Her Wicked Sin (7 page)

“I want nothing more.”

She barely managed the words before his lips found her skin and nearly sent her wilting to her knees. The fire might have jumped from the hearth for the way his touch kindled an unbridled heat deep within, but she held fast to her cause, maneuvering by feel when she could no longer see her ministrations.

They were fully pressed now, she and Henry, with his body hot and hard. Though his height bested hers, they seemed to fit as one when she looked upon high, baring her neck to his attentions. She fought for the feel of his skin beneath her fingertips, and when he finally broke from his kisses it was to rip free of his top garments. The barrier shed, he returned to their closeness without hesitation, filling his hands with her hair and guiding her position so he once again had access to her flesh.

She felt raw with her need, but not at all wounded from past scars. Her fingertips raked his back, and she marveled at the strength she had not yet seen—at the rise and fall of tightly formed muscle under smooth skin. Her mind wandered lower, and though she dared not risk the barrier of his breeches, the thought of what awaited left her undeniably shaken.

“I wish to know you as my wife,” he said, his words a coarse and desperate whisper.

“Then you shall,” she replied, her words a breathy promise, the consequences of which she would neither consider nor deny.

He released her hair and began to work on her bodice, though he could only grope clumsily at the tiny buttons at a pace much too slow. But when her attention turned from his fumbles to the expanse of his chest, she decided he could tarry the process all he desired, for never had she seen a man so magnificent. Thick, wide shoulders gave way to a powerful chest, which then narrowed into a chiseled stomach as rigid as a washboard. Though she had seen shirtless men in her time, never had such a combination of raw power met with such fine, unmarred skin. Never had she imagined something so hard could be so silken to her touch—or that she would tremble with such anticipation for any man, let alone that one existed who could release her every inhibition in a single day’s time.

Every layer of clothing from which he freed her begged new urgency for their coupling, though he seemed to grow steadier with each displaced piece. When he uncovered her chemise—the last barrier—she shivered in spite of the warm fire.

He paused to stare, his expression one of awe. “You are far lovelier than I dared imagine.”

“You have spent much time in thought of this?” she asked.

“Verily, you have not an idea.”

“What if I might?”

“Then you are a far greater match for me than I thought possible, my love.” And with that small concession, he touched his mouth to hers, wasting not a moment before pressing for entry.

She welcomed him, shy but willing, and was treated to the exquisite pleasure of his explorations. His tongue swept thoroughly her mouth, drawing from her urges she dared not speak, no matter how great her need.

Her peaked breasts begged without shame for his attention, and he managed acknowledgement of this without lessening his hold on her mouth. Still standing—though she did not know how, for his knee surely protested—he cupped her womanly curves through the thin chemise and held, gently. The unexpected pleasure of the sensation momentarily left her in a fit of pleasurable moans.

“Do I maintain your permission?” he asked.

She looked from his chest, where a light sheen of moisture had taken hold, to the richness of his eyes. Several strands of hair fell across his face, begging to be brushed aside, but the roughness of him delighted her without mercy. “You do,” she whispered.

His grin had such a naughty side she swore to herself she would remember it always. “I cannot throw you to the mattress,” he said, “lest I render myself further useless, but rest assured my passions are justly heightened.”

“And suppose you could,” she dared say. “What would come of it?”

He answered by feasting again on her mouth, distracting her so fully she did not realize until her legs met the bed that he had managed to move her backward across the floor. He released her, then disrobed from his breeches with haste.

She gasped at the sight of him, hard and true.

“You may speak your protest at any time,” he said, his voice a rather unsteady version of itself. “And I will honor it.”

Lydia stared, wishing she dared touch him. “Surely you do not wish to free yourself of the burden of due benevolence, husband.”

“I think not,” he said. He crawled over her, caging her against the mattress, keeping his weight to his good leg. He raised her chemise to her belly, baring her womanhood, and gently worked the garment over her head. Basking in his appraisal, she knew the heat of her pooling desire—a sensation she had never known so fully. But he brought it out of her. Demanded it.

He nudged apart her thighs, and though she was nearly overcome with shyness, she allowed him. She remained unsure in those final seconds if she had taken complete leave of her senses, but regretted it not once—not even as she wondered when faced with his lustful girth how they could possibly join.

He did not leave her to wonder long. Without the help of his hands—which were occupied in propping himself over her—he maneuvered against her opening. Lydia gasped at his solid presence, eliciting from him a smile full of questions. She nodded her acquiescence.

