Goddess Born Read online

  My mother had taught me the importance of restraint in my earliest training—do what was necessary to preserve life. Then let the body take over. Though it often proved tempting to fix everything, it was a lesson hard learned to always leave enough to be convincing. To this day it’s unclear how many of my ancestors had been burned at the stake or driven from their homes because they had ignored this simple precept and went beyond the basic charge.

  But the remaining wounds could become infected and fester, making additional knowledge essential. So while other children were busy with nursery rhymes, I had been learning anatomy and the various herbs and remedies essential for conventional healing. Now that Henry was out of mortal danger, his wounds would be cleaned and stitched once we arrived at the next inn. Over the years, I had also become adept at guiding people to see their wounds differently than they had first appeared. Henry would be sore enough to believe the ball merely glanced off the bones without actually breaking anything.

  Ben returned from clearing the tree as I tied off the last of the bandages. “Will he live?” he asked, looking skeptically down at Henry.

  I rested my hand over the strips of linen and felt the slow rise and fall of his chest. “He lost a lot of blood, but I think he’s out of danger.”

  “He’s breathing easier,” Ben said, raising one eyebrow. “I could have sworn he’d taken the ball in the lung.”

  “His lungs are fine,” I said, carefully choosing my words to avoid lying outright. “Help him to the carriage so we can be away from this place.”

  “I’ve got some cleaning up to do once you’re settled,” Ben said. I assumed he meant dragging four bodies into the woods. Not that I cared if they rotted in plain sight after what they had done.

  While healing Henry, I had been able to forget about being so violently attacked, but with the crisis averted my eyes strayed to the lifeless form of the redheaded demon. He was lying no more than a few feet away, his face settled into an evil sneer. My stomach would be tender for days from his blow, and I shuddered at how close I had come to being raped.

  * * *

  A sharp whistle sent the carriage lurching forward. Henry lay across the bench on his back with his legs off to the side to accommodate for his height. I sat on the floor beside him to guard against his being overly jostled or knocked from the seat altogether as Ben drove the horses hard the remaining distance to the inn.

  Henry’s black hair ribbon had come undone during the fight, and his hair fell like silk around his shoulders. A stray lock played across one cheek, and I reached up to move it aside. Taking one of the unused strips of linen, I gently dried the sweat from his brow. I wet another strip with water from a leather skin to wipe away the smudges of dirt and blood.

  Even wounded and fast asleep he was distractingly handsome, and I felt a sudden urge to touch him again, but without the piece of linen beneath my fingers this time. Assuring myself he would be none the wiser in his present state, I traced a finger along the fine angles of his face, around his ear and down along the strong jaw. He stirred, and I yanked my hand away.

  His eyes fluttered open, revealing overly dilated pupils. Focusing the best he could on my face, his brows creased in agitation. “There’s been a mistake,” he slurred.

  I gave an undignified snort of laughter. “Precisely which one are you referring to?” I asked, torn between vexation and amusement, as our list of mistakes seemed only to be growing today. Did he mean our being attacked by a group of scoundrels or how my dress was covered in blood from two different men? Or maybe that he had been shot in the back and should actually be dead by now rather than traveling on to the next inn? Really, he needed to be more specific.

  “It’s my name,” he said, growing more agitated. “I am not Mr. Alan.”

  “Of course you are,” I said soothingly. “It’s written right on your contract for indenture.” Henry wasn’t my first patient to suffer delusions. Once he was rested and the shock worn off, he would return to normal—memories and all.

  “No,” he said and tried to push up. Barely making it to his elbows, he winced in pain from the effort. “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Lie down before you cause more damage,” I ordered, placing a hand on his chest to make him obey. The initial healing had been exhausting, and I didn’t want to start again anytime soon. It was a wonderful gift, but as with everything great, there was a price. Supper and a good night’s sleep would restore my physical strength. The fire, though, could only be replenished in another world.

  Henry lay back down and stared up at me intently. “I’m not who you think I am.”

  “So you’re not the King of England?” I teased. “I was hoping to call you Georgie once we got to Brighmor.”

  He fell silent, and I thought the fit had passed when he reached over and took my hand. “You are so beautiful,” he said, his green eyes boring into me. “Just like an angel.”

  My spine stiffened, and I pulled my hand free. “Shush now,” I said, this time with real urgency. “No more talking.”

  I don’t know if it was the tone of my voice or just plain fatigue, but he closed his eyes and fell back to sleep. Overcome by a heavy weariness, I slumped against the bench, feeling as though all my bones had been turned to lead. In his present condition, Henry would retain no memory of the words that now echoed inside my head.

  Just like an angel...

  This time it had meant nothing.

  In the future it could mean my death.

