The Wedding Bargain

Unable to hold his gaze any longer, she lowered her head. “If you would stand back a little, Master Trehearne, I will have one of my sons pass me a tool.”

Hands clasped behind him, Amos Saybrook watched Charity thread her way toward her wagon. In her modest black dress, with its white, starched collar that came all the way up to her chin, and wearing a black bonnet that hid all of her hair, she still had an air of conceit about her that sat ill with him.

Following that thought came another that dwelled longer in his mind. Leah had come to him with her tale of outrage. Charity’s forthright manner was discomposing, and she had the manners of a Hottentot, but she had land, valuable land, and a spirit that he would enjoy taming.

Amos scanned the rapidly thinning crowd. There would be no militia parade today. The crowd had already watched a better show, and audience and amateur soldiers alike were starting for their far-flung homes before dark.

He frowned, thinking of the poor, miserable specimens who had been willing to sell themselves for the price of passage to the American colonies. Vermin and trash for the most part. Out-and-out heathens to boot. Probably never in their lives had they been to church. They were no better than a pack of savages.

Look at the big fellow now! Shuffling like an old man, as if he was so tired he could barely stand. And Charity Frey preferred to take that trash instead of a good, Godfearing, law-abiding man such as himself.

If there was anything Amos could do about it, well, then it would be different. But hadn’t he already eliminated his friend, Ezra Frey, and made out that those damn thievin’ Pequots had done it?

His anger grew to a new peak, almost of frenzy. Leah might rant and rave and urge him to take what he wanted, but he knew better. Behind those luminous, blue green eyes and that soft voice, Charity Frey had quite an independent mind and a strong will.

And her will said no to the giving of herself—for the moment.

A sly and malicious feminine voice spoke so close to his ear that Amos jumped. “It appears all your conniving and scheming have been to no avail, Brother Amos. The pigeon has escaped.”

“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”

In spite of his efforts to keep his voice calm, Amos’s ruffled ego betrayed itself in his voice, and Leah’s head came up sharply. “It could be beneficial to your cause to give the Lord a hand in this matter, Amos.”

Her brother’s eyes were on Charity and her bondman, standing ever so close, almost intimately, beside the wagon, and he spoke as if he was thinking of something else. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways, Leah.”

Amos stood for another moment lost in thought. He nodded his head slowly as if in full agreement with some unspoken conviction of his own, then abruptly walked stiffly toward the couple.

Leah had the idea he had been about to tell her something of importance, and she wanted to hear it, but he was gone.

“Can I help you with that vermin, Charity?”

Amos Saybrook looked down his great long nose and spoke in a high, squeaky voice that completely belied his heavy jowls and enormous bulk. “Thank you, Amos. I have but to loosen this last link.

There, ’tis done.” There was a satisfying clatter as the shackles hit the dirt. The boys cheered loudly at the sound.

Charity smiled softly and turned to Rafe. He was staring at his hands as though they were strange objects. She heard him draw a deep breath. Her smile broadened. “There would seem no reason to delay our departure further, Master Trehearne.”

Rafe curved his hand as though he wished he had something to crush in it. He looked up. For an instant, their eyes met. He blinked. “Thank you, Mistress Frey.” It was barely a whisper.

Amos made a harsh sound and straightened his hat. “Charity, do you think it wise to release this vagabond like this? Are you not aware of the charges that were brought against the man? How dangerous he is? How foolish you have been to defy the elders.”

Charity had expected a lecture. What she had not expected was that Rafe Trehearne and her sons would be witness to the reprimand. She bit her lip in vexation, then controlled herself and answered calmly, with an inflection deliberately devoid of expression, “Amos, your voice is so loud, I think that God himself hears every word you are saying, and I think He must be as perplexed as I am.”

“Charity, you are blaspheming!” The stiffening of his shoulders beneath the sturdy gabardine jacket was obvious.

A renewed surge of resentment flowed through Charity. Guilt lanced through her, as sharp as any knife. Would she never learn to curb her tongue? She concentrated on relinquishing to Benjamin the ax she had used to pry open the iron links.

“I am aware of what I am doing, Amos. I am ensuring that my sons receive their rightful inheritance. If this requires forbearance and fortitude, then I will praise the Lord for His generous gifts.”

“’Tis arrogance and you know it, Charity Frey. ’Tis better you pray for humility.” Amos slid his thumbs behind the lapels of his frock coat and rocked back on his heels. “As tithing man and your prospective husband, it is my duty to question the wisdom of your actions.”

Eyes narrowed to thin slits under the overhanging eyebrows, Amos looked very intently at Charity, as if waiting for a response. When she did not reply, he addressed himself to Rafe.

