Salem's Daughter

by Maggie Osborne

  Future. Bristol squeezed her eyes shut; then she rose slowly, tearing her eyes from the vacant staircase. Lilting music drifted from the ballroom, but it sounded flat and distant to her ears. She drew a deep breath, wanting nothing so much as to act as Diana had—smash something and let out the frustration and disappointment and bitter betrayal.

  She conquered these feelings with difficulty. Stepping after Aunt Pru, Bristol wrenched her mind to the problem at hand. She’d take one small thing at a time. Drawing a breath, she called to her aunt, “Aunt Pru... I’ve never danced. Is it difficult?” Reverend Parris adamantly maintained dancing was a temptation of the devil. Apparently, Bristol thought listlessly, Aunt Pru’s Reverend Cornwell felt differently. Sin appeared to vary depending on geography.

  Aunt Pru froze, her large body quivering, and Bristol bounced against her aunt’s bottom. Prudence Hathaway turned woodenly and leveled a stare at her niece. “You. Don’t know. How to dance?” Glaring incredulity spaced each word. At Bristol’s timid nod, Aunt Pru rolled her eyes toward heaven and sank to a nearby settee, looking like a suddenly deflated ball.

  “I’m sorry, Aunt Prudence... there was never an occasion...”

  Aunt Prudence stared at the dance card. She fanned her face furiously, blowing wisps of orange into a fuzz around her cheeks. Sitting down, Bristol rubbed her aunt’s soft plump hand. Aunt Pru appeared to be in shock. “Aunt Pru? Aunt Pru? I’m sorry, I just—”

  “Puritans!” Aunt Pru’s heavy shoulders dropped, and she stared into her lap. I might have guessed.” Mournfully she gazed at her niece. “All those lovely young men! And the way they stared at you when they passed through the line!” She sighed and puffed to her feet, squaring her shoulders. “Well. You’ll simply have to learn. Just stand in the man’s arms and move when he moves. Arid flirt! For God’s sake, flirt!” She touched Bristol’s back significantly and managed a weak grin. “I know you can flirt.” The color began to return to Prudence’s cheeks. “If you flirt outrageously, perhaps no one will care if you stumble or flop about.”

  From the corner of her eye, Bristol noticed a flash of red skirt at the top of the stairs. “Aye! I’ll flirt outrageously.” She tugged Prudence’s pink-and-mauve arm, rushing her toward the ballroom. Bristol wasn’t ready to face Jean Pierre and his bride-to-be.

  But she was acutely aware of him. She knew the exact moment he led Diana into the immense ballroom; she sensed where he stood every minute. Bristol circled the ballroom, keeping a distance between herself and Jean Pierre.

  “For God’s sake, child,” Aunt Pru puffed. “Stay in one place for a moment.” She fanned rivulets of perspiration leaking down the sides of her face and patted vaguely at her powder. “How can the men find you if you’re constantly on the move? This isn’t a fox hunt, you know.” Pru’s eyes yearned toward deep comfortable chairs liming the walls, where aging dowagers chatted and judged the whirling couples. She stopped a servant and snatched a glass of wine from the silver tray. “Ah. That helps.” Leaning toward Bristol, Aunt Pru whispered behind her fan, “The man approaching is the Duke of Easton. Rich. Single. Dull as barnwood, but a good catch.”

  Bristol pulled her gaze from a dark head towering above the other dancers, and she pasted an artificial smile on her mouth. “A small rush of breath escaped her lips.

  The Duke of Easton bore a startling resemblance to Caleb Wainwright. In the blaze of scented candlelight, the duke’s hair gleamed a bright sandy color, and she saw his eyes were a clear pond blue. The duke did not stand as tall as Caleb, nor was his body as muscular—heavy farmwork played no role in the duke’s background—but he had Caleb’s square jaw and firm chin.

  “Mistress Adams?” The duke bowed from the waist, his coat flaring over green satin breeches. He straightened with a bland smile. “I believe I have the honor of this dance.” The duke’s voice was higher than Bristol had expected, and slightly adenoidal.

  Bristol shot Aunt Pru a panicked look.

  Prudence held Bristol’s card at arm’s length and squinted. “... Ah, yes, an allemande for the duke of Easton.” She smiled coquettishly at the duke and pushed Bristol forward. “An allemande is slow and easy; you’ll do fine. Flirt!” she hissed as the duke led Bristol onto the crowded floor.

