Rebellious Heart Page 2

  And while Susanna never passed up an opportunity to travel the fourteen miles north to Boston to visit her aunt and uncle and all the friends she’d made there during her visits, she loathed having to go for the purpose of husband hunting.

  The idea of flirting and flouncing and giggling in an attempt to attract a prestigious husband repulsed her. She detested when the local men pursued her with the hope of procuring a bride who could better their position. And she certainly didn’t want to have to do the same.

  But even as her heart rebelled against the status and wealth-seeking mentality, the rational part of her knew marrying up was inevitable. She really had no choice in the matter.

  If only she could flirt as effortlessly as Mary . . .

  Her sister lifted her lashes again and glanced at the young gentleman, who wore an enormous foolish grin and obviously couldn’t tear his attention from her.

  Susanna peeked at Mr. Ross. Had he noticed his friend’s pathetic enamoring of Mary?

  As if sensing her question, Mr. Ross finally looked at her. An intensity within his eyes pierced beneath her polite façade. Did he recognize her?

  One of his brows cocked, and the corner of his lips arched into the beginning of a knowing grin. But it was the kind of smile devoid of any warmth. Rather, the half grin only seemed to turn his eyes into ice.

  So he did remember her and all the vain words she’d spoken.

  Heat crept up her neck and into her cheeks. She wanted to lower her lashes as Mary had done. But instead she forced herself to stare back.

  “Excellent.” Grandmother Eve watched the two men and the interest they were paying her granddaughters, and her smile widened like that of a cat satisfied with its catch. “Then we shall see you both tonight.”

  Mr. Ross started to shake his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Quincy, but—”

  “Of course we’ll see you tonight,” the gentleman friend said.

  Before Mr. Ross could protest further, the beadle burst through the door with the blacksmith behind him. The smith’s woolen cap was askew, and his leather apron hung low over his round belly. As the only tradesman busy enough to maintain a full-time shop, he’d likely already worked a long day. But he strode to the front of the meetinghouse, his boots clunking an ominous rhythm. In one soot-covered hand he carried a chisel and small anvil, and in the other a long brand that glowed red at the end.

  Susanna took a quick step away from the rail. She’d never found any amusement in watching the punishment or suffering of another mortal. She understood the reasoning behind making criminals suffer publicly. Their agony was meant to deter others from sinning.

  Nevertheless, she could not bear to watch or listen, just as she’d tried not to listen to the rumors about the young woman’s death. But everyone had been talking about it for days. Of course no one had been able to identify the woman. She wasn’t from Braintree or the surrounding countryside.

  Some had said the young maiden looked like she’d been chased until she’d finally been unable to go any farther. Her bare feet had been mangled and bleeding and punctured with pieces of broken shell. But others said she’d been violated and choked to death.

  Whichever way she’d died, it had obviously been painful.

  Once again silence descended over the meetinghouse.

  Susanna sidled around the bench and flattened against the wall of the gallery. Her body tensed for the first tortured scream.

  The ring of the anvil against chisel was followed by a deep-throated moan of agony.

  She pinched her eyes shut, but her mind conjured up the image of the bloody stump of ear that remained.

  When the smith finally laid the hot iron against Hermit Crab Joe’s flesh with the M that forever branded him a murderer, she clamped her hands against her ears. But she couldn’t block out his hoarse screams, no matter how hard she tried.

  Her stomach swirled with revulsion.

  She tried to remind herself he’d deserved much worse—that he didn’t deserve any mercy. Surely the young maiden he’d killed had screamed for mercy and been shown none.

  Even so, when she finally drew the courage to take her hands away from her ears, she found that her heart ached and her cheeks were wet with tears.

  Chapter

  2

  Ben slipped through the half-open door of the sitting room and soundlessly closed it behind him.

  He desperately needed a break from the guests.

  Although he liked Mrs. Quincy, her circle of wealthy friends and family wearied him. They had their noses stuck to the ceiling just like they always had. After only an hour of them talking down to him like he was still nothing more than a cordwainer’s son, he’d had enough.

  He was ready to leave.

  Only he couldn’t go yet.

  Cranch was too busy flirting with one of Mrs. Quincy’s granddaughters. And he’d give Ben untold grief if he tried to make him depart so early in the evening.

  Ben crossed the room, the thick carpet muting his footsteps. He passed behind two high-backed wing chairs positioned in front of a comfortable fire and made his way to one of the windows. He peered through the dozen panes over the large groomed grounds that graced the Quincy mansion.

  The stately home still reigned over Braintree at the top of gently sloping Mount Wollaston, just as it had when he’d been a boy roaming the hills. The late evening sky was streaked with remnants of the sunset and had ignited the changing leaves so that the reds, yellows, and oranges glowed.

  He took a deep breath, tugged off his wig, and tossed it onto the half-moon table that flanked the window. The two candles in sleek silver holders had already been lit, and they glowed against the glass in the darkening shadows.

  It had been a very long day. And it hadn’t helped that the British officer quartered in Braintree had shown up halfway through the trial and had stood in the back of the meetinghouse, listening to his defense.

