He loved her, yes: loved her as the child she sought to be.
Sloan stood, straightening his shoulders. Brianna was a dream denied him; Alwyn, sweet Alwyn, was his responsibility. He was all she had to shield her from harsh reality. He owed his wife his loyalty and care now. In time he would sail again and find his soul cleansed with the cool sea breezes.
She, too, stared out at the water at Salem Town, where the great ships brought news and supplies from the Mother Country. They had come today because theMariannawas due in—with news on the progress of the ambassadors the Puritans now had in the court of William and Mary.
The Massachusetts Bay Colony was still without her charter, and Increase Mather was working hard to convince the new sovereigns that the charter revoked by Charles Stuart must be regranted.
Brianna did not care much about news of the charter. The Puritans were anxious that those who were not of their faith be forbidden to hold public office, but Brianna could not care much about such things. She thought it an intolerant attitude for a people who had long sought toleration, but she kept her thoughts to herself. She was getting along admirably well. Perhaps there were no highs to her life, no days of excitement, no nights of…
Love. Dear God! Would she never forget him?
She had carved out a life for herself. Robert was, if not all that a husband could be, her friend, and a dear, dear companion. He was Michael’s father now, and at that he excelled. He had given her a home, and he had given her respectability. And he gave her, every day, his devotion and care. If they did not have passion, they did have a form of love. There was always work to be done, and if the sermons delivered in the Salem Town parish were a little strict to Brianna’s mind, it didn’t matter, because among these staid and God-fearing people—His “chosen,” as they called themselves—she had met good friends. They did know how to laugh, and to care. Some were gossips, and some were dear. “God’s Chosen” or not, they were people with the frailties common to all.
The breeze picked up from the harbor. From where she stood in the field across from the docks, Brianna felt it lift her hair and cool her cheeks. The salt smell of the ocean was rich today. And though she had long ago steeled her mind against fancy, the scent of the air brought with it a sharp pain that wound tightly in her abdomen and seemed to reach up and place a stranglehold about her heart.
She closed her eyes, feeling the breeze sweep by, praying that it would ease the pain it had brought.
Time…time should have eased the loss, and the longing. His face should long since have faded from her memory, but it would not. She could see him as clearly today as she had when she had faced him last. His eyes, with their searing, haunting gaze. The height of him, the warmth of him, the strength when he had held her. In her mind’s eye she could reach out with her fingers and feel his face—the contours of his jaw, the sun-bronzed skin of his cheeks, the thick dark brows that arched over his eyes. Reach out…and touch him, and in turn, he would clutch her hand, and bring it tenderly to his lips.…
“Mama!”
The spell was broken. She opened her eyes. The sky was a dull gray today, for winter was coming. The grass was flattening in the field, and out on the sea the great sails of the ships coming to harbor were blown out wide and full.
She turned around. On sturdy little legs Michael was racing to her. His long dark hair was clubbed neatly at his nape, but tendrils were escaping to the wind. He smiled as he neared her, and his eyes flashed in the sunlight, as rich and radiant as the verdant field. He wasn’t quite two and a half years old, but he was already tall and sturdy and vital and wonderfully bright.
“Rabbit!” he told her, catapulting into her arms.
“A rabbit, darling? How nice.”
She embraced him, lifting him even as he protested her crushing hold. He pushed his hands against her shoulders and stared down into her face with those beautiful green eyes that could wrench her heart.
Michael squirmed out of her arms, and she set him down on the ground, taking his hand.
“I want to tell Papa ’bout my rabbit!” he said.
“Yes,” Brianna murmured.
Michael was tugging her toward the street, toward the tavern where Robert was awaiting his friends from the ship. She was ready to follow him, but she paused without thinking, staring out to sea again.
What held her there? Tears burned suddenly and hotly in her eyes. There were just times…when she missed him. Fiercely. Incredibly. Times when she could not stop the dreams of what could never be. Times when she longed for him with an ache in her heart that could not be brought under control.
The war in Ireland was over. That, at least, she knew. She had prayed, night and day, that he would live. She had promised God that she would cease to want him—if only God would grant that he would live. But it was not an easy promise to fulfill.
“Mama?”
Michael pulled at her hand, staring up at her with curiosity—and a strange look of understanding that was very unusual for one so young. He was concerned; he did not know what hurt her, only that something did.
She gave herself a little shake and stared down at her child. Her love for him suddenly seemed to pour out of her like the rush of a geyser, and she picked him up again, cradling him tightly to her heart.
Life was good. She could not have Sloan, but she had their son. She had Michael. And as long as she had him, she had everything.
And she had Robert, as kind and gentle a man as had ever walked the earth. They had a good life. She was content.
As long as she kept her eyes from straying to the sea.
January 1692
A cold wind blew in from the sea. Winter had come that year with a chilling blast, as if the season itself had life and menace. He stood on the cliffs with the wind whipping around him, watching the terrible power of the sea and feeling powerless himself.
