The Wedding Bargain
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Charity struggled to control her anger. She raised her shoulders slightly, and her delicate nostrils flared. Her eyes narrowed. “My sons are my concern, just as my land is mine. I intend to keep it that way.”
“You’d take a convict to lodge with you? What will people say?” Leah’s voice became a hiss.
“That I’m as much a fool as ever.”
“And Amos?”
Charity made a sharp movement—a gesture that was almost passionate, before it became a slight shrug. “Precisely the same.”
“Perfidious creature. To live only in the flesh!”
The injustice burned Charity. Never had there been any slackness in her morals. Had Ezra not sworn them both to celibacy after the birth of the twins had been decreed by the elders to be a result of excessive fornication? And not once in nine long years had they broken that solemn vow.
She locked her hands together in front of her. “That is not very generous of you, Mistress Saybrook. Didn’t Bible readings tell you not to judge others by yourself?”
“What’s the use of trying to reason with you, Charity Frey? You have made up your mind to take a felon rather than a respected citizen.” Leah’s voice was colder and harder than the thick ice that formed on the river throughout the winter months.
The indecency of it! The common, wretched vulgarity of it! Spoken to as if she were some loose servant girl!
“Even so, I’ll take my chances,” Charity resolved. “A graduate of New Haven Prison is a better proposition than Amos.” She lifted her hand and made an airy gesture, expressive of semihumorous regret. “I’d rather house a genuine convict, with hair looking like bog weeds and reeking of the swamp, than a sly, avaricious man who holds the Bible in one hand and gropes at a girl’s leg with the other.”
Charity turned toward the auction block to hide her face, knowing it must be cherry red. How had those vile words escaped her mouth? It was nothing to her if Amos Saybrook was a lecherous philanderer intent on bedding every girl in the Commonwealth of Connecticut.
Still, it was not like her to be so rude, and what a supremely contemptuous example she was setting for her sons! She glanced at the boys, raising her brows in mute interrogation, but they were busily scuffing at tufts of grass and did not seem to notice anything amiss.
“The tongue is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison, Charity Frey.” There was more than a hint of sharpness in Leah’s rejoinder. “You will live to regret your wicked words. I’ll report your disgusting lies to the church elders, and let’s see how haughty you are when you are forced to ask pardon before the entire meetinghouse.”
Abruptly, Leah turned and walked away, light-footed, swift as a bird. A hard lump of anger formed in Charity’s throat. She had made an enemy there, she knew, when before she had looked on the Saybrooks as friends.
She shrugged mentally. There was no help for it. Now that she had been so foolishly outspoken, she was obliged to refuse Amos before she was good and ready.
To the devil with the whole stupid business of attending market today, anyway. But for the dire necessity of obtaining a laborer, she would not have had to confront Amos Saybrook until Sunday.
“Charity?” The voice of Thirza Arnold, her neighbour and friend, broke through her reverie. “You look a bit strange. Are you all right?”
“Yes.” With a shake of her head, Charity forced herself back to the present. Her voice remained carefully casual. “Boys, go with Mistress Arnold and help set up the refreshment stall. Take a care of Jemima, now. I’ll join you after the auction.”
Isaac and Benjamin dutifully clasped five-year-old Jemima Arnold’s hands and sedately followed Thirza. Charity rejoiced to see the little girl’s pretty face so animated and cheerful. Lately Charity had begun to feel twinges of anxiety about Jemima, but was able to banish them at least for today, for she chattered to the boys like a merry bird.
Charity turned back toward the auction block. Everything within her was resisting the task that lay ahead. She would coddle her conscience until Sunday’s lecture—and by then it would be too late for the elders to interfere.
* * *
Raphael Trehearne licked his lips, a gesture that spoke more of common impotence than his aristocratic background. The sun’s molten heat beat on his head, rousing a dull ache—something he noted only vaguely. Nothing for several days had had the power to upset or worry him. Not since he’d tried to escape and had received a blow on the head with a chain for his efforts.
He had been drifting in a gray, lifeless landscape that had no secure points of reference and from which there seemed no deliverance. If he thought of anything specific at all for any length of time, the thrumming in his head began again.
