the powers he believed she possessed. She wished she did have mystical powers, but even without them, she would make sure Gracie was far from Salem when she turned herself over to the council as she’d promised.

With her spirit once again intact, Marina lifted a wooden spoon off the table and carried it to the large hearth, where she stirred the soup. Every two hours since bringing the child home, she’d fed Gracie tiny spoonfuls of broth. She’d feared the girl’s little stomach had been empty for so long it had forgotten its purpose, but each day Gracie ate a bit more than the previous and that gave Marina hope.

She turned away from the hearth. She should have suspected Richard Tarr would have black hair. Gracie must have inherited it from somewhere. It hadn’t been her mother. Sarah’s hair, from what Marina could remember, had been red. She’d seen the woman only a couple of times in the market square and truly only noticed her because of the child at her side. Gracie had been healthy then, with plump cheeks and chubby fingers, and, despite all her painful memories, Marina had somewhat fallen in love with the adorable little girl. Gracie’s big brown eyes, wide with wonder, reminded her so much of Gunther.

To recall that it had been only seven months ago when Gracie had been healthy, a happy child toddling behind her mother at the market square, seemed a bit unreal. So much had happened since then.

Uncle William apologized regularly for how unfriendly the village had become, but Marina had seen that before. How quickly people changed. How hatred arose. Yet it hadn’t been until she came face-to-face with the reverend that she saw the root of the calamities overtaking the community.

“Marina?”

She set the spoon back on the table and slowly made her way down the hall to the front room. With each step, she reminded herself there was no need to fear Richard Tarr. His long black hair, skin browned from the sun and chiseled features just made him look like an Indian. And his lack of facial hair. All men other than Indians had beards and mustaches.

Uncle William didn’t approve of what she’d done in order to save Gracie, but he did agree with saving the child. He claimed Captain Tarr was a fair man and would take responsibility for his child. Marina sincerely hoped so, for she questioned why Captain Tarr hadn’t taken responsibility of his daughter before now. Uncle William suggested he had, from the sea. That it was no different for a sea captain to go to sea than for a farmer to go to his field. Father or not. Husband or not.

“There you are, child,” Uncle William said from where he and Richard sat beside the window. “Captain Tarr...” With a nod her uncle corrected himself. “Richard, as he’s asked to be addressed, has several questions. Could you join us? I’m not able to answer those about Gracie’s health.”

She’d gladly voice her opinion that the captain could return in a few days. Grace would be able to travel then, could get away without the reverend or anyone else knowing. Uncle William, too.

Appreciative that her uncle’s home was not like most others, where women were expected to remain silent, never subjecting others to their opinions, Marina crossed the room. Her own home, that of her parents, had been full of bountiful conversations that included everyone. And laughter. Oh, how her brothers had laughed. Of all the things she missed, that might be the one she missed the most. Laughter. It was good for a person’s soul. Made life easier, lighter, even in the darkest of times.

Just as she was about to sit upon the squat stool Uncle William put his good leg upon while resting, the captain stood.

“Allow me,” he said.

Hesitant, Marina remained standing, eyeing him cautiously. He was very tall and muscular, and his stride was distinct, purposeful and sent a shiver up her spine. Confused as to what his purpose was at this moment, she watched him walk to the desk. There, he picked up the chair and turned, carrying it back to where she stood.

“Thank you, Captain,” Uncle William said.

Marina chose to remain quiet and sat down as Captain Tarr returned to his chair. She had to wonder, given the act he’d just performed, if he was like her uncle or more like the other men in the community. Very few in the village would permit Uncle William to request that she or any other woman participate in a conversation. That had been hard for her to accept when she’d first arrived, and questioning it had been enough to make her an outsider long before her true identity had been revealed.

“You’ll find our home a bit unorthodox compared to others in the area,” Uncle William stated as the other man sat back down. “Marina and I converse regularly. I like it that way and value what she has to say. Perhaps because I was always surrounded by mates. After the Golden Eagle ran ashore on a reef near the Bahamas, I found myself too old to repair her and traded her for this place. Of course, I kept my cargo,” he added with his gravelly laugh. “Wiggins Adams is who I got this place from.” He lifted a gray brow. “You heard of him?”

“Yes, I have,” Captain Tarr answered. “Captain Adams and I have crossed paths several times.”

“He promised it was a solid plot of land with a big house outside of Boston.”

“He didn’t lie,” Richard pointed out.

Uncle William chuckled. “No, he didn’t, but he didn’t tell me it was surrounded by Puritans until after he hauled me and all my belongings here. That was two years ago. If Marina hadn’t come to live with me a short time later, I may have given up on the place and gone back to the sea. Still might someday.”

Marina remained silent. As much as Uncle William spoke of returning to the sea, she knew it wouldn’t happen. Not without assistance. He’d never accept charity or pity, but his mind was outliving his body on land. He often repeated stories or rambled, and climbing the stairs to the second floor winded him. She’d taken apart his bed and carried it downstairs to the room off the hall leading to the kitchen to save him from climbing the stairs last winter. Convincing Captain Tarr her uncle wasn’t a washed-up old seaman, and to take him, along with Gracie, might not be an easy chore, but there wasn’t anything easy about her lot in life anymore.

A smile almost tugged at her lips because, for a brief second, she could hear her father’s voice proclaiming there wasn’t a task a Lindqvist couldn’t complete.

“Marina’s family had a bit of a mishap up in Maine,” Uncle William said. “She came to live with me winter before last. It was a cold snowy day when you arrived, wasn’t it, child?”

Marina agreed with a nod. Although she considered her home being attacked and her entire family killed more than a mishap, that was how Uncle William referred to it. As if calling it less than the calamity it had been would lessen it in her mind. Nothing could ever do that, but she never made mention of that to Uncle William, either. Perhaps because she wanted him to think she wasn’t trapped in the past. That she didn’t regularly recall the savage attack that caused her to be persecuted by neighbors until she had no choice but to flee. She told him she’d dreamed about him the night before his friend had arrived in Maine, but he hadn’t thought it significant. She did. It was the first time one of her dreams had come true.

If Captain Farleigh hadn’t arrived that snowy night, she’d have died again. Not by Indians or the wolves terrorizing the few chickens left in the barn, but at the hands of those who used to be friends.

Uncle William refused to speak about that, about what she’d told him, and she could understand why. It was hard for nonbelievers to accept. She’d struggled with it, too.

“Marina’s always been special. Always had a glow about her,” Uncle William said. “From the day she was born, she lit up the world.”

She’d heard that tale before, from her parents and brothers. If her family had known how different she was, what her destiny would be, she wished they’d mentioned it to her. A little preparation would have been helpful.

“Her grandpappy was my brother, and after having so many grandsons, he was beside himself to have a little girl to bounce upon his knee. I don’t know how I got along until she came to live here. Of course, things were different before. When Puritans weren’t set on killing one another.”

“Killing one another?” Richard shook his head. “The Puritans may have strong beliefs, but I don’t believe killing is one of them.”

Marina held her breath, curious about whether she would now learn why he’d deserted his family. An act she couldn’t fathom.

“Tell me, Richard,” her uncle said. “What do you believe?”

“About the Puritans?”

“Yes,” Uncle William replied.

Marina refrained from looking at the captain, even while her curiosity made it difficult. Her family, upon arriving in the New World from Sweden eighteen years ago, had settled along the costal shores of Maine. Communities there were far apart and needed every member’s participation in order to survive. Therefore, religious tolerance, of how or when their neighbors worshipped, was more accepted. Even though, in her case, religion hadn’t been the cause of her banishment, she couldn’t help wondering if it had been the reason behind him leaving his family.

“They are attempting to repopulate the world,” the captain said with more than a hint of disdain. “Will do anything to increase the population of every Puritan village up and down the coastline.”

“Indeed,” Uncle William said. “Are you one of them?”

“No.”

