Читать книгу: «The Wedding Bargain»

Chapter One

Connecticut, August 1757

“Are we really going to buy a man, Mama? If so, ’tis best it not be that one by the auction block. He looks desperate.” The boy’s high-pitched young voice was as sweet as clear water running over smooth stones on a summer day—and as piercing as the winter wind.

Charity Frey smoothed the ribbons of her bonnet and allowed herself a wry smile, directed downward. “Hush, child. Such candid observations should be made in an appropriate tone of voice. A lowered tone.”

“I heard tell there was a convicted felon who escaped the gallows on account of his friendship with General Pakenham. Will Sutcliffe says that the magistrate at New Haven considered those serious defects of character the prisoner exhibited could be overcome through servitude. Is that true, Mama?”

“I know not, Isaac, but if a man’s soul can be saved, and he be prevented from committing further atrocities or pernicious acts through such a concession, then the Lord be thanked.”

“What has faith got to do with per-pernicious acts?”

The blue green eyes that met hers looked so serious. A soft warmth welled up in Charity. It was all very well encouraging children to work things out, answering their questions honestly and helping them develop their powers of independent reasoning. Only every now and then it led to something like this, and the views of an outspoken nineyear-old would lead to a complaint at meeting house that Charity Frey was an unfit parent.

“More than you might imagine, Isaac. However, the poor creature has enough humiliation to bear, and ’tis impossible to avoid hearing your hurtful remarks even twenty paces away.”

“A convicted felon has no rights.” Isaac’s lowered his voice, but his expression was unyielding. He might be only nine years old, but he had his own ideas of right and wrong.

Charity lightly patted her son’s springy, auburn hair. “Hush, child. ’Tis not seemly that you should speak so unkindly.”

Isaac moved back, not wanting to be touched. “But, Mama, there be evil demons in that one’s eyes. Milk would curdle in the pail if that man were to watch it the way he is watching you.”

Charity clenched her hand and took a deep breath. “That will do, Isaac. ’Tis not the way of a gentleman to make rude comments,” she said crushingly. “You should be profoundly ashamed of such odious statements.”

Isaac seemed a little taken aback at her vehemence. He flushed and hung his head. He stood passive, but there was a suggestion of resistance about him notwithstanding.

“I’m sorry, Mama, but I didn’t think you’d want to invest in one of Lucifer’s minions.”

Charity made a sharp, involuntary movement, then restrained herself. She felt it best not to acknowledge such an ignoble gibe. Out of the mouths of babes…Her mouth flexed faintly. In spite of herself, she slid a glance toward the bound prisoners and indentured servants waiting to be sold.

And went utterly still.

The man shackled to the auction block was nearly naked. The ragged garment that served as his shirt was so torn, so tattered, so full of rents that it hardly served its purpose, scarcely covering the solid chest or the muscular arms that showed through the holes. Even his breeches were almost indecent.

Behold the lilies in the field…

Charity colored a guilty scarlet, realizing where her eyes were drifting. Wicked creature! Using the Bible to clothe her own wanton imagination! Her gaze shifted to the felon’s face.

The man’s unshaven, weather-beaten visage had an untamed, primitive look about it, as of one born to the wilderness. He was looking straight at her, his expression cold, composed, a study of hatred and defiance. His scowling focus was unnerving.

Through a tangle of hair, dark brows lifted arrogantly as he faced her. Tawny eyes met hers, bored into her with a concentration that seemed to pierce straight through her.

Intensely alive, they were not the eyes of civilization, but glowed with some deep, primitive emotion. Charity felt as if they saw too much. They made her vividly conscious of her flushed face and the indelicate familiarity of her scrutiny.

Still she did not move. She was not sure she could have if she’d tried. Her spine was poker stiff, and her legs refused to obey her commands.

Sheer fascination immobilized her as she regarded the disheveled creature before her with shameless curiosity. She felt paralyzed—a rabbit confronted by a mountain lion.

He was magnificent even as he stood there before the block in provocative disrepute, wrists locked in iron fetters, legs braced for balance, an insolent Lucifer brushed by dark, invisible wings.

Charity experienced a queer and unbearable weakness, as though something deep inside her had come undone. A throb of excitement, as intense as a sudden realization of the presence of an enemy, coiled in her belly.

