The Wedding Bargain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re inside your head.

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

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

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

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

There was none.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s only nine!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, Benjie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course not, Isaac.”

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

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

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

“Of course not!”

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

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

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

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

“Charity! Charity!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No! That is out of the question!”

“Not even for your children’s sake?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charity stubbornly lowered her eyes.

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

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

Chapter Three

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Let him be hanged as a traitor!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are awake?”

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

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

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

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

There was a long silence.

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

Rafe shook his head. “No. Not much.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mama burnt them.”

“Bloody hell! What a foolish woman!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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