The response was so fast and stern, Marina couldn’t stop her gaze from snapping in his direction. She’d never questioned how her uncle had known who Gracie’s father was or how he knew where to find him. She, like most of the villagers, had believed he’d perished at sea.

As if he realized how harsh he’d sounded, the captain added proudly, “I’m of the Christian faith.”

“But your wife was a Puritan,” Uncle William stated.

Richard’s eyes were on her and boring in so deep Marina looked down at the floor and swallowed hard to ward off the shiver rippling over her shoulders. In the far recesses of his eyes, she’d seen pain and recognized it as something he didn’t want revealed. She didn’t like when that happened, when it was as if she could see into another person’s soul. No one should be able to do that.

“Yes, she was,” the captain said. “I refused to convert. Therefore, Sarah chose to remain with her family. I agreed to provide for them financially.”

“I know the life of a sea captain well,” Uncle William said. “Wives and families in ports all around the world.”

“Sarah was my only wife,” Richard replied coldly. “Grace is my only family.”

Marina could no longer remain silent. He’d opened the opportunity for her to ask a question that took precedence over all others. “Will you return to the sea when you and Gracie leave here?”

“Of course I will.”

“What about Gracie?” she persisted. Her heart had almost broken upon finding the little girl so ill and dirty. From that moment on, determination filled her to see Gracie healthy, safe and well. Perhaps because it was her only chance to do so. It was a known fact witches—real witches—couldn’t conceive children. “She needs a family,” Marina stated with all the fortitude filling her. “A father, not just a provider.”

* * *

For a woman who’d stared at the floor, not mumbling a word, Miss Marina Lindqvist certainly wasn’t afraid to let her contempt be known when the moment arose. Richard, on the other hand, was skilled at keeping things inside, where no one but that sleeping giant judged him. Unwilling to explain his plan for his daughter, he asked, “How did Grace come to be here? With you?” Although dressed like one, this woman was not a Puritan, nor was she married, as he’d assumed from her note stating his daughter could be found at “our” house. However, knowing those two things only increased the number of questions rolling around in his head.

William was the one who responded while his niece remained silent. “Because of Marina, your daughter is alive, Richard. Despite those intolerant fools.”

Anger set Richard’s jaw tight. The tiny child upstairs had been neglected. Neglected until she was little more than skin and bones. He may have visited his wife and family only once, but he’d sent money regularly and other things. Goods and materials, furniture, seeds. Anytime he’d heard someone mention an item the colonials needed, he’d sent a good supply to Salem Village in Sarah’s name. When he discovered who’d withheld food from his daughter, he’d throttle them with his bare hands. “What intolerant fools?”

“Practically everyone in the village,” William said. “That new preacher has blinded the lot of them. The poor fools were so hungry for a leader they don’t recognize they’ve been duped.”

Richard didn’t miss the emphasis the man used. Sea captains weren’t known for their religious affiliations. He’d never known one who’d held regular church services upon their ship—other than him. He’d captained the passenger ship that had carried Sarah and her family to America. It had taken less than two months to sail from shore to shore, and during that time he’d wedded Sarah, who was pregnant with Grace before he lowered the sails for the final time. He couldn’t say he’d been coerced into marriage—that had been Earl’s explanation when he’d told the man what had happened. A part of him may have fallen in love with Sarah, longed for a communion with her, or at least the young, supple body she’d so readily offered. He hadn’t told Earl that but had mentioned he wasn’t the only one to become wedded on that trip. A total of six mates had joined him at the makeshift altar aboard his ship. All but two had been at his side when he’d set sail for England a week after landing in Boston. Earl had chided the lot of them. Claimed that was what the new order of Puritans did—sought out strong, healthy males to impregnate their women in order to gain new bloodlines in their communities. In his berating, Earl had described them as nothing but studs needed for service. Richard had been demoted to first mate for the next six months. The punishment may have lasted longer if a fierce winter storm hadn’t set pneumonia into Earl’s lungs. Unable to captain the ship, the illness getting the best of him, Earl had called Richard to the helm.

“That man is as corrupt as his papa was,” William was saying. “He made a mess of things in Barbados and again in Boston. Guess preaching was the only thing he hadn’t tried.”

Richard hadn’t heard who William was talking about. If the other man had said a name, it had been while he’d been recalling other things. Setting his mind on listening, Richard asked, “What’s he doing?”

“Filling their heads with lies and misinterpretations,” William said. “Ideas have changed since the first Puritans came to America. The original founders have died off and the next generation isn’t satisfied with their lots. They seek power and wealth, just like the rest of the world. Some have become merchants and businessmen, and those set in the old ways have grown resentful of any who won’t give the church all of their income or spend hours worshipping each day.”

If for no other reason than the things William was saying aligned with Richard’s own beliefs, he nodded. Changes were happening all around the world, and those not willing to accept that would never flourish. He’d used that fact, how sailing was his means to provide for his family, as an argument when Sarah’s father had insisted he needed to choose between the sea and his life as a married man. The two, his father-in-law had insisted, could not be one. Blasphemy. This very country had been settled by those escaping religious persecution and he hadn’t been about to become a victim of such unjust piety. Nor had he been willing to become a farmer.

“Salem Village was once the farming parish of Salem Towne,” William said, “but when those in Salem Towne began to prosper, the poorer farmers in the village grew resentful. They petitioned separation and the right to form their own community. They wanted their own church, too, and to hire their own minister, not one chosen by the Salem business owners. I figured things would settle down once that happened. It didn’t.”

“The new preacher you spoke of...” Richard said. His attention was spiked by the way Marina had started to fidget in her chair. She didn’t seem bored with the tale her uncle was unraveling. In fact, the way she wrung her hands together told him she was nervous about something her uncle might say. That was what Richard wanted to hear. Instincts said it included his daughter. Whoever had almost let his daughter starve would pay dearly.

“Yes,” William said. “I can’t say why they hired him. Samuel didn’t know. Samuel Godfrey, that is. He owns a store in town and only ventures out this way occasionally to deliver the things Marina orders from him. She and I don’t get out much.”

That too spiked Richard’s interest. William was old. Traveling even the short distance to town would be exhausting, but Marina was young. He saw no reason she couldn’t venture to town. “Why don’t the two of you get out much?”

William lifted both bushy brows. “Because we don’t want to lose everything, including our lives.”

Marina’s swallow was visible, as was the way she shook her head, trying to stop her uncle.

Richard quickly asked, “How would that happen?”

“They’d stretch our necks,” William said flatly.

The tree he’d seen earlier flashed before his eyes. “What for?”

“For being witches,” William said.

Chapter Three

Marina’s stomach fell and she closed her eyes. That was Uncle William, going on and on about differences that truly didn’t concern them and then bluntly cutting to the quick of the story. He didn’t believe she was a witch, despite the proof she offered. Holding her breath, she maintained her silence. For as unorthodox as her uncle’s home may be, there were still boundaries. He was the man of the household and she had to respect that, but if he started to share her story, she’d interrupt. There was no telling what the captain might do if he learned she was a witch.

When the two men refrained from speaking, and their gazes settled upon her, she stood. “Excuse me.” Perhaps if she reminded them as to why Richard was here, her uncle would get to the true heart of the matter. “I must see to the soup and check on Gracie. The sooner she gets well, the sooner she can travel to Boston.”

Marina left the room without a backward glance. Perhaps now Uncle William would tell the captain to return to Boston until Gracie was able to travel. That amount of time—until the child was well—had been granted, but she wouldn’t put it past Hickman to pay a visit to the house. He’d claim it was on behalf of the church, but she knew better.

After ladling broth into a bowl, Marina went out the back door to collect water from the well. The huge horse Richard had ridden stood next to the water trough she filled daily for the chickens. Back home, tending to the animals had been her chore, one her father prided her on, and seeing a creature uncomfortable didn’t settle well.

