Yours or mine? he had said about Gert’s baby. Who was Gert? By cautious questioning of the little maid who served her, she learned that Gert was a chambermaid of a sulky disposition, who had left her job at the inn abruptly when she found she was pregnant. She had, presumably, gone to stay with her brother in Rhode Island. People said Gert was back, added the little maid, but Gert hadn’t applied for her old job, which had been taken by a new girl.
Charity yearned to inquire further, but held her tongue. There were, she told herself, undoubtedly numerous “Gerts” in Tom’s reckless life. He could hardly be considered monkish in his habits.
The next day Bart spoke openly before Charity. He stomped into their bedroom with only a cursory knock. Charity was sitting on the bed, sewing a button on Tom’s battered velvet coat, while he stood, legs wide apart, in breeches and shirt, watching her with a broad smile on his face.
Charity looked up to see Bart’s angry, blackbearded face glaring at them.
“She’s gone,” announced Bart savagely.
“Who’s gone?” murmured Tom, his gaze on Charity’s soft mouth.
“Gert’s gone, that’s who! I think we should get out of here. She knows you’ve got a new wench—she may be turnin’ us in to the redcoats!”
“Nonsense,” shrugged Tom. “I gave that money to the landlord for her. Since she wouldn’t speak to me, it was the only way. She’s probably out spending it at the next town for the things she needs.”
“Not if you’d seen the daggered look she gave me as she was leavin’,” said Bart.
“She’ll be back in a day or two,” predicted Tom idly. “Let’s rest awhile. We work too much, Bart—that’s how we got caught last time.”
Bart shook his head, giving Charity a look of suppressed anger, and stalked out, slamming the door.
“Perhaps he’s right,” said Charity uneasily. “Perhaps we should leave. We’re still in Massachusetts.”
“In a day or two.” Tom lay down on the bed and rolled over on his back and considered the ceiling. “Let’s have another day or two of contemplation.”
“Contemplation!”
“Why, yes. I want to contemplate your breasts, your thighs, your changeable disposition toward me,” he said lazily. “I want to find your heart, Charity. Is this where it is?”
He moved a hand impudently up her skirts.
She slapped his hand away. “I’ll not give my heart to a highwayman who may be hanged any morning!” she declared tartly.
“Ah, but that’s unfair,” he protested. “Anyway, I’m seldom a highwayman. Tis just a name that they give me. Bart and I mainly hijack boats, and any road work we do is just lightening the load of gold of those who’re about to get back on those boats!”
“That’s an odd profession,” she said. “So odd that I doubt I’m hearing you right.”
“You’re hearing me aright, Charity. Truth is, pirate vessels put in near shore all along these coasts, and your high and mighty saintly-minded citizenry are eager to buy their goods—knowing full well they’re come by in no good manner. So men in little boats slip out to the ships, or else the ships send boats ashore to be met by carts and wagons and pack horses. And it’s those I steal from—the stealers themselves. That’s why they’re so hot to get me,” he added. “Because I’m disturbing the balance of a community that’s too hypocritical to admit how it lives!”
“They’ll hang you high one day,” she prophesied gloomily.
“Aye, that’s what my mother always said,” he grinned. “But it’s not happened yet and maybe not for a long time to come!” He drew her to him, his mustache tickling her cheek. “You’ve given me a taste for witches, Charity. Could be I’d die of it.”
“At least you won’t die without buttons on your coat,” she said sensibly, handing the garment back to him and getting up. “I must return this needle and thread to that new maid—what’s her name?”
“Tess,” said Tom immediately.
“That’s the one, the tall redhead.” She stretched and yawned. “I’m sleepy. Would you return them for me?”
He gave her a sweet smile. “Gladly, m’dear. Get your beauty sleep so you’ll be ready to romp later!”
She lay down on the bed and her eyes had a tender light as she watched him go, his shoulders swinging jauntily. Reckless Tom could be very gallant.
