The Sins of a Few (Entangled Scandalous) Read online

Her eyes flashed so ruthlessly he nearly encountered guilt for his enjoyment of raising her ire. “It matters not, for I am not in any way whatsoever available to you.”

  “What of another man?”

  “You are out of your station, Nathanial.”

  “Yet once again you address me as your equal.”

  “I will seek no forgiveness for my refusal to put on airs,” she said, her eyes flashing brightly through unshed tears. “I care not how high your brow now that you have conquered London and who cares how many of its maids. To me, you will never be more to me than the boy who sat at this very table seeking the help of a woman whose memory you dishonor with your callous behavior and insinuations.”

  Dishonor, my ass. He had come there to pay his respects—not to be belittled over the number of women he had taken to his bed. And damn certainly not to stand in a sudden, misplaced hope that she might be the next of them.

  He said nothing—not because he was without defense, but behind her solid mask was a woman who was broken inside. She kept those fractures well hidden, but he had spent far too many hours at that very table studying his lessons with one eye and her with the other. As enchanted as he had been by her seventeen-year-old form, the woman she had become in the years since nearly took his breath away. Though he remembered her to be as unflawed as the rising sun, she was now unsettled, as evidenced by her nonstop worrying of the hair that had fallen from her coif and the rather immodest heave of her chest under her layers of clothing. Her breasts were full now, her face more mature, and her lankier angles had been replaced by the gentle swell of womanly curves—curves to which his body paid deviant attention. He stood, unable to keep the tension from his limbs. He gained a small bit of satisfaction by the way Faith jolted at his sudden movement, but he did not falter from his intention. By the time he ceased his forward trek, he was less than a yard from the wall, Faith sandwiched between him and the rough-hewn wood.

  “Tell me,” he said, his voice coarse to his own ears. “Tell me how I dishonor a woman when I chose to forsake my own family to pay my respects.”

  The look of utter disdain she passed him was somewhat lost by their proximity. They were trading breaths now, as close as lovers. But their positions could not douse the venom in her tone. “You have hardly forsaken your family,” she spat. “Not unless you’ve pushed them piecemeal into the harbor, which is an event I dare say few would mourn. Do they not await your return, alive and well? That is more than anyone can say for my aunt and the remaining nineteen murdered…or the rest who died awaiting trial.”

  Mid diatribe, her attention had fallen to his lips. He touched her chin, knowing that in doing so he risked the welfare of his finger, and didn’t speak until her liquid gaze found his. “I crossed the ocean and I came here first,” he said. Quietly. Fiercely. “Tell me what more I could have done.”

  “You could have been here. You could have stopped them.” A single, heart-wrenching sob escaped from her throat. “You could have saved her.”

  He shook his head, his denial a thinly veiled emotion. “I did not learn they were involved until I stepped foot on this soil. Even if I had been here, you said yourself there was no way to defend the accused.”

  “The accused would not be in need of defense if someone had bothered to put a stop to what your sisters were doing,” she said, her jaw tight. “And if you wish to walk out of here without a limp, take heed now of your opportunity to go.”

  “And if I do not?”

  She lifted her hand as if she meant to contact him, but he did not allow her the chance. With undue speed, he captured her wrist and pressed her arm, gently but firmly, against the plank wall at her back. “Careful there, little one.”

  “Or what? Do you mean to threaten me?”

  “Not at all. In truth, my intentions are exactly the opposite.”

  Her hazel eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

  His gaze dropped to her lips. Drank in the sight of her tongue darting to moisten them. Her chest heaved, sending his heart into uncharted territory. Sending him away from her.

  He released her arm and took a step back. He had been a breath away from kissing her, and the only thing that promised to be more delicious than those ripe, moist lips was the fury she would no doubt cast his way. But now was not the time, nor was it the place. “Nothing,” he said. “It means nothing.”

  Leaving her staring slack-jawed after him, he turned on his heel and left.

