Like Chaff in the Wind (The Graham Saga)

by Belfrage, Anna

  “Alex?” He stared down at her, eyes black in the fading light. “My Alex?”

  She tightened her arms around him, telling him she loved him, that she would always love him, no matter what. A huge shudder rippled through him, the cheeks of his buttocks clenched spasmodically, and he collapsed on top of her.

  *

  Matthew felt her shoving at him. He knew he was too heavy, but there was no energy in him, not even to shift to one side. His mouth lay wet against her neck, and he kissed her there, where her pulse leapt erratically against her skin.

  “I can’t move,” he croaked. Lord, what had he done to her?

  “Then don’t,” she replied just as hoarsely. Her arms came up around him again, fingers drifting over his cropped hair. He buried his nose in her curls, wanted to stay like this forever.

  “I think there’s a stone under my behind,” she said after a while. “And I don’t really want another bruise.” Matthew groaned; he suspected he’d marked her with more than the odd bruise or two.

  He rolled off and he couldn’t meet her eyes, so ashamed of what he’d done to her. The shift was torn, her skirts were thrown high, baring her indecently. His hands shook as he pulled down first her petticoats and then her skirt. Clumsily he covered her breasts, used his thumb to wipe away her tears and rested his forehead against hers, repeating an agonised ‘forgive me’ over and over again. She shushed him and told him that of course she forgave him. When he made as if to stand, she gripped his hand and coaxed him back down on the grass.

  “No, let’s stay here a little while longer. It’s still quite warm.”

  He smiled at that, and patted at his chest. With the back of his hand he located her heartbeat just below her jaw. In his ears rang his own pulse, and he tried to separate one beat from the other, isolate his sound from hers, but they were perfectly blended, two halves making a whole. High above stood a sliver of new moon, and as dusk shifted into night, stars winked into existence beside it, one by one.

  “You hold my heart, Alex,” he whispered. She shifted even closer, one hand sliding into his breeches to cup him, her hand warm and exploring.

  “Well, I definitely have a good grip on your balls,” she replied, and he broke out in relieved laughter.

  Chapter 26

  2006

  Magnus almost fainted when he stepped into the studio. On the easel was a painting of a sea, wild waves of water crashing into each other. In blues and greens, it reminded him of Mercedes’ time portals, all those little canvases that he’d burnt almost four years ago.

  “What’s that?” he asked, attempting to keep his voice neutral.

  Over his shoulder, Isaac threw him a look. “It’s a pirate ship.”

  Magnus’ back softened, shoulders slumping. Atop the cresting waves Isaac had painted a lopsided thing with bulging sails and a Jolly Roger flag.

  “And where is Jack Sparrow?” he asked, tousling Isaac’s hair.

  “It’s not his ship,” Isaac leaned forward to add some dashes of white to his waves. “Did my grandmother – Mercedes – paint the sea?” he said, turning to face Magnus.

  “Why do you ask?”

  Isaac hitched narrow bony shoulders and tilted his head to one side. For an instant it was like seeing Mercedes standing before him, down to the curve of the mouth and the dark lines of the brows, pulled down over eyes the colour of cocoa beans.

  “I just think she did.” Isaac rubbed a finger over the stained table. “See? So much blue paint. But maybe she painted skies.”

  Magnus smiled crookedly. The only skies his wife had ever painted had been blood red, patterned with dark smoke from the pyres burning at the painting’s centre.

  “I’m not sure,” he said, “she painted a lot of stuff that was just colours.”

  Isaac nodded, apparently satisfied with this reply. He went back to his painted ship and Magnus returned to his kitchen and a fortifying cup of coffee.

  *

  “Why did you burn them?” Isaac asked over dinner.

  “Hmm?” Magnus served Isaac some more mash.

  “The paintings – the ones Mercedes made.”

  “How do you know we burnt them?” Magnus said.

  Isaac speared a meatball with his fork. “Die, vile foe.” He giggled and stuffed the meatball into his mouth. “Dad said so,” he said through his food.

  “He did? And don’t talk while you’re chewing.”

  “To Diane,” Isaac said once his mouth was empty. “They were talking about all the paintings they burnt.”

  “Ah.” Magnus shoved his plate away.

