Winds of Salem: A Witches of East End Novel Read online

  “Well, at the time, I know I did not say Nate Brooks,” Thomas continued, pouring salt into the wound. “I would have said Nate, not Nathaniel, had I meant that particular gentleman. Besides, Freya, you are most fortunate. You would be nothing but a disreputable wench, a beggar, a ragamuffin had we not taken you in. And now you are to marry Mr. Nathaniel Brooks. You will be a wealthy woman, and one of high standing. The venerable Mr. Brooks has offered a substantial dowry, and I will receive a large parcel of land adjoining mine so that my land goes all the way to Salem Town.” He smiled at her with what feigned to be gratitude. “You will marry Nathaniel Brooks, and that is that. I will hear nothing more.” He grabbed his plume and resumed writing in the ledger.

  Freya’s arms stiffened at her sides. She would hear nothing more either, and so she spun on her heel and left the room as fast as she could.

  “Where are you going?” called Mercy to her back. “I swear I had nothing to do with any of this! Freya! Wait!”

  Freya strode across the hall and did not answer, only slammed the door on the way out of the Putnam house. It was almost seven according to the sundial attached to the wall of the farm, still light outside. She knew many of the men in the village went to Ingersoll’s Tavern on Thursdays around this time, once they had finished with militia practice. Surely she would find Nate there. She would beg him to take her away—he could not let this happen—they were in love and they needed to run away together.

  She took a shortcut, but she was so distressed, she lost the way and had to climb a wall that rose before her out of nowhere, it seemed. Briars caught on her skirt as she made her way down the other side, and she felt it tear as she jumped, but she kept running, frantically. She was in a wild, overgrown field, and she tripped on a sudden pile of stones, fell, fumbling for a moment in the tall grass, then she scrambled back to her feet. She would have flown on a pole had it not been broad daylight. She cursed this village. Her cap slipped from her head as she ran, so she pulled it off, tucking it into her apron’s pocket. Her hair cascaded down, lighting up like fire.

  She saw the village proper ahead, leaned over and placed her hands on her thighs, and panted. She found pins in her pocket, fixed her hair, then pulled her cap over it. Her pulse thrummed at her temples. Her petticoat had been torn on the thorns, but it was nothing too conspicuous. She glimpsed a deep scratch on her calf, where the blood had already dried. She was in such a state, she hadn’t even felt it when it had happened.

  She set a calm expression to her face and walked the rest of the road that led into the village’s center. She passed a house on the way. The woman outside feeding chickens gave her a pained smile. Everyone recognized her now after that show in the meetinghouse. She was the young, comely maidservant who was to wed the old, homely, and wealthy widower.

  A man on his horse came down the road. She recognized James Brewster and waved to him, relieved. James smiled, dismounting the chestnut stallion. He held the reins close to the bit as they stood together on the grassy shoulder of the road.

  He squeezed her arm and let it go. “I was there,” he said. “Do not worry.” His green-gold eyes burned with compassion.

  “It can’t happen!” she said. “Where is Nate? Do you know?”

  “Nate? No. I haven’t seen him since Mr. Putnam made the announcement at the meetinghouse,” he said.

  “I cannot marry Mr. Brooks,” Freya said. “I will not.”

  “Of course not. I would never let that happen.”

  His kindness overwhelmed her, even as it was Nate she wanted.

  “Listen, I will help you, but we mustn’t remain here lest we are seen. People will talk. Meet me at the dog rose bush.” He was already mounting his horse, whose coat shone in the lowering sun. James looked quite glorious up there. He tipped his hat.

  “Yes,” said Freya. “I will. Thank you, James, thank you!”

  James nodded and tugged on the reins, so his horse stretched its neck. He gave a little kick, and they were off at a trot, then canter.

