He picked up the figure and placed it back into her hands; it had cooled. He cupped his hand over it, index finger lightly caressing the back of her hand. “It looks ancient.”
“I heard Sarah say it,” she said tentatively.
“Say what?”
“That word—Ee-shell.”
“You heard it?” He peered at her.
“I know it sounds absurd, but I heard her say it.”
He smiled. “Mistress Maggie.”
It seemed everything he said, he sang, in the husky voice that made her want to soothe his muscular throat with her fingers.
He untied the string of her cap, lifting it off and smoothing her hair, slowly, deliberately. “Nothing,” he said, “that has come out of your mouth in the time I have known you, my sensible Maggie, has been the least bit absurd. It is just that there is much in this world that cannot be explained.” He skimmed her lips with his index finger. “Like the feel of your lips, petal soft.”
Without thinking, she closed her mouth around his finger and leaned toward him to slide it in further; he closed his eyes. Her center warmed with moisture. After a time, he slowly pulled away, and replaced his finger with his lips, soft and warm, and then his tongue. He slid his hands into her hair, over her shoulders, undid her bodice, caressing her breasts through the thin shift while sliding his tongue slowly into her mouth so she could taste the essence of him, spice and male.
He lowered his head, kissing the swell of her breasts. “Maggie.” His lips closed over her nipple, sending licks of flame within her. She yearned to draw him in.
The clock chimed. She pulled away, the warmth of his life force ebbing from her. She stood, put clothing and composure together again.
He joined her, quite still for once. “I am sorry.”
She nodded and struggled to slow her breathing. “I will not risk being held captive by your whims and desires, a fleeting amusement you pick up now and then like one of your musical instruments.”
He took her hands, drew her closer. His labored breath grazed her forehead.
“Look at me, Maggie.” He lifted her chin.
As she looked into his eyes, her center shifted.
“Do you not have desires of your own, my Maggie?”
“Better to deny my desires than to be at a man’s mercy, ruled by his selfishness.”
He held her face between his hands. “I admit I am not perfect. Although I have no claim on you, yet, your happiness has become my goal, my...home. I would not want to disappoint you.” He kissed her with exquisite care.
She backed away. “There are more important things than tending to my own happiness. I need your help.”
He picked up the figurine and walked over to a bookcase, placed it on top, and squatted down, humming to himself, a tune she’d heard in the Siren Inn, “I Love a Lusty Gal,” or some such nonsense.
“I know it’s here somewhere.” With chaotic speed, he removed one book, flitted through the pages, and shoved it back on the shelf with a grunt. “No. Ah, here it is.” He rocked back and forth on his heels as he thumbed through pages. She joined him as he pointed to the page.
“Ixchel, or pronounced ‘Ee-shell,’ is a Mayan Goddess of childbirth and medicine,” he said.
“Mayan?”
“A civilization in the Central Americas. Very ancient.”
“This Ixchel, who is she?” Maggie asked.
“She aids and protects women in childbirth and pregnancy. She is the giver of rain. See the water urn?” He kissed the top of her head. “Like you, my sweet Maggie, she is the giver of life.”
She could not help it—his praise made her center glow with pleasure. Oh, this would not do, lingering alone with him. “What about the snake?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I will find out.”
It was as if she’d summoned the snake: at the mere mention of it, the shadow upon the wall of the hawk-nosed goddess with the ears of a cat and the hiss of a snake reappeared to her.
“What is it, Maggie? You are afraid?” He cupped her cheek; she could not help leaning into his hand.
Why should she not tell him about the visitation? For there was no one else on whom to depend. Samuel was not a simpleton, but he was a simple man. It was not within his power to comprehend this. She certainly could not share this with any of the townspeople, including Lena.
“Tell me.” He gathered her into his arms. “Share your fears with me, Maggie. You do not have to be alone.”
The solid length of his body, his strong arms around her stilled her trembling, but she could not tell him anything else. If she said it aloud, it would be real.
