Salem's Daughter

by Maggie Osborne

  Scorching heat flickered against Bristol’s cheeks, and her hands at her back grew hot and tingled. By straining at the cord around her neck, she could glimpse the woman tied to the first stake. The cursing woman’s skirt caught fire with a soft poof, and flame raced up the oily rags. Her wide mouth opened in a shriek that clawed along mind and flesh.

  Frantically Bristol twisted and jerked at her ropes. Her fingers scrabbled at the back of her skirt, puffing it up in clumps, trying desperately to keep her hem from the licking flames. Fire caressed her shoes, and slowly the soles charred and blackened. Heat scalded into her toes and calves and penetrated her hysterical mind. She saw the first woman’s hair explode in a fiery halo around her face. Bristol screamed, a long mindless shrill of sound.

  When her eyes snapped open, it was as if her scream had blown the men backward in a giant wind of anguish; they ran and scattered. Foaming horses poured into the clearing, and the women’s screams mingled with a clash and ring of swords meeting swords, of musket fire flashing deadly light. Men from the harbor spilled into the clearing. Fighting, shouting, screaming people ran everywhere.

  It could all be seen by the light of the burning witches. A smell of charred flesh wafted outward in nauseating oily drifts. The first woman, blackened on the stake, her white boiled eyes the only dots of color to mark where her head had been. Divinity’s skirt ignited in a flaming column, and the girl screamed in a voice of madness.

  Bristol leaned her head against the stake, screaming through cracked lips. Fiery fingers began to stroke her hem, dived, flickered, and suddenly flamed her skirt in a circle of orange horror. The fire raced up her body, seeking flesh and hair and bone.

  A tall powerful man broke from the shouting, slashing mob and raced behind Bristol. His sword flashed down the stake, and hand and waist and throat cords fell away. He dragged her from the flames and threw her into the dirt, rolling her back and forth. Smothering hands beat at her body, at the smoking ends of her hair. And she screamed when his hands touched her lower legs, the raw burned flesh.

  Her clothes ripped from her body, still smoking, and a man’s cloak dropped over her chemise and charred petticoat. Bristol pulled to her hands and knees and lifted her head. She shook tears of pain from her eyes and tried to see clearly. “Oh, God,” she whimpered. It couldn’t be. “Jean Pierre?” Her whisper was disbelieving. “Is it you? Is it really...?”

  He bent, and she saw his face in the blazing firelight. The firm jaw, the ridge of scar, the finely molded nose... and his hard smoky eyes. Pain and joy washed across her mind in red waves.

  Jean Pierre’s powerful arms swept her into an embrace and held her against his chest. “Little love! Tell me you’ll be all right!” His hand stroked her hair, touched her face, turned her eyes to meet his.

  Bristol’s arms flew around his neck, a cry broke from her lips. “Jean Pierre! Jean Pierre!”

  The intense gray eyes closed for an instant. “Thank God!”

  Her trembling fingers leaped to touch his face, his hair, his grim mouth, the scar she knew so well. Hysterical laughter welled in her throat. How was it possible? Maybe she’d gone mad with pain and terror. But no, the muscles rippling beneath her fingers belonged to no other. Whimpering, she buried her face in his neck and clung to the smell of salt and sea and man.

  “You’re safe now, little one. Safe.” Tenderly he lowered her to the meadow floor, and her hands moved over him, reassuring herself, not wanting to let him go.

  He caressed her cheek, his gray eyes flickering. “God, how I’ve, longed for you!” he whispered. Then he was running toward the crush of swords and shouting, his blade in his hand.

  She’d believed she remembered everything about him, but she’d forgotten his fluid grace of movement, the easy confidence, and the power in his face, his stance. Bristol pulled into a sitting position and dashed tears of pain from her eyes. She found him in the slashing swirl of firelit bodies, his shoulders straining, his face hard and concentrated. Thigh muscles bulged, his arm rose and struck metal, lifted again and sliced into flesh. Bristol buried her face, then looked again. He was still there, fighting, shouting, living. As she watched, another man stepped free for an instant, saluted her with his sword and a scarred grin, then whirled back into the fight. Mr. Aykroyd.

