Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7) Read online

  “Preen?” Alex tried to pull her hand free from his hold. “For him? Don’t be ridiculous!”

  His eyes were very close, only inches from her own. “So for whom is it that you smooth down your skirts to lie close to your thighs, for what eyes is it you fiddle with your hair, adjust your bodice over your chest?”

  Alex felt caught out. Okay, so at times she enjoyed teasing poor William, flattered by his obvious infatuation. “For you, I suppose. I never see any other man but you. Not like that.”

  “Don’t you?” he said softly and his nose brushed once, twice, against hers.

  “No,” she breathed against his cheek, “never.” Which, after all, was true. It made him smile, his mouth coming down to cover hers in the softest of kisses, while his hand, as if by chance, brushed over her breasts.

  “My woman,” he murmured into her ear before kissing her just below it, which made her inhale, her insides contracting pleasantly. “My woman,” he added, biting her ear lobe a tad too hard. “Best you don’t forget it, wife.” Once again, his lips, his tongue, caressed the sensitive spot below her ear, and Alex shivered, leaning into him. He laughed. “Behave,” he said, straightening up. “Later,” he promised as he took her hand again.

  *

  Supper took too long – far too long. Alex tried to act normal, conversing with her thirteen-year-old son David about his schoolwork and his newfound friends, but her thoughts were elsewhere, like two feet away from David, where Matthew was sitting with Malcolm, Ian’s son. She hummed and hawed at adequate intervals, shared a fleeting, hungry look with Matthew, and forced her attention back to the boys.

  David was doing well in school, but Malcolm was finding it all rather difficult, Julian had confided before supper, saying that Ian’s son spent a lot of time looking out of the window and longing for home.

  “A farmer’s lad,” Julian had said with a slight smile. “That Malcolm is happier among beasts and fields than he is here.”

  Throughout the meal, Matthew made distanced love to her. He handed her the cabbage dish, and his fingers caressed her hand. He dropped his napkin and, when he bent to retrieve it, his hand rested on her thigh. She leaned forward for the salt and, as if by chance, his hand stroked the underside of her arm. She blushed and he grinned, eyes dropping casually to her bosom before flashing back up to lock into hers. Alex was dry-mouthed with desire, and when Ruth snatched the last of the pie away from under David’s and Malcolm’s speculative eyes, Alex was about to stand and hurry up to their room.

  “Whisky?” Julian asked Matthew, sweeping with his arm to suggest they should repair to the parlour.

  “I wouldn’t mind,” Matthew replied, smiling teasingly in Alex’s direction. He took her hand for an instant in the narrow hallway, his thumb moving in slow circles over her wrist a couple of times before he resumed his conversation with Julian. Not entirely unperturbed, Alex noted, seeing how gingerly he crossed his long legs before adjusting the skirts of his coat over his lap. She arched her back and smiled widely at him. By chance, he extended his leg so that the toe of his shoe nudged at hers. She could feel the current leap between them and sat back before she did something thoroughly inappropriate, such as sitting on his lap and… Her imaginations were brought to an abrupt end by the entrance of Ruth, balancing a huge tray before her.

  “Are you alright?” Alex asked Ruth after having accepted a cup of tea. Ruth blew at her tea and nodded. Pregnancy became her, and Ruth, in her sixth month, was the epitome of blooming womanhood, round and generous of body, with permanent roses on her cheeks and an air of contentment about her that spread like rings over water to lap at the feet of anyone close to her.

  “Julian says I was born to motherhood,” Ruth said. Now a married woman, she wore her dark red hair braided and coiled high on her head, covered by a starched cap, and in keeping with her husband’s profession, she was sedately dressed in a becoming shade of muted green that served to highlight her eyes, a lighter, greener version of her father’s hazel.

  Quite the exemplary minister’s wife, Ruth was, and on the small table beside the armchair where she usually sat were stacked a set of small volumes, mostly biographies of devout women who had made it their mission in life to support their husband and birth his children. Alex flipped through one of them, reading with some compassion about the by now defunct unknown Mrs Sydney, who had given birth regularly as clockwork and still had not one live child to show for it at the end.