“I need to return to the cottage.”
He tucked his nose into her neck and breathed deeply. “Ah.”
“I must get back.”
“I will escort you.” He stood, straightening his attire. She saw the bulge of his desire.
“No, I can manage on my own.”
“I will escort you,” he said with a dark look she’d not seen before.
He guided her to her door through the blowing sleet and said he would return that night to ask for Samuel’s permission to begin their courtship, although as he said, kissing her forehead, their courtship had already begun.
Maggie opened the door to find Sarah slowly moving about. Ruthie shadowed her anxiously. While she was gone, at Sarah’s request, Ruthie first helped her stand, and they discovered she could walk short distances without dizziness or trouble. She moved a bit gingerly like any mother newly delivered. Ruthie had pulled her mother’s hair up in a simple bun, emphasizing her high cheekbones and translucent skin.
Maggie stood for a moment in the center of the room, searching high and low for the serpent, walking around and peering into recesses where it might hide. She could feel its eyes upon her, waiting.
“Aunt Maggie,” Ruthie said. “What are you looking for? May I help?”
She started. “Oh nothing important, Ruthie. Never mind.”
Sarah perched at the table. “I feel inordinately weak, Maggie. I find I must sit and rest every few minutes.” She talked slower than usual, as if she listened with one ear to another conversation. “I don’t remember being so fatigued when Ruthie was born.” She shifted on the bench. “I had to lie down after I combed my hair.” She grimaced with revulsion. “Maggie, I had dirt in my hair! What happened to me? I feel...different.”
Oh no. The bath. While she was at Ian’s, thinking of her own pleasure and puzzling on things she didn’t understand, she’d forgotten about giving Sarah a bath. She’d feared this would happen. How do you tell someone that they had been buried alive?
Samuel trudged in, covered in soot from the forge. Instead of going straight to the ewer as he usually did, he walked directly to Sarah, and teeth white in his black-smeared face, placed a smacking kiss upon her lips.
She sat dumbfounded, a blush creeping up her neck. “Samuel!”
He made for the ewer then, and there Maggie apprised him of Sarah’s questions, hating to spoil his ebullient mood. But if they did not tell her, one of the townspeople would.
“Ruthie,” Samuel said. “How long has it been since you practiced your letters? Go over by the fire and do your schoolwork, if you please.”
She obeyed, casting an anxious glance at her mother. Maggie helped Sarah back to bed. “Sarah. There is something we must tell you. When your birth pains began, I was in Winchelsea. Do you recall?”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “I felt very ill that day—my ankles so swollen I could not lace my boots, and my head pounded.” She swallowed with effort. “The pains came on sudden and strong when I was at the Smyth’s. I arrived home in the wagon. Everything seems blank for a while, and then...I saw a man standing by the bedside. He said he was the new doctor.”
She looked up, eyes brimming with tears. “I wanted you, Maggie. I did not want him to touch me, but the pains were powerful. He gave me something to drink, said it would help. And then... I recall nothin
g, not even when the babe was born. Why can I not remember?” She put her hands over her face. “I don’t remember delivering my own child!”
Maggie glanced at Samuel. They could keep the truth from Sarah no longer.
He grasped her hand. “Sarah. We do not know how this happened, but after you delivered the babe, you appeared to be dead. Of course now we know you were not.”
She stared, face ashen. “How can this be? I don’t understand.”
“Samuel speaks the truth, Sarah,” she said. “And you were buried with great haste. The doctor said you had brain fever. We don’t think that was true, for no one survives it. We know nothing of the man who delivered you other than his reputation has been less than stellar in this town in the short time he has been here. I am trying to find out what happened.”
“I was buried—alive?” She pulled at her hair, the bits of grave dirt falling on the quilt. She moaned and rocked back and forth. Ruthie dropped her book and ran to her.
“Sarah,” Maggie urged. “For Ruthie and the baby’s sake, you must try to remain calm. It is a lot to take in. Rest while I make you a calming tisane.”
