Devil's Mistress

by Heather Graham

  The prisoners were distressed at the news of Bridget Bishop’s execution, but they weren’t without hope. There had been physical evidence against Bridget—the dolls stuck with pins. She had been condemned on more than the say-so of a group of hysterical girls.

  Robert was to have come to trial on June twenty-ninth but he was too ill on that particular date to stand; so the magistrates took mercy and postponed his date.

  Brianna did not attend any trials, though she had set her hand to a petition stressing that old Rebecca Nurse had been a kind and charitable neighbor who could not possibly be a witch.

  Sloan did attend the trials and was horrified at the evidence presented. Rebecca was such a pillar of the community that even Hathorne doubted her a witch. When sent out for deliberations, the jury came back with a verdict of not guilty. But the magistrates asked them to resume their deliberations, for when another of the women on trial, Sarah Good, had come in, Rebecca had muttered something about her “being one of them.” She meant that Sarah was a fellow prisoner, Sloan knew, but the court was obsessed with the belief that she meant a fellow witch. Being old and hard of hearing, she had not answered when asked about her reply.

  But Sloan did not need to protest on her account. Rebecca had a large family and they meant to do something.

  One of the women tried that day, Susanna Martin, had quite a reputation for maliciousness. She was condemned for having bewitched a man’s oxen and for having appeared in a number of men’s bedchambers to taunt them into signing the “devil’s book.”

  Five women were condemned in those days. Sloan longed to do something—even if Susanna Martin was a nasty old woman, she did not deserve to hang for such a thing. Two of the matrons had been pious and calm and soft-spoken, no matter what ridiculous thing they were accused of. Like Robert, they absolutely refused to “belie” themselves—they believed in a far greater judgment than that which they would find on earth.

  Sloan wrote to the king and queen, yet knew it would be a long time before an answer could come, much longer than these women could wait. They were scheduled to die on July nineteenth.

  When Sloan came to tell Brianna the news, he warned her in hushed tones that they should try their escape soon.

  She looked horrible, he decided that day. Too, too thin, and pale. “I’m afraid,” she whispered to him, closing the door to the bedroom. “I don’t think we can move him at all now! Since those nights he spent in jail he can barely breathe!” she told him.

  Sloan watched the grief in her face and could barely stand it. “Brianna, I’m going to Boston, to bring the Sea Hawk to Salem in readiness. We cannot wait much longer to leave Salem.”

  “We must! They haven’t tried Robert yet, Sloan.” But then she sank into a chair and rested her head tiredly against the wall. “Rebecca Nurse! How could they condemn her?”

  “Her family is still trying for a reprieve. Perhaps the governor will grant one. I plan to see him myself, but …” He hesitated. “Brianna, I can not stand much more of this. I can’t get too heavily involved, or anything that I say will be discounted when it matters.” He hesitated a moment, then said angrily, “When I return, you will be ready to leave!”

  He saw the stubborn set to her jaw, and left her.

  He didn’t attend the executions on Gallows Hill, but Cedric did. “Rebecca went like a lamb to God’s fold, a prayer on her lips, an awesome dignity about her. But Sarah Good! The assemblage was shocked, for what Christian dies with a curse on her lips? Sarah promised the Reverend Noyes that he would die choking on his own blood!”

  “Good for the old pipe-smoking hag!” Sloan exclaimed.

  Rikky chuckled dryly. “I’d not make that sentiment well known, Treveryan. Even those kindly reverends of Boston who do not trust ‘spectral’ evidence do most assuredly believe that old Goody Good was a witch! But not Rebecca Nurse,” Rikky said softly, with a gentle reverence. He glanced at Sloan and grimaced. “I believe you’ve made a crusader of me, too, friend. Do you believe that I, a lord of the king’s realm, plan to spend my evening with the relatives of that lady? Deep and dark at night we will go to Gallows Hill and dig up her body to give it proper burial.”

  “A toast to you, Rikky!” Sloan said, and the two shared a glass of Irish whiskey. “I’m riding to Boston tomorrow,” Sloan said then, “to pull my crew together and try to prevail on some sane ministers to make their thoughts more fully known to the magistrates.” He paused. “Keep an eye on her, will you, Rikky?”

