Salem’s Daughter
Maggie Osborne
Two Worlds, Two Loves
Bristol Adams’ ravishing beauty caught the attention of a man she could not refuse, but the price for passion came high. After a public lashing for the sin of outrageous behavior with handsome Caleb Wainwright, Bristol’s furious Puritan father exiles her to England.
London is not the punishment her father intended. Here, Bristol is feted for her beauty and freshness, pursued by dazzling young society blades. But only the dashing sea captain, Jean Pierre La Crosse, can capture her heart, a man who teaches Bristol the depth and rapture of passions she has struggled to deny, a dark and exciting man who can promise her everything but marriage.
When Bristol is summoned home, she returns to a destiny she had hoped she left behind. Home to a fractured family, a town she no longer recognizes, a man she no longer loves, and the madness of the Salem witch trials...
Praise for Salem’s Daughter
“One of the best writers in the business.”
– New York Times bestselling author Susan Elizabeth Phillips
“Wit, style, and class.”
– New York Times bestselling author Nora Roberts
Publishing History
Print edition published by Signet, The New American Library, Inc.
Copyright 1981 by Maggie Osborne
Digital Edition published by Maggie Osborne at Smashwords 2014
Cover design by Tammy Seidick Design
Digital formatting by A Thirsty Mind Book Design
All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, may be reproduced in any form by any means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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To my dearest friend, George, with love
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
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
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Sample of Lady Reluctant
Sample of Love Bites
Maggie Osborne
1
Once each week, on market day, Salem Town square filled to the hedges with dark-clad curiosity seekers. They arrived by cart and wagon to trade goods and replenish supplies and remained to taunt the unfortunate men and women clamped in stocks and pillory, jeering those who dared transgress the common good.
Until today Bristol Adams hadn’t suspected the crowd’s mockery might be as severe a punishment as anything the church fathers had devised. But until today Bristol Adams had never earned public punishment. In the past she’d been a part of the crowd, adding her scorn to theirs, never dreaming she’d one day be the object of their ridicule.
Now, facing the crowd, Bristol drew a halting breath and glanced toward the multitude of stony faces, pretending a bravery she didn’t feel. It seemed each set of accusing eyes fixed on her, every whispered laugh was meant for her.
Deep inside, Bristol understood this wasn’t true; others awaited punishment and received their portion of scorn as well. Only when the constable focused his attention on one person alone did the crowd swing and direct eyes and accusation in a centered manner. But in her fear and the shame of standing here, Bristol Adams imagined all eyes pierced her soul and found it wanting.
She shifted uneasily and turned slightly to follow where the crowd pointed. Behind her, an incorrigible blasphemer drew a din of loud snickers and mockery, providing the crush of onlookers exactly the entertaining spectacle they most relished.
Taunting voices rose and hooted as an obese constable muttered beneath his breath, circling, slipping, struggling to catch the blasphemer’s wet tongue between his fingers. Even strained heads jutting from pillory boards grinned as the heavy constable and his man slid in the snow, grappling toward an inevitable end. Finally, as the crowd had known he would, the constable succeeded in snapping a split birch branch upon the tip of the blasphemer’s tongue. The man’s dark eyes bulged above his protruding tongue, and he struggled with the ropes securing his hands behind his back.
The constable frowned and wiped his hands on a long coat. He spit in the snow and bent to the fire pit.
Knowing what was to follow, Bristol squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head to one side. She winced when the man’s strangled scream reached her ears. In a moment, the constable stepped past, triumphantly brandishing the fiery poker he’d thrust through the man’s tongue.
The eyes of the crowd followed the glowing poker, and a murmured hum of approval swept the square. Goodman Willis Moxon would never again disgrace the community with offending words. No God-fearing man or woman need risk hearing the Lord’s name defiled in the lanes of Salem—not by Goodman Moxon.
Now expectant eyes swung toward Bristol Adams, to the whipping post and her lush trembling figure. And with a sinking heart Bristol understood her turn had come. Her mouth turned dry as summer dirt, and her shaking hands rolled her apron into damp balls.
Bristol wet her lips. She blinked at the sea of faces, frantically seeking her father’s features within that wave of austerity. But she saw only staring eyes, waiting and judging.
If only she could locate Noah Adams! Her father could step forward even now and withdraw the charges. It wasn’t too late! Bristol’s green eyes darted from face to face. “Please,” those eyes despaired, “Please, Papa!” She scanned hard expressions, feeling the desperation in her gaze, and she heard the quickening beat of her heart. Where was he? Please, God, let Papa step forward.
Her darting eyes moved and settled and moved again. Sober disapproval met her gaze, but Bristol didn’t see Noah’s red hair among any of the nodding steeple-crowned hats. Instead, she recognized friends and neighbors, harsh and unfamiliar when viewed from the perspective of shame and humiliation.
