Her Wicked Sin (9 page)

“And what of those who seek it not?”

She looked to Thomas. “What of them?”

“Are they deserving of its influence?”

She measured her words. “There are few of us, Neighbor, who escape sin.”

“And some of us sin more than others,” he replied evenly.

Lydia’s heart leapt. Did he somehow know of her transgressions? Worry struck her, but fortunately she would soon escape his company, as her home sat around the next bend. She worried the impression of her happenstance meeting with Thomas, but she need not have. He halted his horse before nearing her house.

Lydia turned when the footfalls ceased.

“Fare thee well,” he said, touching his hat.

“Good night, Thomas.”

As she covered the last few paces to her home, she added one more fear to her list—the wrath Rebecca would no doubt conjure upon learning her husband had been alone in the woods with another woman.

A transaction that, no matter how innocent, would add unneeded fuel to Rebecca’s fire.

Chapter Nine

Lydia cast aside her discomfort when she arrived at her stable and found evidence of the work performed by Henry and Andrew. Neat, straight fencing circled the paddock, in which the bay gelding contentedly grazed on dead grass and leaves. He raised his head with a quiet whicker when Willard neared—a sentiment Willard returned with an enthusiastic high pitched whinny.

“Oh, settle yourself,” Lydia said, sliding from her seat on his back. “You will have plenty of time to make acquaintance.”

“I have told myself that very thing all day,” came Henry’s voice from behind, startling her. “But I have not wanted less for your return.”

Lydia turned, biting her lip to settle her grin when her gaze lay upon her ruggedly handsome husband. “You seek my acquaintance? Are we not yet properly acquainted?”

“An entire lifetime of making acquaintance would not settle my desires for you,” he said. Then he captured her face in his palms and kissed her deeply, his tongue sweeping her mouth with a firm decisiveness that left her thoroughly weakened.

“You are every bit the scoundrel,” she murmured, scarcely able to breathe for the sight of him.

His eyes sparked impishly. “And I hope you will allow me the chance to prove it time and time again.”

“I cannot imagine a better pastime, but we should not leave the horses without observation.”

“Agreed,” he said. “So we’ll observe them.” Without further pretense, he took from her the reins. After freeing Willard from the bit, he turned him out with the bay gelding and stood watching at the fence while the horses greeted one another. Henry waited but a moment before returning to Lydia’s side.

“I am quite certain,” he said, “once Willard concludes his companion is not fit for breeding, he will settle nicely. Would you like to see the stable?”

Lydia nodded, allowing Henry to take her hand and pull her toward the small building. Earlier that day it had been but one room, but now it held a small feed area fully separated from the stall.

Henry demonstrated the latch. “If we keep this closed,” he said, “the grain should remain safe from Willard’s stomach, though I know not what trickery he will devise to indulge himself. After this day in the company of the gelding, I find Willard to be more of a beast than ever.”

“He is no beast!” Lydia laughed. “He offers all the gentility I could ever hope from a man.”

“Bite your tongue,” Henry said. “Lest I bite it for you.”

Lydia’s heart fluttered at the thought. “You would dare not,” she said.

Henry gave her no time to reconsider her words. He captured her by the hips and lifted, pressing her fully against the wall while she shrieked and laughed. “You know not what you instigate,” he murmured, his pelvis settled profoundly against hers.

“And if I do?” she asked, the words little more than a breathless whisper. “What then?”

“Then instigate, you shall.” Though he held her, legs wrapped round his waist, he still managed to walk to the table whereupon he set her with great care. Then, grinning foolishly, he found his way beneath her skirts.

“I believe it is you who makes trouble,” she said, shivering in the most delightfully heated of ways in reaction to the nefarious deeds wrought by his fingertips.

“I might have that tendency, yes.” While the words worked themselves free of his lips, he nibbled her neck, tending especially to the hollow behind her ear.

Suddenly shy, she tried not to quiver, but the sensation of him stole away her breath. She took to mind every detail, fearful she would awaken and he would be gone.