At the back of his mind, he knew he was to be sold, like a beast at market. Somehow that didn’t seem to matter anymore. Nothing mattered. He was too tired, too bone weary, to care.
It was the sound of a child’s soprano voice that penetrated the colorless miasma, rousing him from endless inertia, bringing him back to the present. He clung to the sound. Heard the woman’s soft response, warm as honey, from far away.
It was the longing to know the owner of that sweet, feminine voice that made him open his eyes. She stood there, a thing of infinite daintiness, so exquisite in her fairy grace. Pale skin tinged with pink, high cheekbones, a delicate chin and eyes of blue green rimmed with sooty lashes enhanced the fey image.
The very freshness of her was a danger that put him on his guard. There was a lack of humility in those strange, sea-colored eyes, which sat oddly under the hooded coif that most Puritan women wore to hide their hair from the eyes of men. Her simple black dress gave her a quaintly demure air that was belied by the rounded bodice and tiny waist. This was a woman to cherish, not scorn.
She glanced up at him without fear or modesty, and then changed into a veritable wanton, her full lips open, as if she would eat him for supper. His eyebrows arched in sudden suspicion.
He blinked, trying to marshal his thoughts, but suddenly his mind rolled back to the terrible slaughter of the militiamen as they fought a rearguard action against the French. There had been guns that had harried them all the previous day. It had become a matter of necessity to silence those guns. So the effort had been made, a glorious effort crowned with success.
How long was it since the fight at Beaver Creek? It had been a desperate battle, in which quarter had been neither asked nor given. Hand-to-hand and face-to-face they’d fought, with wild oaths and dreadful laughter.
Rafe recalled the terrible night he had been thrown into New Haven Prison, the dreadful morning of the trial, and the worst nightmare of all, the afternoon his whole world had fallen apart…And now he was here, chained like a slave in the marketplace.
For an endless, agonized, intimate moment, the woman held his eyes. Tension seemed to vibrate through the air, as loudly as guns during combat.
Then she touched her hand to one of the two coppercolored heads bouncing boisterously at her side. He recognized the relationship immediately. How could he not? The boys were her in sturdy male miniature. Undoubtedly, her hair was red also.
Then it struck him. She was married!
For some absurd reason, a wave of treacherous disappointment almost overwhelmed him. Rafe closed his eyes, unable to bear the unfeigned affection of this small domestic tableau.
Time passed. Just how much time, he did not know, but the sun was high, and a raging thirst burned him fiendishly.
Gradually, he became aware of activity around him. Where was he in the disorderly mass of movement? Was he riding hell-for-leather to escape the savages, or was he trying to stem the terrified retreat?
A hot shaft of pain burned through his temple as he shook his head, clearing his vision.
The auction had started. Bidding went slowly at first, then started to gather speed. Arms were raised, heads were shaken, nods were given. Men shouted, and women hid their expressions behind their fans.
One by one the other bond servants took their place on the wooden block and were sold to the highest bidder. Then it was his turn. Awkwardly, his arms and legs still shackled, he was led to stand before the many faces looking up at him, fear and dread on their faces. Several women gasped and raised their fans.
“Are you the man who is known as Raphael Gabriel Trehearne?”
Rafe stood without answering. Only the expression in his eyes indicated that he had heard the question.
The long-nosed Puritan acting as auctioneer stared at him, awaiting an answer. When none was forthcoming, he rapped the wooden block with his staff.
“Answer me! I am the law in this county!”
There was a buzz of excitement. Fans clicked open and shut. Whispered conversations took place behind them.
“Yes, I am Rafe Trehearne. I have dispensed my share of death. So buy me, if you do not fear to be murdered in your bed!”
The words rang out impulsively and were greeted by a deep silence. Not a hand in the audience was raised, not a voice spoke.
Then a woman stood up and faced Rafe. It was she! He had some vague hope that he was mistaken in her intention, but when she smiled at him, a peculiar little smile, that illusion vanished. She stood there, her head angled to the side, giving him a searching look. Rafe glared back in violent disapproval.
Twisting her hands together, she turned to the auctioneer. In her smooth, melodic voice, as if carefully measuring each word, she placed her bid. “I will offer fifty pounds for the bond servant, Raphael Trehearne.”