  “So why? Weren’t they any good?” Isaac asked. Two parallel creases appeared between his brows. “You always say I paint like her, and…”

  “They were very good,” Magnus interrupted. “I told you. She had exhibitions, made tons of money.” He sighed. “But…well, once she was gone I didn’t feel like keeping them. They reminded me too much of her.” They scared the daylights out of him, those squares of twisting colour, but he had no intention of telling Isaac that.

  “Sometimes…” Isaac began. He shut his mouth.

  “Sometimes what?”

  “I hear her. When I paint, sometimes I hear her – or Mama.”

  “Oh come on, Isaac! How could you possibly do that?” Magnus attempted a little laugh, rolling his eyes.

  “I do,” Isaac said, lower lip jutting.

  “And what do they say? Brush your teeth, eat your greens?”

  Isaac shook his head. “Not like that! I just…it’s like someone singing far, far away.”

  “The radio,” Magnus nodded, “or one of Eva’s operas.” He hummed a couple of bars from Carmen, making Isaac grin. The boy slid off his chair and came to sit in Magnus’ lap, thin arms hugging him hard.

  “Yeah; it’s the radio,” he yawned.

  I bloody well hope so, Magnus thought.

  *

  For the coming weeks, Magnus hovered round the studio whenever Isaac was there, finding one pretext after the other to walk in on his artist grandson. Either it was a batch of cookies that needed tasting, or did Isaac want hollandaise or plain butter with the asparagus, or had Isaac done his homework.

  But no matter how often he came into the studio, no matter how hard he strained his ears, not once did he hear anything resembling song – except for when Eva had on the downstairs radio. He smiled at his grandson, for the day engrossed in depicting a volcanic eruption, all the while talking to the little stick figures that were attempting to flee the oncoming lava. The boy had a vivid imagination, that’s all.

  Chapter 27

  It was most elegantly done, Alex conceded as she backed away. The little girl she’d heard crying among the abandoned sheds was gone, vanishing between a gap in the fencing that was too narrow for Alex to squeeze her way through, and now she was trapped – or well on her way to it.

  Three men advanced in her direction. She licked her lips. The ferret faced man to her right – Sykes, she thought his name was – would be the easiest to kick to the ground, and then she’d make a dash for it, brave the thick thorny shrubs, and so make her way back to the waterfront.

  She pulled at her skirts – discreetly – and lifted herself up and down a couple of times on her feet. Muscles bunched all along her legs, she breathed in through her nose in an effort to calm her racing heart. It had been different down in Barbados, there she hadn’t even stopped to think – unfortunately – but here, faced with three would be aggressors, all of them moving purposefully towards her, she couldn’t quite find her courage. She punched herself on the thigh; get a grip.

  “Ah, the fair Mrs Graham,” Jones mocked. When she sidled off towards the right, he moved swiftly, blocking her way. Oh God, he was huge – no way would she be able to kick him to the ground on one try. His small eyes travelled Alex up and down a couple of times, lingering on her chest. “Now, now, why in such a hurry? Mr Fairfax was most complimentary of your…err…assets,” he leered, and behind him Sykes laughed.<
br />
  “Mr Fairfax is a fucking bastard with no assets whatever,” Alex replied, waving her pinkie in the air. “Now get out of my way before my husband sees you.”

  “Your husband? And what do you think he can do?” Jones shifted closer, his bulk crowding her back against the wall of the closest shed. He threw a look at the deserted area around them. “And he isn’t here anyway, is he?” Well, he was right about that.

  “He knows where I am,” she lied. She sincerely hoped he’d noticed when she darted off in the direction of the old, dilapidated warehouses. She did a quick scan; the third man had retreated to stand in the shade of a tilting building, but out of the corner of her eye she saw Sykes closing in on her other side. She wasn’t quite sure what it was they intended to do to her, somehow Jones’ expression indicated nothing but an intent to humiliate.

  “Even if he did, it would be too late,” Sykes said, and in his eyes she saw lust, his lips stretching into a hungry smile.

  “You think?” Matthew’s voice was like a whiplash, slicing through the heavy humid air. Jones straightened up, and in a flash Alex realised that this was exactly what Jones wanted to achieve, an enraged Graham defending his wife, and what was Jones to do but fight back? Jones’ huge hands fisted themselves and a cold calculating look flew between Sykes and Jones.

