Devil's Mistress (37 page)

“I really do believe I hate you!” she cried as she strained against his hold.

“Do you? You have a strange way of showing it, my love.”

“Sloan! Let me be!”

“Oh, aye, I’ll let you be. And why, I do not know, for we both know that what I crave I might have taken.”

“No … yes! Yes, you’re right! And that’s why I hate you, don’t you understand! Please …”

He didn’t shift, but stared into the night. “I wonder if he wouldn’t even give us his blessing.”

“What did you say?” Brianna stared at him, puzzled, glad of his weight against her, glad of his hold—desperately aware that she had to break it. “Robert!” she exclaimed, realizing where his brooding thoughts were taking him.

He stared down at her again, ruefully. “It’s true, isn’t it? He trusts us both. Oh, God, but that’s the pity of it! How to bring hurt to such a man! Were he but strong and healthy, a fool or a swaggering bastard! Were he anything other than what he is, I’d care not that he was your husband. I’d take you away, I’d fight, I’d duel—I’d kill or die, but I’d have choice and reason and action to take! Why, in God’s mercy, have I come to like that man? My promises are not to you—they are to him!”

“I cannot see you again. I can’t. I still must beg for your help, for I am still terrified. When Robert gains just a little strength, he must be moved. I cannot repay you …” She pulled herself up.

He interrupted her bitterly. “You paid in advance, remember.”

She went silent for a moment, then squared her shoulders and stiffened her spine. “Well, if I have paid, then there is nothing to collect.”

He gripped her arm and practically dragged her along. “I’m taking you back.”

“I can go alone.”

“No!”

Soon they were almost at their rooms and Brianna tugged against his arm. “Sloan, you don’t need—”

He spun on her, furious—with her and with himself. And suddenly he was out of control again.

“Oh, yes, I
need.
What do you think you have here—steel or stone? I am neither! You will go home to your husband, and I cannot find fault or blame with that. But I love you—and I will never leave you. When you call on me, I will be there. But this … this I can bear no longer. You will stay on your pedestal, Brianna, always. A goddess whom fate has made me worship from afar. But I am flesh and blood, lady, and flesh and blood desires what you cannot give! Women are not hard to come by for lords and gentry, Brianna. I can no longer send you back to another man and toss my way through the night.”

Brianna stepped back from him and a cry of realization and dismay escaped her. It was so evident, so very obvious, that she could not ask him to live a life of celibacy. And yet … she had wanted to believe that he was. It was right that he should seek out another; it was right, but it hurt with a wrenching agony. Before she knew it, she was speaking. “You go to another? But you know that—”

He crossed his arms over his chest, his lips twitching with irony and sadness as he interrupted her. “I know that your husband is ill; that you go home to care for him and nothing more. I—” He broke off, emotion flashing quickly through his eyes, as if he had come across some hidden knowledge. His voice was a little harsh, a little incredulous, as he spoke again. “That’s the way it’s always been, hasn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” She breathed uneasily, stepping away from him. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He came to her. “You—and Robert. It’s never been a real marriage. You’ve never lived as man and wife.”

Furiously she ripped away from him. “We are man and wife!” she cried. “You know nothing—and I want you to stay away from me!” Dismay filled her voice. “He married me—I am his wife! Go where you will!”

She stared at him tumultuously for a moment, let out a little cry, then shoved at his chest and raced past him.

Returning—to Robert.

Sloan stared after her for a long while. At length he turned and walked down the street. He headed for the wharf and spent the night staring out to sea.

The special court of oyer and terminer met for the third time on August fifth. Sloan did not go to the trials, but Rikky kept him informed. Paddy had brought the
Sea Hawk
up to Salem, and Sloan was busy conferring with him and trying to find a doctor to take aboard to care for Robert Powell. There was nothing he could do at the trial; nor, for that matter, had there been anything Rikky could do. Lord Turnberry was well acquainted with Chief Justice William Stoughton—a man as hard as nails, as strictly puritanical as was possible to be and determined to cast his rising political star into the hands of the majority clamoring to see that the devil’s disciples met the hangman.