There was a hushed silence. No one moved. Time stood suspended until the auctioneer banged on the post three times with a wooden mallet.
“Sold…to Mistress Charity Frey.”
Chapter Two
“Isaac! Benjamin! Into the wagon. Hurry now, and leave sufficient room for Master Trehearne. Are you ready, sir?”
Rafe heard the words from some far distance. They danced in the air, one after the other, like soft notes of music, separate and ethereal, hanging there, spinning into infinity, their pure…
“Mr. Trehearne, please, we must go now, else we shall not make Mystic Ridge by fall of night.”
Slowly, it seemed, Rafe became aware of a hand plucking at his sleeve. Then the meaning penetrated and he started as from a deep slumber. The clanking of the chains fastened to his wrists and ankles reminded him of his plight. He peered down at his feet.
“I cannot.”
“Cannot? What are you saying, you cannot? You will! You must! It cannot be any other way!”
Rafe felt the strength ebbing from his legs. His feet felt leaden. His body ached, and his head was spinning. Exhaustion was beating a familiar tattoo behind his eyes and he knew his mind teetered on a yawning chasm. He blinked, trying to make his brain function again.
“Not quite. I beg your indulgence, ma’am, but these shackles will make it extremely awkward for me to attend to the wagon in case of accident. ‘Twould be best for all concerned if you order they be removed before our departure.”
He frowned. His voice was surprisingly clear and firm, even though it was taking a great deal of concentration to keep the pain in his head from overwhelming him.
“No! Do not take me for a fool!” Charity paused, then added “Couldst you not crawl into the wagon on your knees, Master Trehearne?”
The man looked at her hand-embroidered coif for a moment. He growled, a strange sound, soft, wild and breathless. He cleared his throat twice and seemed to find speech difficult.
There was a red glow in the golden eyes, despite his proud stance. He reminded her of a trapped, feral animal, fierce and irrational, ready to lash out even at a helping hand.
Her first instinct—to extend that hand—was immediately suppressed. Instead, she clutched the iron rim of the wagon wheel for support. She didn’t seem to be able to move.
Rafe swayed a bit, looked up, found the blue green eyes, focused. His vision clear now, he took an unsteady step forward and bowed from the waist, carefully, formally, correctly. He had no conscious sense of control over his movements, but felt as though strings jerked by unseen hands were starting and stopping him.
“I may be a bondman, sworn on penalty of death to serve you, ma’am. Your wish is my command. I come to you in chains, but not on my knees, Mistress Frey. Never on my knees.”
The bravado touched Charity’s warm heart. To be honest, she welcomed it. Fear was no tool with which to chop out a living in this wilderness, and Charity Frey intended to use this man to hold her land against all who would covet it for their own.
“Master Trehearne, I do not ask you to kneel to me. I ask only that you climb aboard the wagon!”
“And I say I cannot accomplish such a feat when I am tethered like a beast!”
If he had been one of her offspring, she would have delivered a sharp slap to teach him sense. “You have made no attempt to do so, sir, so how do you know whether or nay you can or cannot?”
He stepped close to her, so that she had to tilt her head to see his face. With her back pressed against the wagon, she lifted a slender hand as if to ward him off. He leaned forward slowly, deliberately, pushing against her hand, forcing it back, finally trapping it between his solid body and her soft breasts.
Charity drew in a hard breath, mastering panic. Her lips opened soundlessly. She felt taken, possessed, completely captive. A faint tremor began at the corner of her mouth. “Can you…” She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue and tried again. “Do you mean you cannot…”
Rafe Trehearne’s eyes narrowed briefly, as if he heard the trace of fear in her voice. “Have the fetters removed, Mistress Frey.”
It was an order, sharp and decisive.
With a shock Charity suddenly realised every nerve in her body was aware of the challenge in him. And yet she was not truly frightened. He might be formidable, but she did not sense the evil in him she saw in Amos Saybrook.
Eyes wide and anxious, she stared up at him, seeking some sort of guidance. The man’s gaze locked with hers, with an intentness that was almost alarming. She had never seen brazen resolve in a man’s gaze before, but she recognized it instantly.
