Back in the saddle, he ignored the hunger gnawing his gut, drinking his fill from a leaf-littered creek. The night was cold, the moonlight fickle. His anxiety soared. Questions he had no answer for pummeled his every step. He was sure of but one thing: Eden’s grief over Jon had made her flee. That it had sent her into Greathouse’s arms, if indeed it had, cut him to the quick.
One weary, uneventful mile gave way to the next. He felt the stinging bite of a snowflake on his bare neck, as if in warning. He was nearly out of hope . . . out of prayers. A light in the distance made him press on. A tavern?
Oh, merciful God, let it be so.
The lone candle was nearly guttered but lit the room well enough to assure Eden that it was David who entered and no one else. Unable to sleep, she’d been sitting by the window, staring into the night, trying to wade through the darkness of sorrow to latch onto the Scripture hidden in her heart. Snow had begun shaking down, rendering the autumn air wintry. She started when he shut the door, unable to swipe the tears from her face before he saw them.
“Eden, you’re shaking with cold. Why aren’t you wearing my cape?”
It lay over a chair back—discarded in case Silas came. But she could hardly tell him that. He moved toward her and she stood, willing her trembling to end, squaring her shoulders in a show of strength. “I’m all right.” But she wasn’t. And she read the doubt in his eyes . . . and something else.
“Come now, Eden.”
He settled the cape around her shoulders, his fingers fumbling at the fastening around her neck. A strand of her hair caught and she attempted to pull it free, but he intervened, wrapping the tendril around one ringed finger, his breath warming her cheek. She inhaled the unwelcome essence of brandy and rum and nearly recoiled but for the pressure of his thumbs as they rested along her throat. He began to make little circles on the bare skin there, raising goose bumps.
Startled, she stepped back, eyes on the candle as it sputtered on the shelf behind him. He came nearer, face shadowed, but she sensed his purpose—his misplaced passion. He wasn’t the David she’d always known. He was someone else—a stranger—and the realization rocked her in new ways.
“By the devil, Eden, you’re beautiful even in mourning.” His hands were in her hair, his fingers loosening the ribbon that bound it. She felt a wild revulsion. No man had ever touched her so, not even Silas, whose touch was all she wanted.
Frantic, she pushed away from him. “Nay, David—please!”
She rushed for the door and pulled on the knob. It held fast beneath her hand despite her frantic tugging. Locked. Again. He was behind her now, turning her round like she was naught but a doll, clutching her shoulders with his large hands.
“Come, Eden, let me comfort you . . . and you comfort me. No one need know.”
Comfort? What comfort did he speak of?
Her cry for help was more a strangled whisper. Though she pushed and begged and pleaded for him to stop, she was no match for his strength. Overcome by the stench of spirits, sweat, and pain, she nearly fainted. The cold room, the too-small bed, became her prison. And all her hopes for the future turned to ashes.
“Aye, a gentleman in a fancy coach lodged here just last night,” a stable hand said as he paused in his currying. “Had a woman with him, mayhap his mistress her dress was so plain. She was a beauty, though, with a head o’ hair like fire . . .”
Silas fixed his gaze on the Black Swan’s shingle creaking on its iron chain in a biting wind. “What time did they depart?”
The lad shot him a sheepish grin. “None too early on account o’ the late night he had. A wee too much flip and faro kept him abed till nearly noon.”
Silas didn’t doubt it. Greathouse was one of the Golden Plough’s best patrons. Masking his dismay, he returned Atticus to the rutted road, wishing his roiling emotions would fall numb like his hands and feet. The ache in his gut deepened, whether from hunger or anxiety he didn’t know. Eden was ahead, as was Philadelphia, some thirty miles distant. The worst of his ordeal was over.
Or—he steeled himself against the taunting thought—’twas just beginning.
Ribbons of light lay across the meadow beyond the dirty windowpane. Though Eden had lost all track of time, the sun’s cold slant told her it was midafternoon. She tried to raise her head to look west, but the pain pulsing behind her temples was so severe she groaned. Still, she felt a desperate need to get her bearings. They’d traded the Black Swan for a less respectable inn a few hours before, when she’d grown too sick to continue in the coach. She felt anxious that they might never reach the city.