  “There’s one behind you,” she warned.

  “Ah.” Matthew wheeled and drove his elbow into the freckled face of Jones’ younger acolyte. Without a sound the man slid to the ground. Matthew advanced, a hand on the hilt of his newly acquired sword, and suddenly it was flashing in the sun, the blade poised in the general direction of Sykes who backed away. Two swift steps, a lunge and Sykes breeches were sliced all along the right side. Sykes swore, Matthew danced and there was a gash down Sykes’ shirt.

  “Matthew!” Alex yelled, and Matthew swivelled, just in time to parry Jones’ thrust. The blades scraped against each other, Matthew did something with his wrist and leapt back, sword raised. Jones adjusted his grip, did a few trial swings and smiled. His eyes darted over to Sykes, he jerked his head, and Sykes nodded, gripping a long bladed knife.

  Stupid men; they’d forgotten about her, both of them intent on Matthew. Well, she could at least even the odds somewhat. A surprised Sykes squawked when she felled him to the ground, landing heavily on top of him.

  With a yell Jones attacked, moving so fast she couldn’t quite make out what he was doing. Matthew retreated, caught his heel on a stone and fell. Alex gasped and rose into a crouch. Swish! Jones’ sword flashed in the sun. Matthew rolled, came up on one knee. The next blow he succeeded in parrying, and there, he was back on his feet, but he was limping, and Jones pulled his small mouth into a wide grin.

  The sun beat down on them. The two men lunged and retreated, crashed into each other, cursed and retreated again. Alex wasn’t sure what to do. Sykes was struggling below her, spewing a constant flow of threats. To rush to Matthew’s aid would mean releasing her hold on Sykes, and besides, she wasn’t all that sure it would be of any help to Matthew should she choose to join the deadly dance that whirled around her.

  A grunt and blood welled on Matthew’s forearm. Jones laughed, swung again. A yelp, a shuffle, and Jones was holding his free hand to his side, with Matthew forcing him into retreat. Back and forth the fight flowed. Both were tall, both had long reach and obvious expertise in handling their weapon, but where Jones was stronger, Matthew was graceful, darting round Jones like an enervating wasp.

  The heat was beginning to tell on Jones. Sweat spread in dark patches on his shirt, his breathing was harsh and strained. Alex threw a worried look at Matthew; he was panting, but apart from the limp he seemed relatively undamaged. Jones changed the grip on his sword and swung it in wide arches around him, for all the world as if it were a scythe.

  Matthew blocked and parried, he danced to the right, to the left. One moment there, the other here, and all along Jones’ arms gashes appeared, down his side and up his front the shirt was shredded, small stains of blood decorating the coarse linen.

  Jones roared like a bull. “Stand still!” He swung wildly, Matthew hooked the sword and sent it flying, and just like that the point of his blade was resting against Jones’ neck. Matthew’s whole arm quivered, his hand tightened on the hilt to the point of turning white.

  “No,” Alex said from where she was sitting on Sykes. “Don’t.”

  “Most unwise,” a dry voice agreed, and all of them turned to see the Governor of Virginia standing a few yards away. “Gentlemen,” he added in a voice of steel, and indicated they should precede him to his offices.

  *

  “I will not have it!” Sir William glared at them, eyes flashing between Matthew and Jones. “Not in my town, not in my colony, you hear?”

  “He was defending me,” Alex cut in.

  “Defending you? We meant you no harm,” Jones said.

  “No? Is that why you lured her into the abandoned yard?” Matthew growled. “Is that why you were hindering her from leaving?”

  “I certainly felt threatened.” Alex turned to face the Governor. “He…” she managed a strangled sob. “He pushed me back against the wall, and…” She ducked her head, made yet another choking sound.

  “There, there, my dear,” the Governor said, “come and sit down.” She turned wide eyes on him, smiled unsteadily.

  “My husband came just in time.”

  “Really!” Sir William turned to glower at Jones, and behind his back Alex shared a quick look with Matthew to assure him she was quite alright.

