Page 31 of The Condemned (Echoes from the Past #6)

TWENTY-THREE

Virginia Colony

Mary watched from her perch at the table as Travesty cut and buttered thick slices of cornbread, then wrapped them in a piece of muslin, buttered sides facing each other to avoid ruining the cloth.

She poured ale into a stone bottle and set everything into the basket, which she was about to take to the men out in the field.

“I’ll do that,” Mary said, surprising herself.

Travesty always brought dinner to John and Simon, while Mary busied herself with household chores.

The sun was brutal when it rode so high in the sky, and Mary’s fair skin turned an angry shade of pink whenever she spent too much time outdoors.

Travesty wore a man’s wide-brimmed hat over her cap when she went out.

She’d never said where it had come from, but Mary suspected it had been her husband’s.

The first time Mary’s skin had burned, Travesty had forced her to sit at the table and smeared buttermilk on her face.

She said it soothed the sunburn and prevented the skin from blistering.

Mary hadn’t thought she’d enjoy having curdled milk all over her face, but Travesty had been right and the cool buttermilk helped soothe her burning skin.

I must make myself a hat , Mary thought as she made her way between rows of leafy tobacco plants.

She’d borrowed Travesty’s hat, but she didn’t like the heavy feel of it, or the sweat stains that marred the brim.

She saw the men’s heads above the greenery, their shoulders bent as they went about their task. Simon was the first to spot her.

“Good day, mistress,” he called out. “And I thought this day couldn’t get any brighter, John.” He wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve and smiled hugely. “Is this a meal prepared by Travesty, or is this a special treat you put together with your own fair hands?”

Mary’s eyes slid to John, who stood leaning on his hoe. She’d expected him to rebuke Simon for speaking to her so familiarly, but John appeared amused.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to contend yourself with Travesty’s cooking, but I churned the butter. I must confess I can’t compete with Travesty’s skill at making cornbread,” Mary replied.

“It melts in your mouth,” Simon agreed, giving her an insolent once-over that made her feel uncomfortably warm.

“But I’m sure your butter is creamier than hers.

” His gaze caressed Mary’s breasts, making his meaning clear.

“I look forward to sampling it.” He licked his lips, the action too brief for John to notice, but Mary could have sworn she saw John’s jaw tighten and his eyes narrow as he turned toward Simon.

“Come now, Simon. Enough silly banter. I’m famished,” John said and reached for the basket. He removed the bottle of ale and took a long pull, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he drank. “Ah!” he said. “This heat breeds an insatiable thirst.” He passed the ale to Simon, who drank deeply.

Mary had thought she’d offer to sit with the men while they ate, but now that she’d delivered the food, their attention strayed from her to talk of the weather.

“I think a storm’s brewing,” Simon said as he looked at the cloudless blue sky.

“’Tis likely,” John agreed.

Mary wasn’t sure what had led them to that conclusion but decided not to ask. She picked up the basket and accepted the empty bottle from John. “I’ll be on my way, then,” she said, hoping he’d ask her to stay a while longer and talk to her.

“See you at supper,” Simon called cheerfully .

John raised a hand in farewell and went back to chewing his bread, his expression unreadable.

Mary had never lived in a household with servants, but she couldn’t imagine any master would permit his indenture to speak to his wife in the manner Simon had spoken to her just then.

Was John oblivious to the innuendo, or did he simply not care?

Did he value Simon’s regard so highly that he was willing to allow him unlimited freedom?

It certainly seemed so. Simon behaved like an equal, and at times, Mary got the impression that he was the one who was master here, not John.

John and Travesty had an indulgent attitude toward Simon, as if he were an amusing child who was the apple of his parents’ eye.

Mary walked back through the field, her heart heavy.

What would happen if Simon’s playful words led to something more?

Would John allow him to make free with her?

Would he care? John didn’t seem the jealous type.

In fact, he didn’t appear to have any passions at all where she was concerned.

Last night, John had reached for her, and she, thinking he might finally desire her, wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his.

John’s eyes had flown open in surprise, and even though he didn’t pull away, he didn’t return the kiss.

Instead, he’d shut his eyes when she stared at him in the darkness, waiting for some response, then pushed apart her legs and slid inside her, moving silently for a few minutes, as was his ritual.

Once finished, he’d risen from the bed and reached for his breeches.

“Where are you going?” Mary had asked.

“I just need a breath of air. I’ll smoke my pipe and come back to bed. Go to sleep, Mary.”

Mary hadn’t gone to sleep but lay wakeful, waiting for sweet tendrils of pipe smoke to engulf her, but she hadn’t smelled John’s pipe.

She’d waited for him to return but eventually fatigue overtook her and she fell asleep, only to wake in the night to find him stretched out next to her, his breathing even and relaxed in repose.

Had her kiss upset him? Was it not natural for a wife to kiss her husband, especially during moments of intimacy?

