An Unexpected Sin (4 page)

Chapter Five

Josiah watched Anne’s path along the road until he could no longer see her, and even then stared at the bend in the road where she had disappeared from his view. His chest threatened to explode. He needed to tell her what had happened with Samuel—to make sure she understood. Though he was content with leaving well enough alone, he could not walk this line of uncertainty, knowing at any moment she might learn something that would change her feelings. If she did not yet blame Josiah, someone may have kept the story from her of what had happened that day. And if that truth came now, her feelings for Josiah could change entirely. Now that he’d found her again, he couldn’t bear losing her. Nor could he live with the unease of not knowing when—or if—his world might drop from under his feet.

But telling her could be just as devastating. Would the news forever alter the glorious green hue of her eyes? He couldn’t bear to hurt her. He couldn’t imagine living with the knowledge that he’d stolen her light and joy.

Again.

Everything he had told her was true. He had left Salem to attend school—a rare opportunity to be celebrated, if not for the circumstances. The truth was his father, in his shame, had sent Josiah away. He wouldn’t merely dispose of his son—that would make his father look bad—so he had repackaged Josiah’s dismissal in the name of schooling. Josiah received a great education, but it had come at a cost.

It was a debt from which he would never be free, for his father had died hating his son.

Once Anne learned the truth, would she do the same?

His decision to tell her of Samuel’s death carried its own burdens. Did he tell her now and risk the early bond they had forged, or did he wait until they had grown closer and subsequently risk a greater betrayal? He pondered little else as he trudged the road to the Scudder Inn, the bundle of tinder making the ruts infinitely more difficult to navigate.

Upon his approach, unease seemed to drift from the eaves of the large structure, which stood in respectable condition despite the Goodman’s failing hands. The storm-darkened sky placed a somber hue over the inn. Josiah remembered the old woman in the parlor and, despite summer’s heat, he shivered. Anne’s mother said the woman did not speak, yet Josiah was sure she had tried to communicate with him. Who was she? He could not forget those brilliantly colored eyes, eerily bright on a gray, worn face that had verily seen more years than most. The woman disturbed him greatly, though he knew not why.

But he did know that he did not want to be watched. As soon as was practical, he stepped from the road, cutting the woman from view as he rounded the house. He deposited the tinder in the covered box outside the kitchen, finishing the job just as the first fat rain drops fell from the sky. Josiah had only begun to ponder if the weather would send him indoors when rain began to pour in earnest. He ducked into the kitchen, the door shutting with a clatter at his back.

The room ahead descended into silence.

Goodwife Scudder and Anne stared.

He tipped his hat at the goodwife. Despite his best intentions, his eyes lingered a bit too long on Anne—something that surely hadn’t gone unnoticed by her mother, whose scrutiny intensified. The woman’s gaze darted between Josiah and Anne, her brow increasingly furrowed with each shift.

After an uncomfortable moment, Susannah Scudder addressed him. “Have you the tinder?”

“In the box,” he said, casting a glance at the fire lighting the hearth. Uncomfortable heat radiated from its hearty roar, leaving Josiah eternally grateful a man’s work was seldom to tend to the cooking.

The goodwife’s stare left him thinking something was unsaid—some propriety, perhaps—and he thought to ask if she would like wood brought inside, but the box near the hearth was full. Yet the goodwife continued in her appraisal, and his discomfort made clear the dark veil of his past would haunt him ceaselessly. He would have to talk to Anne about Samuel.

He would have to ensure she knew the truth.

His throat pinched, but he managed to keep his voice even. Of the goodwife, he asked, “Pray, pardon me. Is there a task in need of my hand?”

She took a long assessment before she spoke. Finally, she said, “See to the shutters. Brace them against the weather, but take care. Many are weakened.”

“Of course,” Josiah looked to his boots and, finding they had been spared the mud, headed across the cooking room. Crossways, he nodded to Anne and her mother, his eyes once again lingering. Why could he not keep his attention where appropriate? He stood no chance of maintaining his employ if he could not keep his affections under guise—at least until he could prove himself worthy of Anne’s hand. Certainly a hired man who lusted so openly would not be kept on.

As soon as he exited the kitchen, it became apparent he had failed in hiding his interest in Anne. The door closed harshly behind him—as if by force—and though he had not lingered by the door with intent to listen, Goodwife Scudder’s admonishment came through clearly.