“Eden, must I fetch the doctor for you like Jemma?”
She felt David’s cool hand on her forehead, brushing back the tangle of hair he’d undone in the night. His bloodshot eyes surveyed her with something akin to alarm.
Shuddering at his touch, she tried to sit up, reaching for the cup of cider he’d brought her as he went below for another drink. Every inch of her ached . . . from his rough handling? Or mayhap she was ill like Jemma? Fever seemed to burn her eyes . . . her very bones. Whatever it was, it was nothing like the ache in her soul.
Oh, Lord, have You forgotten me, Your lamb?
Slowly she made it to the door, hope kindling at finding it unlocked. Navigating the steep stairs was another matter. She felt strangely detached, her head and her feet at odds. Stumbling, she leaned into the wall and gripped the handrail, steadying herself with a deep breath.
The tavern smells she was coming to loathe were stirring all around her—unwashed bodies, overcooked meat, endless spirits. One shaky step . . . then two. Below, in the empty tavern foyer, the door groaned opened to admit a gust of wind—and a man.
Silas.
His green eyes were searching as he shut the door and glanced at the stairwell where she hovered. In the half light his face took on surprise, then stark relief. She could see the rise and fall of his chest beneath the linen shirt she’d made him. He’d ridden hard and fast—hatless and coatless—his exertion highlighting his anxious features.
Beneath the force of his gaze she turned away, stricken. The room spun a bit. She nearly lost her footing on the stairs. Shame spilled over her, filled every part of her. He couldn’t see her like this. One look and he’d know everything.
When Silas saw her, relief made him even more light-headed, riding hard on the heels of his fatigue and hunger. “Eden.” Saying her name was sweet to the taste, given he’d been tormented by the ludicrous worry he might never find her.
No one else was in the foyer, so it was only him she turned away from. Him, when she’d once looked at him with a love inexpressible, as if she couldn’t have enough of him. He climbed the stairs slowly, sensing her anguish, fearing she might flee.
“Eden, look at me.” The quiet plea set her shoulders shaking, and she dropped her face in her hands, tottering a bit on the step.
He eased a hand in back of her, palm flat against the rough wall to catch her if she fainted. The glorious length of her hair, usually bound so sedately if girlishly, hung in unruly, russet coils to her hips, flagrant as an autumn leaf. He ached to feel its silkiness, to find her ribbon and set it right. “Eden, I’m sorry . . . about Jon.”
She looked up briefly, eyes red-rimmed, the shadows beneath them shocking. A knot of anguish expanded in his chest like a cable wound too tight. This was not his Eden. All the light had gone out of her. Something beyond the heartache over Jon weighted her and rendered her unable to meet his eyes. Gently he brushed her wet cheek with the back of his fingers.
“Silas, please . . .” She spoke to the floor, not him. “Don’t . . . touch me.”
His hand fell away. Dread lined his insides. “Eden, what has happened here?”
She hung her head. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“I’m here to take you home.”
Fear flashed across her face. “Home?” Her voice held a frantic lilt. “I can’t go back. I have no home—not with Jon gone—”
“You’ll go with me.” He placed a careful hand on her shoulder. “Like we’ve planned.”
“Where?”
“West to Fort Pitt—straightaway.”
“Nay!” she cried, backing up a step. Crossing her arms over her bodice simply drew attention to what she tried to hide. One of her laces, crisscrossed over an embroidered stomacher, was broken, dangling limply to her waist. She looked, he thought ruefully, unkempt as a tavern wench. “I—I cannot go with you—cannot wed you—”
His throat constricted. “We’ll not speak of that now. You’re weary—frightened and grieving.” Taking a step up, he kept his voice low. “You’ve ne’er been so far from home.”
Tears welled in her eyes, cutting him afresh, and then a swell of anger smothered any tender feeling. She was obviously ill and in need of comfort, mayhap a physician, while Greathouse likely lounged below amidst the din of the gaming room.
