THE TRIAL WAS A DEVICE TO ROB CHARITY OF HER INHERITANCE.
When she testified in her own defense, Charity was cut off, not allowed to say much, but she managed to tell how her aunt had locked her in and her cousin had raped her.
She looked right at the magistrate as she said that, and thought she detected a gleam of sympathy in his eye. In that she was mistaken. The gleam was a purely lascivious one. He was imagining what she would look without the red dress, without her petticoats, without—he imagined her nude, climbing into his bed smiling.
He scarcely heard Charity’s testimony, so full was his mind of flashes of long shapely legs and snowy breasts and rounded hips and a temptingly parted mouth.
The room was silent for some time before it came to him that she had finished testifying and, startled, he ordered the court recessed. She must have bewitched him too, he decided. Burning was the cure for that. A girl like this one would only make trouble. His duty was clear.
He sentenced her to death . . .
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1977 by Valerie Sherwood
All rights reserved
ISBN 0-446-82649-9
Cover art by Jim Dietz
Warner Books, Inc., 75 Rockefeller Plaza, New York, N.Y. 10019
A Warner Communications Company
Printed in the United States of America
Not associated with Warner Press, Inc. of Anderson, Indiana
First Printing: August, 1977
20 19 18 17 16 15 14
Table of Contents
This Loving Torment Prologue Cornwall 1666
I
II
BOOK I Massachusetts 1686
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
BOOK II New York 1686-1687
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
BOOK III Charles Towne 1687
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
BOOK IV The Caribbean 1687-1688
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
BOOK V Charles Towne 1688
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
Prologue
Cornwall 1666
I
Moll Whitten hurried down the dark wooded path that led from the inn late one summer night. As she came out of the deep shade of the overhanging branches, the moonlight struck her, and it could be seen that she was a beautiful young woman of no more than twenty, with amber eyes that flashed gold in the moonlight and a heavy mane of lustrous red-gold hair.
To her right—a half day’s march—lay the rugged smuggler-haunted Cornish Coast and the stormswept seas. Behind her lay the sleepy little village of Lawden and, on its outskirts, the Inn of the White Stag where she worked—though not for long, if her plans went well.
A twig snapped behind her. Someone was following her. Moll tossed her mane of tawny hair, and her amber eyes lit with triumph. Young Lord Trelawney had been at the inn tonight and he’d been feasting on her with his eyes—and him owner of that great castle up on the hill! Moll had been sent packing from that same castle six months before for casting her eyes too brightly on young James Trelawney. His mother, an upright woman, had no mind for him to be scattering hooked Trelawney noses about the countryside as her late husband had done. When Moll was dismissed, old Mistress Rollins, an impoverished gentlewoman had taken her in to work for her keep. But then Mistress Rollins had died and, now, her relatives were allowing Moll to stay on as caretaker only until they sold the small cottage. Moll had found work as a barmaid at the inn since Nelly, the regular barmaid, was too near her approaching labor to serve. The job was temporary, but that was all right with Moll. Young Trelawney was still unmarried and Moll had eyes above her station. Why couldn’t a titled lord marry a serving wench? Many another had done it!
Coming to another patch of moonlight at a dip in the path, Moll paused and deliberately pulled up her full skirts as if to examine her legs for briar scratches. She displayed a long sweep of handsome leg, brushed away an imaginary thorn, and then strolled on.
When she reached the shadowed doorway to her cottage, Moll peeked behind her to make sure he was still there. A shadow moved in the trees and her eyes kindled again. She’d been right to taunt him by flirting with the stranger at the inn. It had made him jealous! Lord Trelawney had come to the inn looking glum, and Moll knew this was her chance. She’d heard he’d been jilted by that London chit with the big dowry, and wasn’t that just the right moment to nab a man?
So, Moll thrust out her full shapely breasts, edged down her white blouse so that they gleamed white in the candlelight, and smiled right into his eyes as she served him his pint.
He hadn’t noticed.
Irritated, Moll had looked around her, wondering how to snap him out of his lethargy. At that moment, the wind slammed the door shut, and she turned to watch as a tall stranger, clad in a big sweeping cloak, entered the inn.
The tall man looked about with an arrogant air. His strong hard face and brilliant topaz eyes flicked over the room, quickly taking in who was there—and who was not.
The excisemen were not.
The stranger was a smuggler by trade, and sudden leavetakings were a hazard of his profession. So he settled his long legs at a table conveniently near both a door and a window, and ordered a pint of ale.
He was served by Moll, who tossed her head and posed as she served the pint. Leaning over to clean off an already clean oak table, she managed to brush her soft warm breasts against him. Then she jumped back coquettishly and gave him a look of saucy confusion, followed by a long, slow, meaningful smile.
The tall smuggler had seen that kind of smile before. It was an invitation. His eyes followed handsome Moll around the room.