A deep, vibrating rumble resounded through her fingers. She felt a warm tingling sensation move through her, stirring all her nerve endings, the way a summer breeze stirred leaves. Her back and shoulders grew tight. She sucked in a strangling breath.
Unable to hold his gaze any longer, she lowered her head. “If you would stand back a little, Master Trehearne, I will have one of my sons pass me a tool.”
Hands clasped behind him, Amos Saybrook watched Charity thread her way toward her wagon. In her modest black dress, with its white, starched collar that came all the way up to her chin, and wearing a black bonnet that hid all of her hair, she still had an air of conceit about her that sat ill with him.
Following that thought came another that dwelled longer in his mind. Leah had come to him with her tale of outrage. Charity’s forthright manner was discomposing, and she had the manners of a Hottentot, but she had land, valuable land, and a spirit that he would enjoy taming.
Amos scanned the rapidly thinning crowd. There would be no militia parade today. The crowd had already watched a better show, and audience and amateur soldiers alike were starting for their far-flung homes before dark.
He frowned, thinking of the poor, miserable specimens who had been willing to sell themselves for the price of passage to the American colonies. Vermin and trash for the most part. Out-and-out heathens to boot. Probably never in their lives had they been to church. They were no better than a pack of savages.
Look at the big fellow now! Shuffling like an old man, as if he was so tired he could barely stand. And Charity Frey preferred to take that trash instead of a good, Godfearing, law-abiding man such as himself.
If there was anything Amos could do about it, well, then it would be different. But hadn’t he already eliminated his friend, Ezra Frey, and made out that those damn thievin’ Pequots had done it?
His anger grew to a new peak, almost of frenzy. Leah might rant and rave and urge him to take what he wanted, but he knew better. Behind those luminous, blue green eyes and that soft voice, Charity Frey had quite an independent mind and a strong will.
And her will said no to the giving of herself—for the moment.
A sly and malicious feminine voice spoke so close to his ear that Amos jumped. “It appears all your conniving and scheming have been to no avail, Brother Amos. The pigeon has escaped.”
“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”
In spite of his efforts to keep his voice calm, Amos’s ruffled ego betrayed itself in his voice, and Leah’s head came up sharply. “It could be beneficial to your cause to give the Lord a hand in this matter, Amos.”
Her brother’s eyes were on Charity and her bondman, standing ever so close, almost intimately, beside the wagon, and he spoke as if he was thinking of something else. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways, Leah.”
Amos stood for another moment lost in thought. He nodded his head slowly as if in full agreement with some unspoken conviction of his own, then abruptly walked stiffly toward the couple.
Leah had the idea he had been about to tell her something of importance, and she wanted to hear it, but he was gone.
“Can I help you with that vermin, Charity?”
Amos Saybrook looked down his great long nose and spoke in a high, squeaky voice that completely belied his heavy jowls and enormous bulk. “Thank you, Amos. I have but to loosen this last link.
There, ’tis done.” There was a satisfying clatter as the shackles hit the dirt. The boys cheered loudly at the sound.
Charity smiled softly and turned to Rafe. He was staring at his hands as though they were strange objects. She heard him draw a deep breath. Her smile broadened. “There would seem no reason to delay our departure further, Master Trehearne.”
Rafe curved his hand as though he wished he had something to crush in it. He looked up. For an instant, their eyes met. He blinked. “Thank you, Mistress Frey.” It was barely a whisper.
Amos made a harsh sound and straightened his hat. “Charity, do you think it wise to release this vagabond like this? Are you not aware of the charges that were brought against the man? How dangerous he is? How foolish you have been to defy the elders.”
Charity had expected a lecture. What she had not expected was that Rafe Trehearne and her sons would be witness to the reprimand. She bit her lip in vexation, then controlled herself and answered calmly, with an inflection deliberately devoid of expression, “Amos, your voice is so loud, I think that God himself hears every word you are saying, and I think He must be as perplexed as I am.”
“Charity, you are blaspheming!” The stiffening of his shoulders beneath the sturdy gabardine jacket was obvious.