Though he was loath to leave her, he must. “Stay here, Eden.”
Silas had no recollection of coming down the stairs or crossing the muddy foyer or striding into the smoky room where David Greathouse sat, dice cup in hand, pewter tankard at his elbow. Surrounded by a table of gaming men, Greathouse simply leaned back in his chair, gaze narrowing at Silas’s approach. Five pairs of eyes fastened on him, clearly unhappy at the interruption.
“So, Ballantyne, what brings you to the Traveler’s Rest?”
“You,” Silas uttered, rounding the table. “Step outside.”
“Outside? In this cold?” Greathouse reached for his tankard, steam curling around the rim. “I hardly think—”
“Aye—now.” With a sudden move Silas knocked the drink from Greathouse’s hand, sending a frothy spray around the scarred table. Grim-faced, his companions shrank back, dice cups still.
Taking hold of his fine linen cravat, Silas yanked upward. Built like a bull, Greathouse was far from graceful in his exit, the chair sprawling backwards into the wall with a clatter.
Outside in the tavern yard, the two men faced each other, their rapid breathing expelling in white plumes. Silas clenched his fists at his sides. ’Twas all he could do to keep from pulling his knife from his boot. “What is happening here?”
Greathouse’s mouth formed a hard line. “We’ve been delayed. Eden is unwell. We traveled but ten miles today because she has a headache—”
“She?” His voice was thick with rage. “You traveled but ten miles because you lay abed till noon, too drunk to rise sooner.”
Greathouse smoothed his cravat, surprise lining his features. “Aye, so I did. What concern is it of yours?”
“It became my concern the moment she stepped into your coach.”
“She stepped, Ballantyne. I didn’t coerce her.”
“Nae? Margaret Hunter said otherwise. Eden was upset—in need of protection, direction. You took every advantage—”
Greathouse was walking away from him now, heading toward the stables at the rear of the tavern. Atticus was tied to a hitch rail there, a bit wild-eyed and lathered. Greathouse’s tone turned incredulous as he rounded a corner. “What the devil are you doing with my horse?”
“Your horse?” Silas followed him, facing him across the stallion’s sleek back. “We’re talking about Eden, not an animal.”
“Horse stealing is a crime, Ballantyne. I’ll have you hanged—”
“Hanged?” Lunging at him, Silas grabbed for his collar over the curved lip of the saddle. “You’ve no time for it—I’ll finish you off first.”
Greathouse pulled free and backed away, nearly tripping in his haste. “You’ll swing for murder, then.”
“So be it. Then the world will be rid of vermin like you who debau—” The hateful word hung in Silas’s throat. He couldn’t spit it out his pain was so great. Stepping around Atticus, he shoved the laird of Hope Rising into the stable wall. But the satisfactory crack of skull against frozen timber was poor recompense. His anger demanded more—he wanted answers. He wanted Eden back, unhurt, the light of joy in her eyes . . .
Greathouse straightened, eyes narrowing into slits, a ruddy flush contorting his face. “You’re simply jealous because she came to me first.”
Had she? Silas felt a tug of alarm, then his anger flared at the man’s smug expression. ’Twas Jamie Murray he saw, insolent and unremorseful, able to do as he pleased with nary a repercussion.
“Jealous?” he shouted. “Nae, just sick of a man who makes free with a lass while his infant son lies dead and his cousin may be dying.”
Silas drew back a fist and punched him in the stomach. Groaning, Greathouse fell, then grabbed at Silas’s legs, nearly catching him off balance. With a swift kick, Silas planted a boot square in his groin, rendering him speechless, all smugness gone. Minutes ticked by in a sort of haze, Silas consumed by rage and grief and pain. He knew better than to beat a man who was down, but injustice stirred like a demon inside him, spurring him on.
While Greathouse struggled to rally, Silas was hardly winded. Years of working iron was no match for a life of leisure or a recent spirit-sated night. Soon the master of Hope Rising was bloodied, bruised, and begging for mercy.