The tall redhead of whom they had spoken was named Tess and she was a voluptuous country girl at the height of her looks. A saucy seventeen with a ripe figure, she wore her thick red hair plaited atop her head and her green eyes challenged every man who looked at her. Charity had paid very little attention to Tess, realizing perhaps that the girl would rather hear a single sigh from any man than a long dissertation from her.
But two days later Tess was brought to her attention rather emphatically.
Not finding Tom inside the inn, Charity started outdoors to look for him when Bart’s big form blocked her way.
“I’d be stayin’ inside,” he drawled with a nasty smile. “Might rain any time and you’d get wet.”
Charity cast a quick look through the window at the cloudless autumn sky. She liked neither Bart’s expression nor his tone. “Get out of the way, Bart, and let me pass,” she said impatiently. “I’m looking for Tom.”
He shrugged and stepped aside. “Could be you’ll find him, and maybe it’s best you do at that.”
She ignored that mysterious remark and went outside. She was about to make her way to the river when a giggle from the barn attracted her attention.
She made her way carefully around the corner of the barn and peered in. At first she could see nothing because of the sun’s glare in her eyes as she looked into the dark interior, but then she could see very well indeed.
Comfortably ensconced in the hay, their bare legs intimately entwined, were Tom and Tess. Tess’ red hair was in disarray, her green eyes sparkling, her skirts up around her neck. Tess bounced about delightedly, giggling, as Tom, wearing only his shirt, strove manfully to stay on board this heaving vessel.
Charity’s world rocked. She staggered and a sound almost like a moan escaped her.
Tom and Tess!
At the sound, Tom turned his head alertly and a look of sharp concern wiped the pleasure from his face. Tess gaped up at Charity, her cheeks crimsoned, and she made a futile effort to pull her skirts down over her long white body.
“Charity!” cried Tom, a stricken sound.
But Charity had whirled, white-faced, and was running blindly toward the river. The sight of them entwined would be forever emblazoned on her memory. She careened down the path sobbing, branches whipping her face, vines catching at her ankles, and collapsed on the river bank, crying her heart out.
She had thought him hers—her own true lover—and he had betrayed her with a mere chambermaid. Her Tom!
She didn’t know just when she became aware that there was a pair of boots planted one on either side of her tear-stained face.
She looked up slowly and saw Bart smiling down at her in sardonic amusement. “Saw too much, didn’t you?” he said. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you, wench. Now how’s about giving old Bart his just reward for that?”
He reached down for her and Charity shrank back, but he was too quick for her and his big fingers closed down on her shoulder, biting into the flesh so that she winced. He dragged her to her feet, pulling her toward him roughly so that her quivering body slammed into his hard barrel-like chest.
“Now don’t pretend you don’t like old Bart!” he said wheedlingly.
“Let me alone!” cried Charity, beating against him, her voice rising to a shriek.
“Bart!” It was Tom’s voice, with a dangerous note in it. “Let her alone. She’s my girl.”
“I’m not your girl!” shouted Charity, jerking away from Bart’s suddenly relaxed grip so violently that she stumbled and almost fell into the river. “I don’t ever want to see you again!”
“Well, that’s for now,” said Tom laconica
lly, his level gaze on the man beside her. “Bart,” he said more softly. “Time to go. . . .”
With an angry look at them both, Bart departed, muttering.
“And time for me to go too!” cried Charity, stomping off down the path after Bart.
Tom caught her arm.
“Go back to Tess!” she cried violently, trying to shake him off. “She’s waiting for you!”
Tom kept his grip on her. “No, wait till Bart’s gone,” he said softly. “No need to put more temptation than necessary in a man’s path.”
She shook free at last and stood trembling, hating for him to touch her, refusing to look at him, glaring steadfastly in the other direction.
“It’s time we all go,” he sighed. “Bart’s right, we’ve tarried here too long. It’s dangerous staying too long in one place in our profession.”
“Damn your profession!” said Charity through clenched teeth. “You’ll not add me to your harem again!”
Tom sighed. “I’m only human, Charity, and a ripe wench is a ripe wench. Maybe,” he added sadly, “I’m too human. It’s a failing of mine. But twas only a moment’s diversion, while you. . . ” His expression spoke volumes.
