Serpents in the Garden (23 page)

“Oh.” She didn’t know what to say.

“You don’t need to worry. I won’t be telling.” He sat back. “I’ll draw up agreements for you to end your marriage, but you must tell Jacob yourself.”

“I’ve already written a letter, and I’ll include an annulment if you prepare it for me and ask that he send his reply to you.” The letter had been burning a hole in her petticoat pocket for well over two months, but until the receipt of Jacob’s latest letter, there’d been no address to which to send it.

“And to Ian you will say that you’ve decided to end this farce of a marriage, but that you’re holding back on telling anyone on account of your father,” Simon said.

“Yes,” she said, “if he should ask, that is…”

“I dare say he will. Men are most flattered by lasses that fall in love with them, and you’re quite a comely lass, wee Betty.”

“Oh.” Once again, she had no notion what to say, so she curtsied and fled the room.

*

For all that this was a trip Alex would have preferred not to have made, she enjoyed the brief visit to Providence – even if the summer heat made it all rather sweltering. As an additional plus, there’d been a letter from Jacob waiting, and she’d spent a couple of happy hours penning him a reply.

On one of her walks through the settlement, she bumped into Mr Farrell, who complained loudly about the heat, the disappointing development of the price on tobacco, and the ever-increasing taxes. Alex hemmed and hawed, listening with pretend interest. There was really only one thing she wanted to discuss with Mr Farrell, and when he at last fell silent, she drew in a deep breath and asked about Leon.

“Leon?” Mr Farrell’s face was an absolute blank.

“Noah,” Alex corrected herself. “You know, the slave that tried to run away.”

“Tried to run away? He had run away, but was caught.” Mr Farrell gave her a stern look. “You should not concern yourself with such. Slaves are wild and dangerous creatures.”

“He’s a man, Mr Farrell – and last I saw him, he looked close to death.”

“He did?” Mr Farrell hitched his shoulders. “He was in a bad way for some weeks, but by now he is fully recovered, and docile as a lamb.” He grinned. “I’ll have no more trouble from him, Mrs Graham. Noah knows his place now, and I’ll get many years of hard work out of him yet.” He leaned towards Alex. “I’ve told him, you see, that next time he does something foolish, I’ll have him sold down to the West Indies. Tobacco is a harsh crop, Mrs Graham, but sugar cane is much, much worse.” With that, he was off, bidding Alex a good day as he hurried towards the meetinghouse.

Alex felt sick to the stomach, but had no idea what to do. When she discussed this with Ian, he sighed and told her there was nothing they could do. As he heard it, Noah was living out his life down in the south of the colony, on one of Mr Farrell’s plantations.

“Besides, Da wouldn’t want you to meddle,” Ian said. “Last time you did, it cost the poor man hours of suffering.”

Alex squirmed, but had to concede he was right. Her misdirected efforts had, if anything, made Leon’s life even more of a living hell than it already was.

“Still,” she said.

“Aye, poor bastard. But maybe he’s reconciled himself to his new life.”

“You think? Would you, if it were you who’d been unjustly enslaved?”

“Not at first, but with time…” Ian sighed. “He’s been flogged a number of times. There comes a point where it is either give up and adapt or die, and most of us prefer to live – however reduced our lives.” He patted her hand. “Hopefully, he will forget. Forget who he was, what he could have been. That will make it easier for him, I think.”

Alex spent the rest of the morning moping, but after an afternoon spent safely out of the sun with Joan, she was in a much better mood, and it was with relish she set off for the short walk to the inn, accompanied by Ian and Simon, who was regaling her with one story after the other from his practice in Edinburgh. Mostly, he recounted amusing anecdotes, making them laugh, but she kept on hearing it: the sad tones of homesickness and yearning. She was on the verge of asking him what had really happened to make him come this far, when from the further side of the square came a babble of angry voices.

Seconds later, a lone man burst into view, running as fast as he could to get away from the mob on his heels. He was barefoot and half-dressed, his long shirt covering him down to his knees. Long, dark hair streamed behind him, and in his right hand he carried a musket.

“That’s the Indian!” Alex said, eyes riveted to the signature coat the man was wearing, the heavy braids bouncing up and down as he ran.

