Dated Salem May 27, 1692
John Hathorne
Jonathan Corwin Assistants
Brianna read the warrant several times over. Then she dropped it and started to scream. But there was no one to hear her, only the wind to carry her screams to places unknown.
Chapter 17
Sloan barely had time to reflect on the promises he had given Brianna before the door burst open again. He turned, somehow expecting her, yet not knowing what good it could do if she did return.
Rikky was back, not Brianna, and agitation was evident in his gray eyes and his quick stride.
“She is gone?” he asked Sloan.
Sloan nodded, frowning.
Rikky crossed the room, grabbing his arm, leading him from the room as he spoke. “Go after her. She will reach home to find that her husband has just been taken.”
“What?” Sloan demanded, drawing back. He stared at Turnberry, eyes narrowing. “What are you saying?” he demanded harshly.
Rikky shook his head with impatience. “Listen to me, please! I heard at the wharf that a warrant had been issued for her husband, Robert Powell—and that it was about to be served. Powell has been arrested by now, and there is nothing you can do for him had you a mind to. But you must get to her! If she creates trouble, I promise you that there will be a warrant out for her by tomorrow.”
“They can’t—” Sloan began incredulously.
“They can!” Rikky assured him. “It’s mad—but legal! The magistrates have been assigned by the royal governor! This isn’t James anymore, it’s William and Mary! Legal procedure, legal warrants, legal examinations—and public trials to come!”
“I’ve got to get her!” Sloan rasped out.
“Aye, aye,” Rikky agreed, but he was grasping Sloan’s arm in a desperate attempt to keep him back. “But you must use great sense and discretion! There are ways to get people out—jailors who can be bribed and the like. Let me work on it, Sloan. If you lock horns with the government now, it can never be reconciled.”
“I don’t care.”
“You have to care, Sloan, for the child.”
Sloan went dead-still, startled that Cedric Turnberry knew about Michael—and that he himself had forgotten.
“Very well,” Sloan said, exhaling a long breath. “I’ll be discreet. But if they come for her, Rikky, I’ll say damnation against William and Mary as well as James.” He inhaled deeply, then took Rikky’s hand. “My thanks, good friend.”
Rikky smiled. “My horse is outside. Go.”
He went, riding like the wind that had arisen—a wretched, cold wind that chilled the bones. Before he reached the path to the Powell farm, Sloan slowed his gait, narrowing his eyes against the darkness. There was a woman moving along in the darkness at a hurried pace; a woman clutching a child who whimpered, and fought her hold.
It was not Brianna. The moon glowed down on hair that was very blond. He nudged the horse forward; she turned and saw him and started to run.
“Wait!” Sloan cried out. His heart was hammering, for the child she carried was Michael. “Wait! I swear before God, I am a friend!”
She paused, clutching the child very tightly. He cried out in protest, trying to beat at her breast with chubby fists.
“Papa! Papa! I want Papa back! Where is Mama, ’Leanore? Let me go!”
“Hush, Michael!” The woman commanded distractedly. She looked at Sloan nervously while he dismounted from his horse. He came to her, and she shrank away. “Who are you?” Her eyes raked over his clothing, which was clearly not the simple fabric of their Puritan homes.
“Treveryan, girl. My name is Sloan Treveryan.”
Her eyes, large and dark and very lovely, widened. “Lord Treveryan! The ship’s captain!”
“Aye, and who—”