She didn’t deign to notice it. “Words will not move me,” she said in an icy tone. “I’m leaving.”
“Now that I can’t allow,” he said, and a steely note crept into his voice. “You’re still in Massachusetts where you’re a wanted woman. I mean to take you out of the Colony.”
She turned and stared at him, breast heaving, eyes blazing.
“If I have to tie you up to do it,” he added gently.
She burst into angry tears and ran ahead of him to the inn, meaning to get a horse and ride away in some direction, any direction.
But Bart, obviously guessing her intent, stood squarely before the stable door.
“Time we depart,” Tom called to him jauntily. “Let’s eat hearty and take victuals and a bit of brew and be off!”
Bart, who was looking sour, brightened. “Good,” he cried. “Let’s be off now before we swing from a gibbet!”
Tom caught hold of Charity’s arm, lightly but with a grip she could not shake off. “Now act pleasant,” he muttered. “Don’t shame me before my friends.”
She wanted to bite him.
They ate—Charity hardly touching the succulent roast duck on her trencher in spite of Tom’s urging—and were off, well provisioned, and this time riding three horses instead of two. They headed into the wilds toward Rhode Island.
After an hour or two of riding with Tom in the lead, Charity following and Bart bringing up the rear, Bart called, “Ho there, Tom, where d’ye mean to stay the night?”
“I thought we’d camp out until we reach the Connecticut coast,” called Tom, “in case anyone is following. I’d have been happier if Gert had come back.”
Another of his women! Charity sniffed audibly.
“Good thought,” sang out Bart. “There’s a good spring a couple of hours up ahead.”
And ahead they plodded through the autumn woods, the brilliant vermilion red of the scarlet maples, the bright gold of the black-boled sugar maples, highlighting their path through the more somber oaks and elms.
When they made camp in a grove of birches by a fast-running stream, Charity broke her silence to ask rebelliously, “Why Connecticut? Aren’t you wanted there too?”
“Right,” said Tom with a smiling shadowed look at her. “But you aren’t.”
She bit her lip and gave him a black look. He needn’t try to win his way back into her favor! She wrapped a blanket around her and rolled herself into an angry ball and went to sleep, intending to turn herself into a porcupine, all teeth and claws and spikes, if anyone so much as touched her.
The second night she took the meat knife, theatrically, to bed with her.
Tom gave Bart a droll look but said nothing. Bart glowered at her. Charity returned the glare.
She awoke feeling stiff, and as the morning mists cleared, she felt a great indignation rise up inside her. She was tired of riding, tired of hardships. She had had time to consider Tom’s behavior carefully as she rode along this weary trail with his back ever before her, and the more she thought about it, the more she seethed inwardly.
Treacherous! He had taken her against her will, he had made her respond to him, he had let her fall in love with him—and then he had promptly discarded her for the nearest chambermaid in the nearest haymow! Damn him! He had girls everywhere! He didn’t even know if Gert’s baby was his—and now this new wench, this Tess! And he dared to act casual as if nothing had happened! Dragging her through this endless forest against her will on the pretext that he was saving her from the Massachusetts authorities. Why, they’d arrest her in Connecticut if she was found with him. And probably hang her alongside him for keeping bad company, even if they didn’t know about her conviction for witchcraft.
That night she had a hard time sleeping, rolling and tossing in the Indian blanket Tom had given her. The next day with brooding eyes she studied his jaunty back as he rode ahead of her through a colorful stand of young maples. He was waiting for her to simmer down, she knew, and one fine night she’d wake up to find him inside her blanket with her, taking her at his leisure.
The worse part of that was that she wasn’t sure what her own reaction would be. Her body had betrayed her with him before; she would die of shame if it betrayed her again.
Oh, to be free of him!