“You know him?” Simon said.

“We’ve seen him before,” Ian said, “and we have no cause to like him.”

“You can say that again.” Alex frowned. If their Indian companion was here, did that mean the Burleys were here as well?

By now, the pursuing men had disappeared up the street the Indian had taken, and in their wake came a number of people headed by Mrs Malone, who looked quite ferocious in hunting green and a musket. The long, red hair had escaped whatever restraints had been in place to begin with, and Alex was rather taken aback by the expanse of cleavage the madam was exposing to the world.

“Castrate him!” the madam yelled. “That’s what men like him deserve!” She halted and pressed a hand to her side.

“A stitch?” Alex asked.

“Aaah, I haven’t moved this fast in years.” Mrs Malone dabbed at her sweaty face with her sleeve and scowled in the direction the Indian had gone. “Miscreants, you and your scar-faced companion. But, this time, you’ll not get away with it, you hear?”

Between breaths, she told them of how the Indian and his companion had mistreated one of her girls, leaving her half-dead and without hair. “That Stephen Burley is a sick bastard,” she said, spitting to the side. “Took a knife to her, he did.”

“Stephen Burley?” Alex inched that much closer to Ian.

“In the flesh. That face is difficult to disguise.”

“Oh, and his brothers?”

Mrs Malone hitched a shoulder, causing the neckline of her dress to slide down her arm. “I haven’t seen them. He came with the Indian.”

“They’re not welcome here,” Mr Farrell put in, giving Alex a brief nod. “Brigands, the lot of them. Whenever they’re in town, slaves disappear from the pens, so I make them thieves as well. Hang them, I say, hang them as high as we can!”

“Hear, hear,” said the butcher.

The butcher’s wife appeared from a nearby house and handed Mrs Malone a shawl. “Will she be alright?” she asked.

“My lass?” Mrs Malone’s mouth shaped itself into an elongated spout. “I hope so. Hair grows back, and the gashes will heal eventually.”

Loud whoops carried from the direction of the palisade.

“Caught him,” Mr Farrell said.

“And Stephen?” Alex asked.

“They’re looking for him down by the docks.” Mr Farrell waved a hand in the general direction of the port. “Unless he can fly, we’ll get him as well.”

The Indian was dragged back to the square, and a rope was produced, while loud voices chanted that the man should hang, and hang now. Alex backed away. She had no intention of witnessing this, and seeing as both Ian and Simon had joined the loud group of men, she decided to walk the last two hundred yards or so to the inn on her own. The evening was still light, the street looked empty, and when the Indian screamed, twice, Alex hurried off.

*

It took her only a few minutes to regret setting out alone. At every shadow, at every sound, she jumped. Idiot, she chided herself, you’re overreacting. Stephen Burley is miles from here – anyone with any sense of self-preservation would be. She vacillated for a couple of seconds, considering whether to return to the square or continue. A series of catcalls and jeers interspersed with the screams of someone in pain made up her mind, and she continued towards the inn. The last part of her walk was through a narrow alley, bordered by buildings of assorted heights. She squinted into its dusky interior. Nothing. At the other end, she could make out the entrance to the inn. Alex picked up her skirts and ran.

Halfway across, she stumbled, slipped in something soft and fell. She landed heavily, her palms stinging from the grit and gravel.

“Shit.” Alex got to her knees. There was a thud, a hand closed on her arm and pulled her upright.

“Mrs Graham.” Philip Burley bowed, courteous as ever. But his fingers were sinking into her arm, and he was standing far too close, pinning her against the wall.

“Mr Burley. I heard you were in Virginia.”

“I was – last week. But now, as you see, I’m here.” He looked her up and down, shifted that much closer. “You humiliated me last time we met,” he said in an even voice.

“Tough, that’s what you get when you become obsessive pains in the butt. It’s you harassing us, not the other way around. It’s you that threaten and intimidate. It’s you that—”

“I loved my brother,” Philip interrupted, “and your husband killed him!”

“How you gripe! Isn’t it time you got over it? He was killed fair and square – no, wait, he was killed despite you being four against one.” She yanked at her arm. Quite useless. If anything, he tightened his hold. “Let me go!”