  * * *

  When we reached the inn, Ben helped Henry out of the carriage and inside to a bed. Still at risk of serious infection, his remaining wounds had to be tended to right away, and I went straight to the kitchen to speak with the cook. Finding her decently competent, I decided to get cleaned up while she put fresh water on to boil and fetched needle and thread.

  A basin of warm water had already been delivered to my room when I arrived upstairs. Quickly washing, I summoned the maid to help me into a clean gown. The brown silk was beyond repair, torn in several places and stained with blood, and I felt no remorse when I ordered the girl to see it burned.

  The cook sent word when everything was ready, and I crossed the hall to Henry’s room to get started. Expecting him to be asleep or at least fairly miserable, I knocked softly before letting myself in. To my surprise, I found him fully awake and talking with the maid as she tucked a pillow behind his back. She was a very pretty girl despite the lovesick look on her face.

  “There ye go, sir,” she said, giving the pillow one last pat. A wooden tray rested on the bed, and she picked up a bowl for him. “Yer sister didn’t ask for it, but the cook thought ye could use some warm broth.”

  “Thank you, Ruthie,” he said, gladly accepting the bowl.

  I tensed at the warmth in his voice. Already on a first name basis, are we?

  “Those highwaymen that attacked ye must have been awfully frightening. Did ye really kill three of them by yerself, sir?”

  “Who told you that?” Henry asked curiously.

  “That other man who came with ye. He told my mistress how ye was set on by five bandits, and that ye managed to kill three by the time he finished with one. Is it true?” Admiration shined on her face.

  Henry flinched slightly as he lifted the bowl to his lips for a drink. “It’s true,” he said. “But I’m afraid I’m now worse for the wear.”

  “Would ye like me to feed it to ye, sir?” Ruthie asked hopefully, still taking no heed of my presence.

  Oh, bother! I rolled my eyes and stepped further into the room. “I see you’re feeling better, Mr. Kilbrid. You will please excuse us, Ruthie, while I tend to my husband.”

  A faint pink came into Ruthie’s cheeks, making her even prettier. “Oh, yes, ma’am. Begging yer pardon, I thought he was yer brother with ye taking separate rooms and all.” She stole ano
ther peek at Henry. “If ye want, I can stay and help with the wounds.”

  “I am quite capable on my own,” I assured her. “I will pull the bell if there’s anything else for you to do.”

  Her face fell in response to my rather brusque dismissal. “Yes, ma’am,” she said, and scurried from the room.

  “There’s no need to be rude,” Henry said when we were alone. “She only wanted to be helpful.” The shock had certainly passed, returning him to his former self, but I didn’t miss the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

  “It was a little too obvious how much she wanted to help,” I said peevishly.

  “Does this mean you’ll be offering to feed me now you’ve sent the poor girl away?” he asked, his smile broadening.

  I laughed in spite of myself. “I think you’ll manage just fine.”

  He did, and in two gulps, the broth was gone. Taking the bowl, I returned it to the tray and then looked over the other items that had been sent up. In the center of the tray sat a large tureen of steaming water steeped with garlic and witch hazel to clean the wounds. The needle and thread were lying nestled in a stack of linen bandages, and next to this, a tall glass bottle and a shorter glass jar. The bottle I recognized right away as whiskey to help with pain. The jar I picked up and uncorked to find a salve meant to be rubbed onto the wounds once the stitching was done, to minimize inflammation and reduce the risk of infection.

  I returned the jar to the tray and poured some whiskey into a small pewter cup. “You’ll be needing this,” I said, handing it to him.

  He took it willingly and threw it back in one shot.

  “We’d best get it over with.” I moved a step closer to start untying the bandages. The linen stuck to the skin where the blood had already dried. I gently pulled it loose, breaking the recently formed scabs. He didn’t even flinch when fresh blood appeared on the surface—a good sign, considering what was to come.

  Once his back and arm were exposed, I dipped a clean cloth into the steaming water and thoroughly cleaned each wound. His arm had been very neatly cut with a sharp blade, leaving behind no ragged edges to work around. His back proved trickier, since the lead shot had made a messy entrance, tearing rather than slicing the skin apart.

  With the cleaning done, I threaded the needle. “Do you need more whiskey?” I asked.

  “The one cup will do.” He tightened his free hand into a fist in preparation.

  “It’s not uncommon to vomit or faint,” I warned him. “I’ve seen it many times, even from the bravest of men.”

  “Oh, I’ve been stitched before and made it through just fine,” he assured me. “And Ben said you’re the finest healer in all the Colonies.”

  “I don’t know about all of the Colonies,” I said, feigning modesty. Bracing his arm, I carefully pushed the needle into the skin, drawing the thread through to the other side of the cut. He clenched his jaw tight, but kept his arm in place.

  “Did you really kill three men today?” I asked, partially to distract him, though I also wanted to know what had happened.

