Time Walkers 2 Book Bundle: The Legend of the Bloodstone, Return of the Pale Feather (Time Walkers 1-2) (21 page)

C
hapter 26

M
aggie screamed as
Nemattanew flew off the horse and Winn swung back around to face them, and before she could stop him, Thomas fired off a round and Winn fell to the ground.

“No!” she screamed, throwing herself at the rifle Thomas held. She fought Benjamin when he pulled her off Thomas, kicking and biting anything she could make contact with. Her teeth sunk into Benjamin’s arm and he shook her off, finally subduing her in a bear hug to avoid her sharp heels as she kicked.

“Let me go!”

“Boys! Take her inside— and for God’s sake don’t let her out of your sight!” he ordered the servants who stood by.  She relaxed and let them think she was willing, and then darted easily out of their grasp to follow Benjamin as he ran toward Winn. Benjamin kneeled down next to Winn, who lay fallen on the dirt.

“Enough!” Thomas shouted. He grabbed her by the back of her dress, and with one thick fist, he clouted her across the face.  The blow was a powerful one, and she moaned as she lost her balance and fell to the ground.

Maggie winced as Aunt Alice dabbed at her split lower lip with a bit of clean wool.  They both jumped when Thomas entered the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

“Leave us, good wife,” he said, his graveled voice steady.  She could see the menace in his beady black eyes no matter how calmly he spoke, and she knew he had nothing but harsh intention behind his mask.  Alice immediately obeyed, reaching out to touch his arm before she left, but drawing back at the last moment and grasping for the door handle instead. She avoided eye contact with Maggie as she skittered away.

When the door clicked softly into its latch, Thomas took a step toward the bed where she sat.  Her first instinct was to move
away, but she was already sitting back upright to the plaster wall and had no space left to go.

“Ye will tell me now why ye helped those savages, girl.  It will not save ye from what is to come, but God shows mercy on those who speak truth,” he snarled. She curled her knees to her chest and her heart began to pound against her ribs when she saw him slide the heavy leather belt from his breeches, the brass buckle catching the light from the single lamp in the room and casting a glare as he swung it in front of him, lazy, a languid pendulum.

“Don’t you dare come near me with that!” she whispered.

He breached the space and grabbed her by the hair, but then was distracted for a moment by her braid.  He pulled her off the bed by using her hair like a lever, shaking her hard as his face contorted into a bright red mask.

“Ye like the savages? Should I have left ye there with them? My own niece, a bloody whore to the savages?” he shouted.  She lurched away but he was faster, his hold in her hair painful as he pulled her across the floor.  Her fingernails tore and split on the plank flooring as he dragged her back, falling on her with not the belt, but his fists. He was careful in his punishment, aiming his blows to her chest and belly, anywhere her garments would cover, and finally when she lay on her side gasping for air with her arms curled around her belly, he reached for the belt.

“Am I sending ye to Benjamin with a savage bastard in your belly? Which one was it? Was it that bloody Winn, that blue-eyed devil?” he roared, striking her with the belt across her back.  She clutched her side and tried to crawl away, but he was relentless in his rage. She felt a blow to her hip from the tip of his boot which sent her sprawling, and when he came back for another blow, she scrambled around and used the strength she had left to spit a mixture of blood and saliva in his face.

“He’s a better man than you’ll ever be, you Godless bastard!” she hissed.

“Well,” he said slowly, ceasing his pursuit to gasp a few quick breaths. “He is a dead man, is what he truly is.”  He reached
into the pocket of his brown breeches, and Maggie felt the blood and fight drain from her as she saw the object hanging from his hand. Two black feathers hung from a rawhide cord, and between them, she could see a Bloodstone set in copper peeking out.

“Yer lover is dead. I will have no whore in my house, so if no man will contract ye, ye are going back to England.” He threw the pendant at her feet. “Clean up yourself, and clean up this mess.”

He wiped the back of one hand across his face and stomped out, slamming the door behind him.  She sat on the floor, her chest heaving with effort of each painful breath, and although she felt the sticky wetness of blood trickle down from her mouth, she did not move. 

The Bloodstone lay only a foot away, the smooth dark orb staring back at her. A crimson vein ran through its center, like a lone ray of brilliant light slicing it in half. 

No. Not Winn. It could not be true. She knew with all the fiber of her being that he would never part with it.

But when she finally reached for the stone and felt the weight of it in her hand, coldness crept through her limbs as she brought it to rest against her heart. Her split lower lip began to tremble and a glimmer of tears rounded her swollen eyelids, the wetness streaking her cheeks and coursing down onto her hands.

C
hapter 27

A
unt Alice allowed
Maggie no time for grief. In a life that felt long lost, Marcus had shared equally the loss of Maggie’s grandfather, and through the patience and comfort of the giant man she drew reassurance from the bond they shared.  Although the sorrow had been harsh, the passing was natural and necessary, a final blow to seal the fate of a man who lived a good life and loved well. Winn’s death held no such illusion for her.  She found no meaning in his loss, and among the numbness and sheer ache that littered her bones she only could see despair, licking at the wounds created by a mallet that took slow joy in crushing her soul piece by piece. She could neither run from the pain nor stop it, nor would she, if able, because at night when she curled up in her narrow bed and cried she clung to the grief, as it was all she had left of him.