Nellie, their single cow in the paddock, bellowed a low welcome as Marina led the horse into the shade of the barn and reminded her she’d need to find a home for the cow, too. She also pondered removing the saddle from the horse’s back but, considering Richard would soon leave, chose against it. Her dream last night had shown Gracie healthy and was the most enjoyable one she’d had in months. Tending to the child the past few days had been extremely pleasurable. Something she’d always treasure.

Marina stopped that thought from going further—to babies that could never be—by focusing on settling the animal. The horse was frightfully large but gentle, and she patted its long neck and side while walking out of the stall wall. As she dropped the board in place to keep the animal stabled, a shadow cast upon the barn floor.

“So, you’re a witch.”

For the first time in ages, Marina wanted to smile. The image of this man, who was indeed as beastly in size as his horse, fleeing when she said yes was the cause. She’d seen that happen in Maine, grown men flee at the thought of encountering a witch.

The bright sun cast a haze of light around the frame standing in the doorway, from the toes of his knee-high boots to the top of his midnight-colored hair hanging past his shoulder. It made a remarkable sight, for his size and stature made him a formidable being. That told her something else. This man wouldn’t flee from a witch. Real or imaginable. He’d stand his ground.

Needing to know if that was true, she asked, “Do you believe in witches, Captain Tarr?”

“I’ve given you permission to call me Richard,” he said, bracing one hand against the door frame. “I’m only a captain while at sea.”

She gave a single nod, just to prove she’d heard him. “Do you believe in witches, Richard?”

He stood silent, making her wonder if he would answer or not. The breeze made the sleeves of his white shirt billow slightly, and for a moment she didn’t want to know his answer. The strength of the arms beneath that shirt had to be as solid as the rest of him. If he believed as the other villagers did, and chose to use his strength to capture her, she’d end up in Salem’s jail before assuring Grace and Uncle William’s escape.

“Witches,” he said, “are akin to angels. In some religions, that is. Some claim you can’t believe in one and not the other.”

Such a compromising answer was not what she’d expected. Discussing religious beliefs other than Puritan ones was illegal in the village and highly punishable. She considered telling him as much, but that in itself was punishable, as well. A man married to a Puritan woman would know such things and would not tempt punishment. As much as she’d relish the opportunity to debate her beliefs, to defend the holistic religion she’d participated in from birth, it would be a waste of breath. She doubted this man had ever read the Bible. She’d read it daily for as long as she could remember and sincerely missed having others to help her comprehend the parables. Uncle William was very little help with that. He did not see the connection between the Indians destroying her family and what was happening in the village.

She did.

She was a witch. There was no denying it. And no changing it. There was no comparing it to an angel, either. The two were as different as day and night. Alive and dead. Pure and evil.

Swallowing the bitterness that coated her tongue, for there were still things she had to accept, she nodded. “I didn’t unsaddle your animal. My hope is that Gracie will be able to travel by the end of the week.”

He stepped forward. “I’ll unsaddle him.”

Sidestepping in order to keep a fair amount of distance between them because his nearness made her insides tremble, she said, “I didn’t unsaddle him, so you could return to Boston. There is no need for you to remain here. You must realize Gracie can’t travel right now.”

He looked at her pointedly. “I do, but I’m not leaving. Not without Gracie. When she’s well enough, we’ll travel to Boston.”

Marina’s heart leaped into her throat. “But you can’t stay here.”

“Why?”

“Because...” She closed her eyes as dread filled her soul. “It’s too dangerous.” Drawing strength from within, she lifted her lids. “Far too dangerous. Please, you must leave.”

“Not without my daughter.”

“It’s for her sake that you must leave.”

He shook his head. “It’s for her sake that I must stay.”

Desperation flared. She couldn’t save those locked in jail while taking care of William and Gracie. If that was the case, she’d already have done it. “You’d barely laid eyes on her before today.”

“That is true. A fact you knew when you summoned me to collect her.” He lifted the brace bar to step into the stable. “And that is exactly what I’m here to do.”

Marina couldn’t argue the fact she’d summoned him, but she couldn’t chance another child harmed. Another child murdered, the tiny corpse maimed. “It’s not safe for you to be here.”

“Safe?” He was on the other side of the large horse, already loosening the saddle cinch. Tall enough to see over the animal, his dark eyes watched her intently. “Why isn’t it safe for me to be here? I’ve done nothing to anyone.”

“It’s just not safe for you to be here,” Marina repeated. “The reverend—”

“I’m not afraid of a Puritan minister, Marina.”

“There are things you don’t understand,” she said, attempting to keep her composure, but her head had started to pound. Flashes, images of Hickman’s men storming the house caused sweat to form on her brows.

“Like what?”

“Witches?” Her breathing was uneven and burning. “Are you afraid of them?”

Hoisting the saddle off the horse’s back, he draped it over the side board of the stall and then turned around to pull off the blanket. “Don’t try to frighten me away with such foolery. I’m not leaving until—”

“Until they kill your daughter?”

* * *

The giant that arose inside Richard wasn’t the one he expected. Instead of the old, guilt-driven ogre, an angry one emerged. One that was as driven to protect his daughter as it was to protect his own life. Tossing the blanket over the saddle, he marched out of the stall, slamming down the end board. “Nobody will harm my daughter ever again. Nobody.”

“Others have boasted as much, but they couldn’t stop their loved ones from being imprisoned or worse. Sometimes evil can’t be stopped.”

Richard paused, both in his steps and his thoughts. The last bits of color had slipped from her already white face, leaving even her cheeks ashen. “Yes, it can,” he replied, although he knew she spoke of more than Grace. A touch of compassion for this woman arose inside him, for she clearly was afraid of something, but he’d been here for the better part of an hour, and other than discovering his daughter was ill, he knew no more than when he’d read her note back in Boston last evening. “With the right information, and that’s what I want. I want to know who almost let my daughter starve to death. I want to know where her grandparents are and how she came to be living with you and your uncle. And I want to know who those poor souls were hanging off that tree back in Salem.” That last bit slipped out before he realized it. Mostly likely because of the terror in Marina’s eyes. Did she truly believe in witches, fear for her own life? He’d suspected that was a ploy, but her fear appeared real. Very real.

A single tear slipped out of the corner of one eye, which she quickly swiped aside before she bowed her head. “I’d prayed that wouldn’t happen.”

He had a great desire to reach out and lay a hand on her arm, offer a touch of comfort. That was as unusual for him as most everything else he’d encountered this day. Therefore, he remained still, his hands at his sides.

After a moment of silence, she snapped her head up and started for the door. “I must see to Gracie.”

The change of her demeanor, from tears to stoic determination, confused him as much as it surprised him. Women, though—all women—were not something he needed to ponder or understand. “Where are her grandparents?”

Barely pausing as she crossed the threshold, she answered, “They died along with your wife. During the smallpox epidemic last winter. A great number of lives were taken.”

There was urgency in her steps as she left the barn, and Richard had to hurry to follow her. “Has Grace been here since then? Since last winter?”

“No, she’s only been here a few days. I just sent the note to you yesterday.”

“A few days?” That too was confusing. “Where had she been all this time? Since her mother died?”

Marina entered the house. “In the village.”

“With who?” He followed her through the door. The way she headed directly toward the hearth caused a final nerve to flare. He was a man of action—found the problem and took care of it. When he asked a question, people answered. Tired of attempting to be polite, he slapped a hand on the table. “Damn it! Why are you making me fight for every morsel of information? Why can’t you just tell me what I want to know?”

She spun around and the fire that shot from her eyes startled him slightly. When her burning gaze landed on his hand, he practically felt the heat and lifted his hand off the table.

“A smart man does not meddle in things that don’t concern him,” she said icily.

“A smart—” Letting out a growl, he planted his hand back on the table. “This does concern me. Anything that concerns my daughter concerns me.”

“Very well.” She picked a bowl and spoon off the table. “Once I’ve seen to Gracie, I’ll join you and my uncle and answer any questions you have on that matter.”

Steam hissed inside his head. “On that matter?” Richard blocked her way around the table. “I’m tired of this cat-and-mouse game. I have questions on several matters I want answered now.” Once again slapping the table, he added, “Right now!”

