The Sins of a Few (Entangled Scandalous) Read online

  She blushed fiercely at his appraisal, though with luck he would take it as anger or heat from the fire…if he noticed at all. “Is that not the way of a barrister? Or have you by now bought your way into a judgeship?”

  His grin did not falter, though his eyes took on the dark haze of storm clouds. When he spoke, the words remained light—a nicety that irked her, despite the presumed consideration for her mother—but his undercurrent was rife with threat. “You think me of such admirable status, yet you address me as an equal? And with an insult to my character?”

  The emphasis made it clear he knew she thought him anything but admirable. “It matters not how others consider your placement,” she said. “I know what is at your core.”

  “And what might that be, little one?”

  Faith bristled at the name with which he had so often taunted her, and the glimmer of light in his eye suggested he noticed. “Is it not obvious?” she asked.

  His brow furrowed, chasing the remnants of humor from his face. He sent a furtive glance toward her mother, who watched them with such intent Faith’s heart softened. She could not remember when she had last seen her mother so engaged, though verily it had been before her aunt’s arrest. The fact that the reprieve had to come from the company of an Abbot seemed infinitely unfair.

  That it must be Nathanial, crueler still.

  His gaze followed the direction of her own and something akin to understanding lit his eyes. “Perhaps,” he said easily, “we might continue this dialogue after the evening meal.”

  Faith forced a pleasant smile. “As delightful as I would find your company, I would not dream of asking you to return here on such a chilly eve. Certainly you will find the fire within your family’s generous hearth to be a greater draw than the road between our homes.”

  “Nonsense, child,” said Faith’s mother. “I have asked Nathanial to join us for supper.”

  “And I have accepted,” he added, his accompanying smile so saccharine it made her teeth hurt.

  Faith stiffened, searching for any indication they had collaborated on a terrible ruse. But she found none. “I know not how long you have been back in Salem—”

  “I stepped off the ship just this morning.”

  She pursed her lips. That, at least, might explain the beard…but not why he was not at his own home ridding himself of the wretched thing. “Then assuredly you wish to reconvene with your own family. And do something with that distasteful mess on your face.”

  His grin reminded her of why she had once thought him pretentious. “They will suffer no more this night without me than the last. As for your desire to see more of my bare skin, we will see to that in time.”

  Though she was taken aback by his words, she found herself no more on the side of him accompanying them for the evening meal. “It would be inappropriate for you to stay here,” Faith said, ignoring the latter portion of his statement. “And when one considers the recent behavior of your sisters—to say nothing of their lack of remorse—your presence in this house might well be dangerous.”

  “It is my understanding the accusations have come to an end.”

  No defense of his sisters. Which meant he could not offer a defense, or that he did not find they had acted inappropriately, thus leaving nothing to defend. Neither option pleased her.

  His expression was one of maddening calm.

  “The officials have said the trials have ended,” Faith said through her teeth. “Though it is hard to find reason or belief in persons who have acted so callously.”

  “Alas, that is what forgiveness is for.”

  “Easily for you, perhaps. But we have experienced a great loss, and the weeks have been far too few for healing.”

  “Healing comes from forgiveness, little one.”

  “Do not patronize me, Nathanial Abbot. Especially not when the agony of an entire village can be blamed on your blood.”

  He cast a glance at her mother, leading Faith to do the same. Her countenance had returned to vacancy, the light gone. Faith would be quick to blame Nathanial if not for the fact his arrival had put the light back to begin with.

  And now she felt a little less certain in ordering him to go. She would do anything to keep the joy on her mother’s face…even suffer the likes of him. And if he kept to quiet conversation with her mother, she might find him altogether tolerable. Truth be told, if not for his Abbot blood and his insistence on speaking to her as if she were a child, she would be quite content to while the evening watching his lips form words and firelight bronze his skin.

  He stood, dragging her from her thoughts, and she reflexively captured his arm with her hand. “Wait.”

  With a crooked grin, he said, “I merely intended to see to the fire. Surely you cannot object?”

  She dropped her hand, embarrassed and furious with herself for wanting him to stay, even if for her mother’s sake. Though her cheeks burned, she followed him the short distance to the fire with the intention of learning his purpose for being there, but before she could speak, he turned to face her and she lost all trace of her thoughts. He stood a head taller than her, but otherwise their bodies were closely aligned, their only separation the difference in height. She was close enough to smell the hint of salt air that clung to his clothing. At such a distance his eyes shone a brilliant blue, and though they drove her to distraction she could not help but realize how very big he was. Tall and broad and thick with the kind of muscle born of hard labor, muscle evident even through the fabric of his shirt. Muscle that had no business on a barrister.

  She was still staring at that muscle when he cleared his throat, dragging her attention at once to his face.

  A corner of his mouth tipped upward. “May I presume you now prefer I remain?”

  She swallowed her embarrassment. “With that ego, Goodman, you do not travel light.”

  “We can hardly blame your attention on my ego, now can we?”

  “Forgive me,” she said, “but it is not every day I find a brute within the walls of my home.”

