The Wedding Bargain. Emily French
Читать онлайн книгу.
almost sound as if you are chiding me.”
Thirza was very small, a little brown bird, all bones and temper. Her eyes snapped with reproach. “Maybe I am.”
Charity didn’t move, but there was tension in every line of her body. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “Heavens above, Thirza! ’Tis not some den of iniquity!”
“How can you be so calm about it, Charity? Even without Amos Saybrook’s natural jealousy, as tithing man he will argue that you are lost to all sense of propriety to have a man lodge here without a chaperon.”
There was conviction and something more in the look Thirza gave her. Charity realized her mouth was open, gaping. She closed it with a snap and suddenly laughed. “The man is unconscious, Thirza!”
Her neighbor was stubborn. “It is not circumspect.”
“You don’t think the parlor is the most logical place to put him, under the circumstances?”
“Why don’t I have Hiram bring the trap over and remove the bondman to Longacre?” Thirza persisted doggedly.
“No! That is out of the question!”
“Not even for your children’s sake?”
Charity went stark white. Suddenly she felt extremely tired, emotionally deplete and on the verge of tears. “No! If Master Trehearne is moved, even greater damage could occur.”
“It is up to parents to set a good example for their children, and the example you are setting does not fall anywhere near what is required by the elders.” Thirza pressed forward, as if sensing victory.
Charity lifted both hands, palms forward. “I have attended to the ills of this entire community for nigh on five years. I am charged with the bondman’s welfare.”
“My dear, of course you are. Perhaps I misspoke. But you cannot have a man in the house. ’Tis preposterous.”
Charity leapt to her feet, her shoes making a loud thud on the wooden floor. “The elders have always respected my powers of healing. I’ll not have it said that my conduct is suddenly unbecoming or improper because I use the gifts the Lord has given me!”
“You are making a big mistake, Charity.” Thirza’s words were clipped and precise. She rose and stomped to the door where she paused. “This bid for freedom will end in disaster for you and the boys. Think on it.” An angry rustle of skirts and Thirza was gone.
Charity stubbornly lowered her eyes.
At her feet lay the charred remnant of the moth that last night had fluttered on impotent wings, trying to escape. It lay there, shriveled, lifeless, the wings that had beaten so madly for freedom now singed by the flames.
She stood there, not moving, for a long, long time.
It was the old game; Rafe knew it well. The place was silent as the grave, but he was not dead. Half opening his eyes, he could see a pattern of sunlight, golden, hazy, dancing on a timber-paneled wall. Opening them a little farther brought into his vision the edge of a richly carved wooden dresser and a fringe of some heavy cloth.
He opened his eyes wide. On the wall above the dresser hung a text in a crisscross frame, bearing the words Thou God Seest Me and illumined with an enormous blue eye.
The room was strange. He had no idea where he was or how he had got there. Rafe lifted his head cautiously, frowning for a moment down the long length of white shroud, the swathed hillock of his feet. He bent both elbows and examined the wrist wrappings. He put his hands to his head, felt the wadding.
Nothing made any sense. Was he dead? No. His head ached too damnably. Death was no difficult matter—he was convinced of that. Yet somehow it was denied him. He had a distinct recollection of the battle.
Great numbers of the enemy had swept suddenly upon them, had surrounded them and swallowed them up. He was the only man left. His sword arm was leaden and his feet dragged. Before him was a blur of movement, of faces and bayonets and hatchets. The ground trembled and his ears were filled with noise. With feet apart and knees bent, he raised his sword instinctively.
The next second the combined weight of four soldiers bore him struggling to the ground. He threw them off and, grasping a man’s arm, snapped it like a twig, but another smashed the heavy butt of a rifle across his brow. His senses reeled, but, shaking his head, he climbed to his knees. A second blow, on the nape of the neck, felled him…
Slowly, cautiously, he curled and uncurled his fingers, then passed them over his face, feeling the normal early morning roughness. How had he escaped—if he had? He had nothing to live for. Yet it seemed that he could not die.
Why was he not dead? Perhaps it was illusion and he was taking a long time to die. He sighed and turned on his side. Chance was undoubtedly working in his favor. The tide of battle had swept on, and he was…
Rafe caught his breath at the faint scent of lavender. His nostrils dilated. Memory came flooding back. The mulestubborn little Puritan!
He recalled the warm, soft body twisting under him, her legs tangled with his. His head felt oddly light, as if it were full of air, a bubble of prismatic colors that might burst into nothingness at any moment. But his body was heavy, taut with denial, the intoxicating female smell reminding him of needs almost forgotten.
A little aching sound came from his throat. He must think! Rafe’s fingers gripped the edge of the sheet. For a moment he felt angry, afraid, betrayed and lost.
There had been accusation of collaboration with the enemy…His own indignant protestation of innocence…His colonel looking sick, casting him off…
The pain of it! That moment when Sir Thomas had turned away from him, given orders for Rafe to be locked in one of the stone-built storerooms at the fort to await punishment…as if the years of loyalty and commitment to the Crown had been for nothing…
“Let him be hanged as a traitor!”
Rafe supposed he must have protested. He could only remember staring at them in disbelief. True, the colonel’s personal papers had been found in his knapsack, but how they got there he had no idea. Or at least, he had some idea of how the trick had worked, but it was impossible to accuse the colonel’s faithful and trusted batman of theft or of bearing false witness against him.
General Pakenham had presided over that travesty of a court martial, listening to accusations and half-truths that could not be disproved, only denied. It was Sir Thomas who had pleaded extenuating circumstances, recalling Rafe’s previous gallantry under fire and reminding the court that the accused was Viscount Litchfield, Lord Brougham’s son and heir.
To the devil with armies and battles and honor! Now Rafe had seven years to serve in the colonies. Seven years of bondage to Charity Frey. Well, let it be so!
Yet though he told himself that all would be well, he was filled with a feeling of depression he could not shake off.
So what was bothering him? That the woman had shown kindness and compassion to a known rogue? Or that the courage of a woman determined to hold her own against insurmountable odds stirred long-forgotten feelings? Why read into her motives some sinister meaning?
Charity. The name meant giving, or Christian love. It was a good name for her. He wished her well, but, hell, he wanted out. He wanted his freedom—not further complications.
He heard a gentle movement—felt it, really, as one catches the whiff of a scent—and his body knotted from throat to thigh. A new fear washed over him.
She was coming! He trembled. His gaze moved beyond the end of the couch to the open door. It was not her.
Isaac Frey stood by the door, one hand on the knob, as if about to flee. How Rafe knew it was Isaac