He’d expected to startle some sense into her, but the only things that jumped about Marina were her eyes, moments before they turned as bitter as a nor’easter.

“And I want you to leave,” she said as frosty as her blue eyes. “Which you will do.”

Richard kept his gaze locked on hers, letting her know he wasn’t moving until he was ready.

Her eyes never left his as she lifted her chin. “However, right now, I must see to Gracie.”

She could easily have turned and made her way around the other side of the table, but she didn’t. Instead, she walked directly toward him. A spark of respect flared for this uncommon golden-haired woman. He’d made note of how she carried herself, earlier. Head up and purposeful, unlike most women, who rarely met a man eye to eye.

“If you were any kind of a father,” she said without a footstep faltering. “A real father. That is where your concern would lie—in her health and that of her recovery.”

Richard had been chastised by men far more powerful than she’d ever be. On a bad day, Earl could send sharks swimming in the opposite direction with little more than a shout and a fist waving in the air. This woman, however, possessed a different kind of power, one he couldn’t explain. “I am her father,” he answered out of defiance. “And I am concerned about her health and well-being. That is why I’m here.”

Her glare remained ice-cold. “Then you’d be interested in knowing I’ve been giving her broth every two hours, not enough to upset her stomach but enough to get it working again.”

It flustered him that a rebuttal wouldn’t form in his mind, but what could he say to that? He’d stood his ground with opponents around the world, yet, right now, he stepped aside so she could leave the room.

Which she did.

His gaze followed her. Marina Lindqvist was not what she appeared to be. A matter of fact, if he’d ever believed in witches, he might wonder about her. Not in the evil, brewing-up-potions kind, but in the kind who could cast spells upon men without them knowing it. There was no other explanation. With little more than those blue eyes, she’d knocked the wind right out of his sails.

Flustered with himself, he entered the hall. William was still in the front room, and the snore that shook the old man’s body confirmed what Richard already knew. William wasn’t just old; he was tired, worn-out from his life at sea. For a brief moment, Richard was reminded of Earl and the fight the man had fought against aging, against giving up the life he’d known. Earl had died at sea, doing what he loved. William wouldn’t, and for that, Richard experienced a pang of sympathy.

Switching his thoughts, he started up the steps. When the time came, he wanted to be like Earl, sailing into the sunset as his days ended. Until then, he had things to do. A legacy to maintain so his daughter would never again know the pains or consequences of hunger.

The door to the bedroom was open. He’d been only a few steps behind Marina, yet she was already sitting on the edge of the bed, spooning soup into Gracie’s mouth. His daughter was sitting in the middle of the bed and her eyes widened when she saw him in the doorway. A slight and wobbly smile turned up the corners of her lips.

Richard’s heart fluttered inside his chest. The sensation was as remarkable as it was foreign. He hadn’t expected this immediate connection to his daughter, for it hadn’t been there the first time he’d seen her, when she’d been a tiny infant. Then again, at that time, he’d already been told he’d never see her again, that he wasn’t welcome in Salem Village, nor would he ever be. That had been shortly after Earl’s death, and on that very day, Richard had fully accepted the advice his mentor had shared before dying. “Let them go,” Earl had said. “Forget you ever had a wife or child. The sea is all you’ll ever need.”

“Your arrival seems to have worked wonders,” Marina said. “Grace was awake and ready to eat.”

Snapped out of his musings, Richard crossed the room. “That’s good news. To see her well is my greatest wish.” He chose not to delve too deeply into the things happening inside him. Grace was his daughter, and every father wanted his children to be healthy and well. However, he was aware now that Earl’s advice was no longer relevant. He’d accepted the loss of his wife long before her death, but he had a second chance with his daughter and didn’t need anyone’s advice on what to do.

“Goodness,” Marina said. “You’ve eaten the entire bowl.” She brushed a clump of black hair off Grace’s cheek. “Would you like more?”

“Yes, please.”

“Very well. I shall get you some.” Marina stood and bestowed a sun-kissed smile upon the child. “I’ll be back in little more than a moment.”

Richard didn’t know much about ill children but knew shipmates got well faster once they were up and about, and despite refusing to leave, every instinct he had was still telling him to get his daughter and depart this place as soon as possible. “Perhaps Gracie would like to go downstairs to eat.”

Gracie’s eyes lit up. For a moment, he saw himself in her and knew that must be how his eyes glowed when they settled upon the great span of water surrounding his ship. Smiling brightly, she pushed aside the covers and scooted toward the edge of the bed.

“The stairs may be a bit much for her yet,” Marina said gently.

“Not if I carry her,” Richard supplied. Without waiting for Marina’s answer, he asked his daughter, “Would that be all right with you, Grace? If I carried you?”

She nodded enthusiastically.

Marina, on the other hand, seemed torn. “I don’t want her to lose the ground she’s gained.”

“She won’t,” Richard assured her. “I’ll carry her back upstairs, too.” Without further ado, he plucked the child off the bed. She wasn’t any heavier than one of his ledger books and felt far more fragile. Far too fragile. Once again something inside him fluttered. The life of a sailor had always fulfilled him, never left him wondering or wanting more, yet holding his tiny daughter in his arms made him question if he’d made the right choice years ago. If he’d remained in Salem Village rather than returning to the sea, Gracie wouldn’t be in this condition and Sarah might still be alive. They could even have had more children.

“We all have regrets.”

He lifted his head and caught Marina’s thoughtful expression.

“It doesn’t pay to dwell on them,” she added with a smile as gentle as the one she’d given his daughter. “Forgiveness, including ourselves, is the pathway to salvation.”

She was right. No one could change the past; nor should they allow it to possess them. He owed Marina his gratitude, too. If not for her, Grace may have died. He would never have known his daughter then. That thought hit solemnly in his mind and gut.

Not ready to react to that or to let her know she’d read his mind, he gathered the length of material dangling beyond Grace’s feet. “What is all this?”

“Gracie is wearing one of my nightdresses.” Marina had walked around the bed and brushed his hand aside in order to twist up the extra material and tuck it between Grace’s thin frame and his chest. “I needed to wash hers this morning.”

Richard heard what she said but chose to interpret the statement to mean Grace didn’t have ample nightclothes. That should not be. He’d sent material to his dead wife regularly. Yards upon yards of sturdy cotton, knowing the finer silks and other materials he’d once shipped would not be welcome. The last shipment should have arrived this spring, after Sarah’s death. Of course, he hadn’t known she’d died then.

He pondered on that as he carried Grace down the narrow hall. His wife had died. Should he be in mourning? It wasn’t as if he’d held any ill will toward Sarah. It wasn’t as if he’d held any great love for her, either. The affection that had sparked between them had never been given the chance to grow. Not as it should have. Which was just as well. Sailors had no right taking a wife. They were already married to the sea. He’d known that even back then but had let his physical needs overshadow his good sense. Earl had pointed that out to him, and he’d come to accept it over the years.

Richard shifted Grace in his arms, not because of her slight weight—he could have been carrying a sparrow for all she weighed—but because he didn’t want her to bump the wall of the narrow stairway. She lifted her head and gazed upon his face deeply and perhaps a bit critically.

“Are you really my papa?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Marina told me if I prayed hard enough, you’d come.”

Richard glanced briefly toward the woman moving down the stairs ahead of them. He still had more questions than answers. “She was right.”

“Where’s your boat?” Grace asked.

He grinned. “In the Boston Harbor.”

A tiny frown formed before she nodded.

“Would you like to see it?” he asked.

The smile returned tenfold. “Yes.”

“Well, then,” he said, “as soon as you’re better, I’ll take you to see the Concord.”

“You will?”

“Yes, I will. It’s a mighty ship,” he said. “But you have to eat and get strong. It’s a long way to Boston.”

Her little head bobbed up and down. “I will.”