“Weren’t you ever young?” Bristol wanted to shout. “Didn’t any of you ever speak or exchange a glance without your father’s permission?” But such an act was unthinkable, and her voice had turned to sand. Her defiance seeped away like water through fingers.
Suddenly Noah Adams’ weathered face appeared to leap from the thicket of faces, and Bristol stared, imploring him to forgive with the emerald eyes so like his own. For an instant their gaze locked; then Bristol lowered her face with a hopeless groan.
No softening eased her father’s stern expression. He would hold to the charge he’d stated to the magistrate. Bristol’s pride and defiance must be publicly whipped away. She would learn to obey as all dutiful daughters must; she would behave for the common good. Bristol could court Caleb Wainwright only when and if Noah’s prior permission was obtained. And Noah had granted no such permission.
“Oh, Caleb,” Bristol moaned inwardly, licking dry lips. “Why didn’t we talk to Papa? Why didn’t you speak out for me?”
But she knew the answer, had thought of little else for months. Caleb Wainwright would not be eligible to receive his inheritance until next month, April 1690. Only then would he be welcomed as a suitor by any self-respecting father. Until then, Caleb had nothing to offer but himself.
A small cry escaped Bristol’s lips as rough hands gripped her wrists. She averted her face from the constable’s sour breath; he sweated heavily despite the chill air and drifts of snow rippling the ground. Grunting, the constable knotted her wrists with hemp and lifted both hands above her head. An elbow brushed her dust cap to the ground, and a tumble of brilliant red curls cascaded over Bristol’s small shoulders. Deep within the crowd, a man’s voice murmured appreciatively, and the constable paused for a threatening glare. Then he secured Bristol’s hands to the iron ring above her head.
Angry, frightened tears sprang into Bristol’s eyes, and she battled to prevent them spilling down her cheeks. Grinding her teeth, she repeated the vow she’d made earlier. No one would have the satisfaction of hearing her scream or seeing her cry. The town could whip her, but she promised herself to bear the lash with dignity and pride. Her crime was small, and she didn’t regret it. Hers was an error of the human heart, and when she thought of Caleb Wainwright, she knew she’d speak to him again, look at him again, with or without Noah Adams’ permission.
Never having experienced an angry blow, Bristol had no measure by which to judge the realities of her vow. And even if she had, her mind felt numb, deadened to the actuality of her situation. To be whipped publicly seemed so unbelievable, Bristol continued to think Noah would surely intervene. He might allow the constable to scare her, but he’d not let his daughter actually be lashed. She swallowed. Would he?
Her wide green eyes sought Noah; if her father intended to rescue her, it must come soon. At sight of the suffering in her father’s face, a terrible doubt fluttered through the pit of Bristol’s stomach, and she sucked in a deep breath. He was clearly in pain... and she was in pain... why didn’t he step forward? Noah stood with his large hands clasped before him, his eyes resolute.
Anxiously Bristol glanced to Noah’s side, and a prick of worried tears moistened her eyes. Her mother sagged at Noah’s elbow, her eyes closed and her hands folded across her breast. Bristol blinked and choked on the lump clogging her throat. Her eyes moved to her sister.
Charity leaned on Hannah’s shoulder, an arm around her mother’s waist and her carroty curls bright against her pale face. Seeing Bristol’s stricken plea, Charity dashed a hand across her eyes. She attempted a smile of support, but the weak effort wavered and cracked.
Bristol bit down on her lip as the constable’s thick body blocked her family from view. Her heart leaped in apprehension. “Papa, please, Papa,” she murmured through dry lips. He wasn’t going to save her. Shock tingled through her suspended body. Closing her green eyes, she swayed from the iron ring. If Noah allowed the constable to rip her dress, her terrified mind understood, the whipping would take place. It would happen!
The constable’s hand shot forward and tore away the old gown Hannah had insisted she wear. First from the front, then from behind. Bristol’s face blazed in an agony of scarlet heat as her full rounded breasts fell free, pink and white in the winter sun. A startled gasp blew through the crowd, deepening her shame, and Bristol’s head dropped, sending a shower of red hair curling past her shoulders, partly covering her nakedness. But not enough. No, she thought in rising despair, not enough.
Somewhere in the shifting ocean of scorn, Bristol felt Caleb Wainwright’s eyes. And she shriveled at the thought of Caleb seeing her shame. Of all the stares examining her nakedness, Caleb’s cherished blue gaze weighed heaviest.
Closing her brimming eyes, Bristol tried to control the fear pounding in her temples like drums. The constable strutted before the crowd while the town crier read her offense: disregard for the common good through parental disobedience and rejection of custom.
The words flowed past Bristol in a meaningless stream; all she heard was the rhythmic smack of a thick black whip handle striking the constable’s palm. Staring through a shadow of long lashes, Bristol saw nine rawhide thongs, each an inch wide, dragging the ground before her horrified gaze.
