The Bad Widow (2 page)

Chapter Two

Will had heard them coming before her, which amazed Rose. Even in post-coital bliss she should have detected the menace. Mist clouded her vision and she blinked it clear. Will’s face tightened and his gaze sharpened. Rose sighed. No matter how dangerous he looked, he couldn’t save her. There was a painful irony that for so many years she’d hoped for someone to do just that, but now that was the last thing she wanted. Will would die if he tried. Instead she had to save him by giving him up.

“You have to leave right now,” she said.

Rose grabbed a robe as he pulled on his pants. The noise of the approaching mob grew louder. Flickering lights shone through the windows. Rose tied the belt around her waist and gathered up the rest of his clothes.

“There’s a tunnel.” She kicked aside the rug and lifted a trapdoor.

Will took her hand, tugged at it.

“No.” Rose shook her head. “Not me. Just you. They’ll find the tunnel if we both escape.”

“Kill the witch. Burn the witch. Kill the witch.” The chants were quite clear.

Will gave a frantic glance toward the door.

Rose winced.
Burn the witch?
Oh damn, anything but burning. She could see Will wasn’t going to move. He’d get himself killed.

“Look, everything will be fine if you do as I say. Use the tunnel. Escape. Don’t worry about me. Remember the place where we met? I’ll see you there tomorrow night.”

“Burn the witch. Rip her apart. Pull out her tongue.”

Ouch.
Rose hoped they didn’t. She squeezed Will’s hand. “Trust me,” she said, and kicking hard at the back of his knees, she pushed him down the hole. Rose dropped the trapdoor back in place and arranged the rug and a rocking chair over the top. She sat in the chair and took a shaky breath. The chair wobbled beneath her as Will pushed up on the floorboards and grunted.

“Will, don’t,” she said. “Run.”

The latch on the door lifted and Rose muttered a few words under her breath. The chair slammed back into place and she heard a faint croak. She sighed with relief.

Villagers burst into the one-roomed cottage. At the head was Silas’ mother, Betty Smith.

“Witch!” she shrieked. “She’s possessed my son. She fills his head day and night.”

“And my son,” added Joshua Potter. “She threatened to turn him into a toad.”

“He already
is
a toad,” Rose muttered.

“Your trial will take place tomorrow, Witch. Until then you’ll be confined to the cage,” said Pastor Smith.

He grabbed her and pulled her to her feet. Rose’s breast slipped free of the robe. The women gasped, the men gulped.

“May I get dressed?” Rose asked.

“Four goodwives must stay in case you attempt escape,” the Pastor said. “Check her for an extra nipple.”

“No, only the two. Sorry.” Rose let the robe fall.

“Filthy whore,” Betty Smith and Grace Jackson chimed together and struggled to herd the men out.

Rose couldn’t resist. “Your husbands liked sucking them. One each side.”

The women gave a shriek as their men turned back, wide-eyed in horror, shouting denial. Rose laughed and grabbed her gray dress from the hook. As she’d anticipated, her brazen display was a perfect distraction and no one thought to check out the garment.

“You won’t be laughing tomorrow when we burn you at the stake,” the Pastor shouted as the door slammed.

Rose frowned.
Probably not.

* * * * *

The trial was like all the others. A line of villagers queued up to make one outrageous claim after another. Well, some of the claims might have been true. At least they’d decided on the duck pond rather than the stake. That might have had something to do with the way Rose had pretended a terror of water. Thank goodness the pastor was a sadistic bastard.

Light was starting to fail when they led her outside. Torches blazed and Rose shuddered. She hoped they didn’t change their minds about burning her at the stake. It normally took weeks to get the smell of smoke out of her hair. Three men dragged her along the path to the pond and the rest of the village trailed along behind. Nothing much else to do on a Saturday night.

“Good sirs, I am innocent.” Rose wondered if she was making enough fuss, whether it was worth squawking at all.

Rough hands pushed her into the chair. She’d watched them building it. Pastor Smith had been to Westchester to see one in action. He never liked to be outdone.