  “A brute? I suppose I have been called worse.”

  “And by my tongue, as you well know.”

  “I remember…rather fondly, in fact.” His gaze touched her mouth and lingered.

  Instinctively she wet her lips, then pressed them tightly together when his curved into a responding smile. “My tongue is none of your concern,” she snapped. She should take a step back before those eyes rendered her a blathering fool, but she was powerless to do so. Something about this infinitely handsome man held her, and she liked it.

  He leaned close, and his nearness flowed through her with a force unmatched by the fiercest storm. They were too close for the heat from the fire to penetrate the space between them, but she was in no need of warmth. She could not imagine she would ever be cold again.

  And the slant of his mouth suggested he knew it.

  If he came any closer she would know the taste of his lips, and when he spoke she wondered if she did not feel the slightest brush.

  “Perhaps not now, little one,” he whispered, “but be assured I am most concerned with yours.”

  “Your concerns are wasted,” she shot back, but the words lacked bite. And she lacked resolve, though thoughts of the parade of London patricians he had likely entertained with that tongue straightened her spine. “You can keep all of your well-oiled parts to yourself. I want nothing of you, and you certainly need not worry for my tongue.”

  “To the contrary,” he said. “I find your entire mouth delightful. And be assured, before the night ends you will find yourself equally concerned with mine.”

  Chapter Two

  Nathanial enjoyed the meal—his first on dry land in many weeks—but found the company to be far more enticing. Though he felt a certain melancholy knowing he occupied Ruth’s chair, he found Faith’s mother Felicity, to be quite charming. But the dark circles under her eyes were a haunting reminder of her pain—pain he felt bone-deep.

  Could the rumors about his
sisters be true? John had been blunt with his assessment, and Faith had implied much the same. He had yet to go to his parents’ home, though they must expect he had returned to Salem. If neither word nor gossip had reached them, for certain by now his traveling trunk had. He should go to them, but what he said to Faith had been true: after two years, a few more hours would not concern them. Truth was, they had long ceased much of their concern. His father had considered it a great insult that Nathanial had left—first for Harvard, then London—citing the condition that he’d turned his back on his family. Despite the many letters Nathanial had initially sent home, in four years he had received only one in return—an assurance that he would receive no financial support from his father, not that Nathanial had asked. Nathanial knew not when bettering one had become treason, but as it were, his wealth was now considerably more than that of his father. Whether such a fact would raise or lower his father’s opinion would remain a mystery, for Nathanial was under no inclination to share his status with a man who had already deemed him unworthy.

  He owed so much to Faith’s aunt. He had not realized how much until he’d stepped foot in the small house that he had once considered a second home. He missed her terribly. He wanted to ask what had happened, but he couldn’t do that in front of Felicity—not with the pain of losing her sister so near and raw. Faith spent much of the evening staring daggers at him—in particular after he offered commentary over the state of her tongue—and though her stance made it clear he was unwelcome, he was actually grateful. Under these most terrible of circumstances, anger was an avenue preferred over heartbreak.

  When the night grew long, Felicity retired to her bed, leaving him alone with Faith, who wouldn’t even look at him. He found he was not bothered by her inattention—to the contrary, he was quite content to watch the lines of her body move as she attempted to busy herself in the aged but spotless home. Though it was his nature to offer his assistance at any given task—and had remained so, even as his personal wealth and status had grown beyond the need to perform his own menial chores—it was clear she was merely avoiding him, and by that he was almost disappointed. It had been far too long since a woman had bothered to spar with him. Most in London had been more interested in flattering him, perhaps in hopes of gaining a husband—at least until they learned he was without title. Nary a single one had revealed herself willing to return to the colonies. It was just as well, for he had not found one with whom he could have tolerated the long, uncomfortable journey across the great Atlantic…let alone a life thereafter.

  But Faith…he had long tolerated her. Their relationship had unconventional roots, with him spending hours in her home. His younger self, while engrossed in his studies, had not missed a single opportunity to observe her move throughout the house as she had seen to her chores. To watch her now brought back memories not quite buried, despite the duration of his absence, and the direction of his thoughts roused much more than his interest. He was forced to shift in his chair, though doing so offered little relief from his growing predicament.

  As he was lost in thought, he had failed to notice Faith had stilled in her busywork and now stood, staring at him without apology. He wished her nearer so he could better see the spark of discontent in her eyes, but the distance across the room would have to do. However beautiful he thought her, he would not dishonor his reason for being there.

  Faith made a soft, anguished sound in her throat. “How could you not stop them?”

  He required a moment to realize what—or whom—she referenced. His sisters… Could they really have caused so much pain? “As you are well aware,” he said, “I was not here. I have heard only gossip. Perhaps you could share with me the facts.”

  Her lovely eyes narrowed. “My aunt is dead and your family is to blame. Do you really expect a fair retelling of the facts from me?”

