Her Wicked Sin (4 page)

“Whatever do you mean?” Lydia asked, her surprise genuine.

“Your defense to my face surprises me. Just this day I have seen your transactions with Thomas, and in front of his wife! What you must do behind other doors, Lydia, I dare not think.”

“Rebecca! This is nonsense!”

Rebecca offered a guileless smile. “Take care, Goodwife. Those different among us will pay for their wicked ways, for it is they who dance with the devil, and it is all in our best interest to cull the peculiar.”

“And you imply that I am one of the
peculiar
?”

“Indeed, my dear Lydia. Men, children, babes… it matters not. Your influence is most curious.” Rebecca took a step in the direction of her husband, but just as Lydia sought a breath the woman turned and faced her once more.

“Some,” she added with hushed regard, “might even call it
bewitching
.”

Chapter Four

Lydia eased from the frigid, dawn-tinged night into her home, sagging with relief when the door closed on Rebecca Mather.

“All is well?” Henry asked, startling her.

Some of her misgivings parted in unexpected relief. The intimacy of his sleepy greeting should not have felt so proper, but with his gentle voice and warmth of expression, he offered a natural tonic to Rebecca Mather’s hex over Lydia’s patience. Why he had not drifted into sleep she did not know, but she found herself exceedingly grateful for his company.

“Well enough,” she said, her admission weary to her own ears.

“Will you sleep,” he asked, “or do the duties of the morn keep you from rest?”

Lydia placed her medicine bag on a table and shed her coats, grateful for the opportunity to focus on something other than the implication of Henry’s words. “I may rest, though I have but one bed.”

With a childlike grin easing his weary bone-tired countenance, he said, “And we have been caught sharing it once already tonight. Have you another argument?”

Was that a hint of humor in his tone? She busied herself with the waning fire before turning her attention to her guest. “What is it that you suggest?”

His eyes twinkled without mercy. “That you join me, wife.”

She blinked countlessly. “Have you been in the rum?”

“Nary a drop more than you have provided by your own hand,” he assured her. “But I think it prudent we reunion in shared quarters, lest the wind blow through with a second neighbor prone to gossip.”

Lydia’s thoughts leaned toward the contrary—that she would be wise to retreat—but Henry was not the sort of man from whom a woman fled. No, his attentions were to be prized—she knew it not from fact, but rather from a craving he fostered deep inside her.

Softer now, he said, “I assure you I can be trusted.”

Oh, but that was not her worry! She had fallen for his subtleties, for the thick, corded muscles of which she had only been treated a glimpse. For the quiet confidence of his tone. For his strong wit and teasing tongue. And the long forgotten feelings he had roused.

She approached him under an unwelcome siege of bawdy thoughts. This man was not the one who hurt her. It was not he who had made her suffer the hand of his beatings.

“Do you believe I fear you?” she asked. Though she formed bold words, they whipped round her belly in tight circles.

He followed her with half-lidded eyes. “You are a strong woman. You need fear no one.”

“I assure you,” she said, a touch riled though he had said nothing to evoke from her such a reaction. “I have had to conquer far worse. Men besotted with drink attempt far more liberties than you would find yourself capable this day.”

“Then it is settled.”

She froze, startled he’d taken her defense as his own argument. But she need not deny her desire for rest, and Henry’s injuries were true. “I shall not remove my clothes,” she said.

“Nor I, though should you need to tend to my swelling, I will surrender.”

His swelling
. No doubt he referred to regions left unexplored by her ministrations. Insides lit with nerves, Lydia rounded the simple bed and stared from the straw mattress to the man occupying one half of the bedding. Seeing his attention firmly on her, she said, “I would not have thought your surrender so easily won.”

Nearly adrift in sleep, he murmured, “You have much to learn about me, lovely Lydia.”

Lydia settled on the bed and took her share of the blankets, lying atop the lowermost so as to ensure her guest kept any lustful explorations to himself. As soon as she rested her head, sleep threatened, but it took not the lingering thought from her lips.

“And you,” she said, “have much to learn of a mordant tongue.”

…

The light was all wrong.

