For an instant she froze, and then she jumped to do his bidding, shielding herself with the screen and peeking around it.
To her horror she saw that he was about to open the door.
Chapter 4
“What the bloody hell do you want, Matthews?”
The Welshman’s voice bellowed angrily within the small room. Behind the screen, Brianna tried desperately to still her shivering, and yet she could not. Her life hung in the balance in these seconds.
Despite the danger she had to peek around the corner of the screen. She could see only Sloan Treveryan, who was clad in nothing but his breeches, while Matthews was in full dress; still, it was the sea captain who appeared the most threatening. Brianna was gratified to see that Matthews took a step backward when challenged by Treveryan.
“You bed with a witch, Milord Treveryan,” Matthews stated, his voice rather politer now. “I ask only for the harlot. For the good of your immortal soul—”
“My immortal soul is my concern, Matthews,” Sloan interrupted coolly, “as are my bedding habits. Get out of my doorway.”
“Milord, I do not care to enter by force—”
“Enter by force and it is your life that will be forfeit,” Sloan interrupted once more with harsh assurance.
“I am on the king’s business—”
“For a king who sits upon a shaky throne. A king who must now placate his nobles, since the Prince of Orange looks ever toward England.”
“Take heed, Welshman.”
“You take heed, Matthews. I would cheerfully run you through with my sword; I spare your worthless life begrudgingly. Trouble me no further. I am soundly aware that James wants no nobles—Welsh, Scottish, or English—disturbed. I would take great pleasure in reporting to your king that you barged into my bedroom and most rudely disturbed my leisure activities.”
Brianna could see Matthews’s face, choked by rage, turn into an ugly mask.
“You are a traitor, Treveryan,” he told Sloan. And suddenly Brianna wondered if there was more going on here than she knew.
“Nay—never a traitor to the people,” Sloan retorted, “but you, Matthews, are a cold-blooded murderer.”
“He who deals with the devil becomes the devil,” Matthews charged, pointing a finger toward Sloan’s chest. “And witch doth harbor witch! I charge you—”
“I charge you to get your ugly carcass out of my doorway this instant!” Sloan demanded with quiet, deathly fury. Again Matthews took a step backward, his gaunt face with its fevered eyes acquiring a considerable pallor. Brianna swallowed back a gasp as she saw why; Lord Treveryan was now brandishing a cutlass. The finely honed muscles in Sloan’s shoulders and back rippled—as if with impatience. “Get out of here, Matthews!” Sloan commanded once more. “And disturb me no more!”
“Leave him be!” Brianna heard the voice of one of the officers standing behind Matthews in the hall whisper loudly with nervousness. “James will surely have you set to the stake if he hears that you have created problems with Treveryan.”
“Treveryan is trouble!” Matthews declared.
“Aye, that I am,” Sloan said with a soft threat.
Matthews paused only a moment longer, visibly shrinking from the razor edge of the cutlass aimed toward him. “I am going, Treveryan. Take your heathen pleasure with the girl. But know this: I will find her. She is a witch and an affront to God and all men who are holy. I will see that she burns. And I will pray that your soul can be saved from the clutches of the devil.”
Sloan threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t pray for my soul, Matthews. They already call me the devil, and there have been times in the past when the crown was glad to do so. Pray for your own soul. You seek out this girl for your own lust, Matthews, but I promise”—he paused, the laughter leaving his voice—“she will never be touched by dirt such as yourself. Now, get out of here.”
“I’m leaving, Treveryan, but I will get the girl.”
“You will get the girl?” Sloan ridiculed. “And then what, Matthews? Will you answer to the law you claim to serve? Will there be a trial? Will you torture a confession from her? Torture is illegal, Matthews, in Scotland as in England.”
“Never have I tortured an accused person.”
“Never? What do you call it, sir, when you seek your ‘witches’ marks,’ stabbing your victims with your picks until they can feel nothing at all? Declaring when they no longer scream that you have found their devil’s mark?”
“That is legal procedure.”
“Damn your form of legal procedure, Matthews. And damn you—you make a mockery of justice.”
