“You know why I’m here,” he says, his voice deep and slow.
“I’m afraid I do not.” I clasp my hands together in front of me.
“No doubt you’ve had time to think. Plenty and then some. And what have you decided?”
I’m careful to keep my voice steady as I answer. “I’ve already given you an answer.”
“Yes, you said no. It was obvious you needed more time to think.”
Rain begins to pour, quieting the earth around us, drowning out our noise. It smacks the roof, a chorus of pelting and pattering so loud I pray the girls won’t hear us.
“Sir, I am sorry. My answer remains unchanged. I cannot marry you. I will not.”
He steps closer to me, but I refuse to move back. He will not be my stone, and I shall not be his water. He will not move me.
“Those daughters need a father, and you need a husband. There’s no denying it, Mrs. Wilde. Now, I’m trying to be reasonable.”
“We do not need anything other than what we have. This land is more than enough.”
“People have died over less,” he mutters, so low I almost don’t hear him.
“Foxglove will protect us. My daughters and I are safe here, though we thank you for your concern.”
“Protect you.” His lip curls with a laugh. “You think the land can do anything to protect you from men? You and your kin, you’ve always been different. Mad. All the talk of herbs and roots and healing. You think we don’t know what you do up here in this house all alone? You think I don’t know what you are?”
“I am a woman,” I say. “A mother. Nothing more.”
“You think you’re better than all of us. Tainted goods with a dead husband and two daughters who will end up beggars because their mother can’t see past her own stupid pride.”
I inhale deeply, breathing in the smell of the storm. It’s heavy, like a warning. “I never claimed to be better, sir. Only free. I do not wish anyone any harm. I only want to live in peace with my daughters, here on our land.”
He nods slowly then, thinking. “Your daughter, then. The oldest must be coming into her womanhood. I’m willing to marry her, and I’ll allow you to remain on this land as long as you live.”
Bitter fury rises in me, ready to explode. He’llallowme to live on the land I own? Lightning tears through the sky, alighting our faces through the window, mirroring the crack of rage I feel. “That is very kind of you, sir. But I’m afraid the answer is still no.”
He lunges forward without warning, mad as a hornet. I jerk back, but my heel catches on my skirt as he grabs my arm. I twist away from his grip and rush across the room, searching for anything I can find to defend myself.
He grabs my skirt as I reach the table. He throws me forward onto it, scattering my herbs and vials to every corner of the room. The mortar is just out of reach, but I grab the first thing I can—the blue-handled herb knife James gave me, the one I used to carve our name into the heart of Foxglove. I roll over againstthe table as he fumbles with my skirts, and I know just what he means to do.
The knife is slick in my palm, still covered with plant oil. I slash at him once, but his grip doesn’t loosen. He spits at me, and I feel it warm and hot on my chin. I swipe again, this time for his face, and the blade catches his cheek.
He curses and covers the wound with both hands. I rush past him, hurrying for the door to lead him away from where the girls are sleeping soundly in their beds. He grabs me just before I make it and slings me across the room.
My shoulder slams into the hearth, and the knife clatters from my hand. My breathing stops as I reach for it, begging—pleading—for my fingers to find it again.
I watch in utter horror as it slides across the floor, striking a place where a knot in the wood has bowed the plank. In a mere second, the knife vanishes between the floorboards, out of sight and unreachable.
My heart thuds in my ears as I curse under my breath, turning to fight with my bare hands, but his own hands are already around my neck. He holds my body down, my cheek pressed against the cold stone. Above me, the fire crackles, and if I could just lift my hand, I could grab a log and burn him. If I were half the witch they claim I am, I could move the flame to his skin with just my words, but I can’t.
He lowers his face next to mine, gloating with his foul breath. “You think no man can own you, eh? I warned you of the dangers of being out here alone. How about I show ’em to you now?”
I struggle against his strength, my mind only on the girls. They’re sleeping peacefully, and I owe a great degree of thanks to the storm for that. The land is protecting them from the horrors unfolding in their home. But what next? If he kills me, what will come of them? What will he do to my babies? Marry Rose,perhaps, but what of Lyddie? She is too young to marry. Too young to be alone.
And then, as if I conjured her simply by thought?—
“Mama?”
It’s her voice filling the air. My Lyddie.