  Bristol’s heart soared in joy. She could have watched them forever, her eyes shining with love, but she remembered Divinity. On hands and knees, wincing and groaning, she crawled to the crumpled, charred heap that was Divinity. Divinity was hurt, hurt badly, but the girl was alive. Bristol gentled Divinity’s head in her lap, lifting the girl so Divinity could see the fight. Divinity’s eyes rolled up, glazed with pain, and she ran her tongue over ash-flecked lips. “Will they burn us again?” she panted.

  “No,” Bristol soothed, pushing matted hair off Divinity’s brow. “No, everything will be all right now.”

  And she believed it would be. Bristol’s feet throbbed and flamed, her hands were black in spots. But she scarcely noticed. Her eyes followed a white shirt weaving and slashing through the mob. The men from town flooded into the clearing, and Bristol saw Reverend Cotton Mather plunge into the foray atop his white horse. Bending under the force of additional men, the mob gave way and gradually retreated into the darkness. Muskets fired from a greater distance.

  As suddenly as it had begun, it ended. The clearing was littered with wounded men from both sides; others milled about aimlessly, swords swinging from their hands, their eyes turning again and again to the charred black things hanging from the first two stakes.

  Guards rushed into the clearing, freshly released from the captured guardhouse, and their eyes widened in sick horror at what they saw. Rapidly, voices raw with shock, they rounded up the women and led them back to the pen.

  “No! Not this one.” Jean Pierre’s steely eyes fastened to those of Captain Kingston. Jean Pierre’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, and his legs bent and tensed.

  “They all go back,” Kingston whispered. His face drained of color, and he knew himself outclassed. But he stepped back, positioning for battle. He hefted his sword, testing the weight, readying himself.

  A knife appeared against Kingston’s back, and Mr. Aykroyd’s voice hissed softly, “I think not. We saved yer incompetent arse from more trouble than ye’ve got already. Yell have plenty to answer here as it is. We’ll take these two women as our prize.”

  Bristol stared up from where she held Divinity, and saw the indecision on Kingston’s pale face. Even with Jean Pierre’s sword at his chest and Mr. Aykroyd’s knife at his back, the man displayed a stubborn courage.

  Cotton Mather spurred his horse toward the conflict. “Kingston!” his authoritative voice cut through the tension. “Release these women into Captain La Crosse’s care. I’ll take the responsibility.” He reined his horse and peered down at Kingston. “I have it on good authority that three days hence, the governor will adjourn the court of oyer and terminer. These two would eventually have gone free anyway.”

  Kingston’s eyes found Bristol, and she saw in his glance that the termination of the court would not have come quickly enough to save her from the rope. Slowly Kingston moved his eyes from Jean Pierre’s narrow stare to Reverend Mather. “It’s on your responsibility.”

  “Aye.” Mather watched Kingston walk away; then he extended his hand to Jean Pierre. “Thank you, Captain, my men wouldn’t have arrived in time. Is this the young lady you’ve been negotiating for?” He smiled at Bristol.

  “Aye.”

  Mather lifted the reins. “It’s been a pleasure having you in my home, La Crosse. If you lay anchor in Boston again, my wife and I would be pleased to have you and your lady stay with us.”

  Jean Pierre bowed from the waist. “Merci. Please extend my thanks to Goodwife Mather for her hospitality.”

  Reverend Mather tipped his hat and rode toward a group of men knocking over stakes.

  Dropping to the grass beside Bristol, Jean Pierre stared deeply into her wid
e shining eyes. “I’ve come for you,” he said softly. Gently he moved Divinity’s head, then gathered Bristol into his arms. Their knees sank in the meadow, and he held her tightly to his heart.

  Mr. Aykroyd drove his cutlass into the grass and knelt beside them. His scarred face split into a grin. “I swear, gel! Ye best marry the captain quick. I never did see anyone get into such messes on their own.” He shook thin wisps of hair and smiled. “Ye’re the most disaster-prone gel I ever did see! And look how ye’re dressed! A man’s cloak and yer under-things! Didn’t I teach ye anything?”

