Love's Reckoning (18 page)

Eden noted the moment Elspeth left the ballroom and felt keenly the instant Silas went after her. Jemma's chattering turned shrill in her ear, and the pastry she was eating became mush in her mouth. Without the force and skill of Silas's playing, his presence, the middling musicians seemed like wax figures upon the stage. She felt a glowing pride in his abilities and then pointed alarm when he disappeared.

Oh, Lord, let it not happen again. Please . . .

Fixing her eye on the door they'd both exited, she felt her heartbeat quicken. Had it been almost a year since Elspeth had coerced David into a secluded corner and disgraced herself? Everyone at Hope Rising knew she'd tried to seduce him, beginning with that bold kiss. A sickening trepidation crept over Eden at the memory. Would her sister now do the same with Silas? Murmuring she needed some air, she began pushing her way through the crowd toward the dreaded door. One man, then two, barred her way and begged her to dance.

“No, thank you . . . not right now, thank you.”

Her voice held desperation. Long seconds ticked by in a sort of agony. Though she fixed her gaze on the nearest window, she could see little for the darkness outside. Suppose she found them in an embrace? The barest thought of it left her shaking. She was nearly to the door when it opened a bit forcefully. Silas entered, head down in a bid to be discreet, perhaps. Seconds later her sister followed, draped in fine broadcloth. The thought that Silas had set it about her sister's shoulders rubbed her raw.

“Would you care to dance, Miss Eden?”

She looked up into the flushed face of the gunsmith's son. Slowly they joined the press of dancers scuffing the newly laid floor as Silas took the stage and struck a cotillion. One partner . . . two . . . four. The evening passed in a sort of haze, leaving her thirsty and flushed, the distillation of sweat and spirits swirling like the couples all around her.

As the clock chimed eleven, Silas stood before her. He bent low over her hand in invitation and she curtsied, feeling a bit dazed as a Scots reel was struck. He'd claimed her in private. Would he now claim her publicly?
This
was no barn dance. She felt the heat of his hands through the silk of her gown as he clasped her waist.

The intensity of his gaze shook her, dark with passion and purpose and things unspoken. She couldn't look away . . . couldn't think. It might have been but the two of them, their pairing was so consuming, pushing everyone else to the far corners of the room. Her tumbled feelings left her breathless, and she could no longer shove aside a daunting realization.

Elspeth was not the only one smitten with a poor Scots apprentice.

'Twas snowing again. The purity of the morning solaced Silas somewhat, seemed a balm for his brooding. Though Hope Rising's revelry had ended at four o'clock, he'd gotten little sleep. The hour he'd lain down he'd done naught but stare at the garret rafters, thoughts of Eden keeping him awake. At first light he'd traipsed through knee-deep snow to the barn, hoping to cool his thoughts as he readied the horses and sleigh to return to Hope Rising.

Greathouse had insisted he take the sisters home in his colonial cutter, though Silas suspected it was Eden he was most mindful of. The certainty had come to him slowly, crystallizing the moment the laird had led her onto the dance floor. Watching them, Silas was violently catapulted back to the past—to the eve of his sister's staining. 'Twas at a tenants' ball the duke's son had claimed Naomi Ballantyne for a dance. Too bonny by half—and utterly naïve—she'd succumbed to that reel with Jamie Murray. And far more.

His hands worked the leather harness with its bells and brass trim in rough bursts, belying his turmoil. The matching grays bumped about in their stalls as if sensing his disquiet. As he prepared to hitch them to the sleigh—so new that wax still adhered to the runners—he heard the whine of the barn door as it opened. Liege? No one had been astir when
he'd passed through the house minutes before. 'Twas the Sabbath, after all.

He kept working—fastening, buckling, tightening—aware that he wasn't alone. But he hardly expected Eden to be the one watching. Not when she'd fallen asleep in the sleigh and he'd shaken her awake, thinking he'd have to carry her up the stairs.

“Silas?”

His efforts stilled. What, he wondered, did she call Greathouse when alone with him?

“What are you doing at this hour?” Her gentle question held a touching concern. Why, then, did it feel like salt upon a wound?