He made no movement, but it seemed his whole body was tensely strung to combat, unseen, the ripple of muscles contracting for a spring. Though he stood motionless, he seemed menacing.

His legs are as pillars of marble…

The blaze of color that overspread Charity’s pale face at the thought faded as rapidly as it rose. Wicked, sinful creature that she was, she was doing it again! Using biblical words to express her own secret sentiments. She glanced at him again, under fluttering lids.

No. She was not mistaken. There was something dangerously lynx-like in the smoldering regard, something so deliberately intent that it seemed formidable. Those golden eyes shone with an intimacy and connection that she felt throughout her being, with a flush of painful pleasure.

Once again Charity’s eyelashes flickered. Unspeakable images roared in her head. Thoughts she had locked away securely tore from their moorings, whirling upward in chaotic disarray. And with them came doubt.

She should not have come.

She should have heeded the elders.

Pride and independence were fine and proper, but in striving so much for worldly things, was there a danger that she might forget the eternity that awaited her? Each day she sinned in so many small ways.

These poor creatures were to be sold like horses to the highest bidders, to become pieces of property and used as forced labor until the expiration of their sentences. In purchasing such a man, even if he were an indentured servant and not a slave, was she not simply gathering to herself an even greater burden of sin?

Every fiber of her being cried out to her to retreat, to give up her foolish dream of independence, her desire to hold her land against all who coveted it. If she were a truly respectable woman she would conform to the wishes of the elders. Why was that so difficult?

She focused her attention again on the restrained man, and her world tilted sickly. Again the color started and died in her cheeks.

For an instant she, too, was as afraid as her son Isaac had been. Her heart gave a quick, hard throb and she caught her breath for a moment, suspended, waiting.

Then she reminded herself that the man was naught but a convict, about to be auctioned to the highest bidder. And she had come a long way in the ten long years of her marriage to Ezra Frey. No longer would she subjugate her own wishes and opinions to those of any man.

Even so, this unwelcome and almost painful spasm of response was bewildering. It made no sense. She was no stranger to the male form. She had been wife and healer, and knew what a man looked like. Yet never had she felt this inner foolishness, this forbidden, feminine elation.

Charity’s whole body flushed with shame.

Ezra, kind and good husband that he had been, had not tempted her weak, sinful flesh. Ezra had not been that type of raw and selfish man. Austere and upright, Ezra had sought his redemption in prayer.

A cold fist gripped Charity’s insides as she realized the malefactor before her would entertain no such foolish notion.

He would take what he needed, give what she wanted.

The idea hit her with such stunning force that Charity was sure her shock showed in her face, for a strange light flashed in the man’s tawny eyes, making them glow suddenly, hotly, giving him the appearance of some predatory animal. She shuddered, gripped by a terrifying sensation that he could see into the inner recesses of her mind.

There was something about him. Something elemental. Something…dangerous. Yet danger was a spur. It made one feel alive. It seemed a long time since she’d truly felt alive.

A confusion of half-formed, insidious thoughts rushed through Charity’s head, one superimposed upon another. If only…No, wishing was a weakness she had been careful all of her life not to indulge in.

The temptation was there to let things flow naturally forward, in whatever way they liked. But Charity was consumed with impatience. She didn’t like to think that her future rested in other hands—indifferent hands—that could clamp into fists, crush her independence.

Instead, life might be renewed, might take strange paths to unknown destinations. There were other hands—powerful hands—that might open and set her free. And the temptation was there, shackled to the auction block, sent by the devil to entice her from the staid pattern of her life.

The idea was unthinkable!

Oh, if only…

Ezra had been dead these four months past, and Charity was considered too young to be irreproachable. The tithing man appointed by the elders to look after the morals of those families settled on Mystic Ridge had said so. He had also decreed that the twins, though only recently out of petticoats, were not kept in due subjection by their mother.

Under the circumstances, the elders counseled making a second marriage. A husband would take over the heavy tasks of clearing the forest and tilling the soil. The tithing man, ever ready to serve the Lord and make a profit on the side, had offered himself as a candidate.

There were not many unmarried men of proper standing and ability in the small community, and the tithing man was eminently suitable for the task. His suit had the sanction of the elders, but did that make it right for her to marry him?