Josiah’s stride faltered. He should not eavesdrop, but with so many questions, he could not depart without hearing the goodwife’s words. He remained far from the windows, making his attempts to listen rather blatant, but should the door swing after him he could hasten his step.

“…a woman’s honor…not to risk honor…worry that you will be used by a servant boy…”

Anne’s voice came more clearly. “No such thing has happened. Your suppositions are without foundation. I will not hear of this!”

His heart thundered. He could not believe Anne would speak to her mother in such a way. Her defense warmed him, though the irony was not lost, for while he did not want to use Anne as her mother suggested, he desired very much the intimacies to which she referred. In spite of the fact he valued honesty, he would do well to keep that particular confession to himself.

“…warned, child…some sins are not so easily forgiven.”

The goodwife’s warning, though broken, came through unmistakably. Josiah’s attempts at indifference had faded the moment his boots fixed to their spot on the floor, but now he verily wanted to put his ear to the door.

Something stopped him.

The old woman sat in the corner, her green eyes fixed on him. Doubtlessly, she knew of his impropriety. Her stare was a little too focused to be hampered by poor vision—rather, she watched him like a bird and he was the prey.

Dutiful in his role as the hunted, he froze.

The standoff continued until a clap of thunder snapped his attention to the windows. Though the one nearest the old woman was closed, the shutters in the opening adjacent to it listed open. Torrential rain splashed through the clearance, marking the woman’s skirts. Josiah swallowed his discomfort and approached. What the woman saw could not matter, for Anne’s mother assured she did not speak. The assurance did not calm the tension from his limbs, but he had a job to do, and hers was but one of several locations where rain found its way inside. Most of the windows across the front of the inn were open. The goodwife had warned of their ill-repair, and Josiah found the veritable truth of her words as he stood next to the old woman, staring at a frame one splinter shy of shambles. He feared touching it would send it to the floor in pieces, but had no choice but to ease it closed, lest the elder catch her death from the damp ferocity of the summer storm.

He was just about to step away when her withered hand landed on his arm. Startled, he looked in time to see her lips move, their cadence eerily in line with the increasing brutality of the tempest.

Though thunder rumbled incessantly, there was no mistaking the hoarse word that fell from her wrinkled lips.

Cromwell
.

…

Anne punched bread dough with unladylike fury. Her mother had no right to warn her about Josiah. If she recognized him as Samuel’s friend, then surely years born of that familiarity would carry more weight than their short time apart. And if did she not know him to be her childhood friend—a boy who once had been warmly welcomed into their home—there were simply no means by which to judge him harshly. As far as Anne knew, Josiah had tended to his tasks without complaint, and for that he deserved a modicum of respect.

Instead, he had somehow earned her mother’s ire.

And thusly, her mother had earned Anne’s.

She was no child, yet her mother had just warned her to keep her distance from Josiah. Of course, her parents wanted a good match for her, but they were of modest means—not as poor as dirt farmers, but not rich with possessions. The inn was of substantial size, but had slowly begun to fall into disrepair. Though it remained sound, it would not stay that way without the kind of work her father could no longer manage. To that end, Josiah made a most acceptable choice. Not only did he have strength of hand, but his formal schooling assured he would have a head for the trade. Together, they could take over the inn when Anne’s parents were no longer able. It made perfect sense, and even more so when Anne considered her feelings for Josiah. Why would her mother want her to join with a suitably matched stranger—one with his own inheritance to which to attend—when Anne could marry a man who would stay on the family property? And more importantly, a man for whom she cared deeply?

A man upon whom she had built her childhood dreams.

The storm rumbled and roiled, deadening the sound of the world outside. With the shutters closed to the rain, the room stood dark and quiet but for the pounding of the dough and the hiss of the fire. A quick inspection revealed a drip from the lean-to roof, the water landing on the hot hearth with an angry sizzle.

Anne punched harder.

She had adored Josiah as a child. How easily those feelings could grow to the kind of love that would weather any storm. Surely she was not alone in those feelings—it was he, after all, who had come for her. Marriages had been arranged on far less. With Josiah, she could ask for little more.

