AT FIRST SIGHT: A Novella(8)
Relief swept over her. Then Sutcliff’s mission had naught to do with her role at the court of King Charles. “And that is it? That is all?”
His eyes searched hers, delving behind them even. “Aye,” he said, at last, “that is all that I require of you upon your match loss.”
She could practically inhale the force of his male energy. Despite her age of two and twenty, she had been kissed only two or three times. She had been so caught up in the healing arts that she had given neither thought nor time to such foolishness as courtly love and chivalric romances. And now that seemed all she could think about.
“And if I win,” she pressed, “the one-hundred gold doubloons are mine?”
“You will not. Besides, the doubloons have been allocated by Cromwell himself for the land purchase.”
“You cannot be serious? The Indians have no use for money. They want kettles, blankets, hatchets, needles, looking glasses, and – “ her mouth tightened, “doubtless, you will want to ply them with rum.”
“But money will buy all that. Come now,” he said, taking her hand with the casual air of a man accustomed to compliance at his slightest whim. “Treat this blasted burn and let us return to our match.”
Latching onto the green glass jar, she followed him back to the stool, where he resettled his lengthy frame. While she mashed a portion of the jar’s contents, mixed with water droplets, into a paste in her palm, he watched, his head cocked for her ministrations. “I trust my wellbeing into your hands, fair maiden.”
She slanted him a sly glance. “Have you considered how easily I could poison your rum and claim the doubloons for my own?”
“But, upon my death, dare you risk apprehension by Baron Craven and his contingent of troops?”
The glass jar shattered on the brick floor. She took advantage of the mishap by swiftly stooping to gather the shards and evading Sutcliff’s watchful regard.
With her father’s wholehearted approval, her childhood friend William Craven had courted her -- and, aye, she had cared about him and been attracted to him. Had even been betrothed come close to wedding him. But William had returned from a French diplomatic mission a changed man, siding more often with Parliament and its leader, Cromwell.
Appalled by Cromwell’s radical Puritan beliefs and ruthlessness with those who rebuffed him, she could not conceive of marrying a man who supported such oppressive views – where a child could be put to death for cursing his parents.
She had ended her betrothal with William weeks before the wedding date. It was a scandal that had Whitehall whispering behind oscillating fans and beringed hand.
She knew well this friend from her girlhood years – and knew she had wounded him grievously. Extraordinarily clever, he was a well-meaning man, but also a proud man who was certain he knew what was right. This was a man who never forgot and never forgave.
“The Baron, he is here?” she mumbled, sucking a fingertip pricked by a glass splinter, as she collected the last of the shards. “Nearby?”
“With a landing party twenty-three miles north of here,” came Sutcliff’s sugar-and-pepper voice from above. “Merely a show of force to the Hollander’s East India’s presence here, while I procure the land.”
Her mask of composure regained, she stood and placed the glass remnants on the sideboard next to the corn ears waiting to be husked. With inordinate attention, she smoothed the salve plaster onto his proffered cheek.
“I warn you that the sachem would consider it a dire threat should the Baron and his soldiers accompany us. But, then, I shall win this match, regardless, and you shall be on your way back to the Baron tomorrow morning.”
He stood, towering over her. “I suggest we resume our game then.”
Yet, with his ushering hand at the her back, just above the swell of her bottom, he paused in the kitchen’s half-doorway and glanced up. “Although our Lord Protector deems tomorrow Foolstide, I believe Druid custom has it that refusing to kiss while standing under the mistletoe is bad luck.”
His arrogance was beyond belief. “Eternity will come before you receive a kiss from me.”
With a slow smile that was at once both threatening and exciting, he said, “There is nothing I enjoy more than a challenge.”
“I, as well.” Her acknowledgement caught her by surprise, but in a flashback she saw that it was the challenges that had bestowed the zest to her life.
Their mugs replenished, they sat opposite each other once more, her mind wholly focused on the dream of bettering her impoverished, primitive lifestyle and foiling the machinations of this man, whom she suspected knew far more about her than he professed.
One by one pawns were traded off, a knight sacrificed, a castle surrendered.
Then, when her fingers lingered overly long on her bishop, his hand captured the forefinger that absently stroked the length of the chess piece
“Your bishop bleeds.”
“What?” She glanced down and saw that her cut fingertip had smeared the piece’s white glaze a dull crimson.
“You have pricked your finger.” He lifted and placed it between his lips to gently suck its tip.
At the pleasurable but unsettling feeling shooting through her, she trembled. A fool, she was. Letting these unnerving and hereto unexperienced sensations rattle her strong grounding.
She yanked her finger away and quickly moved her bishop – which he just as quickly captured. And other pieces, as well. Yet, for several hours more she postponed what would seem the inevitable, her queen continuing to both protect her king and evade Sutcliff’s superior positioning strength.