  Why had Lieutenant Wolfe come? Ben didn’t want to think about the possibility that the officer knew of his involvement with the Caucus Club. How could he? Not when he and the other dissenters had worked hard to keep their meetings and activities clandestine.

  Ben ran his fingers through his hair, combing it into the cord at the back of his neck.

  Every time he remembered the agony and confusion in Joseph Sewall’s eyes when the brand had touched his cheek, Ben’s body tightened with fresh protest.

  He’d wanted to scream with old Joe. He’d wanted to scream at all those gathered in the meetinghouse. They were too set in their ways, too prejudiced, too quick to judge. And even though old Joe hadn’t committed the murder, Ben had known from the start—when Mrs. Quincy had approached him about defending old Joe—that he was taking on a losing case.

  At the very least, he’d been determined to save the old man’s life. And he’d accomplished that. He should be happy Joe was still alive and not swinging from the gallows.

  “I should have done more,” he whispered to his somber reflection. It didn’t matter that his father had come up to him after the trial and given him the kind of look that said he was proud of him.

  He still should have found a way to prove Joe’s innocence.

  He’d searched for alibis, anyone who had been with old Joe the night of the murder, someone who’d seen him elsewhere. But of course Joe had been home alone, like usual. Ben had also investigated clues that could lead him to the real murderer. But he’d come up empty-handed.

  The problem was that everyone in Braintree was already afraid of old Joe. It was no surprise that when a strange young woman was murdered and dumped in front of Joe’s sea-battered home, the community had blamed him for the death.

  Ben could only shake his head at their foolishness. What murderer would leave a body outside his home in plain view of everyone? A real murderer would try to cover up the evidence or frame someone else.

  But of course they hadn’t listened to any of Ben’s arguments. He’d known they wouldn’t. Not poor Ben Ross, the son o
f a simple, uneducated farmer.

  A movement in the reflection of the window cut short Ben’s inner tirade, and his muscles tensed. Was someone else in the room?

  He spun.

  A young woman was in the process of rising from one of the chairs in front of the fire. Her eyes were wide and fixed on him, and she’d been moving in slow motion as if trying to escape from the room without being seen.

  She froze halfway out of the chair. A volume of Milton lay facedown on the round pedestal table that stood beside the chair.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said. “I should have made my presence known the moment you stepped into the room.”

  He knew her immediately, just as he had at the trial. Susanna Smith. Mrs. Quincy’s granddaughter. And she’d certainly grown into a striking young woman, hardly resembling the gangly, sick girl she’d once been.

  In the growing dusk, the light from the fire cast a glow over her, illuminating her fine complexion and her eyes that were as dark as ink. Her raven hair fell in soft waves about her slender cheeks and was pulled loosely back by a ribbon.

  She straightened to her full height, ironing the wrinkles from the silky layers of her skirt. The shimmering blue of the gown served to highlight the contrast with the darkness of her hair and eyes. And for a long moment he could only stare at her, completely speechless.

  Her fingers fluttered to the triple strand of pearls at her neck.

  The movement drew his attention to the pearls, to their perfection, to all they stood for. And that was all it took to break her spell over him. A chill slipped into his blood as it had earlier at the meetinghouse when he’d caught sight of her in the gallery.

  “Susie Smith,” he said, disregarding proper etiquette and using her childhood nickname. Susanna Smith may have turned into a ravishing beauty of a woman, but he’d never forget that she’d once been a spoiled, snobby girl.

  “Mr. Ross.” She tilted her head slightly, but it was enough to cause a tress of her hair to slide across her cheek. She brushed it back and tucked it behind her ear.

  He couldn’t keep from admiring the elegant curve that ran from her ear to her chin. And when she offered him a tentative smile, he almost found it charming the way her lips cocked higher on one side into the beginning of a dimple.

  “So,” he said, forcing himself to remember who she was, “I suppose you’re happily engaged to the rich prince you told me you would marry someday.”

  Her half smile faded, taking the dimple with it, and a shadow of embarrassment flickered across her features.

  For a moment, regret pricked him. After all this time, he didn’t have to hold a grudge, did he?

  She shifted her concentration to the blazing fire as if drawing energy from it. Then she met his gaze head-on again. This time her eyes sparked. “Of course I have a line of princes just begging to marry me. What else would you expect?”

  Alas, her tongue was still quick. “I’m sure you’ve perfected putting into place all the poor farm boys you meet.”

  “I was already quite perfect at that, wasn’t I?” Even though her response was tart, there was something in her dark expression that hinted at remorse.

  He stared deeper, trying to probe into her heart. Was there a chance that over the years Susanna Smith had changed as much on the inside as the out?

  “As you can see”—she waved her hand around the room and gave another half-cocked smile—“I’m the most popular young lady at the party tonight.”

  He didn’t break his gaze from hers. He couldn’t. He wanted to prove to her he wasn’t a simple, uneducated farm boy anymore. He was a grown man, Harvard-educated, and determined to do whatever it took to earn a prestigious reputation.

  Maybe he wasn’t an important lawyer yet. Maybe he wasn’t the perfect catch for a husband. But he was on his way. He was already beginning to make a name for himself. And if he worked hard enough, one day he’d be able to set up a practice in Boston.