“Why should I?” His eyes swam very close to hers; his breath tickled her cheek. “You taunt me, woman. Every time we meet, you rile me.” He squashed her against the wall and trailed a finger down her neck. A shiver ran through her, even more so when his finger continued along her neckline.

“Don’t…” she spluttered.

Philip laughed. “Or else?” He continued with his groping, Alex slapped at him, heaving in an effort to dislodge him. “I should reconsider,” he murmured, his lips at her ear. “Why kill Matthew Graham? Why not steal his wife instead? More enjoyable for me, more devastating for him.” He chuckled, the sound converted to a low yelp when Alex bit him in the shoulder. “Slut!”

“Get off!” She raked him over the face.

He gripped her by the shoulders and slammed her into the wall. It left her dazed, and he pressed his advantage, one strong leg forced between her thighs, his hips pressing against her. Two icy eyes bored into her. “You’re coming with me, and, come morning, you’ll be much more biddable.”

“In your dreams!” Alex filled her lungs and screamed. Philip tried to cover her mouth. Alex bit his finger. He cursed. Alex screamed again.

“Mama?” Ian’s voice rang down the alley.

“Here,” she yelled, “I’m h—” Philip slapped her into shocked silence.

Ian charged, pistol in one hand, Simon hollering like an aggravated bull at his heels.

Philip pulled Alex to stand in front of him. “She goes with me. Alive if you leave, dead if you don’t.”

Ian came to an abrupt halt. Philip relaxed the throttling grip on her throat. Alex stomped down on his foot, grabbed hold of his forearm with both hands, took a step to the side to achieve some momentum, and crashed her hip into him, bending forward to send him flying over her head. He landed with a thud and lay still.

“We got him!” Alex said, looking down at Philip.

“I think not.” The disembodied voice floated down from one of the sheds. Walter aimed his musket at Ian. “Don’t move,” he warned. “Nor you,” he added, nodding at Simon. “Not unless you want to scrape off young Graham’s brain from the planking behind him.”

Ian trained his pistol on Philip, and from the way his arm was twitching, he was sorely tempted to pull the trigger, no matter Walter’s threat.

“No,” Alex whispered.

“Best not,” Walter agreed. “Help him,” he said over his shoulder, and Stephen jumped down, landing a yard from Alex. He stank, of rotten vegetables and fish, of mud and shit. He must have hidden in the offal heaps behind the docks, and during his headlong flight he’d hurt himself, because he was limping, favouring his left foot as he moved.

“Philip?” Stephen shook his brother. There was a muted groan in response, and slowly Philip Burley heaved himself up on his knees, one arm dangling uselessly by his side.

“My arm,” he said.

“Nope, your shoulder,” Alex said. Too bad he hadn’t landed on his head and broken his neck. This looked like a dislocation, no more.

“You—” Philip broke off to gasp.

“Not now!” Walter said. “We must be off, brother.”

“Ian! Do something! We can’t let them get away!” Alex made as if to grab Philip, but at Stephen’s snarl, she fell back.

“If he as much as twitches, I’ll shoot him.” Walter watched his brothers out of sight, and dropped down to land like a graceful cat in front of Alex.

“The debt increases every time we meet,” he said, walking backwards away from them. His musket was still trained on Ian. “We will collect, Mrs Graham – we always do.”

*

“Wherever they are, they’re not here,” Mr Farrell said much later. “We’ve searched the whole town, the port, and even the closest plantations, but they’ve gone up in smoke.”

“Great.” Alex hugged herself. The earlier euphoria at having given Philip a lesson had evaporated, leaving behind a debilitating and overwhelming fear.

“They’re probably haring back to Virginia,” Mr Farrell said. “And unless they boarded a ship, they’re on foot. We found their horses.”

That was a relief – a very minor one, but still. She wrapped Mr Farrell’s cloak even tighter around her, trying to stop the shivers that were flying up her legs, her back.

“Oh God,” she said in an undertone to Ian. “Now they’ll be even angrier.”

“Aye, but at least they won’t be up to much for the coming days.” Ian gave her arm a pat.

“Whoopee.” Alex found that no comfort whatsoever.