It had been years since he’d seen Sarah, and he wondered if Grace looked like her. He should remember, but an image of his wife no longer formed in his mind. There was no explanation as to why, other than that she’d become nothing more than another payment, akin to taxes or merchant fees. That was no way for a man to think of his family or something he was proud of, even if it wasn’t out of the ordinary. Plenty of captains had wives and families, sometimes numerous ones, just as William had said, in ports all around the world. One of the things he’d carried pride in was the fact he wasn’t like all other sea captains. Not in that sense or in others. He treated his shipmates fairly, along with the merchants and countries whose cargo he hauled. His reputation was well established, and now it would also become known that he took care of his family. He didn’t need to vow it; he knew it.

“What do we have here?” William had awakened from his nap and was precariously rising to his feet as they entered the front room. “Is that Gracie?”

The girl nodded while Marina answered, “Yes. She wants to eat at the table. Would you care to join her?”

“I’ve been smelling that chicken you’ve been boiling all morning,” William said, using both hands to get his stump leg solid on the floor. “It’ll be good to eat some.”

Marina waited for her uncle to cross the room. Richard did, too, while noting how the young woman stood ready to aid William if the need arose. It didn’t. Once the old man got the wooden leg in rhythm with his other one, he scurried past them with the speed of a sailor with two good legs.

“You will be joining us, Richard,” William stated.

It had been hours since he’d partaken in a brief repast before leaving Boston, and all sailors were known for one thing—that of never bypassing the offer of a meal. “Thank you,” he answered and waited for Marina to enter the hall.

In the kitchen that, indeed, did host a very appetizing scent, Richard paused before setting Grace on one of the chairs. Her chin would barely come up to the tabletop if he set her down. Noting a pine box on the shelf near the brick oven built into the side of the fireplace, he crossed the room. “May I use that?” he asked, pointing at the box.

“The salt box?” Marina asked. “Whatever for?”

“Yes, the salt box,” he assured her. “For Grace to sit upon so she can see over the table.”

“That’s a splendid idea.”

The expression on her face was a mixture of surprise and delight, a sight that intrigued Richard. He pulled his eyes away and gathered the box. After he set it on the chair, he lowered Grace upon it and took a seat himself. The table was soon set with plates and silverware and a host of foodstuffs in plated dishware. It made sense that William would have such luxuries while many colonials still used wooden spoons and trenchers. Ships hauled crates of dishware and utensils to America regularly, had for years.

“Marina insists on feeding us more than two times a day,” William said. “She claims her family ate morning, noon and evening, even on Sundays. I’ve told her on a ship, a man eats when a meal’s prepared, whether it’s the middle of the day or the middle of the night.” He chuckled before adding, “I’ve grown accustomed to her ways, those of my family from the old country that I’d forgotten about until she arrived, although that too we keep private.”

Having traveled the world, Richard had eaten meals at all times of the days, but he knew a custom of the Puritans was two meals a day, morning and midafternoon, after church services. He also knew their penchant for allowing no work of any kind on Sundays, including preparing meals. If there were no leftovers, they ate bread and water or fasted. He’d witnessed it on the ship that had carried Sarah and her family to America. From what he’d seen so far, Marina did not fit into the Puritan world in any way. So why was his daughter here rather than with one of the families in the village?

“We’re not trying to pull the wool over anyone’s eyes,” William continued. “We just don’t need any more fingers pointed at us.”

Although he could assume, Richard asked, “Why would fingers be pointed at you?” Following William’s gesture, he began to ladle food onto his plate. The bowl Marina had set before Grace contained clear broth, while the soup he spooned onto his plate had been thickened and contained chunks of chicken, carrots and potatoes, as well as dumplings. There was also bread and a thick pudding that smelled of maple syrup, and cider for their earthen mugs.

“I told you.” Sighing heavily, William looked at Marina, who’d just sat down, before he said, “They believe Marina’s a witch.”

Tension returned to Richard’s neck—his entire spine, actually. This witch business was more than frustrating. It had become an assault against his good sense. Over the years, he’d spent time with many types of people and cultures. In some countries people worshipped witches; in others, they feared them. Went so far as to hire witch hunters to eradicate them from the countryside far and wide. He’d never believed one way or the other, but had met a few witch hunters and would be hard-pressed to come up with a more evil profession comprised of more wicked men.

His gaze crossed the table to land on Marina. Her chin was up and her gaze solid as it met his, eye for eye. He might admire her grit, but others wouldn’t. A witch hunter he’d met in Scotland a few years ago, John Kintor, claimed that was how he recognized a witch, by the way she stared into a man’s soul. Kintor’s father had been a witch hunter, too. Several years ago father and son had captured more than two hundred witches in less than a year—or so they claimed.

A cold knot formed in Richard’s stomach at the thought of Marina encountering the likes of Kintor. “Why would they believe that?”

Her gaze drifted toward Gracie for a fraction of a second before she stated, “Because I agreed to stand trial for being one.”

“Only be—”

“Uncle William,” she interrupted before her uncle could say more. “The food is getting cold.”

“Oh,” the old man said as if he’d just noticed the food on the table. “Eat up, Richard.”

Richard opened his mouth but closed his lips when Marina bowed her head and recited a prayer quietly. He’d never encountered a witch and doubted he ever would, but either way, he highly doubted they prayed before eating.

When she lifted her head, her attention immediately went to Gracie. “Go ahead,” she said softly. “You can eat all you want.”

Gracie glanced his way and Richard responded with an affirmative nod, quite amazed that his daughter would expect his approval. He had very little experience around children. None, actually, other than the few who’d been on the passenger ship he’d captained years ago, the same one that Sarah had been on. He had a child now and held no regrets on it. Last night had been a sleepless one, full of worries about what he’d do with a daughter. Today, it didn’t seem so bad. Hiring a family to take care of her wouldn’t be hard. He just needed to figure out where he wanted that to be. There were plenty of choices in numerous ports around the world. Perhaps he’d let her decide.

With that thought, Richard lifted his spoon and began to eat.

As far as meals went, it was tasteful and filling, but far quieter than he was used to. Sailors were a hearty bunch. Given food, ale and others to talk with, they became even more boisterous. The only noise at this table was the clink of silverware and thud of ale cups. That was strange for him. Certainly out of the ordinary. The men he sailed with were first-rate and energetic, and mealtime was a noisy affair.

Richard glanced across the table. Not even a witch would be able to keep them in line. The idea almost brought a grin to his lips. Marina was no more a witch than he was, but if she chose to believe otherwise, so be it. Once Grace was well enough, he’d leave this place and never return.

A question of how Grace would fare on his ship formed, but it was not something he needed to worry about. As his daughter, she’d be more protected than gold. Setting down his spoon, he reached over to roll up the sleeve that had fallen to almost cover her hand. “You like the soup?” he asked.

She nodded, but her eyes went toward the plate of bread in the center of the table.

Richard retrieved a slice and pulled away the crust. Breaking up the soft center, he dropped the chunks into her broth. Grace smiled and he patted her head, half expecting a chiding from Marina. Prepared, he lifted his gaze to the woman.

A gentle smile graced her lips, and she made no attempt to pull her gaze from his. She was patting her lips with her napkin, and Richard held his breath, wondering what she was preparing to say.

Instead of her voice, a knock on the back door interrupted the silence.

Chapter Four

“Marina, I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes,” Anna Pullman said with tears streaming down her cheeks. “They killed her. Just like that. They put a rope around her...”

“Hush now, Anna,” Marina whispered while stepping out on the stoop. Her friend had used the back door, which was fortunate if anyone was on the road but unfortunate considering those sitting at the table could hear. “Come to the garden with me,” she said, pulling the door closed behind her with one hand and the other on Anna’s shoulder.

“The garden?” Anna stammered. “They just killed Elizabeth. I can’t think of carrots and onions. People cheered and clapped. Oh, Marina, what are we going to do?”

