“I thought you were gone. You said—”
“I said those words so I would not be jailed alongside you. I went for an audience with the governor, but was held up several days in waiting. I have longed every moment to pull you into my arms, never without praying you would forgive me for what I had to say.”
“You do not disavow our marriage, then?”
“No. I am as I have promised. I am yours, if you will forgive me.”
“I do. But our marriage, Henry. It cannot be.”
“Please, Lydia. Do not denounce me. Everything has been for you. I only left—”
“You do not understand,” she said, choking forth the words. “That man, Henry.”
Henry stilled, his arms tightening around his wife. Fury contended in his gut. He locked eyes with the intruder—Henry’s own brother, Robert—who lay crumpled and motionless but for the glimmer of his eyes in the candlelight. “I will not let him hurt you. I know not why he hunts you, but I promise he will not touch you ever again.”
Strangely, though, Robert’s eyes filled not with defeat, but with victory. Henry was fixated on the slow, loathsome smile creeping across his face when Lydia made the quiet admission that thoroughly ripped his world apart.
“You do not understand,” she said again. “That man, Henry, is my husband.”
Stunned, Henry stumbled away, distancing himself from them both. “This cannot be!”
Robert laughed, the sound broken and horrid. “Will you tell her, brother, or shall I?”
Lydia’s pretty mouth fell open, eyes struck with horror. “What?”
“It is true. He is the brother I seek.”
Lydia edged in retreat until fully pressed to the wall, whereupon she grasped the roughened wood with flailing fingers. Shaking her head, she said, “It cannot be. Did you… did you know of this?”
“Your husband is dead, Lydia. My brother…”
“Fault him not,” Robert said, struggling to his knees. “For his worries are only for himself. His desire for the used goods of others is line bred. His father sought my mother when she was weak, and now my own brother lays with my broken wife.”
“I am not your wife.” Lydia’s voice was firm, her voice steady. She appeared unshaken by Robert’s words, but Henry could not imagine a woman strong enough to shed the affects of such terrible accusations.
“You are wrong. Long before you took with my brother, you spoke your vows to me.”
Lydia took a step forward. “And you ended them. Every time you put your hands upon me, you ended them.”
Robert turned toward Henry with a sick, cheery leer. “Do you hear that, brother? Seems your lovely wife is an impure wench.”
Henry could take no more. He leapt, landing solidly on Robert and knocking him flat to the floor. He knew his brother’s weakness and used it to his full advantage, not caring if the fight was unfair. But in spite of Robert’s lesser arm, he managed a mighty hit against Henry’s temple. In short time, a red haze clouded Henry’s vision, but he did not end his assault on Robert, whose struggles grew flailing and weak.
“Henry! Please!” Lydia tugged on his shoulder, and only then did Henry realize his brother fought no more.
Lydia fell to her knees and embraced Henry fully, her small frame enveloped when he wrapped her tight in his arms.
The hold did not last. She pulled quickly from him. “You are bleeding from the head. Let me see to your wound.”
Henry said nothing. His attention was on his brother, who had not moved since Lydia had pulled Henry from him.
Lydia followed his gaze.
“Does he take breath?” Henry asked.
She stared for a moment before answering. “He does,” she said. “What will we do? I cannot call the magistrate. I—Henry, you’re bleeding terribly.”
“See to me, then,” he said weakly, rolling to a sitting position, “But do not block my view of my brother lest he determine he has another round in him.” Henry leaned against the bed and took heavy breaths, his attention largely on Robert. He could not help but watch Lydia through the shadows. She moved quickly, lighting a number of candles and dragging a bucket near. When she knelt at his side, she brought to his head a cloth soaked in water and dabbed gently his wound.
He winced at the touch, but she quelled the pain by lowering her lips to his, pressing first tentatively, then with intent.
