Bring It Close (17 page)

Thirty Four

Dropping both valise and lantern, Tiola squeaked in alarm and fear. The lantern rolled a few feet, the flame spearing weird shadows, then went out. Her natural instinct built a spell of protection, but as immediately she discarded the reflex action. She could not give her abilities away; had to react as would any ordinary woman.

She kicked and squirmed as best she could, her fingers clawing uselessly at the arm holding her tight about the waist and at the hand over her mouth.

“Now, now, missee, thee behave an’ thee’ll not be ‘urt.”

Tiola had control of every nerve and fibre of her being; she made her glands secrete sweat, raised her heartbeat and breathing level. Drenched her body with the reaction of fear. In her mind she was seething with fury. How dare this wretch assault her! How dare he! By the Word of Wrath, Jesamiah would have something to say about this if she told him! Except she would not tell. This, she would keep to herself.

Keeping his hand firmly over her mouth, Teach swivelled so that he was facing her, his body pressing into hers, the bulge of his erection hard against her. “I be goin’ to remove m’hand from thy mouth, missee. But I be warnin’ thee, one soun’ an’ thee’ll regret it. Doos thee be understandin’ me?”

Beyond widening her eyes and increasing the tremble of stark fear Tiola made no response.

Bruising and hurting, he pressed with his fingers, digging them into her cheek and jaw, shook her face beneath his grasp. “I said, be thee understandin’?”

She nodded.

He released her, his hand going instead to the chain at her neck. “An acorn. Doos thee know someone called Acorne?”

She shook her head.

“Know what, missee? I doesn’t believe thee. I b’lieve thee know Acorne very well. Intimately well.”

Instinct was screaming at her to keep that she was Jesamiah’s woman, secret.

Teach guffawed. “Ah, ‘tis no matter. If ‘e still be alive when thee doos next see him, thee can tell ‘im how much better I be at satisfying a wumman, eh?” He dipped his head and covered her mouth with his own.

Tiola gasped. The man had syphilis! Through her healing Craft she could taste it, smell it. That explained the sores, the foul odour, the insanity. Even without the sexual disease he tasted vile. That poor girl, Mary Ormond. He was rife with it, his wife would be infected the moment he entered her on their wedding night. Tiola whimpered as he probed with his tongue and felt his hand groping for her gown, edging it upwards. Mary Ormond, for now, must needs take care of herself, Tiola had her own problem. Edward Teach had every intention of raping her.

Had she been the quiet, shy person he thought her to be he would have succeeded. With her gift of Craft she had the ability to end his life here and now, but that was not an option. Even in situations of personal danger she had to take care to not reveal who and what she was – an Old One, a Witch Woman. With her use of Voice she could send an assailant stumbling off, his mind blank of what he had been intent on doing; or raise a shield of defence, an impenetrable barrier that would enclose and protect her. Where appropriate, she could transform herself to appear old and haggard, or even to blend with her environment, become one with her surroundings, invisible to the human eye – or any number of other things. But she dared not risk showing her Craft, for the Dark was vindictive and cruel. Not until the child was born safely would she risk drawing attention to herself. Not if there were alternatives.

She did what any backstreet whore would do. She let her body relax, seemingly resigning herself to his violation. He responded by pushing her against the solidity of a tree, holding her there by the force of his pressing body. Meeting no resistance his left hand went beneath her petticoats, eagerly groping upwards, his right unfastened his breeches. His breathing was fast, sweat gleaming on his forehead, his excitement building to its peak.

Tiola moved fast. She bit his lip and with her hand, grasped his ear and twisted it, hard. Simultaneously, she raised her knee and connected solidly with his testicles.

He bellowed pain and rage in a roar of surprised agony and crumpled to the grass, his hands clutching at himself. Tiola hitched her gown to above her knees and fled.

Hearing the outer stable door slam, Nicholas looked up from where he was squatting stroking the mare’s sweat-soaked neck. She had been laying down these last five minutes, her eyes closed, groaning. He saw Tiola’s dishevelled state, the anxiety on her face. He hurried to her, took her arm. “My dear, what has occurred? Are you ill? Are you harmed?”

Slowing her breath, Tiola shook her head and reassured him she was unhurt. “There was a man lurking in the trees; he frightened me.”

“He attacked you?”

She decided to lie. To tell the truth would make a fuss, and she did not want that. She shook her head again. “No, I was alarmed, being ridiculous; my thoughts were on your mare and he startled me, that is all. He was only relieving himself, poor man.” She forced a laugh. “I dropped my bag though, perhaps one of your grooms could retrieve it?”