Charity shrank from binding herself to any man. Matrimony would cede her land and body to her husband. Goose bumps crawled over her skin when she contemplated the intimacies of the marriage bed with Amos Saybrook. So why did this scruffy, dirty, unprincipled man cause no such revulsion?

Suddenly, standing there in the summer sun, she tensed and trembled. It was an odd sensation, as though her immortal soul was in danger.

All rubbish, of course, but for an instant Charity was terrified. Not for herself; she no longer mattered. Rather for the sons who needed her, who had only her.

With an effort, she cast down her eyes. It was impossible to look at the convict without experiencing this foolish distraction. Really, what did it matter that one could be flustered by the sight of a man’s naked flesh?

‘Twas pure, biological response, nothing more. Charity turned away, reproaching herself for restlessness and discontent. Chastity was an admirable thing if only she would have it so. She forced herself to relax, using every reserve of willpower to control her trembling.

Somehow, she drew a folded sheet of heavy paper from her pocket. It was a printed handbill. She opened it and read it for the twentieth time. Listed for sale were fifteen males and one female.

“I think perhaps that a servant who can hew wood and plow fields would be a more valuable acquisition to Mystic Ridge than one whose needs are somewhere been damnation and salvation, Isaac.”

Charity spoke almost mechanically. She was trying to estimate, from the brief descriptions given, the lot number of the man with the tiger eyes. Was it Lot 16? The caption read: Male. Aged about 30. Former valet to Lord Brougham. Sold by his order.

No. This man was no valet. He was too elemental.

Relieved, she refolded the paper. “I don’t think the man by the auction block is for sale in any case, Isaac. There is no one listed that matches his likeness.”

“Maybe he’s to be hanged from the gibbet—or lashed, or placed in the stocks!”

“Isaac! Such excessive eagerness for any form of barbaric punishment is not worthy of you!”

“Which one, Isaac? The one tethered like a beast? He sure does look scary!” Benjamin’s high-pitched young voice was an echo of his twin’s.

Cautiously, Charity glanced at the man again. No, her eyes did not cozen nor deceive. If he were a beast, he was a magnificent one, grime encrusted though he be.

Unruly curls of shaggy hair and a growth of stiff black beard could not disguise the elegant shape of head and jaw. The sun, shining on the crisp dark hair on his chest, revealed a powerful musculature. Broad shouldered and strong limbed, the man looked to be a good worker.

With an effort, Charity dragged her eyes away from the man and spoke to her other son. Her words were gentle but firm with authority. “Benjamin! ’Tis not a beast, but a person.”

In spite of the gentle rebuke, Benjamin stamped his foot in a gesture he surely hadn’t learned at the meeting house. “Then why is he tethered like a beast?”

Charity hesitated, searching for a suitable explanation. Standing in the lee of the auction block, the man seemed very large and intimidating. She was far too conscious of his size and strength—and of something else.

Inevitably, she thought of the elders, and her face flooded with scalding shame at her iniquitous thoughts. Drawing a deep breath, she gathered her senses and stepped back a pace, aware that she was trembling. The only way to cope with this was head-on. Accordingly, she drew herself up and looked straight into the tawny eyes, which were appraising her as thoroughly as she had him.

“The man has offended against society and must pay his dues.” Her voice was calm, but she was sure that her face was fiery as she turned her back on the auction block.

“Have we enough money to purchase a bond servant, Mama?”

Still vexed with herself, Charity’s hand rose instinctively to her throat. She had ten five-pound notes and one precious gold coin. Would that be sufficient?

“If God wills it be so.”

Sometimes it was hard to accept the burden Providence dealt without feeling bitter. Charity knew her own assets and liabilities, and meek acceptance wasn’t on the list. She did try to take the restless center she’d discovered within herself and make stillness and serenity of it. She did try. The Lord knew she did.

But prayer and penitence were not enough to stifle the bothersome energy within her. There was something inside her, some force that drove her, made her want to defy convention, to be her own woman, independent of any man. To laugh aloud as she had before her marriage to Ezra Frey.

Charity sighed. Such things could never be. Life moved forward, never back. Ezra was dead. Her twin sons, Benjamin and Isaac, needed guidance.