A renewed surge of resentment flowed through Charity. Guilt lanced through her, as sharp as any knife. Would she never learn to curb her tongue? She concentrated on relinquishing to Benjamin the ax she had used to pry open the iron links.
“I am aware of what I am doing, Amos. I am ensuring that my sons receive their rightful inheritance. If this requires forbearance and fortitude, then I will praise the Lord for His generous gifts.”
“’Tis arrogance and you know it, Charity Frey. ’Tis better you pray for humility.” Amos slid his thumbs behind the lapels of his frock coat and rocked back on his heels. “As tithing man and your prospective husband, it is my duty to question the wisdom of your actions.”
Eyes narrowed to thin slits under the overhanging eyebrows, Amos looked very intently at Charity, as if waiting for a response. When she did not reply, he addressed himself to Rafe.
“I’ve been talking to Silas Deare, the magistrate at New Haven. He says those Iroquois savages who were so abandoned in natural loyalty and decency as to take up arms against their rightful king claim you as a blood brother. Do they?”
“If they say so, they must.” Rafe’s heart had begun to pump, and for a moment he felt slightly dizzy and light-headed. His breath came a shade too rapidly. He swallowed hard. She was not married! A covert smile was struggling on his lips. He tried to say something, but the words caught in his throat.
He wanted to tell her his whole story. Explain that he had become a bond servant through no fault of his own. That, on the contrary…No, there were some things you couldn’t explain because no one would believe them.
“Charity! This most abandoned of mankind, forgetting his allegiance to God, has, according to his own confession, supported these savages, putting his hand and seal to a bloody truce, full of the knowledge of what mischief this treachery will cause. And he impudently calls on the intervention of Sir Thomas Pakenham to spare him the rope!”
Charity was annoyed. What business did Amos Saybrook have, spreading such vile slander? She glared at him, but the tithing man went on, speaking harshly, rapidly, not giving her a chance to say anything at all.
“Chances are this thieving scoundrel will disappear with half your possessions.” Amos allowed himself the luxury of a sneer. “Or get drunk and give them away to the enemy.”
Charity’s hands were clasped together so tightly that her knuckles showed white. She felt the blood recede from her face. Her lips, her face, her whole body felt stiff—but with fear now, not anger. She opened her mouth, but it was several seconds before she spoke, and her voice was unsteady.
“Drink accounts for all manner of derangements.”
Something in her tone drew him to her wide and dismayed eyes. Rafe’s brain whirled giddily before the words made sense. He turned them over in his mind. As far as he was aware, strong liquor was not a failing of most Puritan men.
She made another peculiar sound and smoothed her skirt awkwardly. The boys began to busy themselves rearranging the pile of sacks already stacked neatly on the wagon tray. He wondered when—and how—she had gained her fear of a drunken man.
His hands started to move, but he restrained the gesture. He was nearer to collapse than he would have allowed, for there was a curious catch in his voice when he finally spoke. “You can relax, Mistress Frey. Though I have many vices, a fondness for alcohol is not one of them.”
Amos Saybrook’s watery blue eyes moved to Rafe. He cleared his throat impressively. “Do you know what you have done, Mistress Frey? You have endangered the lives of these precious infants. Suppose the Pequots decide to support the Iroquois and capture them? What then?”
Three pairs of anxious, blue green eyes swung toward Rafe. A stab of anger shot through him. Trust the Puritan ignoramus to raise the fears of a lone woman and her children. He squared his shoulders. He knew that if he allowed the anger to overcome him, he would explode. He had to remain in command of himself.
“There’ll be no trouble.” He was relieved that his voice sounded quietly confident. “A little common sense would tell you I’m not likely to have any friends among the Pequot.”
Charity’s fingers closed convulsively over those of the nearest twin, and for a horrified moment Rafe thought she was going to burst into tears. Then she rallied.
“Amos, it is you who preach that sin is permitted by God, for it tests men and proves them in God’s eyes. It is only through prayer and penitence that men attain salvation.” She raised her eyes in unconscious appeal. “Surely you would allow this sinner the same chance?”
A explosive sound burst from Amos Saybrook’s thick lips. “Once a killer, always a killer—that’s a fact.”