  The Duke of Easton opened his arms, and Bristol walked into them, glancing rapidly at the dignified couples around her to establish procedure. Hesitantly she placed her moist hand in his, and then they were bowing and dipping around the vast room, jerkily at first, then slightly smoother as Bristol tried to adjust to the rhythm and flow of music. Watching the lady on her immediate right, Bristol stepped forward and back, matching her movement to the other woman’s. She bumped against the duke’s boot, then stumbled and halted near the center of the floor. A lump of angry frustration rose in her throat.

  “My fault,” the duke muttered stiffly. “I beg pardon.” He opened his arms with a graceful flick of his wrists. His square face remained expressionless, but Bristol felt his superiority.

  She drew a deep calming breath. Thus far, she’d concentrated so completely on the movements of the dance that she’d taken no opportunity to follow Aunt Pru’s advice. Now she did. Bristol presented the duke a dazzling smile and fluttered her long dark lashes. “It isn’t your fault at all, sir, but my own.” She looked into his startled blue stare, and her own green eyes rounded with a contrived helplessness. “I’ve never danced before. I should have told you earlier, but I was embarrassed. Thank you for being so patient.” She dropped her eyes demurely, letting a sweep of lash shadow her cheek; then she turned as if to leave the floor.

  He touched her arm lightly and cleared his throat. “Well,” he said in that odd nasal register. “Well. I see. That explains everything.” He dipped into a gallant half-bow. “All things considered, Mistress Adams, you’ve done wonderfully well.”

  She parted her ripe lips and smiled, lifting a hand to the lace trim at the edge of her swelling breasts.

  The duke blinked. “Please allow me to instruct you further.” His arms opened, and again he performed that graceful little twist of the wrists, his eyes never leaving her face. Tiny beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead.

  Bristol bit her lip to keep from laughing. She saw the gleam in his blue eyes, and she stepped confidently into his arms. She recognized that look, had seen all its various forms most of her life. The duke led her in wide circles around the ballroom, relishing his responsibility as teacher, and maintaining a steady stream of instruction. It was easier this time, and Bristol rewarded him with flashing smiles and liquid glances of manufactured gratitude.

  The allemande ended, and the duke reluctantly bowed Bristol to a stop. She discovered herself looking into the smiling face of Jean Pierre La Crosse, standing next to her.

  Her face paled. That smile and the dancing eyes above it seemed to guess she’d never danced, knew she’d trampled the duke’s boot, understood she felt glassy-eyed with the boredom of dance history and evolution.

  Furious, Bristol jerked away from Jean Pierre and leveled a brilliant smile at the Duke of Easton. The duke’s eyes widened in a stare, and his mouth parted.

  And with every slow second, Bristol felt Jean Pierre’s eyes; the nearness of him tensed each nerve and quickened her heartbeat. She favored the bedazzled duke with a seductive sweep of thick lashes and retrieved her fan from the cord at her wrist. With a flirtations snap she opened the fan and covered the tremble in her lips.

  Lady Thorne consulted her dance card and smiled timidly at the Duke of Easton. Her fan touched his arm, and she stepped to his side. “I believe this dance is mine, Charles,” she murmured in her whispery voice. At Jean Pierre’s side, Diana did not seem tall; only when she stood with another man was her willowy height apparent.

  The duke gave his sandy head a shake and looked up from Bristol. Absently he smiled at Diana, but before he led her onto the floor, he turned back to Bristol. “Charles,” he called, his nasal voice rising to be heard. “My name is Charles.”
The swirl of dancers swallowed them.

  Bristol’s face hardened. Unwilling to look at Jean Pierre, her eyes darted along the walls until she spotted Aunt Pru. Prudence gestured frantically and pointed to Bristol’s dance card, while beside her a slender young man eagerly scanned the ballroom.

  Jean Pierre bowed in front of Bristol. “Come here,” he commanded in a rich low voice.

  “No,” Bristol whispered. She stared helplessly, wanting to run away, wanting his arms around her. Gray eyes touched her lips, the line of her gown; then his warm arm circled her waist, and he lifted her icy fingers. They swept into the ring of billowing gowns and flaring coats.”