Lord Trelawney, who never held his liquor well, held it no better this night. Moll kept close watch on him and when Trelawney got up to leave, tumbling over a chair as he did so, she announced to the innkeeper that her poor head was “near bursting” and she’d be bound if she could stand to work a minute longer what with all that pain.
The innkeeper sighed. He knew that Moll had an eye for Trelawney, but he had a soft spot in his heart for the girl, for all her insolent ways. Still he frowned as she flounced out through the front door.
Getting above her station, she was; she should have left by the back way—he’d have to speak to her about that.
Out in the open air Moll spotted Trelawney’s horse tied to a nearby hitching post. And then she heard the young lord himself, singing a ribald song to the moon as he walked unsteadily through the night. He had obviously forgotten his horse, and it gave a disconsolate whinny as its master moved off down the path.
Moll passed James Trelawney with a bright smile and a hitch of her skirts, t
hen moved on ahead of him, swaying as she walked in the moonlight. Trelawney staggered after her, she was encouraged to note, though the same path was also the way to the castle until it forked at the patch of woods.
Humming a little tune, Moll plunged into the woods, forcing herself not to look back so she wouldn’t seem too obvious. But he had followed, oh, yes, he had followed! That shadow in the woods . . .
Moll unlatched the cottage door and hurried inside, leaving her wooden door ajar. Flinging back the covers on the bed, she hastily took off her shoes and stockings and tried to decide whether to take off her clothes. No, let him do that. It would make it seem more of a conquest. And tomorrow when he woke up in her arms, she could cry that he had seized her and torn her clothes—which of course would have to be replaced with better ones.
She lay down on the bed and closed her eyes, pretending to be lying there exhausted.
Overhead the moon, on a fitful path, scurried behind a cloud and for a moment the birdsong stilled as a darker shadow appeared in the doorway.
Moll could hear him moving toward her, but she kept her eyes determinedly closed.
A low laugh caused her eyes to fly open, and a voice said, “Well displayed, wench. You’re a sight to tempt a king!”
Moll sat up in dismay. It wasn’t Lord Trelawney—it was the stranger from the inn!
“Go away!” she cried. “I’m expecting someone!”
“Ah, yes, and I’m the one you were expecting,” he said in a steely voice, sweeping off his cloak. Moll leapt up and tried to run away, but he barred the door. Laughing, he caught her running figure and dragged her panting back to the bed.
“Now you don’t want to keep these lovely things in prison,” he said, and gave her already loosened blouse a jerk so that her breasts tumbled out. “I see I’ve made a good choice for the evening,” he added, bending over her and burying his face in her breasts, kneading them with his hands, his lips.
Moll screamed and kicked at him.
He stood up, surprised, holding her pinioned like a butterfly with one hand firmly on her stomach. “You’re a fighting wench?” he muttered. “It’s the struggle that pleases you?”
“No!” cried Moll loudly. “Go away and leave me alone.”
“Ah, now that I can’t do. Not yet anyway.” He replaced his hand on Moll’s stomach and with his knee held her down firmly as he unfastened his trousers. When she struck at him, he slapped her face hard, first on one side and then the other, so that her head spun.
She subsided, glaring up at him.
“You play too rough, wench,” he said softly and caressed her throat with a none too gentle hand as he lowered his long body onto hers.
There was real fear in Moll’s eyes now.
“Don’t,” she cried hoarsely. “I’m not what you think. I’m a virgin! I—”
He chuckled as if she’d made some great joke. This sultry tavern wench a virgin! He parted her tightly held legs and holding down her flailing arms, thrust his hardness against her.
Moll screamed.
His head went up in astonishment. “Damned if you aren’t!” he said, amazed, and studied her face for a minute.
“Damn you!” cried Moll, twisting away.
“Ah, that’s no way to talk to a man you’ve led on all evening!” he admonished, and thrust again, with deliberate pressure.
Moll writhed at the sharp violent pain inside her. Her breasts were crushed down by the weight of his body, her rounded hips felt the hardness of his narrow hips.
“Easy,” he said in a soothing tone. “Easy now.” As if he were riding a horse!
Hatred and fury and pain and something else, something new, welled up in Moll. She had guarded her virginity like a treasure to be brought to the feet of some earl. Though twice she had nearly lost it: once at a summer festival and once in the shade of some yew trees on a spring evening when the grass was wet with dew. And now to be taken like some whore!
She groaned and writhed under him, and unexpectedly desire woke in her and she felt a shivering of passion along with the pain. He felt this change in her and laughed softly, triumphantly. When he had done, his passion spent, and she lay sobbing with helpless fury, he kissed the hollow in her throat and trailed his lips down to her heaving breasts, nibbled at her pink nipples, tasted them exploringly.
She struck out at him, but halfheartedly.