Rikky returned from the affair very subdued.

“John Proctor was condemned today. His wife is spared because she pleads her belly.” He grimaced bitterly. “An unborn child cannot be condemned—even if he is the child of a ‘proven’ wizard and a ‘proven’ witch.” He continued. “I saw Proctor after the trial. He is still fighting mad and he asked to see me because he thought, as I was a lord, that I might have control somewhere. He told me that two of the boys who ‘confessed’ and gave evidence against him had been tortured into their confessions—tied head to heels in horrible contortions.” He paused. “I had time to voice an objection with Stoughton, but it seems the man is deaf. The town has gone insane, with crazy things being said—witches’ sabbaths, rides through the night on poles, devil’s rites! What has come over these people? They join their accusers in pure lunacy!”

Sloan was silent for a moment, his thoughts on Robert Powell with an understanding he wished he did not have. Powell refused to add to the very lunacy of which Rikky spoke. And because of it—if he were ever brought to trial—he would hang.

Sloan restlessly paced the room while Rikky looked on. “I’m ready to sail,” he told Rikky. He hesitated briefly. He had not gone near either of the Powells since the night Brianna had run from him.

“When is the execution to be?”

“August nineteenth.”

“Go to Robert Powell for me, Rikky. Don’t even talk to Brianna—see him. Tell him that the noose grows tighter, that we must leave before matters get worse. Perhaps the night of the hanging will be best. There will be many sickened by the sight, determined to keep quiet, even if we should be caught upon the streets.”

“If I’ve been receiving my gossip right, even our governor—who cares not to take a firm stand—is willing to assist ‘departures,’ shall we say? In certain cases.”

“Those of his friends, Rikky. Powell is not among the elite of this society. He’s a poor farmer, nothing more. This will be done on our own. Two men guard the rooms and Brianna has been free to come and go. She will leave; then I’ll take on the guards and smuggle Powell out to the waiting ship.”

“I’ll pick up Brianna,” Rikky offered.

“No, you will not. Because you intend to stay here. I will not be able to come anywhere near Massachusetts once this is accomplished—at least, not until this madness dies out.”

“Oh, come! I’m a lord of the realm!” Rikky declared.

“Still, I’d not have you involved.”

Rikky waved a hand in the air. “None would dare accuse me.”

Sloan was about to protest, then decided the matter could be settled later. “We will see.”

“I think, though, Treveryan, that you should see Powell yourself,” Rikky said slowly. “He has great faith in you.”

Sloan scowled darkly. “I’ve no wish to meet with his wife again, except when I must.”

“I’ll get her out tomorrow morning. Then you can speak with Powell without any confrontations.”

Sloan agreed to the plan. Rikky picked up Brianna in his splendid coach to take her shopping along the wharf. He convinced her that she needed an outing. Sloan waited until he saw the coach disappear, then received permission from the guards to see Robert.

Robert was sleeping when Sloan entered the room, and for a chill moment Sloan started. His cheeks were so gaunt and narrowed that for several seconds Sloan believed he was staring at a corpse. But then Powell opened his eyes, and there was still fierce life in their dark depths.

“Treveryan,” Robert muttered. A small smile touched his dry lips. “Is this why my wife has departed?”

“Aye,” Sloan said bluntly.

Robert’s smile deepened sardonically. “When I am gone, Treveryan, see that she finds happiness. She suffers with me and pines for you. When I am gone, I will thank God that she has you.”

“What are you talking about?” Sloan demanded harshly. “I’ve come here to talk about saving your life. By God, man! You were not meant to be a martyr!”

Robert closed his eyes for a moment, still smiling, a little bitterly. “Whether they hang me, or the Lord takes me on his own, we both know that I am dying.”