“Silence, Widow Thorne. If you’re innocent, God will save you.”

Doomed then. Rose sighed. She wasn’t a widow but she’d quite liked the idea of being called Good Widow Rose Thorne. They fastened a rope around her waist, anchoring her to the back of the chair. Rose breathed in hard as they tied it, pushing her body forward to create a small amount of slack when they were done. Then Joshua Potter slammed a huge rock on her lap and all the air whooshed out of her.
Bastard.

“Prepare to meet thy Maker,” the pastor said with a sneer.

“You’re about to murder a poor, innocent widow.” Rose made her lip quiver.

His eyes narrowed. “We both know you’re not innocent. You’re not coming up again.”

Neither are you
. Rose swallowed her smile, thinking of the impotence spell she’d cast widely that morning during a slow bit of the trial. There would be some disappointed women tonight. Maybe a few grateful ones.

She looked at the hostile faces. The villagers were all there—well, all but one. Half the women were probably wondering if it would be their turn next, the other half trying to guess if Rose had shagged their husbands. No, she hadn’t. Only the most vitriolic of her accusers and the biggest liar was missing. Rose could hear everyone muttering, wondering if they should proceed without goodwife Mary Pym, the one who’d started the rumors about Rose in the first place. Mary’s absence hadn’t stopped them holding the trial.

Yesterday had been such a great day. Rose might have thought she’d conjured Will out of the air but for the fact that she still ached between her legs and went damp at the thought of him. The frog spell should just about be wearing off but Rose had no expectation he’d be waiting for her in the forest because the spell would make him forget he’d been a frog and unfortunately forget her too. For once in her life she’d really done the right thing. Rose gave a heavy sigh.

“She’s casting a spell!” a voice shrieked.

Rose wanted to roll her eyes but imagined the hysteria that would bring and didn’t. She wished they’d just hurry up and do it. She squeezed out a few tears to make it look as though she cared.

“I am innocent!” she cried. Maybe it would give someone a guilty conscience that would last down the generations. Serve them right. “Please, someone save me.”

A frog hopped onto her foot and slipped under her dress. Rose gulped.
Will?

“Silence, Witch,” Potter shouted.

Pastor Smith began listing her many crimes—again. Giving Good Widow Sand a carbuncle on her nose—served her right for refusing to pay Rose what she owed. Curing two children of toothache—what was wrong with that? Yes, she’d needed to use pigs bones but it worked, didn’t it? Making Pastor Smith fall in love with an ass. Rose swallowed her giggle. At least she’d only made him kiss the beast. On the lips. A guffaw escaped and Rose tried to make it look like a cough. Then the crime that had condemned her, Mary Pym’s claim that Rose had fornicated with the devil. As if.

“If thou art a witch, thou wilt float to the surface,” Potter said, and out of sight of the rest, loosened the rope that held her to the chair.

Without the rope around her waist and the rock on her lap, she might well have floated. Air would be trapped in her gown and up she’d pop like a cork. Guilty. As it was, even with the rope loose, she’d be stuck in the chair and definitely drown, proving herself innocent.
Wonderful.

The frog gave a loud croak and Rose swished her skirts over it. If it
was
Will, she didn’t want them claiming the frog was her familiar and stamping on it. From the sudden flurry of activity, Rose guessed they’d decided they couldn’t wait any longer for Mary Pym. Rose noticed Mary’s husband hadn’t raised the alarm about her disappearance until he’d found a suitable scapegoat.

“Art thou ready, Widow Thorne?”

“No, I ate less than an hour ago. I shouldn’t go swimming.”

Down the chair went, taking her with it. These people had no sense of humor.

As duck ponds went, it wasn’t too bad. Situated at the end of the millrace, the water was better than some mud baths she’d been dunked in. The chair descended and she raised her hand for a quick wave at the faces staring down before they disappeared from view. It was murky at the bottom but her eyes soon adjusted. The frog hopped out from her skirts and swam a little way away to join two more tucked at the base of a rock. Not Will then, yet the three sat and watched her.