  Bristol smiled, her green eyes luminous. “God in heaven, but I’m glad to see you both!” She reached a hand to that dear ugly cheek.

  He covered her hand with his own. “Little gel, ye—” A flash of orange exploded at the edge of darkness, and Mr. Aykroyd’s expression froze. The sound of a musket shot floated into the night. Instantly Jean Pierre jumped forward, catching Mr. Aykroyd before he crashed over Bristol. “No!” she screamed, her eyes blank and rejecting.

  Bristol clawed herself up over him, her hair falling against his cheek. A ragged wet flower opened on his lower chest. Bristol’s horrified eyes lifted to Jean Pierre, seeing his expression harden to stone. “Speak to me!” she cried, turning back to Mr. Aykroyd. “Oh, God, no! Speak to me.” Her fingers flew over his face, his shoulders, his arms.

  “Well, if that don’t beat all!” Mr. Aykroyd stared up indignantly. He pushed up on an elbow, touching his side and staring at the blood on his fingers. “The fighting was over. Over!” He looked from Bristol to Jean Pierre, then back. He grinned. “Hurts like hell. But at least it ain’t my face this time.”

  Jean Pierre’s tight expression relaxed. Winking at Bristol, he bent to help Mr. Aykroyd sit. “That’s good. We’d hate to see your beauty marred.”

  Mr. Aykroyd’s grin widened. “They’s a widow in Southwark what feels the same.” He tore his shirt and wadded the material against his wound. Then he looked at Bristol’s frozen face, and his eyes softened. “It’s all right,” he said gently. “I’ve come through worse than this. I plan to bounce yer babies on me knee.”

  Her hand shaking violently, Bristol reached out and touched his lips, then his hair and his check. She buried her face in her hands. “I thought... oh, dear God, I thought... I just couldn’t bear it if... not you! I...”

  Her shoulders convulsed; then Jean Pierre was lifting her, cradling her in his strong arms, pressing her face into his shoulder.

  And the tears came. A wet torrent scalded down her face. Tears gushed from her eyes, and deep shuddering sobs tore her throat. Hot burning tears, the tears she’d repressed for so long—they streamed and flooded and poured from her eyes and heart. She could not stop. Her shoulders heaved in deep racking spasms, and her breath choked in wet gasps.

  Jean Pierre sank to the autumn grass, and they remained on their knees, clinging to each other. “If Mr. Aykroyd had died...” Bristol sobbed, gasping and strangling. Her fright opened the floodgates of her heart. “So many died! Charity, and Caleb, and Papa, and Rebecca, and Martha, and John Proctor, and all the rest! And our baby! Oh, Jean Pierre, our little baby!” The tears she’d stored in some secret core burned down her cheeks in aching painful sobs, a torrent of anguish. Her throat swelled raw, and her chest convulsed. And still the tears rivered down her cheeks. Cleansing, healing tears.

  Holding her quivering wild body, Jean Pierre kissed her hair, her flowing eyes, her moaning lips. His strong arms circled her, and she wept until each shuddering breath was agony and her throat felt like fire.

  When she began to quiet, Jean Pierre pressed her limp body against his hard warm chest, listening to her weak sobbing. “We’ll sail at dawn,” he murmured against her hair. “I’m taking you home to England, my little Bristol.”

  She stared up with swimming vision, meeting those deep gray eyes. “Please. Can we leave now? Tonight?”

  Jean Pierre glanced over her head at the dying embers of seven fires, and his eyes steadied on the shadows of the pens. Mr. Aykroyd groaned. Then Jean Pierre gently brushed her wet cheek with his thumb. “The Challenger sails tonight, my love.”

  36

  Inside the captain’s cabin, Bristol leaned forward in the desk chair and wearily listened to frantic sounds from above deck. She heard men’s shouts and running feet and a snap of night- breezes in yards of dropping canvas. Rope groaned and animals bawled and someone loudly cursed. And over it all she heard a deep vibrant voice shouting orders. A longing for him welled in Bristol’s throat, a longing embedded in her very soul. She felt a dizzy surge of wild joy.