Henry forced his eyes to open fully, momentarily derailed by the fine porcelain profile of the woman alongside him in bed. Then the night’s events flooded his thoughts and filled him with a thrill perhaps improper. His praise for her had not been vacant—with thick lashes resting in sleep and the soft, even sighs of an angel, she was perhaps the loveliest woman on whom he had ever laid eyes. And now, though his injuries made themselves apparent in aberrant stiffness, he found himself clear of mind and ever more grateful to have made her acquaintance.

With a start, he realized she had joined him in wakefulness. “It is late,” she whispered, her azure eyes brilliant upon him.

Her lips could not have appeared softer, and when she moistened them with her tongue he found himself with yet another bout of stiffness with which to contend. “Tell me,” he said, “what would cause a man to lose your favor and why do you not mourn his loss?”

A shadow dimmed her crystalline stare, but in a swift moment she turned to her side, fully facing him, and offered a warm smile. “I can think of many reasons, Henry. Have you any such intention?”

He toyed with the blanket between them. “Of course not. I simply wish to avoid a certain fate.”

This time the darkening of her eyes stole the sun from the sky. She tucked her chin slightly, in such a way that he could see her withdraw from him.

His words, meant to tease, had hurt.

Against his better judgment, he reached for her until his fingertips made a light caress against her cheek. The motion he thought gentle caused her to startle, but he did not relieve her of his attention. He knew not what had happened in her past, but her timid, wounded reaction allowed him to hazard a guess. “Only a wretched man would lay his hands upon a woman in such a way.”

She took an audible breath and her eyes sought his.

“Your husband…did he hurt you?”

When she nodded, Henry’s heart seized. It was one thing to assume, but another entirely to know his suspicions for truth. He dragged a thumb over her cheek, wiping away the shadow of the tears she’d surely cried.

“And yet you open your home to me, a stranger. A man.”

“I am a physician,” she said. “Professional duties dictate—”

“We share a bed, Goodwife.”

She smiled with a girlish enchantment. “Perhaps there was made an exception,” she said, “but I did find myself quite fond of your horse.”

His jaw loosened. Was she to be taken seriously?

She smiled. “Fret not, though you are as oafish as you claim poor Willard’s affliction. I find something kindly in you, however that is not the all of it. My former husband has taken enough from me. I spent too long in fear.”

“You are stronger than most, my wife.”

She smiled, though it quickly edged to a frown. “What of our ruse, Henry? You will soon be on your way—”

“I am in no hurry.”

Shaking her head against the bedding, she said, “No matter your speed, our arrangement is but temporary.”

Henry found himself bothered by her insistence. “Then we shall make the most of what time we have, and when you determine it is prudent to end our association, it will be told I am off on another of my trips. The Good Neighbors will be none the wiser.”

“Tell me, Henry. Whom do you seek?”

Her question set him back a bit, which led him to more greatly admire her earlier confidences. Pain was never easy to voice, nor was the admission of weakness.

He stared at the ceiling so as to ease his confession. “My father was my mother’s second husband. Her first was much older, and with him she bore a son and four daughters. None of her daughters lived to be of age. After the death of her first husband, Mother married my father and bore six more children—three girls, two boys, and myself, all of whom are still living. I am the oldest. Her firstborn son, four years my senior, could not bring himself to accept us, though a second marriage is the way of things. My father is…quite wealthy. For this—and I know not how many other things—my brother harbored resentment for our mother and my father. After a great many tumultuous years, my brother abandoned the family, and Mother has since been unwell with worry. I want to bring him back before she succumbs to her ailments.”

Lydia’s pretty mouth formed a small O, then a frown. “What a poor man, to have lost his entire family in such a way.”

“Though I cannot fathom the pain of his loss, we are but one family and he is sorely missed. Worse, I am afraid the heartbreak will be the end of our mother, who seems to grow more poorly with every passing day. So often she stares down the road, as if she can bring him back from her want alone.”

“Oh, Henry,” Lydia implored. “You cannot stay here. Not if it is your heart’s burden to bring him home to her.”

The intimacy of her plea was not lost on him, nor was the moisture gathering in her eyes. This woman held a passion he dared not hope he would one day understand to its fullest, but how it would feel to learn her body as he had begun to know her spirit. He curled his fingers against her cheek and said, “Worry not, for my brother is rumored to be in Salem Town. It is but a short ride to seek him, and I dare not hope for better favor than to share your home for the duration.”

“But what of my bed?” Though her eyes were still wet, her smiled rained over him with a certain whimsy, like sunlit colors in the sky after a storm.