“I’ve been talking to Silas Deare, the magistrate at New Haven. He says those Iroquois savages who were so abandoned in natural loyalty and decency as to take up arms against their rightful king claim you as a blood brother. Do they?”

“If they say so, they must.” Rafe’s heart had begun to pump, and for a moment he felt slightly dizzy and light-headed. His breath came a shade too rapidly. He swallowed hard. She was not married! A covert smile was struggling on his lips. He tried to say something, but the words caught in his throat.

He wanted to tell her his whole story. Explain that he had become a bond servant through no fault of his own. That, on the contrary…No, there were some things you couldn’t explain because no one would believe them.

“Charity! This most abandoned of mankind, forgetting his allegiance to God, has, according to his own confession, supported these savages, putting his hand and seal to a bloody truce, full of the knowledge of what mischief this treachery will cause. And he impudently calls on the intervention of Sir Thomas Pakenham to spare him the rope!”

Charity was annoyed. What business did Amos Saybrook have, spreading such vile slander? She glared at him, but the tithing man went on, speaking harshly, rapidly, not giving her a chance to say anything at all.

“Chances are this thieving scoundrel will disappear with half your possessions.” Amos allowed himself the luxury of a sneer. “Or get drunk and give them away to the enemy.”

Charity’s hands were clasped together so tightly that her knuckles showed white. She felt the blood recede from her face. Her lips, her face, her whole body felt stiff—but with fear now, not anger. She opened her mouth, but it was several seconds before she spoke, and her voice was unsteady.

“Drink accounts for all manner of derangements.”

Something in her tone drew him to her wide and dismayed eyes. Rafe’s brain whirled giddily before the words made sense. He turned them over in his mind. As far as he was aware, strong liquor was not a failing of most Puritan men.

She made another peculiar sound and smoothed her skirt awkwardly. The boys began to busy themselves rearranging the pile of sacks already stacked neatly on the wagon tray. He wondered when—and how—she had gained her fear of a drunken man.

His hands started to move, but he restrained the gesture. He was nearer to collapse than he would have allowed, for there was a curious catch in his voice when he finally spoke. “You can relax, Mistress Frey. Though I have many vices, a fondness for alcohol is not one of them.”

Amos Saybrook’s watery blue eyes moved to Rafe. He cleared his throat impressively. “Do you know what you have done, Mistress Frey? You have endangered the lives of these precious infants. Suppose the Pequots decide to support the Iroquois and capture them? What then?”

Three pairs of anxious, blue green eyes swung toward Rafe. A stab of anger shot through him. Trust the Puritan ignoramus to raise the fears of a lone woman and her children. He squared his shoulders. He knew that if he allowed the anger to overcome him, he would explode. He had to remain in command of himself.

“There’ll be no trouble.” He was relieved that his voice sounded quietly confident. “A little common sense would tell you I’m not likely to have any friends among the Pequot.”

Charity’s fingers closed convulsively over those of the nearest twin, and for a horrified moment Rafe thought she was going to burst into tears. Then she rallied.

“Amos, it is you who preach that sin is permitted by God, for it tests men and proves them in God’s eyes. It is only through prayer and penitence that men attain salvation.” She raised her eyes in unconscious appeal. “Surely you would allow this sinner the same chance?”

A explosive sound burst from Amos Saybrook’s thick lips. “Once a killer, always a killer—that’s a fact.”

For a long moment Rafe stood without moving, expressionless except for the fire of anger in his eyes, which surveyed the creature before him with utter contempt. He had never known anything like the blistering fury that gripped him now.

It took iron willpower to control the anger to a point where he could function, and then it was with discipline and nerve alone. His shoulders moved in an uneasy, uncharacteristic gesture, and then he stepped forward. He moved with striking grace, but he was not quite steady. “Men have died for causes before, and I imagine they always will. I’m not such a bloody-minded fool that I can’t see that Mistress Frey needs a man to help hold her land against bigots and thieves.”

Charity glanced at Rafe momentarily, from under fluttering lids. There was a promise in her eyes he couldn’t fathom. A tiny frown crinkled his brow and he made a slight gesture with one hand.

She stood on tiptoe and put her hand up to his throbbing temple, pressed lightly. The touch, careful though it was, arrested his breath, centered all his consciousness on exploding pain, annihilated him. His jaw grew tight with agony. To breathe took a jerky effort.

Her mouth moved. She spoke. He knew she did because her voice echoed inside his head. “Once he has paid his dues to society, whatever his crime, Master Trehearne is a free man.” She brushed her hand against his unshaven jaw. “Until then, he is mine.”

Somehow the wall of darkness receded, and he was dimly aware that Amos was nodding his head in agreement. There was a perceptible thaw in the man’s attitude, as if he had decided to retreat a little, give himself a chance to revise his strategies.