And then suddenly she was ushered into the room. The butler was gone, closing the door behind him, and Sloan turned.
But he had changed. His face was as bronzed as ever, contrasting with the sharp jade color of his eyes, but there were new lines about those eyes, and his cheeks seemed more gaunt. Perhaps it was his expression that had changed. He seemed both tired and worn, even more so than on the day they had parted and she had seen how deeply anguish could etch itself into a man’s features.
He held his hands still clasped behind his back, as if keeping them there to exercise the most stalwart control. His eyes moved over her slowly, and she could read no emotion in them. Nor did his features alter—he might have been surveying a stranger.
“Brianna,” he said at last. And then he turned from her, and walked to the window. What he watched out on the road she did not know, but it had his attention and she did not. Her mouth was dry, her body quivered.
He turned back to her quite suddenly. “May I get you something to drink?” he inquired politely. She shook her head, somewhat stricken as she watched him turn from the window, his gaze never leaving hers.
“Come, have a glass of port with me.”
Still she could not leave the safety of the door. He walked to the rear of the comfortable room, to a sideboard containing a crystal decanter and matching glasses. Into the glasses he poured the ruby-red liquid, and then his long strides brought him disturbingly near.
He handed her a glass. With trembling fingers she reached for it and felt again the full scrutiny of his gaze. But then he moved inward again, sweeping his arm to indicate the settee.
“Sit down, Goodwife Powell. I’m anxious to hear the purpose of this visit.”
She was not sure that she could walk, and yet she did.
Lowering her eyes, she swept quickly by him, reaching the settee none too soon, else she would have fallen. Her hand clutched the crystal wine goblet as if it were her salvation. Once she was seated, she very quickly took a sip of the liquid, so very grateful that it moistened the dry tinder of her throat.
He did not sit, but stood instead behind the green velvet chair that faced the settee.
He lifted his glass, and a hint of his old arrogant smile curled the corners of his mouth.
“To you, Goodwife Powell. To…past associations.”
She could not raise her glass again. He shrugged and tossed back his head to drain his own. Something about him changed then, as if he were a night-stalker tiring of an unexpected chase. Had she forgotten that his eyes could gleam like those of a wary cat, hard and cold as marble? That his tension, unleashed, was like the portent of a storm within the confines of a room?
“Why have you come, Brianna?” he demanded sharply, and his tone, both husky and brushed with fury, stole her breath away. “Why?”
She winced as if lashed by his words, and suddenly her plea came rushing from her. “I need your help.”
“For what?”
“I—I wish to leave Salem, Village and Town. I—”
She broke off, because he was bitterly laughing. “Why are you still here, madam? Of all women, you should know that when a witch-hunt begins, it does not end until countless innocent souls are laid bare to bleed.”
“We couldn’t leave.” She swallowed, tightly clutching her port. “Robert can not travel the roads in his condition. His lungs cannot take the dirt, nor would his heart sustain such a journey.”
His expression did not change or falter; he continued to stare at her, until slowly he smiled. “I see. You have come to ask me for a favor. For passage for you and your husband. And that is all.”
She did not want to meet his gaze; her eyes refused to fall at her mind’s command. “Yes,” she whispered.
He picked up his glass again—and she started when he sent it flying across the room to crash against the hearth and fall, shattered, into the ashes. His fingers, as taut as talons, gripped the rich velvet upholstery of the chair.
“That is all?” he grated hoarsely. Before she could do more than emit a startled cry, he was around the chair and beside her on the settee, catching her chin in his hand, studying her eyes with a blazing anger and something quite close to hatred.
“Myson, Brianna! That child is my son, my flesh, my blood! And you did not see fit to allow me to see him, or even to tell me.”
Brianna wrenched her chin from his grasp, got up quickly from the settee, dropping her wine, and ran to the door. He caught her forcefully by the shoulders, spinning her around, then holding her to him. But it was not a lover’s caress; it was not longing she saw in his eyes—just fury leashed with a hard and cold demand for explanation.
She tossed her head back angrily to meet his assault. “Michael is not your son, Sloan.”
“Liar!” he charged her with a furious shake.
“He is not!” she railed in reply, heedless of his anger. “Robert is his father. Robert married me and gave Michael his name and a home—and his presence and his love! How dare you—”