A small crowd was gathering despite the cold, and someone yelled “Lovers’ quarrel” from an upstairs window. It was then Silas turned and saw that Eden had come outside. In the harsh afternoon light, he could discern purplish bruises on the slender stem of her neck and the skin above her embroidered bodice. Why this was so clawed at him, but he was too raw to see reason. He knew but one thing.
He wanted to kill David Greathouse.
“Silas, please.”
He turned toward Eden slowly, lower lip bleeding, chest heaving. His ragged dark locks hanging past the collar of his soiled shirt gave him a slightly rakish look. With a sudden move, he jerked Greathouse to his feet and thrust him toward the tavern, out of their sight. Casting a disgusted glance at the onlookers, Silas motioned her into the stable. There they stood speechless in the hay-strewn space, emotions running rampant. He drew a shirt sleeve across his bloody mouth, leaving a scarlet trail.
“I—I was afraid you’d kill him. I overheard you talking—shouting.” Fear pulsed inside her, overriding her grief. All she knew was that she must end this, distract him, lest he learn what David had done. “Was Jon”—her voice caught on the name and broke—“David’s son?” He gave a terse nod and she continued haltingly, “Is there more?”
“Aye, far more.” Turning, he spat into the straw behind him. “You’re said to be Eben Greathouse’s daughter.”
“Mr. Greathouse . . .”’Twas hard to utter the shameful words. “And Mama’s?”
His eyes registered a shock nearly as great as her own. “Margaret Hunter said the trouble began years ago when Eben Greathouse wanted to wed Louise. He was growing wealthy and she was but a village girl, the daughter of a tradesman. His father was against the match, as was hers, and so she married Liege. But later, when Liege was away in Philadelphia . . .”
The words peppered Eden with the force of buckshot. She stared at him, trembling, mind reeling.
“There was a child . . . you.”
She shook her head, disbelieving. “Surely Margaret’s mistaken—”
“I saw his portrait yestreen. His hair is red as an autumn oak, like yours.”
She well knew the portrait. Why hadn’t she seen the likeness?
He went on quietly, eyes a stormy green. “Eben Greathouse attested to it on his deathbed in her very presence, though Margaret had long suspected. He’d always shown you special favor. He had a particularly bitter relationship with Liege.”
She stared at him without focus as long-buried images from childhood flashed to mind, zealous as a spring flood. Eben Greathouse handing her mother down from a carriage . . . sending round gifts . . . making much of little Eden. His daughter? Putting a hand to her stomach, she felt bile burn the back of her throat. When she looked at Silas again, she thought she saw revulsion in his gaze and her humiliation soared.
“You no doubt heard everything.” His tone was resigned, his face flinty. “Is it true, then, what Greathouse said? Did you go to him first?”
The accusation in his tone tore at her heart. As if she was somehow to blame. As if she was responsible for her family’s many sins. “I—I tried to find you—I went to your room, the forge, but you weren’t there.” Tears choked her voice. “You were never there. ’Twas always the work—”
“Wheest! The work?” Disbelief blazed in his eyes. “And what—who—am I working for? You, nae? Our future? Answer me that, Eden!”
She pressed shaking fingertips to her forehead as pain seared her temples. Our future. That dream had dissolved in David’s unrelenting arms, snatched away in the span of a single night. “Future? We have no future.”
He stepped closer to catch her broken words. “I’ll not listen to you, bewildered as you are. I’m taking you back to York—”
“Nay!” Her voice trilled higher, the image of Jon’s cold body pressing in on her. “I’ll not go back! You shouldn’t have come. I beg you now—go away—”
“Enough, Eden.” His voice, ragged with pain, was nonetheless firm. “Say no more.”
She began to sob as anguish twisted her insides, nearly bringing her to her knees. If not for his hands about her shoulders, she would have dropped to the hay at their feet.
“To Margaret’s, then.” He started to turn away, then swung back around, taking hold of her again. “Let me tell you this. I love you, Eden. I’ll always love you. And whom I love I do not leave.” With that, he shouted to a groom at the far end of the stable to ready the Greathouse coach.