He abandoned her neck and trailed his thumb over her lip, catching and holding her in the moment. Then he leaned to meet her mouth, so slowly she thought the anticipation would crush her. With his hands he cradled her hips, pulling her to the table’s edge until they met. When her breath caught, he was there to offer his own, kissing her gently as he rocked against her, teasing her endlessly with the sensation of his interest felt through his breeches. Though his enthusiasm boasted quite blatantly from its root, his caresses remained so tender she thought she might cry from their sweetness. But lest she be prone to melancholy, the exquisite delectation of him drove her to something far more pleasurable: deepest desire. An inner craving she had thought would never again be fully satisfied, for she could not fathom a moment could exist in which she would not want more of him.

“I fear I could fall apart from the want of you,” he whispered, the back of his hand stroking softly her cheek.

Oh, how she felt the same. How, in mere hours, had he so captured her heart? How would she ever let him go? She gazed into his eyes, taking in their burnished affection.

“Henry—”

A squeal erupted from the paddock.

Henry lingered but a beat before rushing to see to the horses. His limp scarcely affected his gait, she noted, and the thought bothered her. Would he soon move on? She pushed aside the question and eased off the table, following for a glimpse of the altercation that had ruined the moment.

Both horses remained in the fence and not at odds with one another as she expected. Instead, they stood with their ears straining toward the woods. The gelding merely appeared alert. Willard, meanwhile, arched his neck and snorted, emitting another squeal when his hoof pounded the earth.

“Whatever is wrong?” Lydia asked in a low voice.

“They sense something in the trees. Perhaps a predator. A wolf, maybe.”

“A wolf would not attack a horse!”

“Routinely, perhaps not. But we are nearing winter’s end, and food has long been slight. Desperation sometimes leads to unwise measures.”

Though Lydia agreed—and even found some degree of irony in Henry’s words, considering the consequence of their impulses—she could not help but think of the shadow blocking her path that very eve. She studied Henry’s profile, strong and true, and ventured the question on her heart. “Have you heard of the slave girl Tituba and her work with the devil?”

Henry turned, removing his hands from where they had settled upon his hips. “Goodman Bradshaw told me of her silly claims just this morning while we tended the fence. Why would you ask such a thing?”

Unable to gauge his tone, she hesitated. “I worry for strangers in the woods.”

His features momentarily eased—as if they settled something within him—but quickly narrowed to concern. “Have you come upon anyone?”

“Just this eve I thought I saw someone in my path, but then Thomas Mather came along and when I looked again no one was there. It must have been a trickery of the light.”

“You were with Goodman Mather?”

“He rode alongside. He said he wanted to see to my safety, but the gesture did not extend past the bend in the road. He parted ways there.”

“Why ever would he do that?”

“Perhaps he did not want to impose the feeling he should be invited in.”

“It’s true,” Henry said slyly. “We are in the process of reacquainting.”

Lydia gave him a sideways look. “Some aspects of one’s personality are more quickly learned than others.”

“You say that as if your appetite does not match my own.”

Lydia could not help but smile, though her attention was now on the horses. Willard had yet to fully settle, though he had taken to capturing the occasional mouthful of forage before riveting again on the woods. The gelding stood dozing, not the least concerned with his companion or the threat—imagined or otherwise—lurking in the woods. “Let’s call him Benedict,” she said of the horse.

“From the Latin
benedictus
. Meaning blessed.”

She turned to Henry in surprise. “You are well schooled.”

“Harvard College. Of Cambridge.”

“I know of it.”
She
was from Cambridge, having been raised in its outskirts. The shock of the proximity aside, she knew well of Harvard and its reputation. Inwardly, her stomach churned, though she knew not why. Henry’s station had been clear enough through the finery of his horse and personal effects. It was of no surprise he would have an education to match. But the knowledge begged the question of just how long he would be content to remain in her modest home living the quiet life of a Puritan.

“What worries you?” He looked at her through the growing twilight with soft, kind eyes.

“I find myself curious of your home,” she said. “And whether you long for what you left behind.”

He wound his fingers through her hair and pulled her near enough to feel the steady drum of his heartbeat through his coat. “I long for nothing more than what I hold in my arms,” he said.

Lydia withdrew to look him in the eye. “You long for your brother’s return.”

“It is not the same,” he said. “My father has tried to pair me with many, but never have I found such wholeness in life. I cannot explain your effect on me any more than I can dispute it. I want for nothing more.”

She could not doubt his sincerity, but even so his words sat balled in her chest.

He touched her chin and drew her to look at him. “The horses have settled,” he said gently. “It would be a great honor if I could take you within and make every attempt to convince you of my truth.”