Chapter 26

Alex was in a hurry to get home. They left at dawn the day after the Burley incident, taking the long turn round town so as to avoid the spectacle of the hanging Indian that still decorated one of the plane trees in the square. All that day, they pushed on, and next day Alex had them in their saddles by daybreak, hoping to cover the remaining miles in one long day. The heat was oppressive, and as the day progressed, the clear skies disappeared behind dark, brooding clouds.

“Thunderstorm,” Ian said, pointing to the east. “We’d best find cover while we can.”

“We ride on,” Alex insisted, “we’re only hours from home.” One night sleeping in the open had been bad enough, with Alex spending most of it wide awake, clutching Ian’s loaded musket. Every time she glanced at the surrounding forest, she expected to see Philip leering at her, or Walter aiming his musket, or… She swallowed and urged her horse on.

They’d only covered a couple of miles when Ian refused to go any further. The clouds had sunk low enough to seem to skim the treetops, and to Alex’s irritation, Ian dismounted and started setting up camp.

“We would have been home by now,” Alex grumbled some time later. She speared a piece of cheese with her knife and glared at her son. She hated the thought of being outside in the coming storm.

“Mayhap – or maybe it would have caught us unawares. Fickle things, storms.”

“Fickle things, storms,” Alex mimicked in an undertone. What would he know? When a magnificent fork of lightning cleaved the sky in two, Alex squeaked, shifting to sit as close as possible to Ian.

“It’s just lightning,” he said.

Easy for him to say; he hadn’t had quite the same close encounter with the potential consequences of lightning as she had, and this had all the makings of spectacular fireworks. She caught an amused look between Betty and Ian, and grabbed hold of Narcissus instead.

The dog was as spooked as she was when the sky exploded. She buried her face against his side, and tried to block out the sounds and the lights, but it didn’t much help. Light zigzagged through the air only feet away, the ground shivered with the impact, and Alex squished her eyes shut and prayed.

Alex wanted Matthew. The air crackled with electricity, the sky was torn apart by dazzling light, and she needed his arms around her, his reassurance that all would be well, that he’d keep her safe. But no Matthew; only a panting, frightened dog that leaned its considerable bulk against her and whined.

The next bolt of lightning struck a nearby tree, and the night was suffused with the scent of scorched wood. The ground shook. Alex whimpered and hugged Narcissus. One of the horses shrieked, the mare beside it joined in, and just like that they took off, hobbles snapped like cotton thread.

More thunder, yet another bolt, and then came the rain, a torrent of water that drenched them in seconds – not that Alex cared, because now the air was light and fresh, and the thunder was moving westwards.

An hour or so later, they huddled together round the small fire Ian had succeeded in lighting.

“How are we to get this home without the mules?” Alex kicked in the direction of the pannier baskets. Stupid animals. With the exception of Narcissus, they’d all taken off, leaving them stranded.

“Tomorrow,” Ian yawned, “we’ll think of something tomorrow, aye?”

Betty was sitting very close to him and, even in the dark, Alex could see they were holding hands. At present, she was too drained to do more than register this interesting little fact, just as she was too tired to worry about the Burleys. With a little grunt, she settled herself to sleep.

*

Alex woke to a dawn that glittered with returning light. She rolled over on her side and regarded the immobile heap beside her. A wild fuzz of brown hair appeared, and Alex closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, peeking from under her eyelashes to watch Betty disentangle herself from Ian and stand up. Betty smiled down at Ian with a smile of such sweetness it made Alex’s stomach contract, and then she ducked in among the trees.

Alex was busy tying her apron into place when Ian rolled onto his front and got to his feet.

“Good night?” She winked, grinning at the red that flew up his face.

“Aye,” Ian mumbled, and all through breakfast, he and Betty maintained a distance. Still, Alex intercepted a number of radiant smiles and covert looks. Betty was glowing from within, and as to Ian… She sneaked him a look. Hazel eyes so like his father’s rested on Betty, eyes that lightened into gold when he smiled at her. She pursed her lips. This whole matter required careful handling, but she decided to leave this for later. Right now, her more immediate concern was to get home before Matthew went frantic with worry.