  “Aye, that I will,” Rikky said, a droll humor in his eyes. “The lady must truly be virtuous if you trust me to watch her.”

  Sloan laughed. “Why, Rikky, you know as well that I could take you with a blade in seconds and we both know full well that you would never put me to the test! Besides,” he added more soberly, “she is virtuous, not to me, but to her husband.”

  Rikky raised a skeptical brow. “You are not—”

  “Lovers? No.”

  Rikky suddenly became thoughtful and serious. “Aye, Sloan, I’ll watch her, and guard her, with all the power I have.”

  Sloan left for Boston in the morning. When he arrived, he easily found Paddy in a tavern on the wharf. Paddy was tired of inaction and totally impatient with the situation around them. “Blimey, but this is scary, Cap’n! Listening to the talk hereabouts. They argue nothing but witches night and day!”

  “Aye, and I fear we’re up to more of it. Tell the crew they’ll not be endangered this time; we’ll oil some palms well and depart with the night.”

  Paddy eyed him curiously. “We don’t mind action, Cap’n. Weren’t we with you in Ireland, Sloan, every last jackanapes of us?”

  “Aye, that you were. But I’m tired of losing men, Paddy. And I’m getting tired of hangings.”

  Paddy shook his head and leaned over his ale. “It’s a strange world, that it is.”

  Sloan clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve got some men to see, so I’ll meet you next in Salem. How’s the Sea Hawk?”

  “Ready to go, Cap’n. Oh, and Cap’n! I’ve got something for you”—he produced an envelope—“from Lady Eastwood in New York.”

  Sloan pocketed the letter. “Thanks, Paddy.”

  He saw a number of the members of the Boston ministry who were critics of the proceedings, but he learned nothing that could help him. After two days he returned to Salem, determined to make definite plans for escape.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sloan found Brianna with Robert. She was growing as thin and pale as her husband, he thought dispiritedly.

  He sat with the two of them, speaking about the events taking place in Boston. Robert listened, nodded, and pretended to believe that things could get better. Brianna tried to speak lightly. It was Robert, Sloan thought, who was the stronger. They were trying to find a hope to cling to, but Robert was resigned to whatever life might bring, his faith being stronger.

  At length Robert yawned discreetly and agreed that he was tired. He asked Sloan to take Brianna out for a breath of air. Sloan remembered the letter he carried from Lady Eastwood, and added pressure to Robert’s insistence. The letter was about Michael’s adjustment, and Sloan did not believe he could produce it or discuss it with Robert present—no matter how much he had come to admire the man.

  The guards allowed them to exit, and Sloan led Brianna far along, determined to be alone. She didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps she needed to feel far away from her husband’s prison, if only for a while. They found a wooded cove, gently lit by the moon. A fallen tree trunk served as seating. Sloan gave Lady Eastwood’s letter to Brianna and watched the color suffuse her cheeks as she read it.

  “Michael is doing well,” she murmured to him, and he knew the color would come to her cheeks anytime she thought of their child.

  “Paddy is bringing the Sea Hawk up from Boston,” Sloan said a little harshly. “It’s time to leave.”

  “Robert is not well enough,” she began, paling.

  “Whether he is or isn’t, they
might bring him to trial. The wind is blowing both ways in Boston. Some are saying that too many of the accused are escaping justice through protestations of illness, and some are furious that they have not had a mass hanging for the ‘confessed’ witches. Brianna, more trials are being set and more executions will follow. We must flee.”

  She nodded and said vaguely, “Soon.”

  Sloan sighed, and decided he’d have to talk to Robert Powell himself. He couldn’t bear to see her so unhappy. He smiled and very gently brushed her cheek with his hand. “All will be well,” he whispered.

  She tensed at his touch, but then sighed softly, and he tenderly sat her on his lap. “Look at the coming fog,” he murmured. “So soft and magical. It blurs harsh edges … ah, Brianna. There is still good magic in the world. Things of grace and beauty …”

  Beauty, yes. Like the night that encompassed them. Magic. They might have been alone in the world.