  Chapter Three

  Nathanial’s family home was an ugly, disjointed skeleton of a creature that kept watch over the center of Salem Village, its multitude of rooflines somewhat at odds with the boxy structures surrounding it. At one time it had seemed massive—and for the small village, indeed it was—but his worldview had grown since he’d left home. Now it seemed little more than ostensible, and the cloak of darkness did little to soften his thoughts. Firelight flickered through the windows, not the least bit welcoming. He pictured his mother, her appearance as severe and harsh as her words so often were. His father, a man short of stature, who seemed to demand a pedestal every time he opened his mouth. And Nathanial’s sisters…they had brought light and joy into the house. Could they really have done as Faith had accused?

  Though he was certainly expected to make an appearance at home, he opted instead to turn and head for the nearest tavern. He needed to hear more of what had gone on during the witch hunt, and he had long ago learned no one spoke the truth—especially not in Puritan Salem—quite like a man high on his cups. Unfortunately, taverns were the most loathsome of places, their filth rivaling that of the ship he had just disembarked, but the patrons could be no less welcoming than what he suspected he would find within the confines of his family home. His father expected deference from every man, so for his own son to defy him had been unforgivable—a sentiment he had expressed multiple times over their past few meetings, leaving Nathanial with little hope his opinion might have softened with time.

  The moment he entered the door of Creasey’s Tavern, he found the establishment indeed friendly. A blue-eyed woman who clearly thought herself lovely—one who might have been if she had not made such a blatant display of herself—sidled up to him, and by the looks of her she offered much more than a drink. Her breasts fought a losing battle to keep within the confines of her dress, and her dark hair fell freely, caressing shoulders that would only be bare if intended for ill repute.

  Nathanial was a man like any other, and he would be a fool to claim he did not notice, but there would be no carousing this night. With a nod of greeting, he circumvented the woman’s misplaced attempt at affection and headed for the bar, from which he procured a weak drink. When he glanced back, the woman was gone.

  “Evening. What brings you to town?” the barkeep asked.

  Nathanial studied the man a moment, unsure if he should recognize him. With his years as advanced as they were, he probably had not changed since Nathanial had left. “I returned just this morning after two years in London.”

  The barkeep gave a soft laugh. “And you chose this place of all of ’em?”

  “It was the nearest place to get a drink,” Nathanial said mildly.

  “Much obliged, but I meant the town. You hear of the hangings?”

  Nathanial took a long drink, grateful for its watery texture. He had become well accustomed to wine, and even the weeks spent in travel across the Atlantic had not warmed his taste for the comparatively bitter flavor of beer. He set down the cup. “I have heard. Damned shame.”

  The barkeep did not react to Nathanial’s use of profanity. “And have you heard of your sisters’ involvement?”

  Startled, Nathanial took a second look at the barkeep, still not recognizing him, though clearly he was known to the older man. “I have heard, yes.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  Nathanial pushed the cup around in front of him, not eager to partake of more of the brew. The man’s question intrigued him. What could he do? The accusat
ions had ended, so there was nothing to try to stop. The dead could not be returned to life, and if he did somehow have the ability to change their fates, verily he would be the next one they saw to the gallows. As for the whole mess in between, there were still far too many questions. “I suppose I must first learn the truth.”

  “What part of the truth are you missing?”

  Nathanial ground the bottom of his cup against the bar. Opting to keep the knowledge gleaned from Faith to himself, he said, “At this point I am unable to discern the truth from the lies.”

  The barkeep leaned close enough for Nathanial to partake of the man’s breath. “Let me clear it up for you, Son. There are no lies more foul than the truth of the actions of those girls. Whatever you have heard, accept it as truth, then pray their sins are no greater. Pray it, but know they are.”

  Who the hell was this guy? Clearly, someone who had felt the events to the core, but who among those who lived it would not? He knew Nathanial, but most in Salem knew of his family. Nevertheless, the recognition despite Nathanial’s beard startled him. “How did it all happen?”