  Freya walked in the opposite direction in case anyone had seen. There was always someone watching in Salem Village, she knew now.

  chapter twenty-five

  The Immortals

  When Freya arrived in the meadow, she spotted James’s horse, but the stallion was alone. He grazed peacefully in the grass, the reins loose. Sensing Freya, the horse blinked in her direction, shook his mane, and returned his black nose to the ground to continue grazing. James’s horse but no James. Where was he? Whatever he planned to do to help, it had to happen posthaste. But what about Nate? She had to let him know that she had left the Putnams, without a good-bye or any of her belongings, but she had to make him understand they would have to run away together immediately. She was a girl alone, with no family and no home. She was vulnerable, and somehow she knew instinctively her magic would not be able to help her out of this situation. She could make the butter churn by itself and plow a field of potatoes without lifting a finger, but she could not reverse Mr. Putnam’s decision on her fate if he had already made up his mind.

  Looking for James, she walked along the edge of the meadow, peering into the woods toward the west where the sun had begun to drop. The boughs of pines and leaves of oaks and beeches appeared backlit. Shafts of light poured through, resembling smoke as they lit the dust motes in the air. As she trudged along, the sun slipped between the bare spaces of trees, blinding her, and she brought a hand to her face to shield her eyes from the glare.

  Then a shadow fell upon her face, and for a moment she thought it was Nate, but it was not. James stood before her.

  “Where is Nate?”

  “Why do you keep asking?” James asked impatiently. He carried a couple of blankets and a knapsack on his shoulder.

  “Because…” She took a deep breath.

  “Because?” he prompted, his face turning darker. “Why do you always ask about Nate? What is he to you?” James strapped the bags to the horse and turned to Freya. “Forget about Nate.”

  “I can’t,” she said. “I won’t. Nate is… Nate is my…”

  “Your what, Freya?” James said.

  “Nate is my love,” she whispered. “I cannot leave without him,” and when she saw the hurt look on his face it dawned on her that this was yet another misunderstanding. Her life seemed to be so full of them lately. She had done this. It was all her fault. That morning when James was returning from night-watch duty at the tower, when she had kissed him on the cheek. She had been overflowing with feelings that day, because she was in love—in love with Nate. But now it dawned on her that James had come to believe he was the object of her affections.

  She turned away from him, but he reached for her hand and pulled her toward him. His breath was warm on her face. “What… what did you say?”

  “I love him… I love Nate,” she choked. “James, I’m so sorry…”

  He gaped at her, shaking his head. “No. No!”

  She moved backward, away from him, and tripped on something that rose from the ground, a stone or a root. James tried to protect her fall but instead he fell on her, so that they were both lying on the ground. He was nearly on top of her, and they both were breathing heavily but for different reasons.

  “You don’t love him… you can’t love him…” He pushed himself up slightly to look her better in the eye. He had one hand on her shoulder, his leg swung over hers, pinning her to the moist grass. His body was long, sinewy, the muscles heavy. The sun cast an orange-pink glow on her face. “Freya, listen to me. You love me… you’ve always loved me and only me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about! Please let me go.” She stared up into the dimming sky as she looked at him. “James… please…”

  “My name isn’t James Brewster.” His eyes were hooded, and he looked so unhappy Freya could cry. “At least, it’s not my only name. Some of us are not as lucky as you, Freya, to be able to keep our name over the centuries.”

  As James spoke, it was as if do
ors upon doors were opening in her mind, in her memories, her consciousness, her identity, trickling from behind a hidden and locked passage. She saw images that she did not understand, faces she did not recognize—an older, gracious woman with silver hair, formidable, with a softness around her eyes, and a younger one, blond and brittle looking until she smiled—and Freya felt an overwhelming sensation of love for them. They were part of her. “I am a witch,” she said. “I have always been a witch.”

  “You are more than that,” he murmured. James’s lashes were wet with tears, and Freya put a hand on his face, to feel his pain and to try to understand what was happening here.

  “Who are you, James? Who are you really? And who am I? What are we to each other?” She felt warm in his arms and no longer afraid.