Somehow, she should carry out God’s words with meekness. Yet God Himself had not given clear instructions about the right road. And Charity was not convinced that the elders knew best, simply because they were men. She knew she was neither ignorant nor simple, and there came a time in a woman’s life when she had to stop being sensible, when she had to stand up and be counted…

That time had come.

If she did not wish to marry Amos Saybrook, she would not.

Her decision made, Charity felt as if a dark weight had been lifted from her soul. She became aware of the world around her. Like a torrent of molten gold, sunlight poured into the open marketplace, intensifying the cleanly pungent odors of farm animals, fresh picked vegetables, hemp and ripe cheese.

Dismayed, Charity also espied a small, terrierlike figure with fair hair and a lean, jutting jaw hurrying toward her.

“This idea of yours is repulsive, Charity!” the newcomer snapped. “These are the misfits of society. Surely you’d not demean the memory of our poor, departed Ezra by replacing him with such trash?”

Resentment stirred within Charity. Never once had she spoken to another creature in the insolent tone Leah Saybrook used with her. Charity might be headstrong, defiant, and might often act without thinking, but she always told the truth as she saw it.

“The simple fact is that Ezra is dead. That is precisely why I need a man about the place.”

“You need a husband. Isaac and Benjamin need a strong hand so they learn right from wrong and keep their backs turned to all evildoers.”

Oh, the insolence of the woman! Charity was shaking inside, but she held her ground.

“That will do, Leah Saybrook. I do not need your advice on how to run my affairs. Now that Ezra is gone, my life is my own to do with as I choose. I have brought up my two boys to fear the Lord and never take His name in vain. If I choose to purchase a bond servant, I will, and that is that.”

“The elders become more incensed with each reckless action. Why are you so obsessed with independence?” Leah waved her arms angrily. Hot color flooded her face, and she gave a queer, gasping little laugh. “I fear Amos will think you have contracted a leave of your senses in pursuing such a foolish course.”

A fury of resentment possessed Charity, but sensing her self-control to be tottering, she dared not give vent to her feelings. She was pleased to hear her voice held naught but tender reproach as she answered, “’Tis better to have an indentured servant, even one who is the devil’s bait, than another husband.”

If possible, Leah Saybrook’s fair skin flamed more brightly. “There’s no need to be so uppity, Charity Frey. My brother asks to wed you only because he feels beholden.”

Charity stifled an angry retort, and allowed her face to beam as brightly as if she had swallowed a piece of the summer sun. “Then tell him from me that he need not feel beholden. Ezra’s death was caused by his own foolishness, not by a reprisal of the Pequots because Amos Saybrook saw fit to seduce one of their women.”

Though a mocking smile formed on Leah’s full lips, there was a tinge of annoyance in her voice. “You have the arrogance of Beelzebub himself, Mistress Frey. The only way you’ll keep your land is to wed. Good help is hard to find, and Amos is prepared to take on your two hellion sons and raise them as his own. You have their future to think on.”

Charity struggled to control her anger. She raised her shoulders slightly, and her delicate nostrils flared. Her eyes narrowed. “My sons are my concern, just as my land is mine. I intend to keep it that way.”

“You’d take a convict to lodge with you? What will people say?” Leah’s voice became a hiss.

“That I’m as much a fool as ever.”

“And Amos?”

Charity made a sharp movement—a gesture that was almost passionate, before it became a slight shrug. “Precisely the same.”

“Perfidious creature. To live only in the flesh!”

The injustice burned Charity. Never had there been any slackness in her morals. Had Ezra not sworn them both to celibacy after the birth of the twins had been decreed by the elders to be a result of excessive fornication? And not once in nine long years had they broken that solemn vow.

She locked her hands together in front of her. “That is not very generous of you, Mistress Saybrook. Didn’t Bible readings tell you not to judge others by yourself?”

“What’s the use of trying to reason with you, Charity Frey? You have made up your mind to take a felon rather than a respected citizen.” Leah’s voice was colder and harder than the thick ice that formed on the river throughout the winter months.

The indecency of it! The common, wretched vulgarity of it! Spoken to as if she were some loose servant girl!

“Even so, I’ll take my chances,” Charity resolved. “A graduate of New Haven Prison is a better proposition than Amos.” She lifted her hand and made an airy gesture, expressive of semihumorous regret. “I’d rather house a genuine convict, with hair looking like bog weeds and reeking of the swamp, than a sly, avaricious man who holds the Bible in one hand and gropes at a girl’s leg with the other.”