At that, he nudged within her, his restraint undisguised. His face contorted until she wondered if she had somehow injured him, but before she could express her concern he lowered his head to suckle her breast.

Lydia, still agape at the fulfillment he built inside her, cried out at the nip of his teeth over her wonderfully tight bud. He denied her all chance of recovery, embedding further inside as he continued to bite and suckle any skin within reach of his mouth. She grew hotter with every foray, and as the pressure inside her rose, he drove deeper and harder until he had seated so fully there was nothing between them but the furious slap of moist skin. They could grow no closer, yet the hunger built and demanded more.

She fisted his hair, dragging him closer, finding his tongue and stroking it with her own. Her need grew feverish, her hips acting of their own volition. And then something inside shifted, inciting the sensation of falling with a kind of pleasure she had never known. From deep within, he rocked her with a deep shudder that gave way to spasms, each surge filling her anew. Again and again he thrust, pumping thickly, driving to her core. She wanted him to propel against her until the stew burned and the neighbors beat down the door, even as his kisses grew more thorough, offering their own sweet fulfillment. Still, she wanted that they would never part.

And it was then, as she lay there in the most perfect haze, the unwelcome truth crashed upon her.

It mattered not how indelibly Henry brought her to fruition or how wholly they joined.

The man who affected her like no one else could not be hers.

Chapter Seven

Lydia lay wonderfully in Henry’s arms as the first rays of morning light softened black to gray. The hearth was quiet, the fire having died during the night, but she did not mind the chill. It made sweeter the warmth of his embrace.

She traced a fingertip the length of his forearm, regret edging into her heart—not for what they had shared, but for the undoing she knew would come. She was but a small and unexpected part of Henry’s journey, and his ties to his family were far too great for him to sever. It was a quality most endearing, but it would also mean an end. Lydia wanted to find contentment in their time together, but already her chest ached at the thought of being without him. She had been alone for a long time, but Henry did not merely fill her space. Her space inextricably belonged to him, and though remarriage was expected after the loss of one’s spouse, she could not imagine giving herself to another.

Henry stirred, peering at her through half-lidded eyes. His dark hair stood wild over the pillow bere, contrasting brightly even in the dim light. Far below the covers he began to tease her with long, light strokes. “You should be warned,” he murmured. “It will take very little to incite the proof of my desires.”

“I would consider that an invitation rather than a warning,” she said, winding her fingers with his.

“I might like that,” he replied, turning to nuzzle her neck. He had no sooner touched his lips to her skin when the sound of a nearby wagon breached the walls. The noise, which soon rounded the house to the rear yard, rang too close for a mere passerby. In short time, horses whinnied greetings to one another.

“Someone is here,” Lydia said.

Henry rolled flat on his back and sighed. “Willard’s feed is due this morn. The merchant is an early riser, it seems.”

“I will see to the delivery,” said Lydia.

“Worry not. I need to inspect the wares.” Henry removed his covers and stood, bending lightly in test of his knees.

“But your injuries…” Lydia should have paid every attention to his assessment of his damage, but found herself far more interested in the appendage lobbing heavily between his legs. Oh, the pleasures he had provided her!

“Still sore, but I will manage,” he said, drawing her attention toward his face.

“I am pleased for your recovery,” she managed to say despite her rising embarrassment. “The activity must have served you well.”

“Indeed it did,” he said. “And I have a gift for you outside, so join me when you are ready.” He stepped carefully into his breeches, but pulled on the rest of his clothing with ease.

“A gift? Whatever could it be?”

Henry’s smile assured her he would not tell, so she made haste in dressing and was a mere dozen steps behind him when she stepped outside.

“Good morrow!” called their guest, whom Henry quickly drew into conversation.

Lydia raised a hand in greeting, but remained on the porch. Though Henry had requested her presence, she did not want to interfere in his business with the merchant. Besides, she found herself enthralled with the resplendent creature whickering to Willard over the fence. The visiting horse was nowhere near as stunning as Henry’s mount, but striking in his own right with dark mahogany coloring his neck and body. All four legs were coal black, as were his mane and tail, while a perfect splotch of a white star marking peeked from beneath his forelock. Aside his interest in Willard, the horse stood quietly harnessed to a wagon loaded with bagged grain and saw boards.

Henry nodded to the merchant and took a step back as the man walked to untie a second horse from the back of the wagon. He secured the animal’s lead to a nearby tree, then climbed to the wagon bench and told the horse to walk on. The pair made a wide circle around Henry, then turned and circled the other way before drawing to a halt. Then the merchant jumped to the ground and he and Henry shook hands.