Through the doorway, Anne caught sight of him trying to ease closed a broken shutter. She knew well the task he faced, for it was one with which she had wrestled repeatedly. He handled the job much more easily than had she, and she became so lost in watching him work that her hands stilled. The ease of his supple movements commanded her attention—it was as if she needed to watch him as certainly as she needed to take breath.

He caught her eye and a connection forged that spanned the entire distance between them. His boyish grin sent her anger and frustration scurrying until even her mother’s unfair warning ceased to draw ire.

Josiah was no mere servant, and his intentions were not to soil her and carry on his ways. A rogue would not look at her so kindly. He had stirred her sensibilities with his kisses, but he had not pressed. To the contrary, he had left her wanting more.

His attention returned to the windows, leaving Anne a view of his backside. She should not stare after him so—not when she had chores to do—but she saw no harm in the simple delight. Having him near brought her back to the last truly joyful days she had known—days when her brother was alive and her greatest challenge was waiting for him to turn his back so she and Josiah could share a secret moment. Anne could not suppress her smile. She had wondered back then what Samuel would have said about the fondness she and Josiah shared, but looking at Josiah now, she knew her brother would have approved. And she realized something of great importance.

Josiah had not come to her alone.

In so many precious ways, Samuel had returned with him.

Chapter Six

Josiah slept fitfully, his dreams rife with threat. The old woman knew his name. Did she know his family’s secret? There was no indication the elder knew his lineage—and his father had assured him no one could know—but Josiah felt the warning nonetheless.

Anne’s knowledge of his part in Samuel’s death could only devastate her.

But nowadays in Salem, the events Josiah’s father vowed long buried could get her killed.

If Josiah was half a man he would leave before their paths irreversibly entwined. She would face doubtless disappointment—the joy in her eyes when she looked at him suggested as much—but she would remain separate from him, safe in a place where his dark past could do her no harm. But try as he did to muster enthusiasm for that step, he could not abandon her again.

Not without a cause greater than the whispered syllables of his surname.

With rest eluding him, he rose early and let himself outside. The inn was quiet and bathed in predawn light. It was too early to begin repairs, lest he disturb anyone, so he walked in observation, taking mental note of things to which he could later attend. A few loose boards caught his attention—they, along with the shutters, would keep him busy for a short while. The simple garden was tidy, though there were some weeds in need of threshing near the rear of the property. But he found little else in need of immediate attention.

By all appearances, the Scudders would not need him long.

Cromwell
.

“Josiah?” Anne stood behind him, the early sun bathing her in quiet light.

He stared at her, taking in her beauty, before he uttered, “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Nor could I,” she admitted.

Easy silence descended, but his heart could not find contentment there. He did not want to admit eavesdropping, but he was greatly compelled to express his sorrow for her mother’s harsh tone. “Your mother,” he said, hoping the vague reference would be enough. “I do not wish to cause trouble for you.”

Anne sighed. “Worry not. Mother is being unreasonable. I heard Father tell her as much, though they were unaware I listened.”

He looked at her in surprise. He had not forgotten her impudent streak—in fact, her boldness was one of the things he loved most about her—but when she had been a girl, most of it had been directed at him. To have her now acting on his behalf filled him with long-lost warmth. “You are far from the shy girl I encountered yesterday.”

“You are not the stranger I thought you were.”

He grinned. “Yet the stranger intrigued you.”

“That is fair to say,” she said, the mischief in her smile matching that of her voice. “But like no stranger before him. Not since I was a child of seven, when you pushed me into a basket of eggs and soiled my dress.”

Josiah laughed heartily. “I had forgotten that. And yet you spoke to me thereafter.”

She cocked her head and grinned. “Prudence told me you ruined the eggs to get my attention.”

He nodded. “Prudence was wise beyond her years.”

Anne put her hand to her mouth, but did not hide a smile that would have outshone the sun itself. “I assure you, she shares that opinion to this day.”

“In that case,” he said, approaching a step and lowering his voice, “pray tell what Prudence had to say about our encounter last eve.”

Anne looked past him and turned three shades of red before meeting his eyes once more. “She knows not of your identity, so there were no reminders of my childhood crush. But verily, she reminded me I am nearing the age of matrimony.”