“We are going to walk to the garden,” Marina said gently. “We don’t want anyone to see us being idle.” If anyone on the road saw Anna talking to her, the young girl would be arrested, but Anna needed comfort right now and Marina couldn’t overlook that. There were a few families who’d befriended her and Uncle William, and she’d come to care for each of them.

“Of course we don’t,” Anna said bitterly as they walked toward the garden beside the barn. “Lord knows what Reverend Hickman will do if he learns of two idle women. Oh, Marina, it was so awful.” Anna sniffled as new tears began to fall. “Elizabeth cried and pleaded, swore on the heavens she wasn’t a witch, even while they were putting the rope around her neck.”

“Hush now,” Marina said again, this time because she didn’t need a description. Her mind had already shown her the scene of Elizabeth Pullman being hanged, along with several other community members. In truth, it made her neck tingle. A fate that was sure to be hers before long. It was written in the scriptures. She’d be handed over to councils and flogged, brought before witness, and persecuted. A sacrifice. The only thing she’d had to offer in exchange for Grace had been her own life.

“I can’t hush,” Anna insisted. “With Mama in jail, Father is beside himself. He’s insisting upon going to the tree tonight, before they cut down the bodies and push them over the ravine. He’s going to collect Elizabeth and bury her on our farm beside little Daniel and baby Christine.”

“That would be extremely dangerous,” Marina whispered. “It’s foolish to venture out at night. Sentries are posted everywhere.”

“I know,” Anna said, “but Papa can’t stand the idea of Elizabeth not having a proper burial. It’s just...” Unable to carry on, her friend clutched Marina, sobbing.

Thankful the barn hid them from prying eyes, Marina hugged Anna and let her cry. No words of comfort formed and she figured that was just as well—they wouldn’t do Anna much good. Elizabeth had been Anna’s older sister, and Marina knew too well the pain of losing those you loved. Tears still came some nights when she thought of her family.

Time had helped, but it also left her tired. She was so very tired of death.

The creak of wagon wheels and thud of hooves forced Marina to release Anna and grasp her friend by the shoulders. “Others are returning home, Anna. You can’t be seen here. It’s far too dangerous.” The reverend had vowed he’d arrest anyone he saw her talking to. Without waiting for Anna to respond or catch her bearings, Marina pulled her to the back of the barn. “Quick now—take the path through the woods and return to your house.”

Anna was shaking her head, but Marina pushed her toward the small trail hidden by first brush and then taller trees. “Hurry, and talk to your father. Do not let him return to that tree tonight.”

When Anna acted as if she wasn’t going to leave, Marina said, “Hurry. Reverend Hickman could be in any one of those wagons. Go. And don’t stop until you’re home.”

Anna shook her head. “I didn’t want to believe it was true, but it is. Isn’t it? You’ve changed, Marina. You used to be my friend.”

“I’m still your friend—”

“No, you aren’t. You’re—you’re a witch. That’s why you wanted that old crone’s familiar so badly.”

“Go home, Anna.”

Anna shook her head as she said accusingly, “You brought her here so you could fill her with your blood, fashion her after the likes of you so—”

“Anna!” Fury ignited in Marina’s stomach, and withholding it from spewing forth burned. Anna was too full of grief to know what she was saying. In a more normal state of mind, she’d know Gracie wasn’t a familiar. She was just an innocent child. Too innocent to be surrounded by such evil. “Go home, Anna. Go home where you’re safe.”

“No one’s safe,” Anna said. “Even you.” She spun around then and hurried into the woods.

Marina watched, making sure her friend had left before she let out a sigh. Her heart was so heavy her stomach ached. She had changed, because she’d had to. Being a witch wasn’t easy.

“What old crone?”

She spun around. The storm of reproach on Richard’s face made her legs wobble.

“Who,” he barked, “is accusing my daughter of such vile things?”

Marina’s entire being quivered, but she held her head up. “I must go see to—”

“No.” He stepped forward, blocking her path. “You aren’t going anywhere, not going to see to anything.” Taking a hold of her arm, he added, “Not until you answer my questions.”

Marina wasn’t afraid of his touch, but she was afraid. Rightfully so. He threatened everything. “My uncle—”

“Is looking after Grace,” he said. “So start talking.”

Any mingling hope dissolved. As much as she wished it, he wasn’t going to leave, not without answers. It was only right. She had summoned him here and should tell him the truth, or at least as much as she could. The problem was she had no idea where to start, how to explain things that were unexplainable.

“I can stand here all day,” he said stoically.

She shook her head at how she couldn’t stop a wayward grin, one that had wanted out because of the memories his statement had revived. “My brothers used to say that.” Sighing, she admitted, “That seems so long ago.”

Other than a slight frown, Richard didn’t reply, and she didn’t expect him to. She waved toward the house. “It’s a rather long story. Perhaps we should go inside.”

“Where you’ll find another task to see to,” he said. “No, we’ll stay right here. There’s no need for me to repeat my numerous questions. I’ll let you decide where to start.”

That was just as well. People were still on the road. What about this man had made her overlook that? Perhaps it hadn’t been him, but rather the weight hanging heavy around her neck. “I’m not sure where to start,” she answered honestly. “Uncle William believes it all started with the new reverend, but...”

“You don’t?”

Marina studied his expression for a moment. Here too she was reminded of her brothers. Tough, stern men and, just like Richard, they’d had wrinkles near the corners of their eyes from laughing on a regular basis. Then again, maybe his came from squinting at the sun while sailing the seas. Though he showed a gentleness around his daughter, it didn’t appear to be commonplace.

“I haven’t lived here long,” she finally said. The Puritans’ beliefs didn’t align with her own. From what she’d witnessed, no one was interested in performing God’s will by loving one another. What had happened to her hadn’t aligned with her beliefs, either, not until she’d sought a deeper understanding of the scriptures. Seeing the evilness in Reverend Hickman’s eyes had confirmed her path, even though fighting him filled her with fear. “But Reverend Hickman is a powerful man.”

“Hickman?” Richard’s frown grew. “Reverend Hickman?” he repeated. “What’s his first name?”

“George.”

“George Hickman,” he said, drawing the name out as if settling it into his brain. “That’s who your uncle was talking about when he mentioned Barbados and Boston?”

“Yes.” A queer tickling in her stomach had her asking, “You know him, don’t you?”

“If it’s the same George Hickman I’m thinking of, then, yes, I know him.”

Her hands shook. “Are you friends with him?”

His eyes grew stormier. “Friends? No. When did he become a reverend?”

Marina twisted her hands together, hoping to hide the shiver rippling her insides. “I don’t know, but I do recall hearing this is his first parish.”

“When did he arrive here?”

“A year ago this spring,” she answered. “Shortly after I’d arrived.” Marina had no idea why she chose to add that. Maybe because she wanted to appear innocent, which she wasn’t. In truth, there didn’t appear to be any innocence left in the world. Other than in the smallest of children. That she did still believe in.

There were other things she believed in, too, and she glanced toward the woods where Anna had disappeared. Just as the scriptures described, brothers were accusing brothers, children were rebelling against adults, accusing them of outlandish acts until they were arrested. “Hickman’s arrival was greatly welcomed,” she said. “People acted as if he was the answers to their prayers. A savior.”

“But not you?”

“No.” Prayers were often answered differently than expected, and George Hickman was closer to the devil than God.

“Why not?” Richard asked.

The pages she read every night told her not to fear those who could kill the body, for they could not kill the soul. That was a fact she’d witnessed, and the conviction that rose up inside her was stronger than ever. She couldn’t help but wonder what Richard would think if she told him everything.

She spun about. The resentment in his eyes couldn’t be denied, and her shoulders slumped. He’d never believe her. She hadn’t believed it herself, not at first. “For one,” she said, “I’m not of the Puritan faith. I’m a Protestant.”

“You’ve been accused of being a witch because of that?”

“No.”

He lifted a brow, clearly waiting for more of a reason.