Lydia, unable to hear their conversation, grew more curious by the passing moment. Finally the man clasped Henry’s shoulder in a parting gesture and retrieved the horse tied to the tree. He mounted and, turning the horse in a tight circle, gave a short wave.

“Fare thee well, Goodwife,” he said to her. Before she could respond, he gave the horse leg and headed off at a trot down the road toward town.

Puzzled, she turned to Henry. “Whatever have you done?”

Grinning, he met her with only a small limp in his stride. Taking her hand, he pulled her to where the bay stood hitched to the wagon. “What do you think of him?”

“He is quite handsome,” she said, patting his soft muzzle.

“And he is yours,” Henry said with a smile stretched ear to ear.

She gasped. “Mine?”

“If you approve. I requested a steady mount, and though I have not seen him tried by a rider, he drives well and appears sound. If he is too much for your hand, we can trade for a while so I may teach your horse his manners.”

“I know not what to say, Henry. This is too much!”

“Say nothing but yes, my love. And the wagon, too, is ours. I will repair the fencing today and secure the shed for the grain, and by this eve we will worry for nothing but our own stamina.”

He finished with a wink that had her again flushing hot. “You are an obstinate man,” she said with humor.

Henry turned so she faced not the horse but the man. With his hands around her waist, he drew her until they pressed tightly as one. “Surely,” he said, “you do not protest.”

“I do not,” she agreed. “But I must get to Goody Bradshaw’s house to help with the bread. Will you be okay here on your own or shall I send help?”

He looked to Willard, who had taken to pacing the fence with great interest of the new arrival. “I will not turn down the chance to meet a neighbor,” he said. “Though for the opportunity to converse more so than for help with the fencing.”

“Do not be stubborn, Henry. I will send the first accessible Goodman to help. It is the way of neighbors.”

“Very well then. Would you like me to prepare your mount?”

Lydia studied the bay gelding. “I would prefer to get to know him here before I take him riding.”

“Not the gelding. Take the oaf before he tears down the fence with his curiosity.”

Lydia drew her hand to her mouth. “Willard? But he is yours!”

“As are you, wife. You make a lovely pairing.” He kissed her lightly, then walked to the wagon. “There is a woman’s saddle here, though I fear it may not be wide enough for him.”

“You purchased a saddle?”

“I have. But nothing of great expense, for I know the Puritan lifestyle is not one of excess. I wish not to make things difficult, but rather to ease the burden of your travels.”

“You are a most gracious man.”

“One who treasures a woman,” he said. “And as for a saddle—”

“Worry not, for I can ride with a pad.”

Henry’s brow raised. “Your seat is such?”

“Trust I won’t end up tangled in the stirrup,” she said, laughing. “And I fear not for my ability to stay seated, but I need not ride. The road to the Bradshaw home is not long.”

“Perhaps,” Henry said. “But the fence may not make the afternoon with Willard’s pacing. It would be most helpful if you could take him for his exercise.”

Lydia did not say what she feared most, which was the talk of the village when she arrived on the back of such breeding. The Puritans were modest and of the cloth, and Willard an extravagance. But she could not blame the creature for his beauty, nor judge her guest—her
husband
—for his taste in horseflesh. But oh, how the goodwives would talk—and the men and children, too!

“Very well, then,” she said. “If it pleases you, I will take your mount.”

To this, Henry offered a grand smile. He patted the bay gelding on the nose and went to fetch the stallion, who high-stepped to the gateway and, rather than bully his way through, waited for Henry to offer the bridle. Willard accepted the bit and kept his head low until Henry fixed the leathers, then followed at a docile pace, though he kept fire in his high-kneed step as he craned his head toward the new arrival.

Lydia waved off Henry’s offer of the reins and fetched the saddle pad, saving Henry the added steps. His limp had already grown more prominent, and though it seemed not to bother him, if he intended to spend the day making repairs she would spare him every step she could.

“What is the gelding’s name?” she asked when she returned.

“That is for you to decide,” Henry said, taking the pad and tossing it over Willard’s back. “He is yours.”

Lydia thought of the mare she had left behind and found herself caught between a surge of sadness and joy swelling in her chest. When she had fled Cambridge she had feared the ability to properly care for the horse. She had also feared that the animal might make her traceable. But from that sorrow… now, her very own horse! She had dared not dream again of such a moment. “I will think of the perfect name,” she said, “but I must be going.”

“Very well, then.” Henry gave her a leg up and patted Willard’s shoulder. To the horse, he said, “Take care of her.”