  “Oh my God…one a year, almost,” she muttered, snapping the book closed to look at her daughter. “That’s too close, and even while you’re breastfeeding, you have to take precautions.”

  Ruth looked away, muttering that this was a subject best discussed between husband and wife.

  “It saps your strength, Ruth,” Alex said, “and you have very many fertile years before you.” At which her eighteen-year-old daughter smiled, a hand settling on her swelling belly.

  Alex was distracted from her conversation with Ruth by Matthew’s sudden stillness.

  “What?” She looked from Julian to her husband.

  “I…err, well, I thought it best to tell you,” Julian said.

  “Tell us what?” Alex asked, even if she already knew. The pleasant buzzing in her veins stilled, she set a hand on Matthew’s thigh, not to arouse him but to reassure him.

  “Burley.” Matthew’s eyes lightened into an opaque green. “It’s confirmed, aye? He’s alive.”

  “But not here,” she said, sinking her fingers into his flesh.

  “Oh no,” Julian hastened to say. “Of course not here. Down in Virginia, as we hear it, and still with a price on his head.”

  “Far away,” Ruth put in.

  “Very,” Alex tried, smiling. But in her chest her heart was banging so hard against her ribs that she feared it would break out of her body and plop wetly to the floor.

  They retired to bed early, Matthew with that vacant look on his face that indicated he didn’t want to talk – he was wallowing in memories he preferred to handle on his own. He undressed in silence, cleaned his teeth in silence, and slid into bed in silence. Alex tried to talk to him while she did her evening things, but he replied in monosyllabic grunts, no more, and when she was ready for bed, he had already rolled over on his side, eyes firmly closed. Alex sighed and nestled up as close as she could to his back.

  “I’m here, you know,” she said, kissing his nape. “I’m always here.”

  In response, he nodded.

  She was already wide awake in the predawn when he turned to her, his hands moving questioningly over her legs. She shifted closer and opened her arms, and he came into her, urgent and hard. He pounded into her, head thrown back, eyes squished close, and this had nothing to do with making love: it was more about assuaging fears and laying demons to rest. She held him without saying anything, her hands caressing his shoulders, the small of his back, the outline of his arms through his shirt.

  He shuddered in release and fell forward to rest his full weight on her, his head pillowed only inches from hers. His face relaxed, lines smoothing out, the long mouth reverting to its natural softness, and with a contented noise, he buried his nose in her neck and exhaled, warm breath tickling her skin. She lay with her sleeping man in her arms and watched over him, fingers repeatedly touching his hair, the back of his neck, the bristle on his unshaven cheeks. Only as the sun rose, patterning the bed and floor with reassuring blocks of light, did she fall asleep.

  *

  “Don’t be silly,” Alex said later that same morning, smoothing back Ruth’s hair from a worried face. “We’ll be alright.”

  “But Burley—” Ruth began.

  “We’ll fix it.” Alex smiled with confidence she didn’t at all feel. She patted Ruth on her stomach and stood back. “You take care of yourself and the baby, sweetheart.”

  Ruth gave her a blinding smile. “Julian does that.”

  “I imagine he does.” Alex smothered a smile, her eyes on the love bite on Ruth’s ne
ck. She hugged her daughter close.

  “Had a good time?” Alex asked Thomas once Providence had dropped behind them. Thomas gave her a guarded look and confirmed that yes, he had. She looked over at their old friend and smiled. Some years short of seventy, Thomas Leslie sat his horse with ease and still carried a sword by his side, as he had done since, as a young man, he fought in the English Civil War.

  “Pistols and such are not for me,” he had confided to Alex at one point. “I’m a bad marksman, but a good swordsman, Alex, even now.”

  Thomas had pushed his hat down firmly on his head to shield him from the sun, and on his large gelding he still cut quite the figure, albeit that he was all in grey, effectively matching his horse.

  “The beer as good as always down at Mrs Malone’s?” Alex asked, tongue-in-cheek. She knew for a fact Thomas frequented Mrs Malone for other itches than those for good beer.

  “Mmm,” he replied vaguely and spurred his horse to join Matthew, riding some paces ahead on a restive Aaron.