“... six lashes, well laid on.” The crier cleared his throat with importance. “Let all children observe and remember!”
Dutifully parents nudged their children forward for a clear view, then folded their arms rigidly across their bodies. Waiting. The constable’s sour grin approved, and he crunched through the snow until he stood in position behind Bristol, staring thoughtfully at her smooth white back.
Bristol’s glazed eyes swept the crowd, familiar faces seeming to jump forward, then recede. Martha Cory, village busy-body, whispered furiously into Elizabeth Proctor’s ear. Old Rebecca Nurse leaned on her cane, shouting at Ann Putnam as if Goodwife Putnam were as deaf as Rebecca. Reverend Samuel Parris held his mouth in a tight line, but his small eyes focused on Bristol’s ripe young breasts. Abigail Williams shoved her little cousin against Bridget Bishop. Bridget paid no heed, her sensual lips forming a semblance of pity. They all appeared frozen in place.
Bristol swung pleading eyes toward Hannah, and a brackish taste welled in her throat. Hannah’s faded blue eyes examined a point above Bristol’s head. As Bristol watched, her mother stiffened and shook away Charity’s hand. Hannah Adams refused to bow her head before the community. Bristol was and would always be flesh of Hannah’s flesh, blood of her blood. For Hannah Adams, the bonds of motherhood transcended any shame. She met Bristol’s anguished eyes with a smile of encouragement, communicating her love and strength across the distance separating them. Bristol’s heart ached.
A crack snapped in the crisp air, the nine tongues of fire seared across Bristol’s bowed shoulders. Her face collapsed in shock, and her spine arched away from the heavy blow, her quivering breasts jutting forward. Agony burst from her lips, scattering any foolishly brave intentions.
A roar deafened Bristol’s ears, whether from the crowd or from her own exploding mind, she didn’t know or care. Her heart felt as if it would burst through her body, and her pulse fluttered wildly in throat and temples. The pain was staggering, beyond all imagining.
The next lash burned into her naked back before she’d fully comprehended the first. Heavy rawhide bruised into tender flesh that had never known a rough touch. Bristol gasped and sagged from the iron ring, her swimming vision seeing but not seeing the glowing eyes that judged each swing of the whip, sternly appraised every twitch, measured each cry of pain. Bristol Adams’ mind narrowed to the whistle of the lash and the fiery torment flaying her shoulders.
Nine fingers of agony crashed across her bare skin, cutting into the previous stripes swelling up on her back. Something wet dripped along the curve of her spine, and through the red haze clouding her thoughts, Bristol wondered wildly if blood rivered into the waist of her torn gown, or if icy bits of melting snow trailed from the leather thongs. Cold and heat were no longer distinguishable.
A high scream sounded above the next crushing blow, and Bristol blinked rapidly through a scald of blinding tears. Her ashen face twisted. Who screamed? Who mocked her in a voice so like her own?
Bewildered, she tried to look into the staring crowd. But faces melted and shifted in a montage of dark color. Cloaks and hoods and aprons and hats blended into a swaying black wall.
“Mama?” Bristol sobbed, swinging from the iron ring. Her arms twitched and ached, her
back was a single open wound. “Papa?” She could no longer remember why she hung from the ring or what was happening to her. But there was pain. Terrible searing pain. If only she could find her parents, they would help, they always had. An image of worried faces flashed into her screaming mind, showing Noah and Hannah as they’d looked bending above her bed when she tossed in a delirium of yellow fever. Two years ago? Three? “Help me, please!” Bristol cried, her blank eyes darting along the black wall.
Another whistle of fire branded into her flesh, slicing a pink trail in the milky field. Sticky wet flowed freely down her back and sides, pooling in the damp waist of her oldest gown. Bristol’s head fell toward a frayed hem, and she blinked in confusion. Why was she wearing such a ragged dress? She shook her glossy curls at the heart-wrenching sound of sobbing, uncertain who uttered those raw gasping sobs. “Someone is crying about my gown.” There was a reason she’d chosen it, there must have been, but...
Her thoughts dissolved into a blinding shriek as the lashes ripped across torn flesh. “Sweet God in heaven!” Bristol screamed, lifting a tortured face toward the sky. “Please!” White-hot agony flamed along her back, black dots spun before her eyes.
Finally, rough hands reached to cut her free, and Bristol fell, her limp quivering body caught in Hannah’s embrace. Before her lids closed, she saw Noah rush to cover her nakedness with his cloak, and Charity bathed her streaked face with a handful of cold snow.
Bristol fought to remain conscious. Desperately she tried to focus on the blur of breeches and hems moving rapidly toward the pillory, where it had been promised the constable would next nail the ears of a notorious liar to the pillory boards.
“Can ye walk, girl?” Noah’s strained voice filtered past a buzzing in Bristol’s ears.
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