The Wedding Bargain

Picking up another garment, she absently began to repair a three-cornered rent, her mind calling up images of Ezra. Tall, his fair hair and blue eyes making him seem younger than his years, he had impressed her father with his serious mien and devotion to the Scriptures.

Ezra had turned his back on the false and dangerous English church and had followed the Bible’s clear words and truths. He had been so persecuted and plagued by the clergy and authorities in his hometown that he had been forced to emigrate.

After seven years in Boston, he had joined the small Puritan settlement at Mystic. A marriage had been quickly arranged between sixteen-year-old Charity and this enlightened man of God. Ten years they had been wed before Ezra’s untimely death.

Charity could still feel a terrible heartache when she thought of Ezra, good, kind Ezra, lying motionless and silent, his head at an awkward angle, his chest pierced by a bloody, feathered shaft. Yesterday a surge of that remembered pain had swept over her as she knelt beside the limp figure of her new bondman and realized the extent of his injuries.

The needle moved slowly as she analyzed that flood of feeling. Fear? Guilt? Concern? Physical awareness? A combination of them all? Her thoughts collided, merged.

She shouldn’t have been so impulsive as to purchase a bond servant. She’d never known a man who could call up such conflicting emotions in her. She had wanted to throttle him, only fate had already done that for her.

Initial fright and indignation had been quickly swamped by concern. Between them, she and the twins had managed, with no little effort, to transfer the unconscious man from the wagon into the parlor and onto a couch. He had been no mean weight!

And yes, there had been an element of physical awareness when she had attended him. Warm sensations had enveloped her as she removed the tattered shirt.

Charity’s hands stilled with the memory. The sight of that hair-roughened chest, crisscrossed with recently healed wounds, had made her fingers tingle with the urge to feel the warmth and texture of him. She shook her head and grimaced. Lord, what a ninny she was, having such wondrous and shocking fancies at her age! Why, she was no better than a foolish, lovesick girl!

“Where do you keep…”

Charity jerked, dropping the shirt she had been mending. Her heart started to thunder sickeningly in her breast. The bondman stood framed in the doorway, shoulders square, feet apart, still and taut. In his hands was the heavy old wheel-lock rifle that was always left hanging on a special brass hook above the mantel.

Why had she not thought to secure the weapon?

“Sorry.” A rueful expression crossed his face. He propped the rifle against the hutch and bent to retrieve the shirt. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Charity flushed. Her hands trembling, she tucked an errant strand of hair beneath her coif. “‘Startled’ is an understatement,” she managed to say.

Feeling gauche, she shoved the shirt into her sewing basket. It was galling to notice that her fingers still shook as she fastened the lid and placed the basket on a small table. Straightening, she turned. He had moved. He now stood in front of her, feet squarely planted.

“I’d like to be frank with you.” His voice was purposeful, as if he had something momentous to impart. “I think you should know—”

He stopped abruptly, looked at her, his golden eyes glittering with some suppressed emotion. Charity felt the heat of his eyes as if it were a palpable sensation, and a small, expectant shiver ran through her. All her earlier uneasiness returned. She clenched her hands together.

“Do you intend to murder us?” She tried for a light tone. It did not work. His mouth went tight, and his eyes narrowed into shadowed slits.

“Hell, no! I came to say that I’ll keep watch outside.”

Charity sat forward abruptly, queasy at the thought that Rafe suspected the Pequots might be prowling around the farmhouse. Her heart lurched over, then settled into a rapid drumroll.

She lifted her chin challengingly. “You have some reason?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded sharp.

He shook his head swiftly. “The ‘coon has been tied up all day. She needs some exercise.”

Charity, however, was not deceived. She knew that a man fleeing from justice did not think clearly. He had a chance to get away now. The odds were in his favour. She clenched her teeth, suddenly feeling angry. Not only would she be fifty pounds poorer, but Amos Saybrook’s will would prevail. Terrified, she forced herself to breathe slowly. “You do not intend to try and escape?”

A curious stillness gripped Rafe. He stood there as if made of stone, his forehead whitely limned. A dull red stained the high bones of his cheeks, emphasising his jaw’s strength and sweep.