She hadn’t known any marriages aside from that of her parents, and Uncle Swithin and Agnes.

Her parents had been loving and devoted, equal partners, but Swithin and Agnes reminded her of a tomcat and a frightened mouse, the poor mouse always ending up squealing as the cat pinned its tail with its paw, eager to play with its food before devouring it.

Perhaps John thought kissing was sinful.

Did he have Puritan leanings? It didn’t seem likely.

John was not what she’d call devout. He went to church because it was expected of him, and because it afforded an opportunity to speak to other settlers and get a much-needed break from the monotony of the six-day work week.

With others, John was amiable and attentive, listening with his head bent toward the speaker as if he feared missing even a single word.

He paid that same kind of attention to Simon, but Mary noticed that whenever John listened to her speak, his gaze was fixed on some faraway point, his mind already on something else.

Mary made a sharp turn and walked away from the cabin and toward the barn.

She couldn’t bear to spend the afternoon in Travesty’s sullen company.

She needed a bit of time to herself, but as Reverend Edison was fond of saying, idle hands were an invitation to the devil.

Mary stuffed the basket full of straw and headed toward the creek.

It was the only place she could be truly alone, the green coolness of the small clearing a balm to her weary soul.

She took off her shoes and stockings, hiked up her skirt, and waded into the water.

Once she felt sufficiently cooled down, she returned to the bank and sat in a shady spot, her back against the trunk of a thick oak.

She reached for the straw in her basket and began to braid the stalks, collecting the braided lengths in her lap.

Once she had enough braided straw, she’d be able to fashion it into a hat, but she’d need a lot of braids if she hoped to make a brim wide enough to shade her face.

Mary was so intent on her work, it took her a while to realize she was being watched.

Her head snapped up, her heart hammering with fear when she saw Walks Between Worlds on the other side of the creek.

He waded in and was next to her in moments, water running down his long, muscled legs from the breechclout that clung to him in a most embarrassing fashion.

He seemed completely unaware of her discomfort and squatted next to her, watching her hands fly over the straw.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Braiding straw for a hat.” She suddenly realized she was no longer frightened. Nothing in the Indian’s demeanor suggested that he meant her any harm. He looked mystified but nodded as if he understood.

“And what are you doing?” Mary asked. Why did he haunt this spot?

“Checking my traps.”

“Don’t you hunt?” she asked.

“Yes, for large game, but it’s easier to set traps for smaller animals. Their meat is more tender, and the English like the fur.”

“So, you trade with the English?”

“Of course.”

“What do you get in return?” Mary asked.

She hadn’t noticed the dagger at the Indian’s hip, tucked into the side of his clout. He pulled it out and showed it to her, sliding the blade out of its sheath. It was a fine weapon, the handle and sheath intricately carved, the blade long and sharp.

“It’s better than a stone blade, and lighter,” he explained. He hefted the blade in his hand, showing her how light it was.

“Why do they call you ‘Walks Between Worlds’?” Mary asked. The name had stayed with her, making her wonder if the Indian was adept at some form of devilry. “Do you commune with the dead? ”

“No. The shamans can contact the dead, but I’m not a shaman.” Up close, Mary noticed that his eyes weren’t all gray. A bit of dark blue ringed the pupil and seemed to dissolve into the gray that lightened at the outer edges. His eyes were unique, as was his face, despite its nut-brown color.

“Why, then?”

The Indian’s gaze slid away from her, fixing on something on the other side of the creek. “Because I am of two worlds. I’m neither one nor the other.”

“So, what are you?” Mary asked, trying to comprehend what he was telling her.

“A half-breed,” the man said bitterly.

“What worlds do you belong to?” Mary asked, curious to find out more about this strange man who seemed as fascinated by her as she was by him. He wasn’t all that threatening, if one managed to ignore his near nakedness. He was just a man, and a very attractive one at that.

“My mother was English.”

Mary felt as if he’d slapped her and instinctively drew back from him. “You must think me very gullible,” she snapped, gathering up her braids and tossing them into the basket.

His brow furrowed with concentration. “I don’t know that word.”

“Daft. Stupid. Your mother couldn’t have been English. There were no Englishwomen here until last year. Reverend Edison said so.”

The Indian’s eyes flashed with anger. “You think I’m lying?”

“Aren’t you?” she demanded, staring him down.

“I don’t lie, to you or anyone else,” he spat out .

He sprang to his feet and was gone before she could form an adequate response. Mary stood up, shoved her bare feet into her shoes, and tossed her hose into the basket. She’d been having a perfectly pleasant time until that trickster showed up and ruined it all.

“Half English,” Mary muttered. “And I’m English on one side, Moorish princess on the other.” She huffed as she strode back toward the cabin. She’d allowed herself to be taken in by a pair of beautiful eyes and a disarming smile. He was a savage, a heathen, and a liar.