“Come now, Eden,” he echoed tersely, not looking up, the harness frigid in his hands. “What does it look like?”

“You're returning the sleigh. That I can see.” She came closer, surprising him. The force of his voice all but ordered her out of the barn.

Letting go of the leather trappings, he faced her. But it was Naomi he saw, so bonny and blithesome, her eyes a vivid lichen-green.

Her voice was soft. “You're upset.”

His anger cooled in light of her tenderness. “I've no quarrel with you, Eden.”

“Oh?” She stepped closer. “Then why is there such fire in your eyes . . . your voice?”

Once his sister had asked him the same. They'd stood a few paces apart in a sheep barn as he was choosing ewes from a pen of yearlings. Only he'd been but a bumbling boy and had no answer. But now . . .

“I'm not upset with you, Eden, but Greathouse.”

“Master David?”

“Aye.”

“Has he done you some harm?”

“Nae . . . though he may.”

“Though he may?” Her tone, her expression, was rife with disbelief. David could do no wrong, she seemed to say, and he, Silas Ballantyne, could do no right. “What mean you?”

Taking a measured breath, he tried to push past emotion to sound reason, but the heat of his temper had the upper hand. “What d'ye know of life, Eden? Men?”

She flushed. “I—David is but a neighbor, a friend. He's . . .”

“He's a man. And I fear he'll take advantage of your charms.”

“My . . . charms?” Confusion marred her features. “You must be imagining things—”

“Wheesht, Eden!” He ran a hand over his jaw, done with her naïveté. “I am not a blind man! I've seen the way he looks at you—”

“What?” She flushed a deeper rose. “David doesn't—couldn't—care for me—couldn't love me—”

“I said naught about love, ye ken.” His Scots was so thick, so passionate, he doubted she got the gist of it. But the stricken look on her face assured him she did. Yet she was innocent of all this, he remembered. Untried. Untouched. Unlike Elspeth. She deserved some explanation for his outburst. He gentled his tone, glad for the duskiness of the barn. “At home—in Scotlain—I watched the duke's son make sport with my sister. I'll not stay silent and see the same happen with you and Hope Rising's heir.”

Turning away, she stood with slumped shoulders. He could sense her shock, her working through all the shameful implications. Likely no man had ever spoken to her so bluntly. But what choice did he have? He resumed his work, only to be caught short by her quiet question.

“You have a sister?”

“
Had
, Eden.” His chest grew heavy, his thoughts muddy. “She died in childbed, bearing Sir Jamie's son.”

The silence lengthened and then she came nearer, her fingers touching the loose sleeve of the shirt she'd made him. “What was her name?”

Her name . . . The gentle question brought about a shattering ache. He'd not spoken it in years. “Naomi.”

“'Tis beautiful.”

“'Tis biblical. Like yours . . . mine.” He met her eyes. He couldn't help it. There seemed to be an invisible cord that bound them, forged in the secrecy of the stairwell, keen and heartfelt. A tear spotted her cheek, sliding to her chin. He ached to brush it away, but the sudden mist in his own eyes caught him off guard. “I care for you like a sister, Eden. I do not want you hurt.”

Her eyes shone in the shadows. She swallowed hard and let go of his sleeve. “I'm sorry for your loss, Silas. For all of them. 'Tis one too many.”

She was remembering his family, Scotland, as he was, and his warning about Greathouse seemed to be lost in a cloud of melancholy. He'd learned not to dwell on the past. He'd not thought to mention it now.

“Take care, ye ken,” he told her, returning them to the matter at hand. “If he should ever hurt you, lay a hand on you—”

“Silas, please.” Alarm framed her lovely features. “Think no more of it.”

She turned away, and he feared she wouldn't heed his warning. The allure of Hope Rising was too great. And her trust in David Greathouse was too deep. She was, like Naomi, so utterly and breathtakingly naïve. The thought of a man making free with her modesty, destroying her beauty and innocence in a swirl of lust, twisted his gut into a fierce knot.

God help her . . .

God help me.

 17 

That which is escaped now is pain to come.