“You will stay?” Unspoken words—Please don’t do this to me—or to God—but most of all, don’t damn yourself—hung like tiny dust motes in a sunbeam.

A silence, heavy with significance, stretched between them. Charity stood there waiting, as if unwilling to break into his thoughts.

Rafe studied her a long time before he spoke. Then, in a single breath, he whispered the words she wanted to hear and shut the gate to freedom.

“I’ll stay.”

Chapter Four (#ulink_0dc922a0-ae43-588c-82c2-fa196da20d81)

From the top of Mystic Ridge on a clear day you could see forever. Today was such a one. There was not a hint of dampness in the air. Reaching the crest of the rocky outcrop, Charity sank down, breathing heavily, and unfastened her bonnet.

The rough, foot-worn track was a shortcut from Whitewater, but the hill was steep and the sun, two hours beyond zenith, simmered hotly overhead. Next time she went to visit Martha Schofield she would go the long way round and take the pony.

Charity swung her leather pouch off her shoulder and removed her bonnet. Her thick red braids fell to her waist. She lifted them from her shoulders, allowing the breeze to cool her neck as she thought about her visit to Whitewater.

Usually, Martha ran forward to hug her and exclaim delightedly. Today she had been grim and tight-lipped. Nothing, it seemed, would bring a smile to her face.

Cotton Schofield had appeared pleased to see Charity. He was a soft-spoken, almost inarticulate man with thick brown hair and skin the color of tanned leather. He grinned a shy welcome.

“How’s the baby?” Charity demanded tightly.

Martha did not reply.

It was Cotton Schofield who answered. “Oh, she’s thriving now. We’ve been giving her the cordial regular, like you said, ‘n’ now you’d hardly know her. Look.”

Relieved, Charity smiled. It must have been the longest speech he’d ever made. Cotton led the way to the wicker basket and turned back the shawl from the little face.

Charity felt her heart stir at the sight of the petite creature. “Oh, Martha! She’s truly bonny. There’s even color in her cheeks. You are truly blessed to have a girl child.”

“Perhaps when you and Amos marry, you will be as fortunate.”

“I don’t intend to marry Amos Saybrook.” Charity’s head lifted in its familiar, proud way. “I don’t want to marry at all. Nor do I need to. I have Mystic Ridge and the boys.”

“It isn’t good for a woman to remain single. No good at all.”

Charity was not so sure. An unwed woman might own her own property, contract debts and run her own business. But a married woman, so far as the law was concerned, existed only in her husband. He had the use of all her real property and absolute possession of all her personal property, even the clothes on her back, and he could bequeath them to somebody else in his will. He was entitled to beat her for any faults. He had complete power over his wife and children. A wife’s duty was submission to whatever a husband commanded.

It was far better and safer to remain unwed. Except to conceive a girl child, of course. A lump tightened in her throat. Why did she suddenly think of the bondman? Her heart palpitated at the thought.

“I’ll marry the man I want…” Her gaze went to the cradle. “And then maybe I’ll have…” She placed her fingers on the baby’s soft cheek, the touch as light as thistledown.

Martha’s lips twisted. She hesitated, but only for a moment. “Don’t get too high-flown, Charity. Ezra is gone. You’re bound to marry again. Amos Saybrook is a good size and as strong as an ox, well able to defend you if there is an Indian uprising.”

“I’m not high-flown, Martha. I just know what I want, and I intend to get it.” Charity was quite surprised to find that her voice was steady. “Same as Jeremy here. He wants up, don’t you, young man?”

Clutching her skirts was Jeremy, who could scarcely walk upright. The child’s small, unstable legs still betrayed him occasionally, and he was fretful with the fever that often accompanied a new tooth. Charity lifted him to her hip. He cried loudly and fiercely and clung to her neck with both arms.

Before Martha could reply, Cotton cut in. “It ain’t any of our business what you do, Charity. Just remember, you’ve got to be practical. Would you like some refreshment?”

Charity accepted the offer of some fresh milk and corn bread. She sat on a stool beside the table, Jeremy cuddled on her lap, and sipped at the cup of milk Cotton had given her.