“I’d stay with you tonight, wench,” he said reflectively. “But methinks I’ve tarried too long already.” He’d had an odd feeling all day that the excisemen were trailing him, but no need to tell the girl this. “I’ll be back,” he said, and patted her bare stomach.
She quivered at his touch. “No, you won’t!” she screamed. “You’ve used me and now you’ll be on your way to the next one!”
“As you like.” He shrugged, drawing on his trousers. Suddenly, he grew alert. There was a sound outside, the breaking of a twig. He looked around, but the cottage was a deathtrap with only one door!
He threw his cloak about him and unbarred the door. As he swung it open, Moll reached down one arm and snatched up a heavy chamberpot and threw it at his head.
It missed him but caught the man who had leaped into the doorway full in the face. He staggered back with a howl, and the smuggler slipped through the door. With a laughing, “Thanks, wench!” he ran into the darkness.
But there were too many of the excisemen, and they were ranged all about. They must have spotted him at the inn and sent for reinforcements.
He hid in the shadows and considered what to do. The gold! If he were caught with the gold on him, that would convict him. A solid purseful—and how could he explain it? What if they had already discovered the shipment of liquor he’d delivered to the butler up at Castle Trelawney?
He had to get rid of his purse.
He noticed the well that was used to draw water for the cottage and, as an exciseman crashed through the bushes, he dropped the purse in it. The splash was lost in the sound of heavy boots. Then he dodged instinctively as a musket exploded nearby and the ball went past him too close for comfort.
He turned, meaning to sneak past the cottage, through the trees, and head in the other direction. But an exciseman who had been squatting patiently under cover of a bush rose up and fired at him point blank. The ball crashed into his chest and felled him.
“I’ve got him!” crowed a voice, and feet came running from all over.
“The gold!” someone cried. “Where’s the gold?”
“Drag him into yon cottage,” growled someone else. “We can search him there.”
His blood spilling on the ground, the smuggler groaned in agony as they dragged him to the cottage. They laid him on the bed he had so lately left and searched him. Moll drew a sheet around her, for she’d had no time to dress, what with men with guns running about outside the windows.
“The gold!” Someone prodded the smuggler with the butt of a musket. He moaned, opened his eyes and saw the disheveled girl with her tearstained face staring down at him. His expression softened. She’d been a good lay, she had, and he’d have come back to her right enough—foxy little virgin that she was! But now he knew he was never coming back, knew he’d never tell her his name was Johnnie O'Riordan, late of Ireland, knew he’d never see her again ... or the stars ... or the sea . . . or the great billowing sails that had carried him to this coast.
But the girl deserved something.
“Let me tell my wench goodbye,” he gasped, “and I'll tell you where the gold is.”
Somebody snorted, and somebody else gave Moll a shove so that she landed on top of the fallen man.
With the last of his strength he threw his arm about her and drew her face down to his, pressed his lips against her mouth and turned her head so that his lips traveled across her cheek to her ear.
“Well . . .” he whispered. “. . . the well....”
Moll heard but did not understand. Then someone gave her bottom a whack and rough hands jerked her up, causing the s
heet to fall to the floor.
All but one turned to study her naked body as she scrabbled for the sheet, but that one prodded the dying smuggler with his toe. “Where’s the gold?” he said.
But he was too late. Too late to beat it out of Johnnie O'Riordan. Before the smuggler’s eyes rose a blood red mist, and out of it rode a white ship with billowing sails, and beyond it a landfall, a green land of peat bogs and cloudy summer skies and great rocks and old castles and a smiling dark-haired girl who had spurned him and, now, had come magically back, wafted on the blood red sea fog....
“Where’s the gold?” repeated the voice.
“In Ireland,” murmured Johnnie, and death rattled in his throat, as his head lolled.
He was dead.
The one who had prodded him—a big swashbuckling fellow—now gave a mighty oath and swung on the trembling girl.
“Bring her along to the castle,” he said. “We’ll make Trelawney tell us where it is.”
“Unless she knows,” said an evil voice.
“I know nothing,” babbled Moll. “I’m barmaid at the inn. This man came in to drink his pint, and followed me home and leaped on me and raped me! I know nothing about him—not even his name.”
“His name we don’t know either,” said the swashbuckling one carelessly, “but his type we do. Bring her along.”
He turned on his heel and went out the door into the night.
So it happened that Moll made her return to Castle Trelawney, not as the happy bride of young Lord Trelawney, but attired in a rough bedsheet and dragged along in the firm grip of an exciseman.
At first, the butler did not wish to open the heavy door. But after the men threatened to break it down, a woman’s strident voice called, “Open the door at once, Sedley!” and the butler reluctantly drew back the bolts. His face was very white as the excisemen charged into the hall.
“James,” called the woman. “Come down here.” Moll looked up to see a frowning Lady Trelawney, James’ mother, standing at the head of the stairs in a faded muslin wrapper.
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