Despite her admittance that she had long held affection for him, his light mood slipped a notch. Though marriages of their faith were not strictly arranged, they were almost always negotiated. A suitor seeking Anne’s hand would need to prove himself to her parents, and they would thusly need to approve of the match. It was unfortunate that Josiah, a relative orphan, had little to offer beyond his tragic connection to her family. He hadn’t any lands or property or an inheritance he would one day claim. He loved Anne and believed her affections in turn were sincere, but would it be enough? A small part of him hoped so. In actuality, the fact he did not come with lands might help his cause, for her parents certainly wanted to keep Anne close. Also to his advantage, with his education, he would be well-suited to take over the inn. “Your parents will soon have a decision to make.”

“They need not worry themselves,” Anne said. Her suggestive words came alongside a knowing smile, and the combination left him in knots.

“They are your parents. I suspect they will worry themselves a great deal.” He did not say why—that Anne was now their only child—though the obvious fact lingered as surely as the damp after the storm.

“Suppose they have found a match,” she said. “What might you have to say about that?”

Despite her suspected teasing, his mouth soured. “That would depend upon who they chose, but verily my words would not be suited for a respectable woman’s ears.”

“And if I chose you?” The innocence of her words belied the challenge in her tone.

Josiah quaked in his boots, but stood rooted to the spot. This was the Anne he remembered—not the shy girl who cowered in a stead of wildflowers, but the radiant young woman who took little mind of what was accepted. She had made that much obvious when she—a girl of twelve at the time—had pulled Josiah behind the barn and dared him to kiss her. He had not needed a challenge—the mere opportunity had sufficed—but her forward behavior had stunned him all the same. Perhaps that was why she had stayed on his mind for so many years. Though propriety among his peers remained more of a show for elders than a reality behind closed doors, her playful moves had been unforgettable. Better still, she had given no other the same attentions, though verily their attentions had found her. But talk of what lay under her skirts did not last, for Josiah would not hear of it, and the other boys had quickly learned not to include Anne when they spoke of their foolish desires. Josiah had not spoken of her, either, lest he earn a blackened eye from her brother, but Samuel must have known.

Samuel must have approved.

She watched with intent, no doubt awaiting his answer.

“If you chose me,” Josiah said quietly, “it would be the greatest honor of my life.”

She stared, wide-eyed. Her cheeks flushed prettily, her mouth frozen in a little ‘O.’ She moved not a muscle, and he was so entranced by the look of wonder on her face that he saw little else. With her halted breath, his confession seemed to still the earth. Then she smiled and it came alive again, one vivid petal at a time. Stirred by a cool summer breeze, the weeds he had noticed were in need of threshing whispered approval. The morning-rich sky cast a warm glow over her skin, and he longed to tuck back the errant strand of her hair that seemed perpetually lost to the wind.

She was beautiful, and if he did not distract himself from his thoughts he would surely reach for her, for he had begun to wonder anew if she was real or if he had fallen victim to another dream.

He cleared his throat, seeking to break the interlude. “What brings you out this early?”

She held out a small basket. “I am off to gather berries for the morning meal.” She looked past him, presumably toward the inn, then met his eyes with a daring grin. “Perhaps we are in need of more tinder.”

Josiah snorted. “After that rain, I dare say there is not a dry piece in the whole of the province.”

Her green eyes peered brightly through long, lovely lashes. “Then you shall be detained for some time at the task.”

He blinked, but no, she was still there, once again daring him to take leave of his manners. What might she do when she learned he had none of the restraint he had maintained as a boy? He longed to elicit from her the same shock that rocked him.

“I suppose you have a valid point,” he said, matching her tone.

After casting another look past his shoulder, she lowered her voice. “Take the path behind the garden, and the spot will make itself known. Wait for me there, and I’ll come from the east.”

He nodded. Though he did not want to part company, he knew better than to risk being seen sneaking off into the woods with her by his side. He should know better, but he wanted not for propriety. He had spent years in good behavior for the want of her—meeting her alone in the woods was benign compared to that for which he really longed.

Anne headed toward the house, pausing at the threshold to send a demure look that had him rushing for the forest. He knew not how long she would leave him to wait, but if he was to return with dry tinder the time would fill itself.

The path she had indicated wound through the trees, the ground a terrible, muddy mess. Several minutes into his walk, he turned a bend and Anne’s assurance that he would know the spot was exceedingly accurate, for the trees opened skyward and bright sun shone over a thicket of berries—a number of different kinds, from what he could tell. His approach sent birds to flight, but in time they returned. He wondered at their voracity and how there was a berry left in the bramble, sizable as it was.