She laughed at his doe eyes. “And you say I instigate! Your mind has but one path, Henry!”

“As does my heart, lovely wife. And I can think of nothing better than to follow where each leads.”

She smiled, nearly losing herself in him until movement past his shoulder caught her attention. Startled, she tried to sight it but whatever the cause, it was fleeting and she could not find the source of it. Neither of the horses had reacted.

Fighting the chill that crept over her, she accepted Henry’s proffered hand and allowed him to lead her into the house. With the promise of their joining, all thoughts of Tituba’s stories were surrendered to something far more consuming than the devil’s book.

There, within the marital bed, she submitted to the very benevolent ways of desire.

…

Lydia lay in Henry’s arms, but she did not find sleep. Though having spent much of the evening well-heated from their passion, they had still taken the time to stroke the fire which now flamed heartily over the hearth. Now, so cozily ensconced with her husband, she realized she hadn’t been so warm in such a very long time. Though she wanted nothing more than to remain there, unmoving, something deep and pertinacious called to her from out of doors.

The stranger waited.

She knew not his cause. Was he the rumored one dressed in finery seeking signatures for his book? Or was he someone who knew of her murderous past to make her pay for her greatest sin? Whoever he was, his casual observation unnerved her. She had come too far in her escape to be forced now to live under this distant scrutiny and unspoken threat. Though she knew not why he would ask for her from the shadows—never offering light of day to his face or identity—she could not let him slip from her proximity without learning more.

Quietly and with great care, she slipped from her entanglement with Henry and wound her way from the covers. His knee, she noted, looked quite well. The bruising was already beginning to dull and the swelling had ebbed. Such an ordinary thing to notice, but his healing existed as a double edged sword upon her heart. Without the disadvantage of injury, he would be free to search for his brother. Free to move along.

He stirred as if he felt her attention, so quickly she covered him before beginning the arduous task of donning her clothing. She did not hasten for neatness, but rather full and decent coverage. Once dressed, and after a brief tending to the fire, she eased out of doors.

The thin moon offered little light, but it took only a moment for her eyes to adjust. She stood still on her porch, in time finding first Benedict and then Willard in the paddock. Both horses stood in contentment with their noses to the ground, indicating the woods were quiet. A needle of disappointment stabbed at her. She hoped to see again with her own eyes what lurked in the forest, but she knew it was unwise to borrow trouble. Still, the weight of her curiosity had grown burdensome and she wanted very much to ease it this night.

Clutching tightly her coats against the chill, she walked to the paddock fence. Surprisingly, it was not Willard who stirred but the bay gelding. With a quiet whicker, he ambled to greet her.

“Hello, boy,” she said, patting his soft muzzle. She wound her fingers in his forelock and scratched him heartily between the ears. He responded by leaning heavily against her, bringing a bit of calm to Lydia’s weary thoughts.

But it did not last. Along the wood’s edge, she found movement. Though her breath stuck in her throat, she made no outward signs of recognition. She needed whatever lurked to free itself of the cover of the trees, so she stood there, scratching Benedict until she thought her arm would fall from its attachment. The horse clearly did not mind, but she feared the effort for naught, as the visitor in the woods did not draw closer. But she could close the distance. So she did.

Heart pounding, she stepped away from Benedict and walked to the horse shed. She forced herself to look toward the building, though she did so while keeping the shadow visible in her periphery. Was the figure moving, or did her own travels affect her perception? She knew not.

Inside the shed, she walked a circle, circumventing her fear by taking the time to admire and appreciate the work performed by Henry and Andrew. Even in the near dark, the fresh wood made visible clean, straight lines. She wondered then of Henry’s unique composite. A man of wealth—one of Harvard College—who knew of the building trade? His hands did not bear the scars and calluses of a common man, but he had proven himself just as readily with building and trade as he had with stoking the fire and tending a meal. And she harbored assurance he could have paid for the repairs, but chose instead to perform them himself in spite of his injury causing sure discomfort.

She sighed and leaned against the wall, crossing her arms to stave off the chill. If she could only enjoy this time with him, but there were too many worries. Her past and his future lay between them, a chasm too great to transcend. Every moment was a blessing in itself, though verily more so if she could wash her thoughts of worry.