  They stared at each other. Her head tilted slightly as if in expectation, her eyes beckoning like the eternal depths of the ocean. Looking down at her, he ached with the need to know her again, to hold her. He could not remember why she had ever left him. And he could not, God help him, remember at all that there was any reason for them to be apart. She was his, and had been since the first time he had taken her, yet he had been the one forever and fully seduced.

  The air was fresh and clean, the moon blessed with an ethereal glow of beauty. He brought his palm gently, tenderly, to her cheek. She clutched his hand, and pressed her lips to it, then slowly looked to him again.

  He touched her mouth with his, feeling his blood and his life suffused with a warming fire. He savored the taste of her, he caught her to his heart, and felt the erratic thunder of her own. Moon fever, he would think of it later—a touch of madness—but it was only the hunger of knowing that he loved her and needed her. His hands began to move over her, gentle and shaking, then fevered. She was soft and feminine, she was the dream he had dreamed so long. He slid from the tree trunk on one knee, carrying her down, laying her down in a bed of clover and pines.

  Her eyes were on him, wide and dark. Her lips were parted, her breathing ragged. He leaned beside her and tasted her lips again, then brought his palm along the length of her, caressing her with reverence. He found the hem of her skirt, and slid his hand along her calf, over her hose, until he reached her thigh, and the erotic fire of her bare flesh. He wanted her naked in the clover—coming to him, touching him, his at last again! He wanted to touch her, drown in her, die with her forever in a sea of verdant green and swirling mist and the sweet smell of summer wildflowers …

  But he could not.

  What stopped him he would never really know. Her eyes closed suddenly, and she shuddered, and despite the mist and magic he paused. There was a Robert Powell—and Sloan had told him he did not intend to steal his wife. It seemed like a vow, and in his heart he silently cursed the man he could not despise.

  Brianna shivered, and opened her eyes, and it was as if an awakening of painful reality had come to her too. “Oh, my God!” she gasped out, and then she was struggling against him, trying to rise. “Damn you … don’t, please, don’t touch me or come near me again!”

  “Wait a minute!” he said harshly, angered at her condemnation of him. He would not let her rise, but pinned her there, hands to the ground, a knee cast over her legs. “Don’t you ever think to blame it on me, Milady Virtue! My God, yes! You were here, you made no protest! If you remained faithful tonight, it was by my accord.”

  “I really do believe I hate you!” she cried as she strained against his hold.

  “Do you? You have a strange way of showing it, my love.”

  “Sloan! Let me be!”

  “Oh, aye, I’ll let you be. And why, I do not know, for we both know that what I crave I might have taken.”

  “No … yes! Yes, you’re right! And that’s why I hate you, don’t you understand! Please …”

  He didn’t shift, but stared into the night. “I wonder if he wouldn’t even give us his blessing.”

  “What did you say?” Brianna stared at him, puzzled, glad of his weight against her, glad of his hold—desperately aware that she had to break it. “Robert!” she exclaimed, realizing where his brooding thoughts were taking him.

  He stared down at her again, ruefully. “It’s true, isn’t it? He trusts us both. Oh, God, but that’s the pity of it! How to bring hurt to such a man! Were he but strong and healthy, a fool or a swaggering bastard! Were he anything other than what he is, I’d care not that he was your husband. I’d take you away, I’d fight, I’d duel—I’d kill or die, but I’d have choice and reason and action to take! Why, in God’s mercy, have I come to like that man? My promises are not to you—they are to him!”

  “I cannot see you again. I can’t. I still must beg for your help, for I am still terrified. When Robert gains just a little strength, he must be moved. I cannot repay you …” She pulled herself up.

  He interrupted her bitterly. “You paid in advance, remember.”

  She went silent for a moment, then squared her shoulders and stiffened her spine. “Well, if I have paid, then there is nothing to collect.”

  He gripped her arm and practically dragged her along. “I’m taking you back.”