The moment he felt her skin upon his, every ache vanished. He wound his fingers through her loose blond hair, pursuing gently for fear of hurting her, but holding firm. He wanted nothing more than to bury within her and profess every word he had ever failed to say, but settled for a tender exploration of her mouth, his tongue sweeping thoroughly, reclaiming what he had relinquished for so many terrible days.
“I love you,” he whispered, his lips claiming once again what he could not bear to lose.
“Henry,” she said, pushing gently at his chest. “Please let me see to your wound. You are bleeding most profusely, and I fear you will not have the strength to properly instigate later, when we are alone.”
“You put forth a request I cannot refuse,” he said, nonetheless stealing another kiss.
She smiled, warming him thoroughly, and disengaged from his grasp. Once free of him, she reached for the torn cloth and rinsed it in icy water before again bringing it to his head. “It is cold,” she said, “but it will help you.”
Henry struggled to sit upright and not flinch against her ministrations.
“What will we do with him?” Lydia asked.
“Worry not. I promised my mother I would bring him to her, and so we shall.”
“I cannot return to Salem,” she said, her voice sad. “I was granted freedom, but only under the guise of night. I must go and stay away.”
He caught her chin and drew her to look at him. “As soon as we deliver Robert to his home, we will have him thrown in jail, where I can assure you he will not lay claim to or receive favor from the Dunham name. Then we will go anywhere you wish to start over, my love. As man and wife.”
“But your father… the shame this will bring upon him.”
“My father is who petitioned Governor Bradstreet for your release. I know not why, for his last words to me were to denounce me as his son, but something must have changed his heart. I heard from the governor’s own lips. Come with me, and let us put these questions to rest.”
“If you are sure, Henry, but perhaps you should approach on your own. This is a family affair—”
He touched a finger to her lips, ending her protest. With a gentle smile, he said, “Which is precisely why you should be there at my side, Lydia Dunham. As my wife.”
…
The ride to Essex was not without its fits—Willard took exception to pulling a wagon, whereas Robert, bound and covered from view, took exception to everything—but Lydia would not trade those moments. Never had the sun been so bright, and on that March morn it exuded warmth far beyond its usual means. The world was new, and for the first time since Lydia was a girl with her family intact, she felt free.
She no longer carried the burden of thinking herself a murderer, for her conscience had been wiped clean by truth. And though she had not faced the dark alone since her world had been righted, she felt certain it was no longer anything to fear. She was whole.
But her husband in so many ways was broken.
Henry spoke little of his worries, but she knew that the burden of confessing to his mother his brother’s sins weighed heavily on his heart. The betrayal must be immense, for even though he had been deprived of a relationship with his brother, Henry cared deeply for family. It had shown from their initial meeting, and she could not help but feel sorrow for the impossible reality of his situation. It was the worst possible way to discover that his brother was a heartless, abusive brute.
Sharing in Henry’s sorrow, Lydia’s heart could not be entirely free.
And on the verge of meeting his parents, her heart was not light.
Th
e home before which Henry eased their wagon was as large as any Lydia had ever seen. It boasted two full floors and endless rows of windows, while the roof was lined with dormers, suggesting a third floor. Though it sat at the forefront of a busy street, she soon learned the home had an expansive rear yard with gardens and a stable, before which Henry stopped the wagon. A boy quickly approached, but Henry waved him back and saw himself to the stallion, which fought until freed of the wagon. Once Willard settled, Henry handed the stable boy the lead. After a quick conversation in tones too low for Lydia to hear, Henry returned and helped her from the wagon. Together, they walked ‘round the house and approached the front door.
Before Henry could knock, the door swung open.
“Master Dunham.” An elder house servant in formal attire greeted Henry with a proper—though friendly—smile.
“Joseph,” Henry said. “Please meet my wife. Lydia, this is Joseph.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you,” she said.
“The pleasure is all mine, Missus Dunham.” He turned his gentle smile on her, then moved to shut the door behind them. “Your parents await, sir. This way.”