One of the men sauntered out into the night, quickened his pace when Nicholas barked at him to shift himself.

“Where is this mare?” Tiola asked, heading for the open stable door, putting Teach’s unpleasantness behind her. She went immediately to her knees, took the sweat-drenched bay’s head into her lap and stroked the mare’s face and cheeks; her wet, trembling neck.

It was colic. And Tiola had been called too late.

Thirty Five

Virginia

Trent watched Robert Maynard approach one of the young ladies and offer to dance. He was a brave soul; the girl in question was horse-faced, plump and as poor as a church mouse. No one else had paid her any heed all evening, unlike Alicia who, in Samuel’s opinion, had enjoyed the benefit of too much attention.

Couples were beginning to drift towards the dining room where supper would soon be served. Where was Alicia? He could not see her – had she already gone to the tables? Surely not, she would have waited for her escort, Acorne, and he was engaged in conversation with the Governor. Trent smiled wryly to himself. Spotswood was full of good intentions but so easily alienated people with his outrageous ideas and sheer bloody-mindedness. He was also a pirate hater. Samuel wondered how Spotswood would react when he found out about Acorne’s background, although it would not surprise him if the man already knew. Spotswood had a reputation for knowing everyone’s personal business. It was said he was aware of every passed belch and fart, and who was illicitly sharing which lady’s bed.

For his own part, for all his respect and liking for him, Samuel was unsure whether he condoned what Acorne had been or not. Pirates were murderers and thieves, thugs and bullies – yet that description fitted his brothers as aptly. If there was a choice between Jesamiah Acorne as a pirate and his brothers, aye, he knew all too clearly where his sympathy would be placed.

When their father died he, Samuel, would become a homeless pauper. His brothers had already made that as clear as day. His talent, his enjoyment, was for farming tobacco. He had started learning by trotting at heel to his father’s various managers and overseers – initially because it had been a place to be safe from his brothers’ bullying, but very soon he had taken an interest, started asking questions and rapidly digested the answers.

As estate manager to la Sorenta he could make a handsome living. He would more or less be his own boss, free to follow his own life. And the slight misgivings over those years of piracy notwithstanding, he would enjoy working for Captain Acorne. Enjoy it very much.

He looked across at the Captain deep in conversation with Spotswood. The Governor wanted able men to assist him in a variety of projects – more settlers to push further inland and to clear the forests, reclaim the fertile land for growing wheat. Men to explore westward; to finance the completion of his palace down in Williamsburg. Men to aid him in his war against piracy. Samuel wondered if he ought to have warned Jesamiah – Captain Acorne. Damn, he should force himself into the habit of retaining respect, but it was so difficult when, from a boy of tender years, he had always called him Jesamiah.

The fact that the Captain had not at first remembered him had stung a little, but then, on reflection Samuel took it as a blessing. Events that had happened here along the Rappahannock, for both of them, were perhaps best forgotten.

A late-comer hurried into the room, red-faced, wig askew, much to the annoyance of the busybodies who immediately began tutting about the bad manners of appearing as supper was about to be served. He stood in the doorway searching for someone in particular, then hurried towards the woman Jesamiah had insulted, his short, quick steps taking him across the dance floor as participants were lining up for the next caper. From the gestures and angry expressions Samuel guessed the ensuing conversation was a continuation of the indignity she had suffered. He shook his head, suppressed a smile. Captain Acorne should never have upset the lady; she was known in these parts as a righteous harridan and her brother as an intolerant oaf. What was it the Captain had said? The smile broadened. If the whispers were to be believed it had been most scandalously rude. Samuel wished he could find the guts to say something as delightfully spectacular!

Still smiling, he strolled through the open French doors and sauntered onto the terrace. He had enjoyed himself this evening – apart from that silly stumble he had made – and he had no wish to witness the shouting match which was probably about to be unleashed. Let others be so entertained. Although, he paused, considering. Would Captain Acorne be grateful for assistance? Huh, of what use would he, Samuel Trent, be? He was as useless with quick-witted rhetoric as he was with fist, sword and pistol.

Leaning on the balustrade he admired the extensive gardens illuminated by the flickering lights of dozens of lanterns and pitch torches. The coolness of the night air was refreshing after the heat and hubbub. The last of the wild roses, for which the house was named, sparkled jewel-like from the autumn dew. Some of the maple leaves had already fluttered to the lawn, the slaves would be out at first light to rake them away.