Sarah’s voice faltered. “Who rescued me?”
“A man named Ian Pierce arrived at the graveyard and saw you on the ground in your winding sheet,” Samuel said.
“He brought you home, Sarah,” Maggie said. “He saved you, and that is why you are here now.”
Sarah rose and grabbed Samuel’s shoulders. “How could you mistake me for dead?”
He flinched as if she’d slapped him.
“Sister, all I know for certain is that the doctor, this Edward Carter, made an error to which he won’t admit. But you are safe now, Sarah. You are safe and back with us again, praise God.”
She did not respond to that, but said, “When did this happen?”
“Three days hence.”
“Why do I not remember?”
Maggie looked helplessly at Samuel and struggled to find the right words. “You were insensible.”
“And finally, the nursing of the babe seemed to bring you to your senses,” she added.
Sarah began to shake and frantically brushed her hands over her body. “I was buried. I do not remember that.” Her voice rose. “I was buried? I wore a shroud? I was in the ground. I was buried.” She plucked at her skin and clothes, moaning.
Holy Lord, do not let her lose her senses again.
“Sarah, please!” Maggie cried. “For the babe’s sake, you must calm yourself. You must think of the babe and Ruthie. I promise you I will find out what happened. There will be justice. I promise.”
She ceased her frantic movements and in a monotone whispered, “A bath. I must cleanse myself. I must...sweet Jesus!” She began to cry in great, gasping sobs.
Samuel held her, crooning, “You will have your bath, my sweet. I will fetch the tub. You will have your bath and Maggie will scent the water with lavender, your favorite.”
Maggie laid more wood in the hearth and set about heating the water. “Ruthie, fetch Robinson Crusoe to read to your mother.” This would occupy both Ruthie and perhaps soothe Sarah, along with the tisane she gave Sarah.
Before long, Samuel helped Sarah into the tub and with Ruthie reading in the background, he washed her hair and bathed her with great care. After Sarah’s bath, they fed her and tucked her into bed. She fell asleep after the baby suckled. Ruthie took the babe from her mother and placed her in the cradle. Maggie sighed and eyed Samuel. He sat in the rocker with a generous glass of whisky. She poured one as well, and they sat in silence, listening to the rain beat against the windowpane. It had grown dark.
When there had been plenty to do, the events of last night could be swept aside. Now in the quiet, she grew cold despite the fire. Somewhere in this room, a serpent waited, coiled and ready to strike. A spirit loomed over them. Mayhap she was benign as Ian had said. But how could they know for sure? Where was the snake?
Chapter Thirteen
Maggie’s song echoed in Ian’s head as he beat its rhythm upon her door and crept in when no one answered. Immediately, he inhaled the raw exhaustion on her skin and helplessness radiated from her. Would music soothe her as it soothed him?
She did not hear him enter and did not know about his visit to Samuel after he’d walked her home earlier that afternoon.
Samuel glanced up when he entered the barn, then resumed pounding a horseshoe. The forge fire warmed the spacious barn and cast shadows on the farm implements hung in an orderly fashion on the wall.
Ian waited, heart pounding. While the blacksmith worked, he amused himself by having a staring match with a large tabby curled on a saddle. It served to calm him a bit. Eventually Samuel paused in his work, black brows raised in expectation.
Ian bowed. “Good afternoon.” Much to his dismay, he had to clear his throat.
Come on, man. You have sung for King George II himself. Surely asking this simple man for permission is not as daunting as all of those dour German faces gaping at you.
Yes, but King George does not have bandy forearms that could crack me like a walnut.
Samuel wiped the sweat off his face, glanced at the plow on his right, and waited. “What do you want?”
He fortified himself with a deep breath. “I would like to ask permission to court Mistress Maggie.”
He nodded. “Yes, it is time for her to marry. You are a decent man; you saved my Sarah.” He squinted. “But you’re a restless sort, aren’t you? You have been wandering for years. What will keep you here?”