  The music was a gigue, a lively dance similar to a jig, and Bristol’s heart sank. But Jean Pierre led her effortlessly, as if they’d danced together for years, and in his strong arms, Bristol felt suddenly light and sure of her feet. But inwardly, her nerves quivered and shook, and a fire ignited in the pit of her stomach. Her hatred melted. The scent of salt and fresh breezes filled her nostrils, and had his grip been less sure, she knew she would have stumbled.

  But his arm supported her, guided her skillfully, led her once around the room, then out tall French windows onto a stone terrace flickering in torchlight. He danced her across the stones, around large potted rosebushes and into the shadows away from other scattered couples taking the night air.

  They slowed and stopped, and Bristol’s breath caught in her throat. His arm tightened on her waist, and he drew her trembling body against his lean, hard chest.

  A weakness spread through her limbs, and his burning eyes seemed to fill the night sky. Then his hungry mouth crushed her head back in a bruising, searching kiss.

  His tongue forced past her lips, and his throbbing erection seared against her body, urgent, demanding. And a familiar fire raced through her flesh, tingling along the nerves, burning in the secret hidden places. Bristol moaned, and her arms lifted. She buried her hands in his dark thick hair, pulling his mouth harder to hers, fitting her heated body into familiar curves and hollows of need.

  But a warning flashed white hot across the darkness of her passion. Jean Pierre had used and discarded her. He’d treated her like a dockside whore, ready and available whenever he needed her, no matter the consequence.

  Bristol twisted from his arms with a half-sob choking her throat, and her hand flashed, stinging across his cheek. Her glittering green eyes met his stare; then she spun with a strangled sound and gathered her skirts to flee.

  Jean Pierre’s hand shot forward, capturing her wrist with fingers of iron. “Sit down, little one.” The words were gentle, but his voice was commanding. Taking her shoulders, he pressed her firmly onto a low stone wall, then stood wide-legged before her, the moonlight tracing a white line along his jaw. He waited for Bristol’s face to calm.

  She trembled on the stone wall, panting for breath and battling to control emotions gone wild. Her feelings swung in wide arcs. An hour ago she’d hated him, loathed Jean Pierre La Crosse; and now she’d twined her arms around his neck like a shameless wanton, every inch of her body aching with desire.

  Bristol dropped her head and covered her eyes. She felt a pressure behind her lids, felt like crying and screaming and hitting and sobbing and throwing herself into his powerful arms. And nothing would change a thing.

  Biting down on her lip, she let the sharp pain under her teeth clear her mind. When she’d composed her face, she lifted her chin, looking at him with hurt and betrayal blazing in her eyes.

  Jean Pierre’s dark gaze had not moved from her face. In the soft moonlight his eyes loomed dark and compelling, intense and deep. “Mon Dieu, but you are a beautiful creature!” he whispered. “You should always wear green, and your hair...” The tips of his fingers brushed the silky coil over her ear, his touch as gentle as the warm night breeze. He dropped his hand to the gold chain circling her throat, and his touch brought fire to her neck. “This is too simple. You need emeralds to adorn such beauty.”

  “Why?” Bristol whispered, her face a study of despair. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He understood. Jean Pierre knelt before her and enfolded her cold hands in his. “I’ll answer with a question of my own.” He met her searching eyes. “If you had known of Diana, would you have chosen to remain with me in my cabin?” His eyes traced the curve of her full lips, and a flame of desire flickered in the depths of his eyes. Bristol knew he remembered the nights of ecstasy that haunted her dreams.

  “I...” She closed her lids, blotting out the passion in those gray moon-deep eyes. “No,” she whispered. “I would have returned to my own cabin.”

  “Aye. You would have left me if I’d spoken.” His warm hand cupped her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. “And, Bristol—little one—I want you like no other woman. Can you doubt that? From the moment I found you in the snowbank, no other woman has touched me like you.” Gray eyes lingered on her lips, her throat, and she saw his hunger. “Even now...”

  Bristol dropped her eyes, but she couldn’t shut out the heat of his hand on her cheek, she couldn’t banish the truth she saw in his face. And she couldn’t deny what she felt for him. “Is there any hope that you and Diana...?” Swallowing her pride, she looked at him, a plea in her eyes. And her heart twisted at the strong, unyielding set of his jaw.

  “None, chérie. The wedding is one month away.”

  Bristol fought the stone in her throat. “I saw you with her. You’re very good.” Bitterness iced her voice. “Anyone watching would think you cared for her. They wouldn’t believe you wanted anyone else.” Jealousy and pain moved across her face.