Lydia knew not what to expect, but her first impression eased her. The man and woman who waited in the lavish parlor were smiling, and that was as much as she could hope for with her arrest assuredly shaming the family name.
“Mother, you are up!” Henry kissed his mother’s cheek, then drew Lydia near. “Mother, Father. This is Lydia, my wife. Lydia, these are my parents, John and Alice Dunham.”
Alice came forth to clasp Lydia’s hands. “I could only imagine the loveliness of the woman who finally claimed Henry’s heart, but you have far exceeded my expectations, Lydia. It is an honor to meet you.”
“The honor and pleasure are both mine,” Lydia said. “And I would like to thank you for your assistance.”
Alice turned to John. “What assistance?”
“Lydia was wrongfully imprisoned,” Henry said. “And when I went to Governor Bradstreet for help, I was informed Father had already petitioned his assistance. I found that quite curious considering how Father and I parted ways.”
Alice again looked to her husband, who had grown rather sheepish in countenance. “Understand, it is not every day a man is faced with such news. But when I realized what Henry would give up for his cause, I knew his heart to be true. What I don’t understand, son, is why you did not simply pay the day fee and allow Lydia to walk from the jail.”
“Because they would have pursued her when she did not return, and to run from the past is not freedom. It is no life.”
Though her heart warmed for his thoughtful assessment, his words reminded her of his brother. When she and Henry exchanged a look, she felt certain he felt the same.
Henry cleared his throat. “I have news of Robert. Though I do not wish to sully this meeting, I’m afraid it cannot wait.”
Alice sat straight and clutched her husband’s hand. “Please, what do you know of him?”
“He is here.”
Alice gasped and drew a hand to her mouth. “He is here? Where?”
“In my wagon, bound. The stable boy is seeing to his comfort, but he will not be untied.”
John, his face a curious shade of red, knelt by his wife but focused on Henry. “Whatever is your reason for this?”
“It is a story for later. For now, know he attacked Lydia. I expect he will be imprisoned, but no matter the result of his trial, know this. If I ever again see him near my wife or my grounds, I will kill him with my bare hands.”
Even Lydia turned to him in surprise, and by the look of his parents there was little chance the story would wait for another day. But it would wait for a while, as Alice Dunham excused herself and rushed for the rear door, her husband at her side.
Once they were left alone, Henry turned and took Lydia’s hands. “That went surprisingly well.”
“Is that your assessment of a meeting from which they have both fled with haste?”
Henry laughed. “Now that we have freed ourselves from the scourge sullying our wagon, I have a proposal for you.”
“What might that be?”
“I have a small country estate of a few acres, beautifully wooded with a small, well-appointed house. Would you consider making it our home?”
“That depends,” she said. “Is there room for a family?”
Henry’s brow lifted. “Are you saying…?”
“I cannot know for sure, but I have missed my cycle, so there is a chance.”
Beaming as thoroughly as any man could, Henry leaned and softly kissed her lips. “A chance, lovely Lydia, is all I could ever ask.”
Acknowledgments
I couldn’t have done this without my husband, who kept the kids from tearing down the house while I wrote. I also have mad love for Melissa, who gave me reason to visit the Scandalous submissions page where I saw mention of a Salem story. And for KL, who dodged all the I-love-Salem salivation and actually took me seriously when I said I should write a witchy historical. And for Erin, who picked up the manuscript and knew all the ways to make it amazing. You all made this happen, and I can’t possibly thank you enough.
About the Author
Sarah and her husband, of what he calls “many long, long years,” live on the mid-Atlantic coast with their six young children, all of whom are perfectly adorable when they’re asleep. She never dreamed of becoming an author, but as a homeschooling mom, she often jokes she writes fiction because if she wants anyone to listen to her, she has to make them up. (As it turns out, her characters aren’t much better than the kids.) Though she adores romantic suspense, she writes in many genres. Her ever-growing roster of releases may be found at www.SarahBallance.com.
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Her Wicked Sin Page 17
