The Wedding Bargain. Emily French
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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