Samuel Johnson

Though more than a month had passed since Silas had spoken so plainly to her in the barn, Eden's cheeks still burned at the memory. She avoided both him and David, her whole world upended by his strong words, before deciding his warning was simply clouded by the pain of his past. David was but a childhood friend. Not once had he behaved in anything but a gentlemanly fashion. Even lately, when she'd sensed something stirring beneath the surface of their long-standing friendship, his manner was as careful and deferential as Silas's own.

And Silas? She was like a sister to him. He'd simply spoken out of concern and affection. Still, this free speaking hurt her, as did the matter of Naomi and her babe. Their story haunted, trailing after her day and night. She felt a gnawing need to know what happened to Sir Jamie and Naomi's child but dared not ask. Only within the pages of her journal did she spill out her muddled feelings . . .

“Eden Rose, don't stand there staring!”

The vicious snap of Elspeth's voice returned her to the steamy kitchen and Jon's wailing and her own soapy hands.

“The babe is crying, and Mama has gone to York. Do something!”

Elspeth stood at the trestle table, punching down a mound of dough with both fists. Since she and Silas had returned from yesterday's Sabbath service, Elspeth had been in a high temper. Wary, Eden gave her wide berth. But now, with Mama missing, they'd been thrust together and it was Elspeth giving orders.

“Hurry and test the oven, then tend to Jon!”

Abandoning the dishes she'd been scrubbing, Eden went to the hearth, held her hand in the beehive oven, and counted to ten to test the heat before hurrying to her parents' bedchamber. When she leaned over Jon's cradle, he quieted, his plump face breaking into a sunny smile. Her heart twisted.

“Oh, wee one, you are such a sweet babe.”

His tiny hand brushed her cheek as she lifted him and nuzzled his milk-scented neck, the linen of his swaddling smelling of dried lavender from her garden. Moving past Thomas asleep on the trundle bed, she glanced out the window. The March day held such spring-like warmth she was pulled to the front door. Closing it quietly, she walked through new grass toward the kitchen garden, gaze drifting across the zigzag fence of the pasture where the wheat and flax fields awaited seed. In years past Papa had traded planting and plowing for ironwork so that he could continue to man the smithy. This year he was relying on Silas instead.

Turning a corner, she was startled to find Silas standing at the edge of her herb bed, shovel in hand. The cold earth had been hand-turned and needed but half a day of stone picking to ready it for seed. 'Twas a task she'd always seen
to till blisters spotted her palms. Had he done this for her? Gratitude welled inside her and she smiled her thanks. They'd not spoken in so long she felt suddenly tongue-tied.

Leaning on his shovel, he raked calloused fingers through his hair and glanced at Jon, answering her question before she'd even asked it. “The day is too fine to be confined to the forge.”

Immediately she sensed something amiss. Had he and Papa had words? His features held a telling restlessness, and he was looking west again, as he so often did. It made her melancholy, as if he couldn't attend to the beauty at hand, and it was everywhere. All around them the land was slowly coming to life beneath the strengthening sun, its brightness dotted with wisps of clouds. Mares' tails, Grandpa Gallatin had called them, galloping across the delft-blue sky.

“I'll spend but one spring in this place,” he said.

But one?
Eden looked at him, her perplexity swelling. All the loose ends of late now came together at his words. Was this why Elspeth was so fractious? Had the matter of marriage been broached and shot down? Jon gave a little cry, and she shifted him in her arms, aware of his hunger but hesitant to feed him just yet.

“Are you leaving? Earlier than October?” The need to know raised a great lump in her throat. “Where are you going?”

His shovel struck dirt again. “I'll tell you where I'm going, Eden, if you'll tell me where you're going.”

She took a step back, surprised by the keen light in his eyes, as if they shared some secret. Did he know about Philadelphia? She felt a whisper of alarm. How could he?

“I—I must see to Jon.” With that, she spun away, hurrying to the house. As her hand touched the kitchen door, she was startled by the rasp of Papa's voice as he came out of the smithy.

“Silas! I must speak with you.”

The gruff words bespoke a heated confrontation. She'd not heard such ire in her father's voice since he'd sparred with the last apprentice. Except George White had never stood up to the master. She sensed Silas had, and now Papa was defensive as a wounded bear.