  He’d show her—he’d show everyone—that he wasn’t a nobody.

  Under his unrelenting examination, her cheeks seemed to darken their hue even though she didn’t have the complexion of a blushing woman.

  Good. She deserved to be uncomfortable—for just a moment.

  Her long dark lashes fluttered, then swept down and hid her eyes. She shifted and ran her finger over the fraying spine of the book she’d been reading.

  He was being a bit hard on her, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “I don’t remember that particular volume of Milton having any illustrations.”

  “Then you’ve remembered correctly.”

  “If it has no pictures to entertain you, then what are you doing with it? Practicing your posture?”

  “Is it so impossible to believe that a young lady could read Milton for enjoyment?”

  “You? Read Milton?” His tone was more cynical than he intended. “What need does a woman have for Paradise Lost?”

  “And just what need would a man have for such a book?”

  “Plenty.” He stepped away from the window and crossed toward her. “The great classics challenge our minds, help us think, and force us to evaluate life so that we can better ourselves.”

  “Then you have spelled out chiefly why I’m reading the book.” Although she calmly traced the gold-embossed lettering on the cover, her eyes were a tempest. “I’m challenging my mind to better myself.”

  He stopped in front of the pedestal table. She was less than an arm’s length away, close enough to catch the tang of apple cider lingering on her breath. He could almost picture her when she’d been caught in the apple tree that last August before he’d left for Harvard.

  She’d wedged the heel of her silk brocade shoe in the V of a branch and had twisted her ankle in trying to dislodge it. Of course she’d been too far from the mansion for anyone to hear her cries for help . . . until he’d come strolling through the orchard after making a delivery for his father.

  Tears had streaked her thin face, her pinner cap had fallen away, and her hair had blown about her head in a tousled disarray. Her pink calico frock was dirty and torn in her unsuccessful efforts to free herself.

  At first he’d taken pity on her. She’d appeared helpless and forlorn like a dainty injured dove.

  He’d climbed the tree and quickly concluded the best way to pry her free of her prison was to first have her slip her foot out of her shoe.

  She’d inhaled a sharp breath at his request as though he’d asked her to take off her gown instead of mere footwear. “I wouldn’t dare bare my foot in front of you.” Her voice contained all the haughtiness of a woman—not a frightened little girl.

  “But it will allow me to twist the shoe without hurting your ankle.” He wobbled on the branch next to her. Twigs poked his hat, knocking it askew, and bunches of ripening apples bumped his back.

  “I won’t give you leave to see my bare foot.”

  “But it won’t be bare, will it?” He grinned, hoping to cheer her. “You’re wearing stockings, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am.” Her dark eyes filled with the kind of look that said she thought he was ignorant for asking such a question. “But I’d much rather stay stuck up in this tree than give you a glimpse of my ankle.”

  He examined her finely crafted silk shoe, which was smaller than the length of his hand. She was only a girl of five, maybe six years, much younger than his fifteen. Did she really think he’d ogle over her ankle?

  “Besides,” she said, “I’m hiding here and I don’t want to be found. Hence I’m never coming down.”

  He wiggled the stubborn heel of the shoe. “So you’re planning to live in this tree?”

  She nodded.

  He prodded his clasp knife out of his pocket and bent closer to examine the branch. “And what has brought you to such despair that you’d resort to living in a tree like a bird?”

  “My awful cousin said that no one would ever want to marry a skinny dark-haired girl like me.” Her voice wobbled, and Ben glance
d up just in time to see several glistening tears trickle down her cheeks.

  He knew which awful cousin she was referring to. None other than the insufferable Elbridge Quincy. Every time the boy came visiting from Boston in his fancy ruby coach with the fine black horses, he stirred up trouble.

  “Don’t believe your awful cousin. He’s the worst sort of liar I’ve ever met.” Ben wedged the knife into the branch that held the heel captive. “If you were older, I’d marry you.”

  He didn’t really mean it. He was just trying to say something that might make her big tears stop flowing. Having grown up in a family of all boys, what did he know about making little girls feel better?

  She paused mid-sniffle. “Oh, I could never marry you.” Her voice was low and serious and her eyes round with horror.

  A chill breeze rippled through the leaves around him and then across his skin.

  “You’re a nobody.” Her childish voice was once again haughty. “You’re nothing but a farmer and a shoemaker’s son. I could never marry someone from the middling class. My mother would never allow it.”

  “Of course not,” he said quickly, his muscles turning frigid. “I know you wouldn’t marry me. I was simply trying to make a point that someone will want to marry you someday.”

  Suddenly anxious to be on his way, he dug the knife into the branch and worked faster at chipping away the bark. In fact, why should he help a little sour-milk pudding like her anyway? From what he could tell, she deserved to be stuck in the tree and rot away there.

  “No matter what my cousin says,” she said, wiping her cheeks dry, “I’m going to marry a rich prince someday. Or a nobleman. Or at the very least, a wealthy merchant like my uncle in Boston.”

  If he’d ever held any admiration for Mrs. Quincy’s granddaughter even just briefly from a distance, every ounce of goodwill had drained out of him completely at that moment.

  And it had never returned.