Stories of witchcraft had plagued the Old World and still did, for all she knew. There had been a time when she’d been convinced they’d been nothing more than tales that had no basis in being real. That had changed. “Have you read the Bible?” she asked.

“The entire thing?”

Once again, for the briefest of moments, a grin tugged at her lips. He truly reminded her of her brothers. Perhaps referring to the Bible wasn’t the right route. Her brothers had never taken to its readings without serious prodding from their mother.

“I’ve read enough to know what it’s about,” Richard said.

Accepting his answer with a nod, she changed her tack. “From my witness, the Puritans are quick to judge. They believe only a few are selected for salvation, predestined before birth, and although they claim no one knows who the chosen ones are, they instantly condemn others to eternal damnation for the simplest acts. Blame one another for every misfortune that occurs, from a cow dying to a child questioning something they are too young to understand.” She’d seen all these things and couldn’t understand the irrationality the people of the village maintained in such simple maladies. She took a couple of steps, to where a weed grew next to the barn. “Something as simple as this weed could lead to an entire family being exiled.”

“That’s preposterous.”

“I know,” she said. “To us, but to the Puritans in the village, it’s not. It’s a sign of the devil—at least that’s what Reverend Hickman preaches. He’s full of hellfire and brimstone, and the elders quickly followed him, leaving no room for common sense to prevail. His sermons are full of paradoxes that are as confusing as they are frightening. Everything is based on the Old Testament. There are no lessons on the coming of Christ or the forgiveness of sins.”

“You attend his church?”

“No, we’ve never been invited to, but we don’t mind. Uncle William and I have our Bible and our faith.” Not wanting the conversation to revert to her, she quickly added, “I’ve heard about his sermons from others and heard him shouting in the marketplace. It’s frightening to the women and children, especially the young ones, like Gracie, who are so gentle and innocent.”

“How did she come to be with you instead of a Puritan family?” he asked.

“The smallpox epidemic was widespread. Reverend Hickman declared that all of the families affected were agents of the Ould Deluder.”

“Satan.”

She nodded. “Members who’d survived the outbreak were no longer welcome in the village.” The injustice of it had Marina placing a hand over her heart. “Even the tiniest of children. The other men agreed with him, believing when he insisted it was the only way to prevent the disease from spreading, but—”

“But that’s no excuse for allowing children to starve to death.” Richard finished her thought precisely.

“I agree, but few others do. His sermons filled them with fear of the entire village dying from the disease.”

He was pacing back and forth, as if dwelling on what he’d just learned, but he stopped and leveled a stare on her. “If all this happened last winter, where was my daughter before she came here?”

Guilt bubbled inside her. Things might be different now if she’d understood her father’s message earlier. She hadn’t, though, not until seeing the evil in Reverend Hickman’s eyes. That was when she’d pleaded for him to allow her to take the child’s place. To be arrested as a witch, if he let her heal the child.

“Where was she?”

Lifting her shoulders, Marina said, “Everyone believed she’d died along with her mother and her grandparents.”

“Where did you find her?” he demanded.

Marina closed her eyes and pinched her lips together. Reverend Hickman had finally agreed to her request, but she’d seen beyond his words. For some unexplainable reason, he wanted Gracie, and that was when the witch inside her rose up as it never had before. Out of nowhere she’d vowed to reveal the truth behind all his evil actions.

“Where did you find her, Marina?”

Her insides burned, but she couldn’t reveal the truth. There was too much danger in that. “Please just be content with knowing I did and that soon she’ll be able to travel to Boston.”

“Not soon enough,” he growled. “Sitting at the table tuckered her out. I laid her down on William’s bed before coming to find you.”

Concerned, Marina glanced toward the house. “But she is getting better. Yesterday she barely had the strength to sit up long enough to eat.”

When she turned to face him, her heart stalled. The storm in his eyes demanded answers. More answers than she could give. Marina had no choice but to harden her stare in return, refusing to provide any more information. There was too much at stake. If she told him all that had happened, he’d never leave. Not without confronting Hickman. In that sense, too, he reminded her of her brothers. One man couldn’t battle an entire community.

The breath in her lungs rattled as the standoff continued. A duel that consisted of nothing but their eyes, their mental strengths. She brought forth such events in her past. Arguments with her brothers where she’d never backed down from their steely stares and mental challenges. Momentum grew within her as she vowed to not yield until the bitter end. Until she’d won.

Her chin began to tremble, her legs wobble, but by sheer will alone, she kept her stare steady, her mind focused. In truth, it was for him she fought. And Gracie. And Uncle William.

Her win, if she could call Richard’s gaze being the first to drop, held no victory. Nearly exhausted, she let out a sigh as Richard, looking stormier than ever, swung around and marched away. Her reprieve, that of drawing in enough air to fill her lungs, ended abruptly when the barn door thudded.

Hitching her skirt out of the way of her feet, she scurried around the barn. Richard was inside, throwing the saddle over the blanket he’d already laid across the massive horse’s back. Real relief filled her then. Keeping him hidden until Gracie was well enough to travel would have been impossible.

“I’ll send a message to your ship,” she said. “As soon as Gracie is well enough. You can expect it by the end of the week, I’m sure.”

While threading the leather strap through the cinch ring, he said, “There will be no need to send a message.”

“Very well. If you want to return on Saturday—”

His glare stopped her from continuing. Accepting there was nothing more to be said, she stepped outside the barn door and took several long glances up and down the road. There were no wagons, no lingering travelers from the groups who’d made the trek into Salem Towne to watch the hangings, and for that she was thankful. If he hurried, his departure would go as unnoticed as his arrival had been.

Upon hearing the thud of a horse’s hooves, she turned back to the barn, where Richard led the animal out into the sunlight. She waited until he mounted before saying, “Safe travels to Boston, Captain.”

His glower was chilling. “I’m not going to Boston, Marina. I’m going to the village. Where I’m sure to find someone who’ll answer my questions.”

“No.” Despite the size of the beast, she grabbed the leather chin strap of the horse’s bridle. “You can’t go to the village. No one can know you’re here.”

His laugh was close to sinister. “It’s too late for that. The girl that was here...the one you called Anna. She saw me. Why do you think she scurried into the woods so fast?”

Marina slapped her free hand over her mouth to contain her gasp, and Richard’s tug on the reins freed the animal from the hold of her other hand.

“Please.” It was all she could think to say. “Don’t.”

“I have no idea what you are trying to hide but, rest assured, before the sun sets, I will know. I will have answers to all my questions.”

“They’ll arrest you—”

“For witchcraft?” He laughed. “Let them try.”

His words lingered in the air, echoing in her ears as he kneed the animal.

“Stop! Please!” Hitching her skirt, she started to run but made it only a few steps when a solid grasp caught her arm. She’d have fought it but realized her momentum was already making Uncle William teeter on his good leg.

“I have to stop him,” she said.

“No, child,” Uncle William said. “You don’t have to stop him. She’s his daughter, not yours.”

Her legs threatened to collapse beneath her as the captain disappeared up the road.

“Come inside, Marina,” her uncle said. “We’ll know soon enough what the captain’s fate will be.”

Chapter Five

The horse seemed to know what was good for it and didn’t test him this time. Lucky for it. Richard had been taxed enough. Miss Marina Lindqvist would do good to take a lesson or two from the horse. All her talk of witchcraft. The woman must be light in the head. People had been frightened of witches for years. Foolish people, that was. Rational ones realized it was all superstitious. The smarter ones looked for the real cause behind the accusations. There was always something, and he had a good idea of what it was this time.

Richard entered the village, which was little more than a marketplace with a long overhead shelter where members brought goods to share or trade, a tavern and a small church off to one side. The home behind that structure was what caught his attention. Not just because of the crowd gathered there but because the home was twice the size of the church. Neither building, the church or the parsonage, had been here when he’d been in the village years before. With that thought, his gaze went to the west, toward where the home of Sarah and her family had stood. Now there was nothing but an open field planted with a poor crop of rye. He glanced in all directions, trying to verify that he was recalling correctly.

