LITMIR.BIZ

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for support. She didn’t seem to be able to move.

      Rafe swayed a bit, looked up, found the blue green eyes, focused. His vision clear now, he took an unsteady step forward and bowed from the waist, carefully, formally, correctly. He had no conscious sense of control over his movements, but felt as though strings jerked by unseen hands were starting and stopping him.

      “I may be a bondman, sworn on penalty of death to serve you, ma’am. Your wish is my command. I come to you in chains, but not on my knees, Mistress Frey. Never on my knees.”

      The bravado touched Charity’s warm heart. To be honest, she welcomed it. Fear was no tool with which to chop out a living in this wilderness, and Charity Frey intended to use this man to hold her land against all who would covet it for their own.

      “Master Trehearne, I do not ask you to kneel to me. I ask only that you climb aboard the wagon!”

      “And I say I cannot accomplish such a feat when I am tethered like a beast!”

      If he had been one of her offspring, she would have delivered a sharp slap to teach him sense. “You have made no attempt to do so, sir, so how do you know whether or nay you can or cannot?”

      He stepped close to her, so that she had to tilt her head to see his face. With her back pressed against the wagon, she lifted a slender hand as if to ward him off. He leaned forward slowly, deliberately, pushing against her hand, forcing it back, finally trapping it between his solid body and her soft breasts.

      Charity drew in a hard breath, mastering panic. Her lips opened soundlessly. She felt taken, possessed, completely captive. A faint tremor began at the corner of her mouth. “Can you…” She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue and tried again. “Do you mean you cannot…”

      Rafe Trehearne’s eyes narrowed briefly, as if he heard the trace of fear in her voice. “Have the fetters removed, Mistress Frey.”

      It was an order, sharp and decisive.

      With a shock Charity suddenly realised every nerve in her body was aware of the challenge in him. And yet she was not truly frightened. He might be formidable, but she did not sense the evil in him she saw in Amos Saybrook.

      Eyes wide and anxious, she stared up at him, seeking some sort of guidance. The man’s gaze locked with hers, with an intentness that was almost alarming. She had never seen brazen resolve in a man’s gaze before, but she recognized it instantly.

      A deep, vibrating rumble resounded through her fingers. She felt a warm tingling sensation move through her, stirring all her nerve endings, the way a summer breeze stirred leaves. Her back and shoulders grew tight. She sucked in a strangling breath.

      Unable to hold his gaze any longer, she lowered her head. “If you would stand back a little, Master Trehearne, I will have one of my sons pass me a tool.”

      

      Hands clasped behind him, Amos Saybrook watched Charity thread her way toward her wagon. In her modest black dress, with its white, starched collar that came all the way up to her chin, and wearing a black bonnet that hid all of her hair, she still had an air of conceit about her that sat ill with him.

      Following that thought came another that dwelled longer in his mind. Leah had come to him with her tale of outrage. Charity’s forthright manner was discomposing, and she had the manners of a Hottentot, but she had land, valuable land, and a spirit that he would enjoy taming.

      Amos scanned the rapidly thinning crowd. There would be no militia parade today. The crowd had already watched a better show, and audience and amateur soldiers alike were starting for their far-flung homes before dark.

      He frowned, thinking of the poor, miserable specimens who had been willing to sell themselves for the price of passage to the American colonies. Vermin and trash for the most part. Out-and-out heathens to boot. Probably never in their lives had they been to church. They were no better than a pack of savages.

      Look at the big fellow now! Shuffling like an old man, as if he was so tired he could barely stand. And Charity Frey preferred to take that trash instead of a good, Godfearing, law-abiding man such as himself.

      If there was anything Amos could do about it, well, then it would be different. But hadn’t he already eliminated his friend, Ezra Frey, and made out that those damn thievin’ Pequots had done it?

      His anger grew to a new peak, almost of frenzy. Leah might rant and rave and urge him to take what he wanted, but he knew better. Behind those luminous, blue green eyes and that soft voice, Charity Frey had quite an independent mind and a strong will.

      And her will said no to the giving of herself—for the moment.

      A sly and malicious feminine voice spoke so close to his ear that Amos jumped. “It appears all your conniving and scheming have been to no avail, Brother Amos. The pigeon has escaped.”

      “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.”

      In spite of his efforts to keep his voice calm, Amos’s ruffled ego betrayed itself in his voice, and Leah’s head came up sharply. “It could be beneficial to your cause to give the Lord a hand in this matter, Amos.”

      Her brother’s eyes were on Charity and her bondman, standing ever so close, almost intimately, beside the wagon, and he spoke as if he was thinking of something else. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways, Leah.”

      Amos stood for another moment lost in thought. He nodded his head slowly as if in full agreement with some unspoken conviction of his own, then abruptly walked stiffly toward the couple.

      Leah had the idea he had been about to tell her something of importance, and she wanted to hear it, but he was gone.

      

      “Can I help you with that vermin, Charity?”

      Amos Saybrook looked down his great long nose and spoke in a high, squeaky voice that completely belied his heavy jowls and enormous bulk. “Thank you, Amos. I have but to loosen this last link.

      There, ’tis done.” There was a satisfying clatter as the shackles hit the dirt. The boys cheered loudly at the sound.

      Charity smiled softly and turned to Rafe. He was staring at his hands as though they were strange objects. She heard him draw a deep breath. Her smile broadened. “There would seem no reason to delay our departure further, Master Trehearne.”

      Rafe curved his hand as though he wished he had something to crush in it. He looked up. For an instant, their eyes met. He blinked. “Thank you, Mistress Frey.” It was barely a whisper.

      Amos made a harsh sound and straightened his hat. “Charity, do you think it wise to release this vagabond like this? Are you not aware of the charges that were brought against the man? How dangerous he is? How foolish you have been to defy the elders.”

      Charity had expected a lecture. What she had not expected was that Rafe Trehearne and her sons would be witness to the reprimand. She bit her lip in vexation, then controlled herself and answered calmly, with an inflection deliberately devoid of expression, “Amos, your voice is so loud, I think that God himself hears every word you are saying, and I think He must be as perplexed as I am.”

      “Charity, you are blaspheming!” The stiffening of his shoulders beneath the sturdy gabardine jacket was obvious.

      A renewed surge of resentment flowed through Charity. Guilt lanced through her, as sharp as any knife. Would she never learn to curb her tongue? She concentrated on relinquishing to Benjamin the ax she had used to pry open the iron links.

      “I am aware of what I am doing, Amos. I am ensuring that my sons receive their rightful inheritance. If this requires forbearance and fortitude, then I will praise the Lord for His generous gifts.”

      “’Tis arrogance and you know it, Charity Frey. ’Tis better you pray for humility.” Amos slid his thumbs behind the lapels of his frock coat and rocked back on his heels. “As tithing man and your prospective husband, it is my duty to question the wisdom of your actions.”

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