Sloan emitted a sound of impatience, and Robert opened his eyes to survey him. “Treveryan, my wife prefers to be blind. I grant her that illusion. I am dying. I saw your face before you knew I was awake; you looked like a man staring upon the ragged refuse of a soul departed. We both know that I am dying. My great fear is that I will not do so soon enough to see Brianna swept from this turmoil.”

“I promised you,” Sloan said hoarsely, “nothing will happen to her. And I’ve come to tell you that the time has come. We will make good our escape.”

Robert sighed, staring up at the ceiling. “When?”

“August nineteenth.”

“The day of the hangings.”

“Aye.”

Robert seemed to digest that information. “She won’t do it—she’ll be convinced that a move would kill me. Don’t tell her anything. When the time comes, just see that she obeys.” He tried to pull himself up to a sitting position. “You’ll do that for me, Treveryan? For by heaven, I’ve no strength to fight her.”

“Aye,” Sloan said softly, “I’ll do it.”

Powell surveyed him with his curious dark eyes.

“She’ll hate you for it.”

Sloan did not reply to that. “Stop concentrating on death, Powell. The sea air can do many a wonder for a man.”

“As you say, Treveryan,” Robert replied, smiling ruefully. “I’ll not break faith with you, if you will not with me.”

“I will not, Powell.”

“One more thing, Treveryan.”

“And that is?”

Powell winced, drawing a deep ragged breath. “When I am gone, take your son. Give him what is his. I gave him all that I could, and that was much love. But when I am gone you must take him, with or without his mother’s consent.”

A trembling had started inside Sloan’s gut, and again he wondered fiercely why Robert Powell couldn’t have been a cruel bastard, a man to fight or despise.

“You promised not to harp on death!” Sloan said harshly.

“I am not harping, but I am saying now what I will not be able to later. Now, I am done with it. I give you my most solemn vow that I will do my utmost to live.”

Sloan left him then—pleased that at last they were coming near to action. The
Sea Hawk
lay in the harbor, waiting and ready. Sloan had no doubt that he would overpower the guards with no difficulty, leaving them trussed up, and departing with Powell. A nightmare was coming to an end.

All that was left was the wait for the day to arrive. As he always had, Sloan came to the sea to wait; he spent his twilights on the wharf, staring out at his ship, thinking on a dismal future. Because Powell was not lying; he was a dying man. Sloan knew the face of death—he had seen it in Alwyn.

And what then? Brianna would be heavily laden with guilt—he knew her so well. She would blame herself, and she would blame him. He stood with his feet planted far apart, his hands on his hips, and his fingers tightened convulsively as he muttered angrily to the breeze, “Damn her! This time, I do damn her.” Well, she could rot in whatever hell she chose to make for herself. He was done with it.

But then, there was Michael. His son. Robert Powell had given Sloan his blessing to take the child and to give him his natural inheritance. And, by God, he would! Perhaps Brianna could deny and repel him, but the child was his, and he would take him, with or without his mother’s consent, just as Robert Powell had charged him.

Sloan counted off the days, and on the eighteenth he awoke with a feeling of lightheartedness. He felt like a man in his thirties again, in his prime—rather than like a man worn beyond his years. One more day. Tomorrow night, he would be at sea again, facing the wind, feeling the wheel beneath his hands. And, by God, he would cure himself of this! He would live again. He would leave Powell and Brianna in New York—with the child, as long as Robert lived. He would not have to be a part of Robert’s death, and when the time came, he would come for his son.

In the meantime, dammit, he would live! Without war, without continual pain—without insanity such as this!

Perhaps he would go to London—make a new peace with William and Mary, which would be necessary if he were accused of abetting the escape of a witch. Court life would be colorful and filled with women in whom to bury himself, and forget her.

Storm clouds were brewing to the east, but the morning, remained bright. He wondered idly where his host had gotten to, since Lord Turnberry was not by nature an early riser. He was staring toward the water, sipping at scalding tea, when he started, hearing the sharp slam of the door at the rear of the house. Rikky came striding toward him; his handsome features were drawn and he was alive with tension.