  “Sir William,” Jones said, “you know me as a man with a steady head on his shoulder, a man of good standing in this community. Graham’s attack was unprovoked, and what was I to do, not defend myself?”

  “The lady says differently,” Sir William replied.

  “The lady?” Jones sneered. “That’s Graham’s wife, what would she say?”

  Sir William looked from Alex to Jones and back again.

  “She’d do anything for her husband, “Jones added with a malicious gleam in his eyes. “Anything at all, I’d warrant.” He inhaled, seemed on the point of saying something more. Right; time to change the subject.

  Alex leapt to her feet. “This gigantic bully of a man is anything but an adornment to your colony, Sir William. Have you any idea how he treats the men under his care? Do you—”

  “Alex, shush,” Matthew interrupted.

  “Shush? How shush? You were abducted, and you tried to tell him, didn’t you? You asked him to help you, but did he? No, he didn’t, he just laughed at you, and hurt you and…and…” To her irritation, Alex began crying – for real.

  “Alex,” Matthew sighed and handed her a handkerchief. “It’s alright, aye?” His eyes bored into her, a silent admonishment not to say anything more.

  “He did threaten me,” Alex said after some seconds, reverting to the original subject. “If you question the other men without him being present, I’m sure they’ll bear me out.”

  “Oh, I will,” the Governor assured her, “in fact I already have. Young Brown was somewhat voluble about the whole matter, and what he says bears the lady out, Jones. The lady,” he repeated, staring Jones down – or up, seeing as he was well over half a foot shorter.

  “The lady,” Jones mumbled, pale blue eyes studying Alex with dislike. “It’s still wrong, that he, Graham, go unpunished. He raised a weapon against me, a free man, and him an indenture.”

  “Oh, no, Mr Jones,” the Governor said. “Mr Graham is as free as you are – I myself signed the deed. Something to keep in mind.”

  Jones looked as if someone had poured a whole bottle of cod-liver oil down his throat, small mouth so pursed it resembled a miniscule prune.

  “And you, Mr Graham, you wield the sword like a true gentleman,” Sir William went on, “may I ask where you’ve learnt the art of fencing?”

  Matthew gave a short surprised laugh. “You know where. On the battlefield, Sir William, and I dare say ther
e’s no better school, is there?”

  “No,” the Governor agreed, and for an instant they shared a look, the only two real soldiers in the room. “I’ll have your swords, and should I find either of you duelling again, I’ll have you flogged and in the pillory, you hear?” With that, Sir William bade them all a curt good day. Moments later Alex and Matthew were back on the street.

  “Why did you stop me from telling him?” Alex asked as they walked back home. “Serves Jones and Fairfax right, if the Governor sticks his nose in their dirty abduction business.”

  “And you think he doesn’t know?”

  Alex came to a standstill. “No, I don’t think he does.”

  Matthew raised one dark brow, raised both.

  “No,” Alex repeated.

  “Well if he doesn’t, others definitely do – and profit from the venture – and I have no intention of spending every day here looking over my shoulder to ensure we’re not stabbed to drown in our blood. It’s quite enough to worry about Jones.”

  “Oh,” Alex gulped.

  “You were pretty impressive,” she added a while later.

  “I was almost too late.” He stopped to brush a curl behind her ear. “I don’t want you walking out alone.”

  She took his hand. “Nor should you; it’s you he wants to hurt.”

  “Kill, Alex, kill, not hurt. I’ll be careful, aye?”

  Now why wasn’t that much of a comfort? Alex snuck her arm in under his and held on tight.

  *

  “No passage!” Matthew threw his hat to the ground. “Not on this boat and not on the last four we’ve tried. And I won’t have us travelling in the hold.”

  Alex put a hand on his arm. “It’s only June. We’ll find passage. The harbourmaster says we have a fair chance on one of the coming ships.”

  He sighed; they’d been down by the water every day, scanning the horizon for ships, and when they anchored he’d hurry aboard, only to be informed that the berths were already booked.

  Six ships so far, but according to the harbourmaster boats would be plying the seas well into October. October! Yet another lost year! He snuck Alex a look; she looked somewhat greensick, had done so for some days. It must be the heat, or mayhap she was as consumed by homesickness as he was. She gave his arm a little squeeze.