“You there, on the horse. What do you want in our village?”

That voice answered one of his other questions. This was the George Hickman he knew. The man who’d swindled more people than the devil ever hoped to. The same one who was now the reverend of Salem Village. Anger twisted a tight knot in Richard’s gut. Rather than fight it, he chose to use it in his favor.

Upon dismounting, he led the horse to the front of the tavern and tied the animal to a pole before he took his time walking the rest of the way around the building to where he’d get his first good look at George Hickman. It would be George’s first time to get a good look at him, too. The man would remember him. They’d sparred over merchandise in both Barbados and Boston. He hadn’t given in either time, and Hickman hadn’t found another ship captain to shortchange, either, not after the word had spread. However, Hickman’s false charges had forced the Concord to stay harbored for a month, which had cost Richard not only time but money.

“You there, I say!”

“You say what?” Richard asked, stepping around the corner and coming face-to-face with Hickman. He let his never-forgotten disdain fill his tone, along with the anger now rolling in his stomach.

Shock, then spite flashed in Hickman’s eyes. “Tarr,” he snarled. “What are you doing here?”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Richard answered, giving a long look at the man’s black doublet and breeches, as well as the white ruff around his thick neck and his black hat. “What are you doing here?”

George Hickman was a squat man in structure, with a barrel chest and stomach and bowed legs. He tried to make up for his meager height by his attitude, which, as far as Richard knew, hadn’t worked, up until now perhaps. Hickman had inherited a sugar plantation from his father in Barbados and in little more than a few years had lost everything. Demanding top dollar for an inferior product had left him without a way to ship his sugar to markets off the islands, and cruel treatment had forced his slaves into desertion—something few ever did. Their punishment was usually death, but that was also what they’d faced working for Hickman.

After a few years Hickman had landed in Boston, where he’d conveniently inherited a merchandising business from the father of a woman he’d married in that area. There again, his demands had left him without ships to fulfill his orders. That had been the last Richard had heard of him. Then again, he hadn’t cared enough to listen if someone had spoken Hickman’s name.

“The likes of you aren’t welcome here, Tarr,” Hickman hissed.

“I can’t believe the likes of you are welcome here,” Richard replied. A rotten egg never lost its stench, and right now the odor was strong enough to make a grown man gag.

Louder, in order for the other men standing several yards away to hear, Hickman spouted, “Be gone. We have no need for sailors in Salem Village.”

“Good,” Richard answered, just as loud. “Because I’m not here as a sailor. I’m here as a father.”

The alarm that flashed in Hickman’s narrow eyes told Richard all he needed to know. The man had known Grace was his daughter and was behind her condition. Renewed anger mixed with full-blown loathing boiled in Richard’s veins. As much as he’d like to unleash his fury, letting it control his actions wouldn’t get the results he now wanted. Exposing Hickman for the impostor he was would be something to relish. He’d make sure it was done correctly. He owed it to his daughter.

Hickman’s nostrils were flared and his face turned redder with each silent moment that passed. Other than allowing his hands to ball into fists, Richard refrained from permitting his internal rage to show. This act was unlike him, but he had his daughter to consider. Righting the wrong that had been thrust upon her wouldn’t be solved by beating Hickman to a pulp. Even though it would provide immense satisfaction.

With a great deal of emphasis, Hickman waved a hand and shouted, “Be off with you, stranger, before the wrath of God strikes you for attempting to foil our blessed community!”

Richard pulled his lips into a tight grin and took a step closer to hiss, “Shout all you want. A pulpit won’t protect you from me.”

The man’s thick jowls shook as he stepped back. His beady eyes glanced toward the onlookers before he hoisted both arms into the air. “I am an ordained messenger of the Almighty God!”

“Ordained by whom?” Richard asked. “Yourself?”

“Our good reverend attended Harvard University,” a tall man replied as he approached. “You’ll do as requested, sir, and exit our village.”

Several others of the group were moving forward, and the conceited grin growing on Hickman’s face said the man thought he’d won. Richard considered telling him no army of cronies would frighten him or change what he was set on doing; however, he had time and would relish watching the other man squirm a bit. If these men were supporting Hickman, he needed to know why. Still, he wasn’t going to let anyone think they worried him—because they didn’t.

Eyeing each man, including Hickman, individually and intently, Richard finally moved his attention to the one who’d spoken. “I will leave your community when I’ve concluded my business.”

With that, he turned and made his way back around the building. Ignoring the mumblings for what they were, he didn’t retrieve his horse but instead entered the tavern. Puritans didn’t abide drunkenness, but they drank ale from sunrise to sunset. As with almost every community ever established, a tavern was the first building erected, even before homes or a church.

Hosting only two windows and a few short candles, the interior was dark and dank, but that hadn’t stopped men from gathering around tables and emptying tankards a barkeep kept full using a pitcher he refilled from the line of barrels resting upon a rack on the far wall. Richard walked across the room, which was unusually quiet compared to most taverns he entered, to where a man stood behind a long board stretched between two barrels.

Without a word, Richard laid down a coin. Using one hand to slide the coin across the wood, the barkeep grabbed a wooden tankard with his other hand. The coin dropped into a hole at the end of the bar, clanking against others when it hit the bottom. After pouring ale into the cup, the barkeep set it before Richard.

Giving the droopy-eyed man a nod, Richard lifted the cup to his lips. The ale was strong and bitter, stealing his breath as he swallowed. He turned then to survey the men at the tables. A few were returning his gaze. Curious, no doubt. He didn’t let his sights rest on them. Answers were what he needed, not questions.

A single man, thin, with his head hung low, sat alone in the farthest, darkest corner. The flame of the short candle on his table flickered as if burning up its last bits of tallow. Richard walked to that table and asked, “Care if I join you?”

The man shrugged. “I make sorry company.”

“It’s not company I seek,” Richard replied. “Merely a chair to sit upon while drinking my ale.”

With a hand, the man gestured to the opposite chair. His expression hadn’t changed, nor his posture. The man was clearly downtrodden, browbeaten to the edge of his being. Richard had seen that before.

He took a seat and another swallow of the pungent ale. “Your community holds the air of hostility.” There was no sense denying the surliness filling the room.

“The evilness is everywhere.” His companion’s voice was a whisper. “Ye’d be better off to keep traveling. There’s no rest for the weary here. No escape, either. Except perhaps death.”

“You sound like a man with no hope,” Richard acknowledged.

The man closed his eyes but not before Richard saw moisture, as well as a tear that escaped and trickled down the man’s sunken cheek.

Richard waited a moment, wasting that time by lifting the tankard to his lips again. His mouth refused to accept another drop of the vinegary brew, and he set the cup down. “Why?”

Lifting his chin slightly, as if it was all he could manage, the man shook his head. “My mother was hanged today.” His gaze slowly turned to the other occupants in the dim room. “Along with some of their family members.” Turning back, he croaked, “There was nothing we could do. Nothing any of us could do.”

“What were their crimes?”

“Witchcraft.” The man wheezed in a breath of air. “Those who denied the accusations were hanged in Salem Towne this morning.” His fingers shook as he wrapped them around the handle of his tankard. “I begged her to confess, but she insisted upon taking her chances of being one of God’s chosen few rather than rotting away in jail, awaiting the devil’s arrival.”

Marina’s image instantly appeared inside Richard’s head. “What had she done?”

The man’s lips pulled tight and a spark of anger glistened briefly in his eyes. “Took a switch after the reverend’s daughter for snitching out of our garden. She was accused of putting a spell on the children to make them behave so and then for scorning them instead of leading them toward salvation. The girls were at her trial, claimed she was pinching them from across the room and that they’d seen her in their dreams, with a familiar suckling her blood.” Another tear escaped the corner of his eye. “The court ordered the removal of her clothing to reveal her extra teat. When one wasn’t discovered, the girls fell upon the floor on all fours and started barking like dogs. That was ruled evidence enough.”

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