Alicia was sitting on a bench under one of the trees on the far side of the expanse of grass, a fur wrap pulled close about her shoulders, her head leaning back against the trunk, her eyes closed. Her gown was as red as the autumn leaves and for a moment, in the wavering, smoking, shadows he saw her breast as blood-soaked. He gasped. An omen? He wanted to rush over, persuade her to come inside, but she would only rebuff his concerns. She thought him a naïve fool, only tolerated his company because he amused her.

She was using him for her own purpose, of that he was aware, although what that purpose was he had no idea. He was like a little dog sitting at her feet gazing lovingly into her eyes, his curled puppy tail forever wagging, awaiting her indulgences. Throw a stick, tell him to fetch and he would run. To roll over and die? Was he indeed the fool she thought him? But he did so, so, want to be respected, to have a position of authority and honour. Would do anything to get it. Even be the dew-eyed lap dog if that was what it took.

He almost ran down the steps and across the lawn, but he controlled himself, walked quickly instead. Approaching her he felt as if he had two left feet, like a boy at his first ball, not a grown man with sense and refinement. God, but she was a beautiful woman! Petite and fragile; delicate, as if she were fashioned from that new and exquisite Meissen porcelain his father had purchased a month ago. And Alicia was as expensive. But was she to be used as an everyday object, or set away in a glass cabinet to be lifted out and admired on special occasions only?

“All on your own Alicia?”
What a pathetic thing to say
, he thought, embarrassed, as he slowed his pace. “I thought you were enjoying yourself within doors,” he stated as he came to a halt. “It looked as if you were.”

Alicia had watched him come out on to the terrace and cross the lawn. She had chosen this spot deliberately for it was secluded and private, while the house and ballroom remained clearly observed. No one would think twice about her sitting out here taking the air, and she suddenly resented not having a few more moments to enjoy the solitude. It was not that she did not like Samuel – on the contrary, he was a sweet boy who had been helpful and most kind to her – but he had no money and could not help her out of her predicament.

“Do you mind if I join you?” he said, offering a low bow.

“Why? Have I fallen apart?” It was an old, worn jest but she was feeling old and worn. It was not Samuel she wanted here with her, but Jesamiah. Ah, this was so utterly stupid! She
had
fallen apart, her sense, her pride – her heart – all of her had been dashed into a thousand pieces that first evening when she had seen Jesamiah in Nassau. No, before then. She had always loved him, had fallen for him all over again when he had turned up unexpectedly at Phillipe’s party – the christening party for their son. How her heart had leapt when she had seen him across that room. Even though he was disguised she had known him instantly, had recognised his eyes and his smile. And his hands. Jesamiah; the only man to have ever treated her kindly. The only man she had ever truly loved. But he had another woman, would never want her instead. And for that she hated him and had no qualm about setting in motion what was soon to be happening inside the house. Or so she told herself.

Nassau, she now realised, had been a grave mistake. The moment those hired footpads of hers had set upon him in the alley she had regretted the plan she had hatched. Her concern, after conveniently arriving with the militia as his rescuer a few moments later, had been sincere. Her feelings had melted and all the love she had always felt had engulfed her totally. Going to bed with him had been a genuine desire, not just part of the intention to entrap him into giving her money.

Samuel knew none of it of course. Would never know. It was none of his business. She did not flinch away when he took her hand, nor when he delicately kissed it. It was all he would do. All he ever did. Kiss her hand. She was aware that the boy – she could not think of him as anything other than a boy – would ever dare kiss her mouth or touch her intimately, doubted he even knew how babies were made or where they came from.

With her permission, granted with the minimum of a nod, he sat beside her.

“Captain Acorne is in for a rough ride. Lofts has arrived. He will not be best pleased at the insult paid to his sister and nieces.”

When she did not respond he sat back, studying her. “Alicia? Be there something amiss? You look most pale.”

Her answer was too slow and spoken with too much of a catch of regret in her breath. “No, no there is nothing amiss.” She sat for a moment watching the sway of dancers through the windows, saw them part in a flurry of disruption.

I could stop this
, she thought.
I could get to my feet, go back to the ball and tell Captain Lofts I had made it all up. But if I do that I will be exposed for what I am, and this boy beside me will then despise me and I will have no one to call friend. Whereas, if I sit here and retain my countenance none shall be the wiser. And when it is all played out, Jesamiah will be forced into granting me la Sorenta or an adequate living and I shall be free to do as I will
.

But what if it all ran foul and went wrong? She shivered. “I did not tell the truth, Samuel. I am sorry, forgive me, I do indeed feel unwell. I think I have overtired myself. Please, would you be so kind as to escort me home?”