  She was wounded, but so damned beautiful he ached inside. Despite her obvious anger and frustration—to say nothing of the blame she angled his way—he wanted to hold her. He wanted to soothe away some of the pain, but with so much of it directed at him, doing so would likely only deepen her anguish. “I would not expect an untruth,” he said softly.

  “Poor judgment and unrealistic expectations,” she scoffed. “I must say, you have proven yourself well qualified for your profession.”

  “You do not think fondly of barristers?”

  “Why should I? It was they who promised to seek justice and uphold the law when they declared my aunt guilty of consorting with the devil. They observed blemishes on her skin born from more than five decades on this earth and deemed them witch’s marks. They considered her fear of wrongful imprisonment the regrets of a witch who was caught in wrongdoing, and when she stood strong they said she was impervious because the devil himself had laid a hand on her and gave her strength. The court heard these so-called facts and determined her guilty, so you will have to forgive me—or not, because frankly, I do not care—if I do not stand in observance of the ceremony on which you so richly wish to campaign.”

  Nathanial’s heart shifted and sank. The pieces came together all too slowly, delivered in a wall of guilt born from being so far removed from the events that had overtaken the place of his birth. But the truth was, he had been removed—quite literally by distance—and little credence was typically due the idle talk that crossed the great ocean. He may be years removed from any sort of camaraderie shared with this woman, but her impassioned voice was not one to be denied…or doubted. She made herself known as partial, but somehow he felt there were no words, however exaggerated, to lend adequate justice to the horrors of what must have gone on in Salem.

  “Please,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”

  She raised a weary, distrustful brow. “You truly do not know?”

  “I know only of gossip. I want to hear the truth.” He only wished he could hear it from someone other than her, for he wanted not to put her through the pain of retelling it. But he trusted her to speak the truth, and he could settle for nothing less.

  She took a shaky breath, and within it he once again found his regrets. But she forged on. “Your sisters consorted to accuse the innocent. No one but they know when it began, but one of the first claims was against the physician midwife. She caught your oldest sister schooling the younger girls to heat themselves against the fire to claim fever, presumably to earn a reprieve from schooling and chores. Your mother intervened and suggested the midwife would be punished for her conclusion. Soon after, the midwife was brought up on charges.”

  Though his gut churned terribly, his professional training kept him detached. He had to remain that way if any part of her story was true. “Was she hanged?”

  “No. It is believed she was pardoned by the governor himself, though there are only rumors to confirm.”

  “Pardoned by Phips?”

  Faith shook her head. “No, earlier in the year, by his predecessor, Bradstreet. The physician’s husband is said to be of Dunham blood.”

  Nathanial gave a low whistle. The Dunhams were among the wealthiest families in New England. If anyone could procure a pardon from the governor, it would be one of them. “Why was a woman of the Dunham lines acting as a physician here in Salem?”

  Faith shook her head. “No one knows—only that her husband was away for some time and she arrived during his absence. She came to Salem as a midwife, but she had previously apprenticed under a physician. When one was needed here, she accepted the role.” Her eyes narrowed. “And it nearly got her killed.”

  “And the others?”

  “All variations of the same story. Aunt Ruth had apparently scolded several girls—your sisters among them—for being cruel to a litter of kittens. They were spinning them in circles, then setting them down and laughing as the poor creatures fell to the ground, dizzy. The kittens were crying in their distress while your sisters laughed. Aunt Ruth chased the girls away with a stick, then moved the mousers to a safer place. After that, the accusations started. The girls wou
ld claim affliction, and the more attention they procured, the better the theatrics. I cannot tell you how it came to be believed, but verily their actions were nonsensical enough that after several months of arrests and trials the convictions were overturned.” She folded her hands in her lap, finding them of great apparent interest. “Pity they could not so easily undo the murders.”

  “No one defended the accused?”

  She shook her head, dislodging a tear. It rolled down her cheek unabated. “Doing so would only bring accusations on oneself. It was akin to asking for death, and a terrible station for most of Salem. We were forced to watch our neighbors and loved ones suffer, and to speak up would only spread the torment. It was like a scourge over this land, the innocent among us helpless to intervene.”

  Nathanial sat back in the chair. He could not believe his sisters could be guilty of such horror but moreover, he could not believe such a thing could happen. What kind of people could allow such a thing among their neighbors?

  “You should not be here,” she said. Apparently she had said her piece and she thought it enough, but he would not be so easily dismissed.

  He shook his head, denying her claim. “Tell me what I can do for you. For Ruth.”

  “There is nothing that can be done. She is gone…as well you should be from this house. I no more wish to bring the ire of your family down upon me than I do charges of impropriety drawn from your presence here.”

  “Your mother is here with us,” he said, though the argument was shaky for they were entirely unchaperoned. “There is no impropriety.”

  “For a man rumored to be so learned, you are foolish indeed.”

  “I am an adult, and as long as you are still five years below me, so are you. Unless you are trying to say you are bound?” The words escaped before he had the wherewithal to stop them, but he found the answer mattered a great deal.

  “It matters not whether I am bound, for your presence is unwelcome under any circumstance.”

  “So you are not promised to another?”