  Jean Pierre looked steadily into Bristol’s wounded eyes. “Understand this, little one, I do care for Diana. I care very much. Diana has nothing to do with my feelings for you.” Surprise, shock, and anger registered across Bristol’s features. She jerked her head to the side and tried to stand, but his strong hands held her on the stone wall. “How can you say that?” Bristol cried, trying desperately to make sense of his words, and miserably failing. “Diana’s insane!”

  Moonlight chiseled his face, turning his eyes nearly black. “Listen carefully, chérie. I’ve known Diana most of my life; she was not always like this. There is much to admire in her. Like yourself, she is a woman of great courage.”

  Bristol moaned and shook her head. She tried to stand, but his hands were like granite, pinning her to the wall.

  “Aye, courage. Diana cannot help how she behaves, but don’t imagine she’s unaware, or forgets what she’s done when the violence passes. She knows she smashed Prudence’s hallway.” Jean Pierre’s face was tight and sober, his voice low and intense. “And yet, Diana reaches inside and finds the courage to face all those people in the ballroom, knowing they whisper and laugh behind their fans. She holds her head high, and she smiles and hides the pain.” He stared deeply into Bristol’s eyes. “Aye, pain. Great pain gnaws at those we label crazy. Insane. Mad,” He stroked Bristol’s cold hands. “Diana is like a crippled animal, limping through a shadowy world peopled with creatures and ghouls you and I cannot imagine. Yet, she’s carved a little space for herself. The world she sees terrifies her, but it does not defeat her. And that, my little one, is courage at its best.”

  Jealousy stabbed Bristol’s mind, and raw aching hurt. A great wound slashed across her heart. She’d found him, the one man she wanted, only to lose him.

  Now he allowed her to stand, and Bristol rose slowly, clasping her shaking hands. Unable to stop a self-defeating comparison, she contrasted Diana’s mature beauty to her own youthful promise. Diana was tall and willowy. Diana had wealth and position. Diana fit into his world. And Jean Pierre had admitted he cared for Diana.

  Though Bristol’s heart warned against further pain, one last question remained unanswered. She sought the completion of the tragedy; she needed to know if he married one woman while loving another. Bristol stared at moonlight playing across her painted fan, not daring to look at him. “Jean Pierre. I... Do you..
.?”

  “There you are!” a booming voice panted. Aunt Pru rounded the potted roses in a flurry of pink and mauve. She halted to catch her breath and waved her fan wildly. “Robbie! I might have guessed it was you who kidnapped my niece!” She blotted her forehead with a bit of lace and nodded at Bristol. “Because it’s Robbie, I forgive your disappearance. Robbie has never shown a proper regard for propriety.” She turned on Jean Pierre and rapped his arm smartly with the edge of her fan. “This girl’s future is in the making, Robbie! And I can’t count the men she’s jilted while you’ve kept her here.” Aunt Pru waved Bristol’s dance card, and a mock frown crinkled her wide forehead. “I told everyone you felt faint and promised them a dance after supper.” Aunt Pru laughed then, and her eyes sparkled wickedly. “I don’t know what you did to poor Charles Easton, that stick, but he’s been pestering me to strike out names and enter his own. He wants all your allemandes.”

  Bristol murmured weakly. She’d lost all interest in the dance. Next to Jean Pierre, all other men seemed pallid and uninteresting, dull nerveless creatures without blood in their veins. She tried to imagine kissing Duke Charles Easton, and she shuddered. His lips would be cool and rubbery.

  “Now, look at her,” Aunt Pru groaned loudly. “She’s shivering like a leaf.” Aunt Pru leveled a frown at Jean Pierre. “If this child catches cold, Robbie, I’ll hold you responsible. It’s spring, but there’s still a chill in the night air.”

  Jean Pierre grinned at his stepmother. “If this child catches cold, Prudence, I offer myself as doctor.” He let his eyes sweep Bristol’s creamy breasts.

  Aunt Pru’s booming laugh bounced across the stone terrace. “Wicked! What a pity you’re too old to spank!” She herded them toward the ballroom. “Diana is looking a bit wild, Robbie. I think she’s noticed your absence.” Prudence coughed discreetly. “I’d not like her smashing my ballroom as well,” she added tartly.