  He held her tighter and breathed into her ear. “You really don’t remember me, my dearest love?”

  His voice and his touch sent a shiver through her body, and in her mind’s eye she saw a flicker of light, a memory, an image, of a beautiful dark-haired man, looming over her just like this, the two of them entangled in each other, his body hot against hers, and there was no wicked shame, no guilt, none of the Puritan restrictions, for they were not Puritans, they were in love, and in lust, and he was so strong, his hands above hers, holding her down, and her body alive, open, needing, and she was screaming his name, his name…

  “Killian?” she asked.

  “Freya,” he whispered. “It’s me.”

  Then it came back to her, and suddenly it was as if all the doors had opened in a burst of light and understanding. The past, the future, the present. Killian at her engagement party, the two of them against the sink of the bathroom counter, without even a word to each other, overcome by desire, and the intense need to feel his lips on hers, her body on his. Their last night on board the Dragon, rocking against him, as if holding on for dear life, because she had sensed it was so close to the end… their end. The trident shadow on his back that had marked him as the thief who had stolen Freddie’s trident. And finally, the Valkyries, surrounding him, ripping him away from her arms.

  “But the Valkyries—they took you…”

  “Here.”

  “Not Limbo?”

  “No. I had no memory either, until I saw you in the meetinghouse, and then it all came back to me, but I did not want to frighten you. I thought you would remember on your own.”

  She shook her head, ashamed. She had no idea how she had gotten here herself. It had to be some awful form of trickery. She had been swept back here through the passages of time, her memory lost, unable to remember who she was and why she was here. Was this yet another punishment of the gods? Or another of Loki’s tricks? Loki… was that why she had been inexplicably, irrefutably drawn to Nate Brooks? He must be Loki, there was no other explanation. Was this still part of the spell he had cast on her when he was Branford Gardiner and had first come to North Haven? When her dress had fallen, the strap broken, and he had touched her skin, had branded her as his. But it couldn’t be—she was not enchanted this time, she was sure of it. What was happening? Why had she felt that way? She did not love Loki, did not love Nate; she only loved Balder. Killian Gardiner. James Brewster. In any incarnation, under any other name, she always loved him.

  “Killian, my darling,” she whispered, putting a hand on his cheek. Her love. Her true heart. Her dearest friend. She would put aside her worries over her conflicted emotions for the moment and try to understand them later. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “You do remember…” He smiled, relieved. “But it is dangerous to use that name. I must remain James Brewster to you for now.”

  She nodded. “But what are we doing here? How are we going to get away?”

  “Don’t worry, my love,” he said, and kissed her. When their lips met it was as if they both realized at that same moment how near their bodies were to each other, and when he kissed her, she opened her mouth to him, and then his hand was struggling with her bodice, as she struggled to unlace his breeches.

  She wanted him so much, wanted to take away the hurt she had caused, wanted to forget for a moment where they were—she was just so very glad to see him again, and that they were together—and he was kissing her neck and her breasts, and she helped him out of his shirt, and he fell back on top of her, and he was pushing up her skirts, and they were laughing softly together, at how terribly difficult it was to remove their clothing—and then it was done, and they were lying in the grass, and he was holding down her hands above her head, and kissing her, biting her lips, ravenous, hungry, they had been separated for too long, and when he entered her she gritted her teeth at the pain and the pleasure of finding him again.

  “What are you doing?” came a voice above them—a maid’s voice. A quiet, horrified voice as if the speaker could not quite believe what she was seeing.

  James startled and rolled away, while Freya sat upright, frantically reaching for her clothes and covering herself as they separated from their embrace.

  “And here I was making excuses for you to Mr. Putnam!” said Mercy, her voice hot with anger. “I thought you were my friend, my sister. You are nothing but a harlot, a temptress! A common whore! Look at you! Naked on the grass! With him! You are a witch! You have bewitched Mr. Brewster!”