Charity turned toward the auction block to hide her face, knowing it must be cherry red. How had those vile words escaped her mouth? It was nothing to her if Amos Saybrook was a lecherous philanderer intent on bedding every girl in the Commonwealth of Connecticut.

Still, it was not like her to be so rude, and what a supremely contemptuous example she was setting for her sons! She glanced at the boys, raising her brows in mute interrogation, but they were busily scuffing at tufts of grass and did not seem to notice anything amiss.

“The tongue is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison, Charity Frey.” There was more than a hint of sharpness in Leah’s rejoinder. “You will live to regret your wicked words. I’ll report your disgusting lies to the church elders, and let’s see how haughty you are when you are forced to ask pardon before the entire meetinghouse.”

Abruptly, Leah turned and walked away, light-footed, swift as a bird. A hard lump of anger formed in Charity’s throat. She had made an enemy there, she knew, when before she had looked on the Saybrooks as friends.

She shrugged mentally. There was no help for it. Now that she had been so foolishly outspoken, she was obliged to refuse Amos before she was good and ready.

To the devil with the whole stupid business of attending market today, anyway. But for the dire necessity of obtaining a laborer, she would not have had to confront Amos Saybrook until Sunday.

“Charity?” The voice of Thirza Arnold, her neighbour and friend, broke through her reverie. “You look a bit strange. Are you all right?”

“Yes.” With a shake of her head, Charity forced herself back to the present. Her voice remained carefully casual. “Boys, go with Mistress Arnold and help set up the refreshment stall. Take a care of Jemima, now. I’ll join you after the auction.”

Isaac and Benjamin dutifully clasped five-year-old Jemima Arnold’s hands and sedately followed Thirza. Charity rejoiced to see the little girl’s pretty face so animated and cheerful. Lately Charity had begun to feel twinges of anxiety about Jemima, but was able to banish them at least for today, for she chattered to the boys like a merry bird.

Charity turned back toward the auction block. Everything within her was resisting the task that lay ahead. She would coddle her conscience until Sunday’s lecture—and by then it would be too late for the elders to interfere.

* * *

Raphael Trehearne licked his lips, a gesture that spoke more of common impotence than his aristocratic background. The sun’s molten heat beat on his head, rousing a dull ache—something he noted only vaguely. Nothing for several days had had the power to upset or worry him. Not since he’d tried to escape and had received a blow on the head with a chain for his efforts.

He had been drifting in a gray, lifeless landscape that had no secure points of reference and from which there seemed no deliverance. If he thought of anything specific at all for any length of time, the thrumming in his head began again.

At the back of his mind, he knew he was to be sold, like a beast at market. Somehow that didn’t seem to matter anymore. Nothing mattered. He was too tired, too bone weary, to care.

It was the sound of a child’s soprano voice that penetrated the colorless miasma, rousing him from endless inertia, bringing him back to the present. He clung to the sound. Heard the woman’s soft response, warm as honey, from far away.

It was the longing to know the owner of that sweet, feminine voice that made him open his eyes. She stood there, a thing of infinite daintiness, so exquisite in her fairy grace. Pale skin tinged with pink, high cheekbones, a delicate chin and eyes of blue green rimmed with sooty lashes enhanced the fey image.

The very freshness of her was a danger that put him on his guard. There was a lack of humility in those strange, sea-colored eyes, which sat oddly under the hooded coif that most Puritan women wore to hide their hair from the eyes of men. Her simple black dress gave her a quaintly demure air that was belied by the rounded bodice and tiny waist. This was a woman to cherish, not scorn.

She glanced up at him without fear or modesty, and then changed into a veritable wanton, her full lips open, as if she would eat him for supper. His eyebrows arched in sudden suspicion.

He blinked, trying to marshal his thoughts, but suddenly his mind rolled back to the terrible slaughter of the militiamen as they fought a rearguard action against the French. There had been guns that had harried them all the previous day. It had become a matter of necessity to silence those guns. So the effort had been made, a glorious effort crowned with success.

How long was it since the fight at Beaver Creek? It had been a desperate battle, in which quarter had been neither asked nor given. Hand-to-hand and face-to-face they’d fought, with wild oaths and dreadful laughter.