  Around noon, Alex began to feel ill, and by evening, she was damp with fever, her stomach turning itself inside out whenever she attempted to eat something. They made camp in a grove of white oaks, and repeatedly, she stumbled away into the woods, refusing Matthew to go along as her guts voided themselves both ways, leaving her shivering and stinking and ridiculously weak.

  It was sheer luck that she was lucid enough in the middle of the night to understand what she was seeing when a band of men rode down the western slope towards the narrow dirt track that passed for the road from Providence to Leslie’s Crossing and beyond. She remained where she crouched for a long time, trying to calm her racing heart back from its present thundering rate. A weak moonbeam had hit one man squarely in the face, and even at this distance she had known him at once: Philip Burley, eyes glinting like droplets of brittle ice

  “Don’t be a fool!” Thomas Leslie snapped, and all of a sudden he was back to being a renowned and trusted senior officer in the New Model Army, face set in stern, grim lines. “Alex says there were many men, very many men, and how do you plan on taking them on by yourself?”

  “But she also says they were riding hard! I must stop them before they…” Matthew broke off, dragging his hands desperately through his hair. Alex sat huddled into herself, trying to force her brain into coming up with one – at least one – good idea as to what to do.

  “Matthew!” Thomas’ voice was sharp with authority, and Matthew turned to face him. “You take Aaron and ride for the Chisholms but for God’s sake, keep well off the road. I will follow with Alex once she is somewhat more recovered.” Matthew nodded in reluctant agreement with this plan.

  “No!” Weakly, Alex pushed herself up on her knees and then to stand. “No, Thomas. I’m going with Matthew.” Never again would she let him out of her sight – look what had happened to him last time!

  “Lass,” Matthew groaned, grabbing at her as she swayed, “I have to ride fast, and Aaron can’t go full speed with a double load.”

  “No…” Her hands knotted themselves into his coat.

  “I have to go,” Matthew whispered to her. “I must get help before they ride into Graham’s Garden.”

  “No,” she repeated uselessly, and he had to unclench her hands before hurrying off to his horse. Halfway there, he wheeled and rushed back, swept her into his arms and kissed her hair.

  “I love you,” he said, and a minute or so later, he was swallowed into the dark.

  Chapter 8

  Ten days in the company of his uncle and the men riding with them had further increased Michael’s doubts about this whole venture. Besides, he was no fool, and to ride more than a dozen men strong seemed excessive if the intention was to rid the world of only Matthew Graham.

  Whenever he tried to raise the subject with Joseph, his brother shrugged, saying that Uncle Philip was taking no chances this time, and, as he heard it, this Graham fellow was wily as a fox. Still, Michael was hungry for his promised gold, and on top of that he had the definite impression that his uncle would take it badly should he choose to leave. Very badly. Michael swallowed.

  They were two days or so from their intended target when they found the slaves, five of them sitting huddled round a fire that announced their presence to the wolves of this world – men such as them. It was an uneven fight, and by the time it was over, Michael had a huge grin on his face. Philip glared at him, attempted to speak, but all that came out was a long stream of inarticulate sounds. The tenor of it all was clear: Philip Burley was an angry man, and his hands twitched with the need to hurt someone.

  “They’re worth money, a lot of money, even.” Michael dismounted from his piebald horse and followed his brother over to inspect the five captured men.

  Four of them stood meekly while their mouths were forced open, their arms and legs probed. The fifth struggled wildly, screeching through the rag someone had stuffed into his mouth to shut him up. Michael smiled when he found the elegant pistol on him, made as if to tuck it in his belt but thought better of it, offering it to his uncle instead.

  “Are they branded?” he asked, and one by one the men were stripped. All of them were, an F standing visible against their skin.

  “Hmm.” Michael frowned. Escaped slaves were always claimed by their owners, and in this case the brands clearly showed where they belonged – this confirmed by the youngest of the slaves.

  “Do you know this Farrell?” Joseph asked Philip, who gave him a sullen nod. Well enough, Philip managed to convey, a small self-important man with a thriving slave business and a couple of large tobacco plantations south of Providence.