“Your bed,” he assured her, “I will share until I get my legs beneath me.”

She propped herself on her elbow, her fingers disappearing in her pale blond strands. “And thereafter? What of the curious neighbors should they find you asleep on the floor?”

He grinned and feigned indignation. “Perhaps I should clarify my intent. Once I am able to perform my due benevolence as your husband, I hope you will award me a stake of the bed in question. We should both claim the marital bed, should we not?”

His mention of the act of matrimony drew her attention to vicinity of his mouth. Much to his delight, she reddened. “It is a sin punishable by death,” she whispered.

“Not if we are man and wife.”

“But we are not. It matters not if only we are aware of the ruse, for sinners are innermost.”

He pondered her words for a moment, then tilted his head and flashed a radiant, mischievous grin. “Tell me, do you know of handfasting?”

She met his eyes. “Of course. But…”

Her words ceased as he found her hands—a task most difficult considering his beleaguered position. His leg hurt like the dickens, and any thoughts of moving it left him pained with no desire to further the sensation. But there was another sensation he wanted very much to further.

“Lydia,” he said, her hands firmly held in his. “I take you as my lawfully wedded wife.”

She gasped. “Henry!”

“As we already have met in cohabitation, if you will take me as your own, you may consider yourself free from sin.”

“But… but there are no witnesses.”

“We can’t very well have witnesses, can we? In the town’s eyes, you are long married. If it is sin over which you worry, know that you mean your words and your heart will be true.”

“But we are not genuine!”

“It is already late morn. Goodwife Mather has doubtlessly informed the entire village of your husband’s return. I know you wanted not to be burdened with me, but a decision needed to be made in haste. You came here to escape scandal, and I could not leave it at your door.” He squeezed her hands. “Do you take me as your own?”

Though she stared with the widest of eyes, some of the stiffness left her frame. She looked to their hands clasped on the bed between them, then again to his face. “I—I take you, Henry, as my husband under the law. And I should thank you,” she said softly.

“Say it not. But for your kindness, that scoundrel Willard might have dragged me by now clear to Ispwich Road.”

She laughed, and it held richness and beauty. “It is still not cause for such a disruption,” she said.

“Let us not worry that road again. The pain in my leg aside, I am most happy for our acquaintance.”

“Oh! I should check your injuries.” She pulled swiftly away and sat. “We should have been up hours ago.”

Though he felt the absence of her warm hands in his and thought certain the day would be better spent in bed, he could not dispute the anticipated pleasure of her touch. He watched as she shed the covers, tidied her hair, and smoothed her dress with her hands. By the time she lowered to his side of the bed, he nearly trembled with his desire to feel her caress over his skin. It was not a feeling to which he was well accustomed.

Lydia peeled away his blankets. “How is your ache?”

He dared not answer as he truly desired, for the topic of his most urgent ache might be deemed improper in light of their newfound acquaintance. “A bit loathsome.”

She touched his knee, gently, then with more pressure. “How is this?”

“Better than expected.”

“You have fared well, then.”

She worked her way down his leg, and though her actions remained completely proper, he had to bite his tongue to keep from moaning from the pure pleasure of her, lest she mistake the meaning and think she had hurt him.

“No sharp pain?” she asked.

“Might have a go at my other leg.”

She paused, eyes fixed on him in surprise. “The other? Where does it hurt?”

“It does not hurt,” he said with an expression he hoped innocent. “It is envious.”

The moment required for her lips to soften into the most delightful of smiles seemed endless. But the wait was worth every second. She asked, “You are not one for defeat, are you?”

“That depends. Tell me, where are your battle fronts?”

She slid an uncertain hand over his uninjured limb, stopping below the knee. “Perhaps they are in this vicinity,” she said.

“Or higher still.”

She blushed and her eyes lit, filling the room with sunshine. Her touch was but a feather light caress through his breeches, but he relished every hint of her proximity. Still eyeing him, she ventured from his knee to his thigh. “I feel as if we have been more than a night together,” she said.

“As do I.”

She leaned over him now, the distance between them growing more intimate. “And yet you could be anyone.”

He reached for her. When she did not deny his contact, he wove his fingers into her hair and pulled her tenderly close. “Your words are true, my lovely bride. But trust now my only position is that of your husband.”