Winds of Salem (20 page)

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 doors 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