  Michael inspected them again. Strong men, all of them, but the worse for wear after living badly in the woods. They had a friend who sailed regularly down to Jamaica, he explained to Philip, and bucks such as these would bring in good money there. Philip nodded grudgingly. Gold never came amiss.

  “We’ll rebrand them,” Joseph suggested, and indicated for one of the men to stoke some life back into the fire.

  It all took too long, according to Uncle Philip, and by the time they set off again, Philip was glaring at Michael and Joseph in a way that made Michael shiver and Joseph laugh.

  The black men were running in halters behind them. Stripped and bound, Michael could see the play of muscle beneath their skins. Yes, strong men all of them, and in his head he calculated the neat profit they would make on them once their friend had his share. Philip sneered when Michael mentioned a round number. That was nothing compared to what the Grahams would bring in, he indicated.

  “The Grahams?” Michael gave him an uncomprehending look.

  Beside him, Joseph laughed. “What did you think, little brother? That we’d ride all this way, fifteen strong, just to kill one homesteader? No, no, Uncle Philip has a far more complex plan in mind.” He grinned at his uncle who grinned back, a grimace that forced Michael to suppress a shudder.

  “Slaves,” Joseph went on. “We’ll sell them all as slaves – bar the adult males – and you have no idea what a white woman – or a white child – can bring in on the slave markets, do you?”

  A distinct feeling of unease rippled up Michael’s spine. It was one thing to capture and sell blacks – they were, after all, slaves – quite another to contemplate doing the same to white people. There and then, it dawned on him that his uncle was planning for the total eradication of this unknown Graham family. Michael chewed his cheek. To kill this Matthew Graham to avenge the deaths of his other three uncles seemed fair, but a whole family…no, that had to be wrong.

  Joseph just laughed when Michael voiced his concerns, saying he didn’t care one way or the other as long as he returned substantially richer than when he set out, and then he clapped his spurs into his horse to bring it abreast with Philip’s mount, an eager second-in-command on this punitive expedition.

  Michael threw a long look at his brother. Cut from the same cloth, his mother used to say when she regarded Joseph and his maternal uncle
s, and Michael knew for a fact his mother had not meant that as an accolade. His musings were brought short by an angry sound emanating from Philip, a sound clearly indicating they had to hurry, and Michael had better keep up.

  Philip pushed them to ride most of the day, well into the evening and, after but a few hours’ respite, again through the night. When one of the slaves gasped that they had to rest, Philip brought the handle of his whip down on his face before ordering them all gagged, and now, just as dawn was breaking, Michael walked his exhausted horse down a wooded slope, coming to a halt at his uncle’s raised hand.

  “It’s not right,” Michael whispered to his brother, “to destroy an entire family like this.” He shook his head, throwing a worried look at his uncle. In the returning light, he looked a veritable monster, and Michael was no longer sure he wanted to take part in the coming atrocities.

  Joseph gave him a patronising smile. “It will make us rich. And who will ever know, little brother? There will be no one left to tell.” He snickered at Michael’s shocked face and moved away with a shrug, eyes glued to the farm spread out before them.

  “I’ll know,” Michael whispered to his back, and stepped a few feet further away. He should leave, distance himself from this place before it was too late.

  *

  Philip Burley stood looking down at the Graham farm where all was still sunk in sleep, and his mouth drew back in a stiff and painful smile. In the dawn light, the solid, grey buildings gave the impression of having sprung seamlessly from the ground, permanent and indestructible. Philip sneered. By tonight, it would all be gone, the Graham family slaughtered or carried off to slavery, and he intended to keep the Graham girl for himself.

  He was overwhelmed by an urge to ride his men down there now, torch the buildings and set about with musket and knife, but forced himself away from these tempting images. First to know where they all were, then to plan the way each and every one of them would end. Matthew Graham he would tie to the large oak that stood in solitary splendour in the yard, and force him to watch as his family was eradicated, his women and children branded slaves before his eyes. Philip swallowed back on a surge of black joy. Today, Matthew Graham would pay, kept alive until his entire home lay in smouldering embers around him.