  Freya rose to her feet, her arm outstretched, the other holding her clothing against her body, red with shock and shame. What had they done? In the woods? In the open? “No, Mercy—please!”

  The maid was trembling and her eyes watering. “I shall tell everyone! I shall tell them all the truth!”

  “No—please! Mercy, I love you—I would never hurt you!” Freya said, buttoning her blouse while James quickly got dressed behind her. “You must understand—this is… he is…”

  The girl stepped back, lifting her chin challengingly. She took in a deep breath, her face flushed, and her lips quivered as she spoke. “You are a liar, Freya Beauchamp! A liar, you hear me! A liar and a witch! I will tell them all!” She swung around and ran off through the field, leaving Freya and James alone in the dusky meadow.

  “What do we do now?” she asked. She had lived long enough in Salem Village to know what would happen next. “They will kill us.”

  “Run,” James said, tugging on his boots and handing her hers. “Run away as fast as we can.”

  north hampton

  the present

  valentine’s day

  chapter twenty-six

  The Hammer Strikes

  Hudson held up a tiny pink one-piece with a tulle tutu to show Ingrid. There was a decal of a piglet doing a pirouette in toe shoes on the chest.

  “What do you think?” The light flashed against the lens of his tortoiseshell glasses.

  “Um, Tabitha is having a baby boy?” she said.

  They had snuck out on their lunch break at the library to shop for Tabitha’s baby shower at the nearby boutique Tater Tots.

  “So?” Hudson looked at it sadly and put it away. “You’re right. Why isn’t she having a girl? This is so cute.”

  Hudson was impeccably dressed as usual; only he could make a thick down jacket look slim and elegant, but something was different. A few months ago, he had finally come out to his mother, and while things had been frosty for a while, the grand Mrs. Rafferty had finally come around to the reality of the situation and had even agreed to meet his boyfriend. It turned out that as long as any discussion of politics was assiduously avoided, Hudson’s mother and Scott got along swimmingly—to such a degree that Hudson felt a bit left out at times. He occasionally brought up politics just to put a little wedge between them.

  Ingrid grabbed the tutu. “Let’s get it! Why not? I mean babies are babies. Can’t you just dress them up however you want? They’re kind of like dolls, right?”

  “Um, not really. Put it back, Ingrid,” Hudson instructed, being the voice of reason now. “If he wants to wear pink tutus that should be his decision when he’s ready to make it.”
/>   She exhaled a sigh, putting the tutu back on the rack, then continued to flip through the pint-size clothes.

  “I don’t know,” Hudson said wistfully, “doesn’t this make you feel like…”

  She turned to him with a look of horror. “Like what? Like having a baby?”

  “Yeah…”

  She shrugged. She hadn’t ever really thought about it.

  “Yeah, me neither!” He went back to searching through the rack, his fingers moving fast and adeptly. “Just testing you.” He held up what looked like miniature lederhosen but were made of soft green terry cloth. “You’ve got to admit these are extraordinarily cute, and it’s just fun shopping for baby clothes.”

  She eyed him suspiciously but let it go. “I need to talk to you about something,” she said.

  Hudson made a tsk-tsk sound. “I knew something was up and you were keeping me in the dark. You’ve been distracted today—and not a good distracted. I know that look. What’s up?”

  “I ran into them at that new café, Matt, Maggie, and, um, Maggie’s mom, Mariza. His ex-girlfriend? They looked so perfect together, and perfectly happy. Mariza’s a knockout. She’s built like an Italian screen goddess and—”

  “I know where this is going—stop right there!” warned Hudson, holding up a hand. “First of all, the M names? Totally dorky! And second of all, Matt chose you, not Sophia Loren. He could have married her by now if he wanted to make it work. He didn’t. The reason they appear intimate is that not only do they have a history, but they also have a child together, so they’re friends—friends being the operative word here.”