Ian met his eyes, tried to still his trembling eyelids. “Maggie will. I will do my utmost to be worthy of her, as a man and a husband.”
Samuel folded his arms. “So you will marry her?”
He lifted his chin, ignoring the buzzing in his ears. No. He would not give in to this affliction now. “If she will allow it. But I would like to court her first.”
“Oh, she will allow it.” Samuel studied him, eyes following the tapping foot. Ian tried to still it, but no use.
“You are impulsive,” he stated.
“Yes.”
He leaned forward. “I wonder. Are you a man of substance and constancy? Or will you flit off again to parts unknown, leaving Maggie alone with a brood of children?”
“I am not going anywhere. I am bound to continue the legacy my father began, to serve the needs of the people of King’s Harbour as best I can.” He clenched his hands into fists to still them.
“During your courtship,” Samuel growled, “you will refrain from doing anything that will sully her reputation. We are under scrutiny from the town, all of us.”
“I will guard her virtue, and I will stay. I must.”
Samuel nodded and stood, glancing at his mandolin. “I suppose you will be playing your infernal music constantly?”
Ian shrugged. “Most likely.”
Samuel sighed and shook his hand. “As I am indebted to you for Sarah’s life, I will allow your courtship of Maggie. I promise you I will break your neck if you are as frivolous as you seem.” He lifted a massive plow upon the work table as if it was a feather.
He dismissed Ian with a wave. “Go forth, Mr. Pierce. Go court my sister-in-law.”
****
That evening, Ian returned in his Sunday best: buckskin breeches, a brown silk jacket with jade buttons, made to order in China. Never had he thought it would be worn for such an occasion. He could not resist fiddling with the neck cloth as he paid his respects to Samuel. Sarah lay in the bed, eyes closed. She was noticeably paler than when last seen. What had happened?
He’d brought along his mandolin; putting his fingers to work helped to calm the music playing uninvited in his head. The last time he’d played for them, it seemed to soothe them. He strummed a whisper.
Maggie took in his attire, grey eyes almost black. The intensity of her gaze burned into his skin.
She set the table for tea, the corners of her mouth flitting up. “How like you to show up in time for tea. I assu
me you have forgotten to eat again.”
He nodded, watching her mouth move, remembered how it closed over his finger, moist, warm. A blush crawled up the smooth column of her throat. She remembered too, he could tell. His eyes followed the path his lips had taken earlier that day.
They were interrupted by rustling in the bed. “Maggie?” Sarah cleared her throat. “Is that the man who saved me?”
Ah. So Sarah knows. That explained Maggie’s distress.
Maggie motioned for him to follow her to the bed. “Yes, Sarah.”
Her large, blue eyes seemed to see through him. “Good evening, Mr. Pierce.”
“Good evening, Madame Ackerson. How are you feeling?”
She closed her eyes for a moment and swallowed. “I am confused, but grateful. Thank you for rescuing me.”
“It was an honor to bring you home.”
She nodded. “I am sorry about your brother. Maggie and I did everything we could to nurse him back from the smallpox, but to our sorrow we could not save him. He was a fine man.”
“He was. Thank you for your efforts on his behalf. Now I have kept you talking long enough. Can I bring you a plate of food?”
“I am not hungry, just now, but I thank you.” She closed her eyes again; a fine trembling coursed through her.
He went to the hearth to fetch some warming bricks, but guessed it would take more than that to remedy the chill the knowledge of her death and return had given her.
Tea commenced after Maggie insisted upon setting Sarah up with a small meal. Conversation at the table waxed and waned. Ruthie sat beside him and nudged him with bits of news and reports of her reading progress. Maggie was mostly silent, keeping her eyes upon Sarah. She busied herself tidying up, moving about with her usual efficiency. Samuel had returned to the rocking chair, pipe in hand.
“Miss Maggie.” Ian grabbed hold of her hand as she went by.
She avoided his eyes.
“Sit a moment. I have something I must ask you.”
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