Curious of the flavor, Josiah tugged one from a nearby branch and popped it in his mouth, finding it to be an ideal combination of sweet and tart. He pulled another and took it to Anne, who had just come up the path.

She sidestepped a large mud puddle and, watching the ground, did not notice his approach. “The birds,” she said as she looked up, “are quite fond of…”

He held the berry to her mouth, grinning when she accepted his offer.

“…berries.”

Her lips grazed his fingertips, the effect of which weakened his knees, but he did not waver. “I suppose,” he said, “I should see to the tinder.”

“You said yourself there isn’t a dry piece of wood in the forest. Perhaps your time would be better spent—”

“With you.” He cupped her head with one hand, finding her fingers with the other. From both places he drew her close, grinning when he tasted the sharp, sweet tang of the fruit on her lips.

Any reservations he may have sensed from their meeting the previous morning were gone. She fit in his arms as though she had been created for that very purpose, and he held nothing back. He found her mouth and kissed her deeply, her small sigh and the clutch of her free hand at his shirt all the encouragement he needed.

The fire inside him grew quickly, and as much as he had known he wanted her, he was still startled by its intensity. Every inch of him ached for her. Desperate for a closer proximity, he disentangled his fingers from hers and with his newly freed hand pressed tightly against her lower back. She was so warm and responsive—so wonderfully giving of herself that she did nothing but fuel his fire. The moment seemed at once endless and abrupt, for he had forever treasured her touch, yet it was over far too soon.

When she broke away, it was to press her cheek to his. Standing on her toes, she leaned close and asked, “What if I chose you?”

Her voice, at once soft and ragged, sent chills racing over his skin. He was grateful the earth and the trees grounded him, for her words left him seeking purchase in a suddenly unsteady world. He sought his equilibrium by holding her so his lips grazed her ear when he spoke. “You already have.”

His words did not have the profound effect for which he had hoped, but he was treated to the glow of the sun on her face and the light in her eyes when she leaned back and laughed. “You are so sure?”

Feigning insult, he replied, “Am I mistaken?”

The recourse, meant to be playful, took on sudden importance. With a fingertip she traced his jaw, landing at the seam of his lips. “You have been with me all along,” she said. “I knew not when or if I would see you again, but I have carried warm thoughts of you for many years. They have been my solace in the cold and dark. They have been my company on my loneliest days, and in the truest of ways I have waited for you. Not because I expected you to return to Salem, but because I hoped for nothing more.”

Josiah released a deep breath. He could not begin to say what her words meant to him, so he pressed a kiss to her forehead and pulled her close, resting his chin on her head. “Nor could I,” he said and again, “nor could I.”

…

With Josiah’s help, Anne managed to deliver her berries in time for the morning meal. He declined to join them, though he had been invited, and she did not see him again until late that afternoon. She was hanging linens to air when he appeared round the side of the inn, a bundle of green reeds in hand.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Attempting to repair the shutters,” he replied. “They will not survive nails in their current condition. The wood will split and they would fall in pieces.”

“And what will you do with the reeds?”

He grinned and eased open a shutter, still closed from the previous day’s storm. Carefully, he bound an existing blind with the reed so that it held the pieces like rope. “It is a simple solution,” he said, “but it costs nothing and will do until I can build them anew.”

“My mother will greatly appreciate your effort,” Anne said, “as will my father. His hands hurt him terribly—I am afraid much more so than he says. He can no longer grip things tightly, so these repairs have gotten away from him.” Admitting her father’s weakness disturbed her, though she knew Josiah would keep from gossip. The saddest thing was it was not the expenses that had the inn leaning into disrepair, but her father’s physical failings. Without the necessary upkeep, in time, the expense would become more than they could bear.

Her father rarely said as much, but she knew he ached for his lost boy, who would have been the one to help. Anne did her part as well as she could, but she could not act as both daughter and son, though in many ways she tried. Perhaps that was why she shunned the confines of her role in the household. She was content to help with the wash, but was just as capable of threshing crops as any man. Her father was far more tolerant of those gender indiscretions than was her mother, but because stepping outside her role could cause scandal, Anne tried to maintain propriety—at least publicly. The exception was her travels to and from Salem Village, but she would not give up the connection to her friends. Salem Village had been her home.