  “Best anyone can tell, it seems to have begun with the servant woman, Tituba. She taught the children spiritual chants and told them stories of magic—all blasphemy in these parts. Your sisters were among those who listened to her teachings.”

  “So this Tituba began the accusations?”

  “It cannot be known what she did in private, but it was your oldest sister Abigail who first made her claims for all to hear.”

  “And what was her claim?”

  “Same as they all were. They purported to be afflicted. Even a glance from the accused sent the girls to fits. They ranted and raved and carried on and there was no amount of ignorance or denial from the accused that would settle their claims.”

  “All to what end?”

  The question had been intended rhetorical, but the barkeep answered. “Death. Nineteen by hanging, one crushed to death by stones.”

  “All because the physician woman caught them in a lie,” Nathanial muttered.

  “You are no stranger to the story, then. Though I do not suppose you would be, considering your relations.”

  “I had pieces of the story hurled at me,” Nathanial said. “But I thought to seek a voice of reason before drawing my own judgment.”

  The barkeep nodded. “The supply of reason has been short around these parts. Those girls did a horrible thing, and to this day the only remorse visible in their expressions is that it was over too quickly.”

  The bitter words stunned Nathanial. Did the man not realize he spoke of children? “Your accusations are callous.”

  Looking steadily into Nathanial’s eyes, the old man said, “No more so than theirs, I assure you. Look into their eyes, Son. That is where the evil will be found.”

  “What you are suggesting—”

  “Be assured, it is no mere suggestion. Ask anyone in this room. Ask anyone in Salem—anyone still living, that is.” He gave his head a sorrowful shake. “The number of dead, they speak for themselves in the only way they can.”

  There were no words to dispute the man’s statement. Nathanial glanced wearily at his cup. “Have you any wine?”

  The old man’s brow rose. “I might have some whiskey.”

  Nathanial tossed some coin on the slab. “Close enough.”

  The barkeep delivered a drink that went down faster than it should any decent man, but Nathanial had had a damned long day and the conversation was apparently over. The barkeep moved down the counter to count his bottles, leaving Nathanial alone with his thoughts.

  It was a hell of an unwelcome place to be.

  When he arrived at the family home, three drinks down, he found the next day promised to be no better, for his trunk lay sideways in the yard, the house closed up for the evening. Though it was damned cold outside, he simply settled onto the ground next to his trunk. His coat provided warmth enough, and what he did not gain from the fabric, he found in thoughts of Faith—of enticing curves and the way those serene hazel eyes snapped at him in fury.

  She blamed him. She might even hate him. But he owed Ruth an insurmountable debt for the direction his life had taken. He no longer had the opportunity to return her kindness, but he would not turn his back on her family.

  Not the way his family had apparently done to him.

  Not now. Not ever.

  …

  Faith was still fuming the next day as she headed outside to gather eggs for the morning meal. The task was meaningless, for the dratted chickens were all over the place. The piecemeal henhouse had been lost weeks ago to a summer storm, and the chickens had yet to find a consistent place to roost or lay. She worried there was a fox or other predator about, keeping them scattered, but thus far her small herd had not been thinned.

  “Good morrow!”

  Faith looked up at the sound of overt cheer to see her friend Prudence Abernathy coming along the path, a basket in hand. “Morrow perhaps,” Faith called in return, “but good might be generous.”

  “The chickens again?”

  “The chickens always. I should build a new henhouse.”

  “You should find a man to build a new henhouse.” Prudence, nearer now, held out the basket for Faith’s inspection. “I brought eggs.”

  “Oh, bless you! Will you take candles in trade?”

  “Of course.” Prudence walked alongside Faith to the house. “Have you heard Nathanial Abbot is back in town?”

  Faith’s step faltered, but she quickly righted her stride. “Is he?”

  “I heard he slept last night on his parents’ lawn.”

