“He was?” An ache grew in Brianna’s heart, and yet she was glad that George was telling her this.
“Aye. When Cromwell defeated Charles I, a witchfinder named Matthew Hopkins became the scourge of England. Thousands died at his hands.” He hesitated. “Robin was quite willing to do battle with Matthews.”
“But the devil does exist!” Darton exclaimed. “If we, as good Christians, believe in our God, we must know of the devil.”
“I believe in God,” Brianna said. “And there might well be a devil. But I know, too, what it is to be innocent—and persecuted.”
“Persecution was once much worse,” George told her. “They say that James I, back in 1598, had been threatened by a wizard. To extract confession, the wizard was tortured. His fingernails were ripped out and he was beaten unmercifully. Nor are we English alone the barbarians! In one German city nine hundred witches were executed in one scourge.”
Brianna’s face paled and her stomach heaved. “George!” Darton cut in sharply. “Take care of your speech, seaman, I charge you.”
“I’m sorry,” George said quickly. “Brianna, I did not mean—”
“I’m all right, George, truly,” she assured him. But though she had long ignored her own draft of ale, she smiled a little painfully and consumed half of it. Lord Darton was quickly changing the conversation. “Young George, have you heard? Lord Treveryan and I have decided upon Upsinwich as the port in which to berth.”
“Upsinwich? ’Tis a Puritan community, is it not?”
“Aye. Men who may not be fond of the Church of England, but who surely stand against the Pope.”
Brianna almost choked on her ale. “Puritans?” she inquired.
“Aye,” Lord Darton said curiously. “Why do you inquire so?”
“I—uh—I have family of the Puritan persuasion,” Brianna murmured. They were not from Upsinwich, but they were not far inland.
She noticed then that both men were staring at her curiously. “What is wrong?” she asked them.
“Oh, nothing,” Darton answered quickly.
George hesitated, twisting his jaw. “Brianna, this Matthew Hopkins who executed so many witches with such zeal was a Puritan.”
She stared at George, then laughed, a thing she had thought she might never do again. “George! The Powells are my family! They are kind and good—and wonderful, I promise you.”
George shrugged. “I’m sorry, Brianna. It’s just that I do find their leanings to be strange.” He finished his ale quickly. “I must be back on duty. Brianna—may I take you to your cabin?”
She did not get a chance to answer. Darton was sighing and rising. “I, too, must meet with the men who were under my command. George, you will see to Brianna?”
“Aye, aye, sir!” George said respectfully, and Brianna went with him back to the lonely cabin.
But at least now she had something to think about other than grief. If they came into Upsinwich, she would have the opportunity, possibly, to receive news on the Powells. And since it seemed quite obvious that Sloan no longer cared…
She stood still in the center of the cabin, knotting her fingers together in her lap as she fought a wave of surging depression. When he had come for her, when he saved her…
Somehow she had dreamed that he would sweep her into his arms and hold her as if she were a fragile flower, a precious gem. And he would whisper that he could not have stood it had she died; that his life would have no meaning without her; that he would tell her he would ignore all obstacles, all barriers of class and nation and creed—and make her his wife.
“Fool!” she whispered aloud, yet she found herself racing the short distance across the cabin to hurl herself on the bed, and though she had been certain that she had already been bled dry of tears, she cried once more. All the while she tried furiously to tell herself that surely she had learned that life was the most wonderful gift, and Sloan owed her nothing more, for twice he had granted her that gift. Whatever her future held, she was blessed to be alive.
Her tears at last dried and she rose numbly to pace the cabin and at last to stare blankly upon the wardrobe. Sloan’s treatment of her was all for the best, for she must find infinite strength if she was going to be able to offer him her most heartfelt gratitude—yet plan to leave him still. Quietly. She would never risk a recurrence of what had happened at Port Quinby, though such a thing could not happen again, Matthews being dead.
But her life still remained a question—one with little hope of a decent answer. And she was worried now that she could bring trouble and heartache to the Powells.
Her thoughts and the beat of her heart seemed to cease simultaneously as she heard the rasp of the door. She did not turn, but she knew that Sloan had entered the room. His presence was as dominating as his character; his masculine scent of clean air and sea wafted about her like a breeze.
She turned, facing him. He had come to her at last. It was wrong, but she knew the greatest joy.
“My lord?” Her query was breathless. She could not read or understand what his tensely drawn features concealed. He closed the cabin door firmly behind him, and then leaned against it, arms staunchly folded across his chest. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came. He cleared his throat impatiently, and when his words came they were husky and harsh.
“Girl, if you ever pull a stunt again such as that one at Port Quinby, I’ll tie you to the mast!”
