Devil's Mistress (26 page)

But he made one last protest, his voice so harsh that it was a crude rasp.

“Have you forgotten? Brianna MacCardle is an outlaw here—until William of Orange marches into England. Only then will I be able to clear our names.”

“My Lord Treveryan,” Robert Powell said distinctly. “I am aware of that. I intend to take her far from England. The
Lady of Bristol
sails in three days for New England. We will be on her.”

Sloan nodded. His heart seemed to be ripped from his chest, and sink bleeding to his feet. He stared at her then, determined to memorize her for a lifetime. The beautiful blue of her eyes, radiant now, dazzled with liquid tears. He must remember her face, her form, her fiery pride and rages, the melody of her laughter, and the parted curve of her lips when she anticipated his kiss.

Sloan took a step forward, dredging up everything he knew of gallantry.

He knelt at her feet, took her hand, and lowered his head over it. Slim and delicate—he would never forget the touch of her fingers.

“Peace and happiness, to you, then, my lady. Godspeed to you both.”

He kissed her hand and rose, bowing sharply to Robert and Ethan Powell.

Then he quit the small cottage, allowing the door to slam shut behind him. Holding back a man’s tears, he jumped upon his horse and sent his heels flying against the beast’s flanks. He rode until he came to a cove in the forest, where he dismounted, finally realizing that the animal did not deserve to be the brunt of his turmoil.

Sloan sank to the grass. For once in his life he had wanted some one thing … someone … more than anything else in the world. And he could not have her, simply because he did love her so much. He ached as though mortally wounded. He did not know what to do, where to turn, and so he thundered his fists against a tree, and when his hands were bloody, he fell to the forest floor.

Morning passed; the sun rose high above him. And suddenly he screamed out—screamed out in rage, in loss, in frustration—and in love.

Finally his voice went hoarse. He stood and patted the neck of the horse he had run so ragged. He found a stream and let the animal drink, next he splashed his face again and again with the cold water and cooled his battered hands.

Then he mounted the horse again and started back toward port. He wanted to reach the sea; she was his mistress, she would heal him, she would give back his reason and passion for life.

And he would reach Holland. He would be there for William and Mary; he would fight with fury and vengeance, cast himself into the tumult of battle and fray. He would then go back to Loghaire. Perhaps he could not love his wife, but he would try to be her friend. God, how he pitied her now, for she could never know just what beauty God could give—and take away.

His eyes carefully following the movements of his fingers, Robert Powell knelt beside the chair he had almost completed. His file moved quickly and fluidly in his hands; he touched the hard wood with an almost loving reverence.

Long ago—when he had been a very small child—he had learned that he did not have the strength or energy of other men. While his father labored with heavy hauling and planting, and his brother split logs, and his sister helped with the birthing of the farm animals, he had been sent to help in the kitchen. Even there he had been given the lighter tasks, peeling apples, plucking feathers, washing the family plates.

He had been teased mercilessly by the boys his own age, and because they declared him less than a man, he had determined to prove them wrong. He had struck off for the farmyard with a vengeance, hacking at a full cord of wood with his father’s weighted axe. Barely had he begun the task before it seemed that the blow of an anvil struck against his chest. He heaved with bitter desperation for breath, but could get no air. Ultimately he fainted.

He was very, very sick when he opened his eyes again. His mattress had been dragged before the fire, over which his mother had a kettle boiling, the steam redolent of herbs and precious mint. He could just barely breathe, and knew from the tears in his mother’s eyes that he had come very close to dying.

Getting well had taken a long time; hours and hours in which to brood, in which to wonder why God had cast such a fate—actually to berate God in his mind, even though he knew and feared the blasphemy of such a thing.

He had also had time to stare out at the beautiful summer mornings, to see the birds flit about the trees, and to watch the way the rising sun played with and glittered over the dew in the fields. He realized that he loved life and that he was grateful to be living. That there was so much to see, so much to be experienced, even if a man were to have his limitations.

Somewhere during that time he came to terms with his God. Having come to peace with himself, he knew he would never again need to prove anything to others. As the years passed, he became an avid scholar and writer.

And he learned to carve. Furniture and toys, utensils, and frames, beautiful things, sturdy things. Wood became creation in his hands, and his usefulness to others was further established.

But now as he labored over his task with infinite patience, he did so with a heavy heart. Brianna was still in the room where she had run with a little cry when the noble seaman had left them.

She would be left alone today, he knew. His parents were giving her this time, for her life had been hard of late. They were not without pity, but pity was not an emotion fostered among his faith. Treveryan was imperiling her immortal soul, so he had to be severed from her life, and it was quite that simple. Hard work would cure her of her ills; perhaps her heart was shattered, but it was a young heart, and mendable. And they did not live in a world that could be ruled by the heart, anyway. In time she would meet the proper man, she would stand beside him before God, bear his children, and raise them in the Lord’s way. Happiness was not a promise, it was a blessing that sometimes came like spring rain—and oft departed as quickly.

Tomorrow Brianna would be set to work. Hard toil and labor that would send her to bed exhausted and too bone-weary to bear any anguish in the night for what could not be.

Robert felt her pain and longed to soothe it. He did not believe that she would forget her sea captain—ever. And he knew that now she would be thinking that she did not care about right or wrong, or even her immortal soul. She would be thinking herself the greatest of all fools for having cast away everything in life that mattered to her.

He smiled to himself suddenly, thinking that she was like a summer’s breeze to his life. She had been a beautiful child and she was lovelier as a woman. Just to see her was one of those special gifts that made life worth living. He wished to hold her in his arms and give her what tenderness he could; and he thought then that he loved her himself, and was heartfully sorry for Treveryan—a man who deserved her love, but by God’s will could not have it.