  “I would probably do so myself before I would step foot in that house.” She kept her tone even, but inside she was reeling. Nathanial slept outside? Granted, it was one of the only lawns in town—few could afford such wasteful upkeep—but surely there was an available bedtick inside that ridiculous house.

  “He also visited the tavern.”

  Of course he had. What else would be expected? After likely countless indiscretions in London, he must have found the…amenities on a ship full of men lacking. And in light of it, perhaps he had not so much slept on the lawn as he had slept where he had fallen. “Prudence, your home is on the other side of the village. How are you so richly steeped in gossip before the dawn has fully crossed the sky?”

  Her friend grinned sheepishly. “A merchant came by this morn on his way to town. Seems he just yesterday afternoon delivered a travel trunk to the Abbot house.”

  “And how did he procure the identity of the trunk’s owner?”

  “He was told by whomever paid him to carry the load—and by paid, I mean generously.”

  “Nathanial is an Abbot,” Faith said. “Of course he paid generously.”

  “You know the rumors. Supposedly they are not of the means they claim. The cost of their airs has been greater than their profits, and they have struggled to pay their help. Without tending, the crops did not provide as they hoped they would. One troubled hand begats the next.”

  Faith shrugged. “As you said, it is little more than gossip.”

  “I have heard his breeches fit well,” Prudence said.

  Faith’s attention jolted to her friend, whose eyes sparkled with mischief. “For heaven’s sake, Prudence. Did the merchant tell you that as well?”

  Prudence laughed

  “Of course not!”

  Faith did not match her humor. “Well, you may be assured his breeches fit no differently on him than any other man.”

  She did not realize her mistake until Prudence drew to a quick stop. “You are personally acquainted with the fit of his breeches?”

  “I am not the least bit acquainted with any part of him,” Faith assured. But the sting of heat on her face belied her claim.

  “Yet you acted as if you did not know he was in town.”

  If only she had kept her thoughts to herself. Now she was thoroughly flustered and all of Salem would likely know within the h
our. “What business is it of mine where he is?”

  “That is for you to say. How did you so quickly gain a view of his breeches?”

  “He stopped by to share his condolences on the loss of my aunt.”

  Prudence’s smile fell. “How…unexpected.”

  “They were close,” Faith admitted. “Aunt Ruth schooled him when he could not attend on his own. Nathanial was here almost every day, sometimes for hours on end.” Memories came in a flood, most prominently the number of times she’d caught his blue-eyed stare on her rather than his books. How had he managed to learn a thing? And why did that recollection make her feel so good?

  “What does he say about his sisters?”

  “That he knew nothing. He claims he heard only when he arrived in Salem, and he disembarked from the ship just yesterday.”

  “I suppose there’s no reason to doubt him,” Prudence mused. “I know not what news travels the ocean, but Salem is a small place. I cannot imagine they take time to discuss our goings-on.”

  “They might. Can you imagine how these events would sound to an outsider? Those of us who have lived it cannot explain, not even among ourselves.”

  “I cannot imagine what evil it took to purport such lies, though England is rich with a history of persecuting witches.” Prudence shook her head. “What kind of horrid soul lights a match and withholds water while an entire town burns?”

  “The Abbots,” Faith muttered, her heart heavy in her chest. “Who else?”

  Chapter Four

  Elinor Abbot dusted her hands on her apron and scowled at her son. “Is there no end to the shame you are willing to bring upon this family?”

  Nathanial stared, bleary-eyed, as his mother bustled around the kitchen area. He was freshly shaven and a bit irritated by the way the chilly morning air had turned cold in the absence of the hair. “Is it not the cook’s job to see to the morning meal?”

  “Luddy has moved on.”

  “I thought Luddy did the washing?” he asked with only mild interest. “Or was that the schooling?”

  “She did as she was told,” Elinor snapped, seeming to forget herself. She quickly straightened, lifting her chin. “And as I said, she moved on.”