“Did she come to you, then? Did you see her, Brianna Powell? Oh, it’s too late!” The girl wailed, hugging the child. “They came today, with a warrant for Robert. I told them he was too ill, but they would not even leave him in his home until the examination! Robert would not protest; he was anxious to leave with Brianna still gone!”
“Where did they take him? Salem—or Boston?”
“Salem—they do not transfer prisoners to Boston until they have been examined. Oh—oh, dear Lord!” she said, and then she burst into tears, which started the little boy crying too.
Sloan stepped forward to grip her shoulders around the child’s quaking body. “Stop, lass, you must,” he said quietly. “We will do something. But first, where is Brianna now?” He longed to wrench the boy—his son—from her. It was good that the situation was so urgent.
“I don’t know. When they took Robert, I ran with Michael. They’ve arrested even a five-year-old, you know. I wanted to bring him home, to do something. You don’t know where she is?”
“No,” Sloan said worriedly. “Could you two have crossed one another without meeting?”
“Yes, yes! I came through the woods. Our property adjoins.”
“I’ll find her,” Sloan promised, and he leapt back on his mount. He couldn’t believe that she could have outdistanced him so completely, and started for the farm at a gallop.
He had not gone far along the path when he saw her. She was mounting a haggard old mare.
“Brianna!” Sloan shouted, moving to block her escape.
She didn’t seem to recognize him, as her wild eyes seemed to look through him. “Give way!” she demanded hoarsely.
“No!” He twisted his mount about and caught the mare’s reins. “Stop this!” he commanded her.
Some flicker of recognition flashed through her eyes, but was quickly gone. Her jaw hardened. “Give way. I’ve got to get to town.”
She wrenched so hard on the reins that the horse neighed and she broke Sloan’s grasp. The nag took off.
Sloan chased her. It was not difficult, because his mount was stronger. He reached for her reins but could not grasp them. He was forced to lean forward and pushed her from the saddle. He leaped from his horse as she rolled into slush and foliage, the breath knocked from her. Their horses, unattended, ran away.
“Damn you!” Brianna raged, staggering from the mud. “Damn you! You don’t understand. They’ve taken Robert!”
“And damn you for being an idiot!” he charged, trying to hold her. She was wild; never had she fought with such ferocity. He realized that she was beyond reason.
“Brianna—” he tried one last time. She leaned her head forward, biting deeply into his arm. He swore, shaking off her hold. He knew that if he was to help Robert, he had to do it alone. Brianna would only complicate the situation and possibly put them all in danger. He had to stop her. Hating himself, he waited until she raised her head again, then locked his hand into a fist and struck her jaw.
She went limp, falling into his arms. He picked her up and carried her back to the house.
It was a small place, he discovered as he pushed open the door with his boot. A main room with a hearth and a side room. The door to that was open and illuminated by the dying blaze in the hearth. Sloan went through it with her, and laid her down on the large trundle bed. He sat at her side, running his fingers through her hair.
He should take her away, he thought dully—let her scream and despise him. It might be better than what would come.
A sound alerted him and he stood, ready to fight. It was just the woman he had seen on the road, holding the now-sleeping child. Sloan relaxed.
“Is she—is she hurt?” the woman asked worriedly.
“I’ve hit her. She should awaken soon,” Sloan replied tonelessly. And then he saw that the blond girl looked as if she, too, were about to fall. He came to her, at last having a chance to hold the child.
“Let me,” he murmured, taking the boy from her. She gave him over easily, and as Sloan held him he felt both warm and shivery. This was his son—his own flesh, his own blood.
He closed his eyes and felt the child’s little fingers close around his. Then he placed him in the small bed at the foot of Brianna’s bed.
“I’ll bring you some ale,” the girl said dully. She left the darkened room. Sloan stared down at his son. He gently touched the pitch-dark hair and could not help touching his lips to the small forehead. The child sighed. Sloan was shaken.
He went to Brianna’s side. Her cheek, when he touched it, was cold. Sloan pulled the covers over her and tried to see her jaw. She would have a small bruise. It hurt to see his own handiwork, but he’d had no choice.
“Come, have your ale.”
Sloan looked to the doorway and the blond woman stood there. She turned, and he followed her out to the main room, where she indicated the deacon’s pew. He sat and accepted the tankard she handed him.