  “Bristol?”

  Bristol turned to the bed where the ship’s surgeon labored, rubbing ointment into Divinity’s raw, charred flesh. “Aye?” Bristol answered, feeling a stab of guilt at her happiness when Divinity suffered so greatly.

  The Challenger’s planking shuddered as wind cupped unfurling canvas and swung the ship toward the open sea.

  “Bristol! We’re on a ship, aren’t we?” Divinity whispered through cracked lips, and tears of pain leaked down her muddy face.

  Bristol hobbled to the bed and knelt beside Divinity, taking her hand. She smiled. “Aye, you’re going to have that ship adventure you wanted. We’re sailing to a new life, Divinity, where it’s clean and fresh for us.”

  Divinity’s eyes darkened. “So many died,” she whispered. “So many.” Her eyes closed.

  Bristol’s heart rolled, and she clutched the surgeon’s shoulder. “Is she...?”

  The man glanced up and shook his head. He called for two men to move Divinity into a passenger’s cabin. “No, she’s fainted. Best thing for her right now. She’ll have a limp, but she’ll live.” He pressed Bristol firmly to the edge of the bed. “Let’s have a look at your feet.”

  The surgeon salved her feet and legs with something to suck the fire away. It felt wonderfully cool. She could walk—not well, but she could walk into Jean Pierre’s arms when he came for her. And by then she’d found the pewter cup on his desk.

  “You kept this,” she marveled, turning the little mug in her fingers. She remembered all the times she’d held this mug to her breast, drawing comfort from its memories of home. Home.

  “Aye,” he answered, “it was something of you.” Gray eyes caressed her face. His hand gently lifted her chin. “I love you, Bristol. When I learned you had married, I nearly went mad thinking of you and another man. It was then I decided to come and take you. Husband or no husband, you belong to me. You’re mine.” His gray eyes smoldered into hers, and a heated knot flamed in Bristol’s stomach. The fingers on her chin tightened. “Was he... was he good to you?” Jean Pierre murmured in a husky voice.

  “Someday, my love, my Jean Pierre, someday I’ll tell you about a good, decent man named Caleb Wainwright. But not now; not now, my dearest.”

  Warm lips crushed her mouth, and her arms rose to circle his neck, pulling him closer. When Jean Pierre released her, she trembled in his arms, shaken with the desire his touch awakened in every hidden part of her body.

  “It’s nearly dawn,” he said gently. Lifting her, he carried her upstairs to the afterdeck. Overhead, the canvas fluttered; below, foamy black water lapped the ship.

  Jean Pierre held her to his chest, so close she could feel the steady warmth of his heartbeat against her spine. His cheek rested atop her hair, and they stared into a solid wall of black. Black sea, black sky, black land.

  Footsteps sounded across the planking, and Mr. Aykroyd stood beside them. He cleared his throat and touched his side gingerly; then he handed Bristol the little pewter cup. His eyes met hers. “Home is where the heart is,” he said gently.

  Bristol stared at him; then, understanding, she stepped to the rail and dropped the cup, listening to the distant splash below.

  “Don’t look into the darkness of the past, my little love,” Jean Pierre murmured softly. He turned her from the curtain of blackness toward a first glow of sunrise streaking the eastern sky. “Look forwa
rd.” One hand swept across the faint pink horizon, the other found her waist. “Out there is England. And the rest of our lives.”

  Bristol’s eyes rose from the dawn glow, and she gazed up at his strong profile—at the man who gave her life meaning.

  Mr. Aykroyd lit his pipe and stood by her side; his hand on her shoulder. “We’re going home,” he said quietly.

  Bristol’s eyes closed in silent gratitude. Her arms went around their waists, and she hugged them both. Then she lifted tear-bright eyes to the sunrise, and her lips curled in a rapturous smile.

  Standing within the embrace of the two people she loved most in the world, she understood that she was already home.

  The End

  If you enjoyed Salem’s Daughter, I would be honored if you would tell others by writing a review on the retailer’s website where you purchased this title.

  Thank you!

  Maggie Osborne

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