*

Matthew was restless. Every day he wandered up and down the lane, hoping to see them come riding back even if he knew they wouldn’t, not yet. He disliked being separated from Alex, and even more when it was him left at home while she was riding unprotected through the woods.

He submerged himself in the harvest, working well into the evenings, and still he found the time to take that last hopeful walk up the lane – just in case. Around him, the family drooped. Naomi was struggling to feed two weans, and as such was excused from any other labour except cooking, which left Matthew, Mark, Daniel and Agnes to carry the brunt of the work. Matthew urged them on, worried that the dry weather might break, and as the week progressed, he could feel the heat begin to build, the heavy smell of dry dust permeating the air.

The Indians worried him as well. Twice, he’d seen bands of braves cut across his land, and he hadn’t recognised any of them. Even more worrying, they had been dressed for war, their normally long hair reduced to waving crests. And so, on top of their daily work in the fields, he and his eldest sons shared sentinel duty at night, leaving them cross-eyed with exhaustion. The few hours Matthew slept, he tossed from side to side, his mind invaded by a never-ending list of tasks.

Matthew woke in the middle of the night, and his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth, his head aching fit to burst. A thunderstorm…he frowned, resting his hand for an instant on Alex’s pillow. Was she out in this? He was filled with an urge to ride out and find her, but waved the thought away as ridiculous – he had no idea where she might be.

All through the storm he lay awake – it would have been impossible to do otherwise, what with the sheer force and beauty of it. With the rain came a steady drumming on his roof, and he was almost asleep when he heard the sound of horses. Now? He stumbled out of bed and grabbed at his musket.

“It’s our beasts.” Mark yawned and nodded at the closest horse. “Tore itself, I reckon.”

The hobbles were in tatters, but otherwise the three horses and the mules seemed undamaged, if somewhat overexcited.

“I’ll ride to meet them,” Matthew said.

“Now?” Mark asked. “It’s not yet dawn.”

“Now,” Matthew told him, throwing the saddle onto Moses. “How else are they to get home?”

“Walk?” Mark suggested in a dry tone.

“And the panniers? Are they to carry them home on their backs?” He took the mules on a leading rein and urged Moses into a trot.

He found them no more than six miles from home. Alex leapt to her feet at the sight of him and hurried towards him. It made him smile to see her thus, running barefoot in her haste to reach him and throw her arms around his neck. His son hung back, saying something in an intense voice to Betty before coming over to take the mules.

Matthew looked from Betty to Ian, from Ian to Betty. Under his inspection, Betty coloured while Ian paled, splotches of red decorating his cheeks and throat. Matthew chewed his lip and slid a look at his wife for confirmation. Her brows rose, her mouth quirked into a little smile. Matthew sighed. He should put a stop to this, send the lass back to her father immediately.

“Not now,” Alex murmured.

A mere half-hour later, Betty and Ian were gone, double-mounted on Moses and with the mules in tow. Matthew loaded his musket, offered Alex his hand, and set off for home. On the long walk back, Alex told him about her latest encounter with the Burleys. Matthew’s windpipe felt as if coated with ice as did his lungs, making it difficult to inhale. Vivid images of his Alex, nude and helpless under Philip, crowded his brain.

“Too bad they got away, huh?” she sighed.

“Aye,” he said, and the freezing fear was replaced by a red-hot rage. He should have been there to protect her, to finish them off with his bare hands.

“Was he badly hurt?” he asked, hoping that Philip Burley, accursed bastard that he was, would live out his life severely maimed.

Alex hitched her shoulders. “It probably hurt like hell, but, no, unfortunately not.”

*

They were both hot and tired when they reached the turn-off, sometime after noon. David came rushing to meet them, tailed by Samuel and Malcolm, and making up the rear came Adam, with Hugin perched atop of his head.

“The day the bird shits in his hair is the day that bird becomes history,” Alex muttered to Matthew, making him laugh. “Bath?” she suggested, once they’d greeted their children. “I could do with one.”

“Aye, why not?”

By the shore, she shed her clothes, one garment after the other dropping into a pile. He followed suit, dove in first and amused himself by splashing her with water when she complained the river was bloody cold.