Alice, however, hovered more than usual, and though she did not ever say Winn’s name, Maggie could see the sympathy in her grey eyes as the woman helped her into her dress. Alice altered a new garment by loosening a seam on the side of the bodice, and Maggie was grateful for the kindness, which made it easier for her to take a deep breath.  Maggie wondered by her action if Thomas had also beaten her in the past and she simply knew the means to help hide the after effects.

Maggie had not left the room in two days, not from petulance but more from sheer pain, unable to make her battered body do more than use the privy pot to void or vomit. It was Alice who finally took charge, bursting into the room as if it were any other day and throwing open the shutters to the lone window.  She would take no argument, Maggie was getting dressed, and that was all there was to it. 

While Alice rifled through her trunk looking for a more presentable apron, Maggie felt another surge of bile rise in her throat as she sat on the edge of the bed.  She reached the pot just in time,
and Alice made a clucking sound as she helped hold back her red hair.  Thicker and shinier since she had arrived, it was quite a bit longer, too, so she was glad for the assistance.  She smiled ruefully at Alice.

“Sorry,” she murmured.  Alice shrugged and took the pot in both hands to dispose of the contents.

“You need to eat, child.  Nothing to fret upon.”  Alice opened the door with a swing of her ample hip and glanced back at Maggie. “Leave that one apron out, ‘tis threadbare. We will cut it for rags—for when ye have need.”

Maggie nodded in acknowledgement, but when the door closed behind Alice another sickly feeling assuaged her, and this time it was not only her stomach. Rags? Well, women were still women, no matter what time one lived in. She picked up the worn out apron and stared at it for a moment, counting backwards in her head.

No.  It could not be. 

“No!” she moaned, pressing the apron to her lips to stifle her own cries. 

She counted again, and suddenly she felt like the passenger on a freight train as her heart began to hammer away behind her bruised ribs. Her hand slipped down over her belly, swollen she assumed from the more palatable food in town, then up to her sore and heavy breasts, which she had blindly ignored. She realized that she had not bled in six weeks, and promptly vomited into the apron.

“Oh, dear! Again? Come to the parlor and we will feed you, dear! I will clean this mess. You cannot go on without food!” Alice sighed over the additional disorder when she entered the room.

“And Margaret, Young Benjamin is here.  He worries terribly for ye and asks to see ye,” Alice commented as she buttoned up the back of Maggie’s dress. Maggie winced when Alice pulled the apron and knotted it at her waist.

“I don’t think so,” she replied.

Alice took her hand firm in her grasp. “Yes, dear, ye
are
leaving this room, and a fine young man waits for ye. He told Thomas of his intention to court ye, take yer comfort in that. Here,” she said, taking a white linen kerchief from her apron pocket.  Alice wiped it gently across Maggie’s eyes and mouth, and then paused for a moment with her palm on her cheek.  She offered Maggie a cup of water, which helped wash the sour taste away. “He is a good man, child.  He is quite different from…ye uncle.”

Maggie lowered her eyes.  It was probably the most the woman could ever admit to what a beast her own husband was, and Maggie appreciated the sentiment. She wondered how many times Alice had suffered the same under his twisted form of personal justice. She also wondered if the child in her belly had survived his onslaught.

Alice unlatched the bedroom door, and as Maggie peeked out from behind her, she saw Benjamin jump to his feet, his wide brimmed hat clenched in one fist and his shoulders sprinkled with fresh snow. His high cheekbones were flushed with cherry red dimples as his eyes met hers across the room.

Maggie was relieved to see Thomas was not present, so she felt somewhat safer as she let Alice lead her into the parlor.

“Mistress Martin,” Benjamin said with a curt nod of his head.  His eyes remained fixed on Maggie as he spoke, pained and searching, and she dropped her gaze to break the contact. She did not wish to hurt him, but she could hardly find strength enough not to run screaming from the house, let alone continue to pretend to be a compliant Englishwoman. With her head still spinning with the news of her discovery, she tried to cling to some vestige of sanity, but knowing Winn would never come rescue her from the façade left little motivation for her to continue the ploy.

“Good morning, Young Benjamin,” Alice replied.  “Margaret is feeling much better today. Will ye please sit with her while I fetch more kindling?”

“Of course.” He dipped his head to Alice as she passed, leaving them alone in the parlor, the crack and spit of the fire the only sound between them.

“Are ye well, Maggie? Ye look quite pale.”

She wanted to tell him he would look just the same, having been beaten within an inch of his life, but she bit back the retort for lack of caring or strength to argue. She shrugged.

“I’m fine. You can go away now.”

She stood up and turned her back to him, her eyes focused instead on the fire. Anything was better than looking into his tragic face, full of guilt, longing, and other unmentionables.

“I’m sorry for what happened. He was my friend as well as yours. I can see it pains ye, and I wish I could—”

“You could what, Benjamin? Bring him back? Give my child a father? Get out,” she whispered, the fury spilling forth like the swell of a hurricane. “Get out. Just… get out!”

She shrieked and slapped him when he put his hands on her, determined to never allow another to assault her.  He did not block her blows, merely stood there, his hands on her shoulders, until finally he pulled her against him to cease the attack. She hated every ounce of his touch, every gentle pat, every calming word he spoke, and finally when she lost will to continue she simply sobbed against him, thumping his hated chest with her fist.

“Ye carry his child?” he asked quietly. She did not raise her head, but nodded.

“Yes.”

His arms tightened around her and she grimaced against the pain.

“Then grieve for him tonight,” he murmured. “And tomorrow I will see
ye to church.”

He placed a gentle kiss on her brow, placed his hat on his head, and left.