Her chance came a few minutes later when they came to a fork in the trail and Tom unhesitatingly took the path to the left. On a sudden impulse, Charity slapped her horse’s flank and thundered down the path to the right. Bart yelled and Tom turned his horse. Instantly both men rode after her. Bart caught up with her first, where she had got her horse tangled in heavy brambles. The horse thrashed about, trying to free himself. Quickly both men dismounted and cut away the brambles, but her horse trembled from the deep thorn scratches and Charity’s own dress was torn down her back; long scratches had drawn blood from her arms and half-naked torso.
She was sobbing when Tom turned her horse around.
“If you try that again, so help me God, I’ll shoot you,” said Bart viciously. “I’m damned if I’ll have the Indians turned loose on us to please a tempery woman!”
“He means,” explained Tom gently, “that the trail you were taking leads straight to an Indian village—and sometimes they aren’t so friendly. We’d like to keep our scalps.”
“What about my dress?” cried Charity forlornly, picking at bits of the ripped bodice. “It’s torn to the waist!” She hugged her arms about her.
Tom sighed. “Here. Take my coat.” He stripped off the gray velvet coat on which she had so lovingly sewn the buttons in happier days, and proffered it to her. She took it reluctantly. It had the very feel of Tom. When she slid her slender arms into those too-long sleeves, when the coat’s material touched her breasts, she could feel again the touch of his hands caressing her, and with the velvet coat wrapped round her she almost felt his strong arms were embracing her. Angry with herself for thinking such thoughts, she buttoned the coat around her until her nakedness was hidden from their eyes.
Two hours later where the trail forked in a boggy place around a giant willow, Tom again chose the left fork.
“Hell’s bells!” exploded Bart, behind them. “You aren’t goin’ where I think you’re goin’, are you?”
Tom nodded, but Bart subsided, grumbling. Miserable, Charity didn’t care where they were going. Riding through the green and gold and scarlet walls of this endless forest, it had occurred to her that she was a woman with no future. Tom pretended to love her now but—he loved all women equally, it seemed. She would soon be supplanted by any likely wench. And then these highwaymen would shuck her off somewhere, and she would have nothing. She couldn’t even return to Massachusetts to get her clothes without a lot of fanatics setting upon her and burning her. She had no money to return to England, and her talents were
even more useless here than they had been in England. If only she were a seamstress, or a good cook, she might hope to find employment. But she was neither. Her knowledge of French and Spanish and elegant manners seemed ludicrous and out of place in this vast wilderness stretching endlessly before her.
Once, as they rode through a grove of swaying poplars, a flight of geese came over that darkened the sky and they stopped in awe to watch them. Everywhere around them there was game, some too unaccustomed to the sight of man to be afraid. Deer were everywhere, squirrels watched brightly from the trees, rabbits scurried out from under the horses’ hooves. They saw turkey and opossum and badgers—and twice they turned aside for skunks.
“Great country for trappers,” muttered Bart behind her, and Charity shuddered, thinking of the small trapped furry things, dying slowly, so slowly. She had heard in Boston of the vast number of pelts that were being taken, the fortunes that were being made.
She watched the two men as they stopped at a rocky stream to water the horses. Bart was a hateful sort of person, dour and menacing. And Tom, she told herself bitterly, was worse. Insidious. Two-faced. Treacherous—at least where women were concerned.
Imagine being married to Tom Blade! (And she had just very briefly imagined this.) Why, you’d never be sure he wasn’t bedding half the neighborhood! She kicked a lichened rock viciously, and winced as she hurt her toe, bent over and massaged it mournfully.
She’d hardly noticed that Tom and Bart were quarreling.
“But we aren’t known there,” insisted Tom.
“How can you be so sure?” demanded Bart.
Tom shrugged. “It’s a chance we take.”
Bart spat. “For the girl,” he said bitterly.
“If you like.” Tom’s face grew cold. “Want a drink of water, Charity? Last chance for a while.”
She shook her head, not deigning to speak to him.
She was astonished when, soon after dark, they came to a little clearing in a tall stand of pines and there stood a small inn. Overhead a little screech owl gave its wild plaintive call.
“But—isn’t this still Rhode Island?” she demanded.
This Loving Torment Page 9