Lydia urged Willard to walk on before Henry could see the moisture gathering in her eyes. She knew not what affected her more—the generosity of his gift or his trusting her with Willard—but the combined affect was profound. And now she was sure to be the talk of the neighbors, and what could she possibly say of her husband? With a start, she realized she knew not his surname…or much else. Except the way he touched her and the feel of his skin against her fingertips. And she knew of his heart, kind and pure. But what of his business trade? If there were questions—which she surely anticipated—she would have to make do with general explanations and hope there were no conflicts with Henry’s truth, whatever it may be.

She looked down to Willard, though no answers were to be found against the pretty arch of his mane. She gave his neck a firm pat. He tossed his head and pulled against the bit, but she kept him firmly in hand for the ride’s duration. She had stopped his speed, but not his fine, flowing gait as he stepped high approaching the first of a trio of houses.

A dozen or so children stilled to watch their arrival. Lydia expected their stares, but a couple of the older children wore looks of shock and fright. The words
Tituba
and
devil
came to her ears in loud whispers, shifting the early morning air.

Lydia tensed, her attention lapsing, and Willard took quick advantage. He hastened sideways and snorted, scattering the children to screaming fits. She gathered him beneath her, but not before Goodwives Eunice Bradshaw and Martha Nutter ran from the Bradshaw home, skirts in hand.

“Whatever is the problem?”

Both women seemed to make the exclamation at once, but it was Goody Nutter who stopped and drew her hands to her mouth before shrieking, “The devil’s creature!”

Lydia soothed Willard with a hand to his neck. “Do not be a fool, Martha. He is but a horse named Willard.”

“As fine a horse as Salem has ever seen,” Eunice said, her hands mounted to her hips in scrutiny. “Wherever did you procure such an animal?”

“He is my husband’s,” Lydia said, dismounting. She gathered the reins and took Willard to meet her neighbors. The big horse looked down on the women, both of whom were small in stature. Martha took a step away when Willard dropped his head for a closer inspection.

“I have heard of your husband’s return,” Eunice said. “He is rumored to be of means, and verily this creature suggests as much. Come, let us put your Willard in the fence. We have much to do this day.”

“We do,” Lydia said, walking alongside. “And if your husbands are free this morn, Henry could use some help with the repairs at home.”

“That will do my Andrew some good,” Eunice said. “Barren fields and idle hands are cause for trouble, lest he fall to the drink. He needs to keep busy. Martha… Martha?”

Lydia turned, as did Eunice, to see Martha in conversation with the children. The oldest girl, Helen, stared after them and gestured wildly.

Eunice made a
tsking
sound and swung open the gate. “The entire town has been taken with stories of witchcraft.”

“Are there more rumors?” Lydia asked. She turned Willard inside the enclosure and relieved him of the pad and bridle, both of which she hung on the fence. After securing the gate, she walked with Eunice toward the house.

“Do they ever cease? You have heard of Tituba?” Eunice asked.

“Yes.” Lydia nodded, but her attention lay primarily with the group of girls across the way. Tituba was a servant woman whose stories of the devil’s book had left much of Salem in fear of witches. Though she could not read and could not identify written names, the slave woman indicated as many as eight or nine among them had signed their souls to the dark side. Two had been arrested alongside her just days before.

“She speaks of a man dressed in finery,” Eunice said. “Sometimes atop a black steed, not unlike yours. This stranger is of great wealth, his station clear. He charms by night, promising much in exchange for one’s mark in the book. Selling one’s soul in such a way, if you can imagine.”

Lydia said nothing, her thoughts preoccupied by her own charming stranger. She said a prayer of thanks she had come upon Henry that night and not a creature of another kind.

“He is said to wear black silk,” Eunice continued. “Can you imagine such sumptuary?”

“I cannot,” Lydia said. “Not here in Salem. Tituba’s devil might have found a less virtuous society in which to beg cooperation.”

“You believe it not?” Eunice said, opening the door to her home, where rye meal and molasses for the day’s bread awaited their hands.

Lydia frowned. “I believe there are rumors. I hear Betty Chorey has been accused.”

“You have heard from Rebecca Mather, no doubt. She has made it her cause to keep the neighbors informed.”

“Indeed she has,” Lydia said. Observing the ingredients for the bread, she remarked, “The yeast is lively, is it not?”

“It is good yeast.” Eunice busied her hands, but looked up quickly as Martha entered. “Have you settled the children?” Eunice asked the young goodwife.

Martha shook her head a number of times and wiped her hands on her skirt. “Imagine, Lydia,” she admonished. “Arriving on the devil’s horse.”