“What’s this with Ian and Betty?” he asked as he lathered her hair.

“Well, it’s something, for sure.” She tilted her head back and grinned up at him. “They slept very close together – but at least they were fully clothed.”

“As if that is a hindrance should you want to.” He waded towards the shore.

“You talk to him and I talk to her – or we talk to both of them together.” She threw herself backwards into the water to wash out the last of the soap in her hair, did a slow backwards somersault, and swam to the shore where he stood waiting with towels. “I actually think they’re well suited.”

“She’s his brother’s wife,” Matthew said.

“Not much of a marriage – we both know that. As you said, whatever Jacob was thinking with at the time, it was definitely not his brain.” She opened her stone jar of homemade lavender lotion and applied it all over.

“And what do you think Ian is thinking with?” He took over, motioning for her to turn this way and that. He slowed his hands up her back, dug his fingers into her stiff neck and shoulders, making her groan with pleasure.

“I’m not sure,” Alex said, “and I don’t think he knows either.”

Matthew spread skirts and linens and urged Alex down, thinking she looked lovely, her skin glistening with her oils, her glorious hair unbound. He tugged at her curls, decorating her pale skins with tendrils of hair that shifted all the way from darkest brown, through bronze and a vivid copper, to the odd strand of grey. She was uncharacteristically shy, his wife, lying unresponsive in his arms as he caressed her body. He traced the outline of her nipple and pinched it ever so lightly.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, bending his head to nuzzle her throat.

“I…” She shook her head. “I’m just being silly.”

“What?” He kissed her jawline, disappointed when she didn’t squirm as she normally would.

“I keep on seeing him. You know: Philip.”

It was the equivalent of being doused in a bucket of ice-cold water. Matthew rolled over on his back.

“Is that how you would have reacted?” she asked in a small voice.

“Reacted when?” he asked, even if he already knew what she meant.

“If Philip Burley…” She cleared her throat. “Well, if he’d…”

“…raped you.”

She made an unhappy sound, hiding her face against his chest. Matthew sank his fingers into her hair, forcing her to lift her head to meet his eyes.

“If Philip Burley had tainted you with his body, I would have done my utmost to erase every single memory of that event from your mind.”

“How?” she whispered, her tongue flitting out to wet her lips.

“Like this.” He rolled her over so that her back pressed against the ground. Blue eyes stared up at him, her hands rested on his chest. He kissed her temple; he traced the contours of her beautiful ears, slightly pointed and tight against her skull. Normally, she giggled when he fondled her ears, but today she stretched towards him, offering herself. Her neck, the downy spot just below her hairline at her nape, the rounded shape of her shoulders, the sharp planes of her clavicles. He kissed his way across each and every one of these, and under his mouth and his touch, he felt her relax, those hesitant hands on his chest sliding round to caress his back instead.

He took his time over her breasts, suckling until her nipples stood dark and hard like ripe raspberries.

“Better?” he murmured, moving up her body.

She just nodded, opening her mouth to his. A long kiss, tender at first, but by the time he was done she was writhing below him, her hands where they would normally be when he was loving her: in his hair. With his legs, he nudged her thighs apart, sliding one hand in under her waist to hold her perfectly still when he entered her. There! One thrust and he was so deep inside of her he heard her gasp.

His wife, his woman. Made for him, only for him, and God save the man who ever as much as laid a finger on her. Anger bubbled through him, mixing with his arousal. He dug his toes into the ground for better purchase and pounded into her, grinding his pelvis into hers. She moaned below him, legs coming up around his thighs, his hips. So close, so very, very close.

“Look at me,” he panted. “Look me in the eyes when we come.”

And she did, her eyes a wide open mirror to her soul and her heart.

*

After their long, uninterrupted session by the river, Matthew felt more relaxed than he had done in weeks. Over supper, he exchanged a number of looks with his wife, smiling inwardly when she winked, mouthing “I love you”.

Once the meal was concluded, Matthew invited his eldest son and Betty to join them in the parlour, having to bite his lip not to grin at how flustered Ian seemed.

“I’ve already written to Jacob.” Betty sat on the edge of her stool, keeping her eyes on anything but Ian.