Silas leaned the shovel against the wattle fence and began walking toward the smithy, his every step rife with resistance. Aye, something had indeed transpired. And it boded ill for them all. Her dread deepened when her father slammed the smithy's side door.

Lord, help him . . . protect him, please.

“Nae.” Raising his hammer, Silas resumed his work as calmly as if they were discussing the weather. “I came here to fulfill a contract, not take a wife.”

Across from him Liege stood, hands on hips, face reddening. “Lay your hammer down, man, and speak reason. You well know 'tis tradition for an apprentice to marry into the master's family. 'Tis not a country custom. They do it oft enough in Philadelphia.”

Silas gave the pike a heavy blow. “Tradition does not dictate my actions. 'Tis business between us, no more.” He thrust the white-hot metal into the cooling trough, and a fierce sizzle filled the room.

Liege threw up his hands. “Is it a common Scots trait to be blind and unreasonable—and immune to a woman's charms?” His aggravated voice carried to the far rafters. “There are a great many men who'd gladly have my eldest daughter.”

“Then why is she not wed?”

Liege swiped at his damp brow and stepped away from the forge's fire. “No one has suited her till now. 'Tis you she favors. Being sharp-minded, she knows what such a pairing
means. This will all be yours—and Elspeth's. Business has tripled since your coming. I've scarce the ledgers to keep up. Soon you'll find yourself with enough coin to do as you please, go where you please. One day the Ballantyne name will be spoken of from here to Philadelphia.”

Silas shook his head. “Men do not grow rich forging iron in small smithies.”

“Who's to say we cannot?” Liege erupted with a sudden cackle, his mood shifting. “Your purse is only as big as your dream.”

“I'll not wed your oldest daughter,” Silas said again, “bonny though she may be.”

“
May
be? You're a blind man! She
is
bonny! Are you betrothed, then? Intended for another?”

“Nae.”

“Then why such caution?” Liege brought his hand to bear on the nearest table. “Speak, man! Speak!”

Silas fell silent, inspecting his work, refusing to answer. He could sense Liege's simmering was reaching a slow boil, and he prayed for patience, refusing to become embroiled in the scheme. But the master was not letting up this morning.

Liege circled the forge, his voice low and barbed. “You may sing a different tune when I terminate your contract.”

“Then you shall have no apprentice or wedding,” Silas replied, striking a clamorous blow to the pike as if to punctuate his words.

“Leave off your hammering and listen to me.” Liege faced him, tearing off his apron. “If you'll not have Elspeth, how about Eden?”

The question was so mercenary, so coldly stated, Silas nearly flinched. His grip tightened on his hammer till his knuckles whitened. “So you do not care who I wed, just that I take one of them to wife?”

A loud banging on the smithy door spared him Liege's answer. Silas resumed his work, lost in a deluge of unwanted desires as the master turned away. Every hammer blow was a bit harder and high-toned. He bent the iron mercilessly, wishing he could do the same with his emotions. But it seemed Eden stood at his elbow, shadowing him, strengthening their tie.

When, he wondered moodily, had he lost his heart to her?

The snowy day he'd seen her dancing down the lane? The night she'd snuck into the stairwell and brought him both razor and shirt? When Greathouse claimed her for a dance?

God forgive him, but he couldn't dislodge the memory of her in her purple gown, the small perfection of her waist, the lush lines of all the rest of her. Countless times in his dreams he'd pressed his mouth to hers, felt the silk of her skin against his work-worn fingers.

She
haunted
him.

He'd come here not wanting any entanglements, had meant to simply bide his time and go. But lately, despite his prayers and precautions, all his carefully constructed defenses had come crashing down. In the weeks since the ice harvest, he'd ached to hear her in the stairwell, but she hadn't come. He'd even entertained the foolish notion of wedding her and taking her west, the place she clearly had no desire to go. And now, Liege Lee had put temptation in his path and he found it nearly irresistible.

“I'll give you a month to make up your mind,” Liege spat at him.

Silas turned round, the sledge slack in his hand, schooling his expression against the force of the ultimatum. The forge was empty now save the two of them. Liege had sent the farmer on his way.

“'Tis Elspeth or Eden,” Liege said. “Or you'll be without a trade—and a roof o'er your head.”