Rose reached for the knife she’d sewn into the lining of her dress and cut the rope around her waist. She slid off the chair and put the rock on the seat. A few lead weights sewn into the bottom of her dress would ensure she stayed down. Lucky she could hold her breath for twenty minutes. They really ought to come up with something better than rope to secure the condemned. An iron bar would have caused her more problems. Rose made a mental note to sew a rasp in the lining next time, just in case some bright spark had an epiphany.

She spotted a rather pale and bloated goodwife Mary Pym sitting waiting for her, securely tied to an old plough Rose had found half buried in the silt. Likely murdered by her husband—and who could blame him for wanting rid of such a shrew—but Rose didn’t like bodies to go to waste. It wasn’t easy maneuvering Mary onto the chair but Rose pinned her in place with the boulder and retied the rope. Then she settled on the bottom and waited.

Around her in the gloom, Rose could see other bodies. Goodwife Jane Merrick floated in the reeds, swaying with the grasses. Forbidden to dance in life, she was making up for it in death. Pastor Smith had rocks attached to her legs before she’d been thrown in. Rose snorted and sent a stream of bubbles to the surface. She’d tried to warn Jane but the woman wouldn’t listen.

Rose started as the chair suddenly rose. She smiled to herself. This should be good
.
She heard muted screaming and scraps of distorted conversation. “
Dear Lord. She’s turned into a hideous monster. Good Lord, she’s changed into Mary Pym.”
They could tell the difference? Rose giggled, than slapped a hand over her mouth to stop the bubbles.

As soon as the flare of torches had gone, she slipped the lead weights from her skirts and rose through the water to pop her head above the surface. Misty. Where had that come from? No one around. Rose swam across the pond and crawled out.

She made her way to the spot where she’d left a change of clothes the day after she moved into Eastchester village. No way of knowing how quickly any place would take to accuse her of witchcraft. The shortest time had been a week, the longest seven months.

Usually, the idea of moving on and continuing her search filled her with enthusiasm. Not this time. Rose had found what she’d been looking for. A man to love and she’d had to push him away. Oh God, she’d not just pushed Will away, but turned him into a frog, albeit temporarily. Could she risk hanging around and trying to find him? How could she not? But she wasn’t stupid. Will would have to wait awhile.
She needed to get as far away as she could by morning, then sleep until nightfall.

Rose rubbed herself dry and dressed. As she made her way through the forest, the mist grew thicker yet her hands were able to brush it aside like a veil. When she looked behind her, she couldn’t even see a light from the village.
Weird.
The quiet snicker of a horse froze her mid-step.

Before Rose could move, a strong arm wrapped around her chest and a hand clamped over her mouth. Her heart bounced between her throat and her stomach. Not with fear. Soft lips caressed her neck, rough stubble grazed her shoulder. Rose closed her eyes and turned in Will’s arms. How had he remembered her? How had— His tongue speared her mouth as he tugged her into his embrace. Rose was instantly wet for him, desperate for him. Never breaking lip contact, his fingers skimmed her body, thumbs brushed her nipples, hands roamed her back and her clothes dissolved under his touch.

What?
Then he was naked too and lifting her onto his cock and Rose cared about nothing else. She sighed into his mouth as he slid into her. His hands squeezed her hips as he drove his cock up and dragged her down. Rose began to come from that moment, pinpricks of sensation shooting from her inner core as she tightened around him in convulsive spasms. His mouth consumed her, his body overwhelmed her. Rose gasped her cry into his throat as she spiraled toward the nearest she’d get to heaven. The mist whirled around them like a tornado.
Magic!
Her last cohesive thought before every sense shattered. She dragged his climax into hers as they clung to each other, united, merged as one.

Rose opened her eyes and looked into his face. “I love you.”

Will smiled. She knew what he was. She’d forgotten and now she remembered. His scent. His eyes. Fae. Another like her.
Hers.
It
had
been Will in the pond, making sure she escaped.