“Robert?”

He started at the soft hesitancy of her tone, but also seemed warmed by its very utterance. He turned to see her, slim and lithe, a silhouette in the doorway, framed by the luxurious colors of the waning sun. She stepped into the barn, and her features became clear.

There was no sign of tears about her face, but she was pale and drawn. Her eyes told of a woman decades older than her age. She was very calm and very still—just so very weary- and empty-looking.

He tried to smile for her. “Come in. Do you like my chair?”

“It is beautiful, Robert,” she said, and she came forward to touch the wood, smoothing it.

She looked at him and there were still no tears in her eyes. Something had settled over her that afternoon, as surely as a cloud of gray—of mystery and steel.

“I wanted to thank you, Robert. Without you I would not have managed to be here still.”

“I did nothing,” he said, simply, and rose.

“But you did,” she murmured. “You stood between us … you told him that we were betrothed.” She stared at him incredulously. “I know that you never lie, Robert!”

“Ah, but was it a lie? For, this afternoon we shall say that we are betrothed!” He walked by her, glancing back over his shoulder. “Brianna, we have little time to prepare and get back to port to sail. That we must get you from England quickly is one of the greatest truths I have ever spoken.”

He felt her tremble even at his distance and he knew that she was not all right. “Imagine, Brianna!” he told her then. “A new land, a different land, far, far across the sea. Something emerging, growing—and we shall be a part of it!”

Two days later they set sail. He stood by her at the ship’s rail, and they stared at England. “Glasgow, and now Upsinwich,” she murmured. “I feel that I am always sailing away.”

“New beginnings,” Robert murmured, squeezing her fingers. “Don’t look back.”

She turned away from the rail. “No,” she promised softly. “I will never look back.”

But every sane person aboard did think to look back as the days at sea passed while terrible storms whipped and raged about them. Traveling was total misery. Brianna had no cabin in which to sleep. She was down in the hold with fifty other women, with only canvas sheeting separating them from the men. There were rats and lice, and always a stench of sickness. Brianna had learned something about sailing, so for the first week, no matter how the ship pitched and swayed and threatened to break apart, she was all right.

But on their ninth day at sea, when the sun suddenly rose brilliantly to crest atop a teal-blue sky, Robert found Brianna alone at the stem of the ship, ghastly pale and gray and wretchedly sick. She tried to wave him away, but he wet a cloth in the barrel of drinking water and returned to clean her face. Her eyes were full of confusion and tumult as a spasm struck her again. She had thought herself a fine sailor.

Robert didn’t say anything to her then; he brooded over her illness for the next few days as it continued.

When they had been out for two weeks, Brianna knew it was time to speak to him.

“Robert,” she said quietly, leaning weakly against him as the shuddering spasms of nausea subsided, “I am expecting a child.”

“I wish to marry you—in truth,” he told her.

She stared at him, stunned. And he thought that she would cry, there was such a crystal glistening of moisture in her eyes.

“No!”

“You do not understand. Everyone on this ship knows that you have no husband.”

“I have endured too much to care what people think or say about me.”

“But what about your child?” he asked her, and her eyes dropped, and she shuddered.

“I can’t marry you.” Then she smiled ruefully. “I love you too dearly as a cousin to marry you. I could never love you as a husband.” The spark left her eyes and she whispered, “And I carry another man’s child.”

He put his arms around her and held her close. “I do not care.”

“I could not hurt you so!”

“Nay, feel no guilt! If we married, I’d not be used, but rather you would be! We must not fool each other. I never try to fool myself. I am not the man Treveryan is.”

“We are sailing to a new land and I have set my heart on starting over! I will not think of him.”

“You must, just for these moments. He is a good man; he loved you. And you should love his child, with no threat or worry. I am not strong and healthy, and, compared with him, I am a poor excuse for a protector. I can give you almost nothing, but I will love you, and your child, with all that is within me. Can’t you care for me, just a little?” He stepped back. “Brianna! I am sorry. Of course, you are young—you will love again, you will find another—”

He broke off because she was laughing and shaking her head. “I do not want to love again. Never. Robert, I seek no lusty youth. I don’t believe I want to live with a man.”

“Even one who asks nothing from you?” Robert interjected softly, and she stared at him again, very confused. He cleared his throat. “Brianna, I—I ask that we live as friends. I—I … Lord! Don’t you understand yet? My heart is weak and my lungs are worse. The sea has helped, but I’m often bedridden. Perhaps in time I will grow stronger. Perhaps in time you will love me enough to want me. But for now … You are with child. Can’t we, the three of us, create a life together?”

She did cry then. She leaned her head against his chest and cried.

They were married that evening, just as the sun fell from the sky. It was a calm night, without a breeze. The sea was entirely peaceful, as if content.

And the old world was fading behind them.

November 1691

The waves that roared and crashed along the coast were not a pleasant blue. Here, against the rugged coastline, they were gray, ever roiling with great ferocity, as if they promised death from the sea.

It was a lonely place—forlorn, many would say. Grass did not grow like velvet over the rocky mountains and plains—growth here was tenacious. The mauve shrubs and occasional weeds that grew high were stubborn and tough, as were all the coastal inhabitants of this stretch of Wales, Sloan mused as he stood on the high and ragged cliff and stared out broodingly over the ever-changing sea. Then he closed his eyes and shuddered.

He had long ago learned not to think of her. He had schooled himself to follow his quest, to pitch his thoughts and strength and mind into battle. But today, today he could not help but think of her with longing. Perhaps it was being home, perhaps it was staring out at the tempest of the sea. Whatever the reason, she was in his thoughts today, filling his heart with nostalgia and pain.