A trembling had started inside Sloan’s gut, and again he wondered fiercely why Robert Powell couldn’t have been a cruel bastard, a man to fight or despise.
“You promised not to harp on death!” Sloan said harshly.
“I am not harping, but I am saying now what I will not be able to later. Now, I am done with it. I give you my most solemn vow that I will do my utmost to live.”
Sloan left him then—pleased that at last they were coming near to action. TheSea Hawklay in the harbor, waiting and ready. Sloan had no doubt that he would overpower the guards with no difficulty, leaving them trussed up, and departing with Powell. A nightmare was coming to an end.
All that was left was the wait for the day to arrive. As he always had, Sloan came to the sea to wait; he spent his twilights on the wharf, staring out at his ship, thinking on a dismal future. Because Powell was not lying; he was a dying man. Sloan knew the face of death—he had seen it in Alwyn.
And what then? Brianna would be heavily laden with guilt—he knew her so well. She would blame herself, and she would blame him. He stood with his feet planted far apart, his hands on his hips, and his fingers tightened convulsively as he muttered angrily to the breeze, “Damn her! This time, I do damn her.” Well, she could rot in whatever hell she chose to make for herself. He was done with it.
But then, there was Michael. His son. Robert Powell had given Sloan his blessing to take the child and to give him his natural inheritance. And, by God, he would! Perhaps Brianna could deny and repel him, but the child was his, and he would take him, with or without his mother’s consent, just as Robert Powell had charged him.
Sloan counted off the days, and on the eighteenth he awoke with a feeling of lightheartedness. He felt like a man in his thirties again, in his prime—rather than like a man worn beyond his years. One more day. Tomorrow night, he would be at sea again, facing the wind, feeling the wheel beneath his hands. And, by God, he would cure himself of this! He would live again. He would leave Powell and Brianna in New York—with the child, as long as Robert lived. He would not have to be a part of Robert’s death, and when the time came, he would come for his son.
In the meantime, dammit, he would live! Without war, without continual pain—without insanity such as this!
Perhaps he would go to London—make a new peace with William and Mary, which would be necessary if he were accused of abetting the escape of a witch. Court life would be colorful and filled with women in whom to bury himself, and forget her.
Storm clouds were brewing to the east, but the morning remained bright. He wondered idly where his host had gotten to, since Lord Turnberry was not by nature an early riser. He was staring toward the water, sipping at scalding tea, when he started, hearing the sharp slam of the door at the rear of the house. Rikky came striding toward him; his handsome features were drawn and he was alive with tension.
Sloan was quickly on his feet, eyes narrowed as he watched his friend’s approach. “What is it?” he demanded. He felt the invasion of a dread that tensed his muscles, tore at his gut, made a mist of the day around him.
“I’ve just come from the home of some of Stoughton’s kin. There’s to be an examination at Corwin’s house, Salem, at ten this morning.” He drew a deep, shaky breath. “They’ve pulled in Brianna.”
Chapter 20
There was something very frightening about the way they came for her. It was not like Scotland, where she could hope to run and fight, nor was it like England, where she’d been condemned before she was caught.
It was all very quiet, and very polite. The constables were just at the door, and then they were handing her the warrant—and insisting that she come with them immediately for her examination.
She handed back the warrant. “This is absurd, and I can’t possibly leave my husband. He is very ill.”
Her show of cool outrage didn’t make any difference. She was told that a woman would be sent to stay with Robert, and she might have a minute to take her leave of her husband, if she so chose.
Brianna closed her eyes tightly, then entered the bedchamber with a heavy, heavy heart. She was not so frightened as she was worried. Forcing a smile, she tried to show him a face of complete bravado. “It seems, my husband, that it is my turn to stand before these fools!”
His eyes closed. “No!” he gasped. His pallor terrified her, and she sank to the bed at his side, holding his cheeks between her hands. “Robert! Have faith in me—I am not afraid of them. Believe me when I say that I’ve met the devil in the flesh already in Matthews; these men at least take time to question, misguided as they may be. Oh, trust me, Robert, it will be well!” She paused, gathering strength and will. She’d never spoken about Sloan to him; now she had to. “Robert, no matter what happens, whether they condemn me a thousand times over, I will be all right. Treveryan will spirit us away. And I am not on trial yet—I must go up for examination first.”
He opened his eyes, and his fingers came, trembling, to her cheeks. He touched her softly, as if to memorize the contours of her face and the feel of her flesh. She cried out and leaned against his chest, holding him tenderly.
“Goodwife Powell!”
The constables were pounding on the door. Her time was up. Robert threaded his fingers through her hair. “No fear, my love, know no fear.”
She tried very hard to smile at him. “I am not afraid, Robert, except that they are taking me away from you. But it will not be long; it cannot be long.”
“No,” he said. “It will not be long.”
She hurried to the door, then smiled back at him. “I love you, Robert,” she told him, and then she rushed out, before her courage could fail her.
When the constables reached for her arms, she wrenched herself away. “You needn’t escort me. I see no girls yet whom I might afflict with my gaze or touch. And I am perfectly capable of walking on my own.”
When she was taken to the home of one of the magistrates for her examination, she almost lost control. Some of the ministers were debating furiously against the use of “witch’s teats” for evidence, but prisoners were still being searched for such things on the body. And though her clothing was not cruelly stripped from her as it had been in England, she was taken to a private room by several goodwives and told that she must disrobe or have the matter removed from her hands. Seeing that a protest would serve her only further humiliation, she shed her things and stood in silent lockjawed fury and misery while she was poked and prodded and felt with disgusting intimacy. Nothing so cruel as the prick was used here, nor did it seem necessary. She had a small mole on her shoulder, and the goodwives were solemn as they surveyed it.
“We will look again later,” one of the matrons promised her, meaning to be kind. “Perhaps it will be gone.”
“No! It will not be gone!” she assured them. “It has been there since I was a child, and therefore, if I am a witch, I’ve been one for years!”
