The Wedding Bargain. Emily French
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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.
Rafe recalled the terrible night he had been thrown into New Haven Prison, the dreadful morning of the trial, and the worst nightmare of all, the afternoon his whole world had fallen apart…And now he was here, chained like a slave in the marketplace.
For an endless, agonized, intimate moment, the woman held his eyes. Tension seemed to vibrate through the air, as loudly as guns during combat.
Then she touched her hand to one of the two coppercolored heads bouncing boisterously at her side. He recognized the relationship immediately. How could he not? The boys were her in sturdy male miniature. Undoubtedly, her hair was red also.
Then it struck him. She was married!
For some absurd reason, a wave of treacherous disappointment almost overwhelmed him. Rafe closed his eyes, unable to bear the unfeigned affection of this small domestic tableau.
Time passed. Just how much time, he did not know, but the sun was high, and a raging thirst burned him fiendishly.
Gradually, he became aware of activity around him. Where was he in the disorderly mass of movement? Was he riding hell-for-leather to escape the savages, or was he trying to stem the terrified retreat?
A hot shaft of pain burned through his temple as he shook his head, clearing his vision.
The auction had started. Bidding went slowly at first, then started to gather speed. Arms were raised, heads were shaken, nods were given. Men shouted, and women hid their expressions behind their fans.
One by one the other bond servants took their place on the wooden block and were sold to the highest bidder. Then it was his turn. Awkwardly, his arms and legs still shackled, he was led to stand before the many faces looking up at him, fear and dread on their faces. Several women gasped and raised their fans.
“Are you the man who is known as Raphael Gabriel Trehearne?”
Rafe stood without answering. Only the expression in his eyes indicated that he had heard the question.
The long-nosed Puritan acting as auctioneer stared at him, awaiting an answer. When none was forthcoming, he rapped the wooden block with his staff.
“Answer me! I am the law in this county!”
There was a buzz of excitement. Fans clicked open and shut. Whispered conversations took place behind them.
“Yes, I am Rafe Trehearne. I have dispensed my share of death. So buy me, if you do not fear to be murdered in your bed!”
The words rang out impulsively and were greeted by a deep silence. Not a hand in the audience was raised, not a voice spoke.
Then a woman stood up and faced Rafe. It was she! He had some vague hope that he was mistaken in her intention, but when she smiled at him, a peculiar little smile, that illusion vanished. She stood there, her head angled to the side, giving him a searching look. Rafe glared back in violent disapproval.
Twisting her hands together, she turned to the auctioneer. In her smooth, melodic voice, as if carefully measuring each word, she placed her bid. “I will offer fifty pounds for the bond servant, Raphael Trehearne.”
There was a hushed silence. No one moved. Time stood suspended until the auctioneer banged on the post three times with a wooden mallet.
“Sold…to Mistress Charity Frey.”
“Isaac! Benjamin! Into the wagon. Hurry now, and leave sufficient room for Master Trehearne. Are you ready, sir?”
Rafe heard the words from some far distance. They danced in the air, one after the other, like soft notes of music, separate and ethereal, hanging there, spinning into infinity, their pure…
“Mr. Trehearne, please, we must go now, else we shall not make Mystic Ridge by fall of night.”
Slowly, it seemed, Rafe became aware of a hand plucking at his sleeve. Then the meaning penetrated and he started as from a deep slumber. The clanking of the chains fastened to his wrists and ankles reminded him of his plight. He peered down at his feet.
“I cannot.”
“Cannot? What are you saying, you cannot? You will! You must! It cannot be any other way!”
Rafe felt the strength ebbing from his legs. His feet felt leaden. His body ached, and his head was spinning. Exhaustion was beating a familiar tattoo behind his eyes and he knew his mind teetered on a yawning chasm. He blinked, trying to make his brain function again.
“Not quite. I beg your indulgence, ma’am, but these shackles will make it extremely awkward for me to attend to the wagon in case of accident. ‘Twould be best for all concerned if you order they be removed before our departure.”
He frowned. His voice was surprisingly clear and firm, even though it was taking a great deal of concentration to keep the pain in his head from overwhelming him.
“No! Do not take me for a fool!” Charity paused, then added “Couldst you not crawl into the wagon on your knees, Master Trehearne?”
The man looked at her hand-embroidered coif for a moment. He growled, a strange sound, soft, wild and breathless. He cleared his throat twice and seemed to find speech difficult.
There was a red glow in the golden eyes, despite his proud stance. He reminded her of a trapped, feral animal, fierce and irrational, ready to lash out even at a helping hand.
Her