  “I can go alone.”

  “No!”

  Soon they were almost at their rooms and Brianna tugged against his arm. “Sloan, you don’t need—”

  He spun on her, furious—with her and with himself. And suddenly he was out of control again.

  “Oh, yes, I need. What do you think you have here—steel or stone? I am neither! You will go home to your husband, and I cannot find fault or blame with that. But I love you—and I will never leave you. When you call on me, I will be there. But this … this I can bear no longer. You will stay on your pedestal, Brianna, always. A goddess whom fate has made me worship from afar. But I am flesh and blood, lady, and flesh and blood desires what you cannot give! Women are not hard to come by for lords and gentry, Brianna. I can no longer send you back to another man and toss my way through the night.”

  Brianna stepped back from him and a cry of realization and dismay escaped her. It was so evident, so very obvious, that she could not ask him to live a life of celibacy. And yet … she had wanted to believe that he was. It was right that he should seek out another; it was right, but it hurt with a wrenching agony. Before she knew it, she was speaking. “You go to another? But you know that—”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, his lips twitching with irony and sadness as he interrupted her. “I know that your husband is ill; that you go home to care for him and nothing more. I—” He broke off, emotion flashing quickly through his eyes, as if he had come across some hidden knowledge. His voice was a little harsh, a little incredulous, as he spoke again. “That’s the way it’s always been, hasn’t it?”

  “What do you mean?” She breathed uneasily, stepping away from him. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He came to her. “You—and Robert. It’s never been a real marriage. You’ve never lived as man and wife.”

  Furiously she ripped away from him. “We are man and wife!” she cried. “You know nothing—and I want you to stay away from me!” Dismay filled her voice. “He married me—I am his wife! Go where you will!”

  She stared at him tumultuously for a moment, let out a little cry, then shoved at his chest and raced past him.

  Returning—to Robert.

  Sloan stared after her for a long while. At length he turned and walked down the street. He headed for the wharf and spent the night staring out to sea.

  The special court of oyer and terminer met for the third time on August fifth. Sloan did not go to the trials, but Rikky kept him informed. Paddy had brought the Sea Hawk up to Salem, and Sloan was busy conferring with him and trying to find a doctor to take aboard to care for Robert Powell. There was nothing he could do at the trial; nor, for that matter, had there been anything
Rikky could do. Lord Turnberry was well acquainted with Chief Justice William Stoughton—a man as hard as nails, as strictly puritanical as was possible to be and determined to cast his rising political star into the hands of the majority clamoring to see that the devil’s disciples met the hangman.

  Rikky returned from the affair very subdued.

  “John Proctor was condemned today. His wife is spared because she pleads her belly.” He grimaced bitterly. “An unborn child cannot be condemned—even if he is the child of a ‘proven’ wizard and a ‘proven’ witch.” He continued. “I saw Proctor after the trial. He is still fighting mad and he asked to see me because he thought, as I was a lord, that I might have control somewhere. He told me that two of the boys who ‘confessed’ and gave evidence against him had been tortured into their confessions—tied head to heels in horrible contortions.” He paused. “I had time to voice an objection with Stoughton, but it seems the man is deaf. The town has gone insane, with crazy things being said—witches’ sabbaths, rides through the night on poles, devil’s rites! What has come over these people? They join their accusers in pure lunacy!”

  Sloan was silent for a moment, his thoughts on Robert Powell with an understanding he wished he did not have. Powell refused to add to the very lunacy of which Rikky spoke. And because of it—if he were ever brought to trial—he would hang.

  Sloan restlessly paced the room while Rikky looked on. “I’m ready to sail,” he told Rikky. He hesitated briefly. He had not gone near either of the Powells since the night Brianna had run from him.

  “When is the execution to be?”

  “August nineteenth.”

  “Go to Robert Powell for me, Rikky. Don’t even talk to Brianna—see him. Tell him that the noose grows tighter, that we must leave before matters get worse. Perhaps the night of the hanging will be best. There will be many sickened by the sight, determined to keep quiet, even if we should be caught upon the streets.”