  “Yes,” he said. “But it’s not so grand as it sounds. The first man I killed with a lucky shot from the pistol when they first attacked us. The second man went to my sword after some fighting, and then, well, you know how the third man died.” Sweat beaded his forehead, and his face had lost most of the color gained from the whiskey.

  I nodded my head rather than try to speak around the tightness that had formed in my throat. The image of the demon hovering above me was still too fresh. I took several stitches in silence, and had nearly reached the end when Henry spoke again.

  “Selah, I’m sorry you had to suffer under the hands of that man before I could get to you.” His voice sounded deeper than usual.

  “You were a little preoccupied.” I clipped the thread and tied off the last of the stitches.

  “Please know I tried to come sooner. We were outnumbered two to one.”

  “You came just in time,” I said with perfect honesty. My aching stomach would mend, but another minute and my fate would have been entirely different. In those last seconds before Henry arrived, rape had seemed inevitable, as was the possibility of having my throat slit and being left for dead.

  Scooping some salve from the jar, I rubbed it over the neatly closed wound. His arms were thickly muscled, and with the fighting skills I had witnessed today, any man would be greatly disadvantaged at the wrong end of Henry’s sword. Which explained why Dirk Fletcher had shot him in the back from the safety of a horse.

  His arm dressed, I moved behind him to see what could be done about the pistol wound. He shifted his weight on the bed, making it easier for me to get to his back. “You know, I have almost no memory from the time I was shot until shortly before we arrived at the inn.”

  “It’s not uncommon,” I said, rethreading the needle. “You bled quite a bit and had gone into shock.”

  “Yet, I have this one vague recollection, and it doesn’t make any sense at all. It happened when I was lying on the ground while you were kneeling beside me. There was an intense flash of light followed by a sudden rush of warmth into my back where I had been hit. It sounds crazy now,” he laughed softly, shaking his head. “But at the time I thought I had died, and you were an angel come to fetch me home.”

  My hand jerked suddenly, jabbing the needle into his back. He jumped and sucked in a hard breath from the pain. “I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “You...you were in shock...and...and... the mind, you see...it can play strange tricks when under duress.” My voice wavered to a halt.

  He took a few more deep breaths, leaving me to stew in agonizing silence.

  “You speak true about the mind, madam,” he said dryly after a minute had passed. “For I’m still very much alive. As for my angel, you are solid flesh and blood and currently in possession of a very sharp needle.”

  A shaky laugh escaped me. By good fortune, I stood behind him, keeping my face and wildly shifting emotions from his view.

  “I’ve no doubt it was a hallucination of sorts,” he continued. “But never before have I witnessed something so real. Are you sure there aren’t a pair of feathery wings tucked into your gown?” He was jesting, of course, though I failed to find the humor.

  “You were rather diverting in the carriage afterwards,” I said, desperate to change the subject.

  “Oh, pray tell, madam, what did I say?”

  “Well, you told me that you weren’t really Henry Alan.”

  His shoulders tensed as he turned to give me a sideways glance. “Did I happen to offer another name?”

  “No, just that you weren’t who I thought you were.” He twisted around a little further, and I had to stop working. “If you don’t sit straight, I may end up sewing your elbow to your scapula,” I warned him.

  Reluctantly, he obeyed and turned back around. “And what did you think of my confession?” His casual tone did little to hide his real interest.

  “That you were in shock and talking nonsense.”

  One last stitch closed the wound, and I spread on the salve before wrapping his torso with the strips of linen. His chest was so broad I had to reach my arms around him to properly secure the ends.

  “Do you worry that I may have been telling the truth?” he asked.

  “Not really.” I stepped back to admire my handiwork. “You are Henry Alan and I am Selah Kilbrid. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  * * *

  We slept late the next morning, and didn’t get on the road until the sun had reached high noon. The letter to Henry’s father was given to the proprietress along with a substantial sum of money to ensure it reached Captain Harlow by the following week. Ben had tried to persuade me to also send a formal complaint against Mr. Fletcher, but I refused outright. Such a grievous attack would cause quite a stir in Phil
adelphia. If either Henry or myself were called to testify, our own crimes would certainly be discovered. Ben reluctantly agreed that with four of Fletcher’s men dead and a good slice across the arm, a more primitive form of justice had already been served, and no further action was necessary.

  The glimmer of friendliness I had experienced yesterday while sewing Henry’s wounds had disappeared, and we spoke very little in the carriage, keeping mostly to our own thoughts. I inquired some about his home in England, but received only ambiguous answers in reply. He asked very few questions about Brighmor and Hopewell, opting to spend his time staring out at the passing landscape as though he were trying to commit every tree and stone to memory.

  “How far is Boston from Philadelphia?” he asked, out of the blue.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe three hundred miles as the crow flies.”

  “And if one is not a crow, what is the best way to get there?” He had shifted his gaze from the landscape and was now staring at me intently.

  “I’ve never been myself,” I said. “Traveling over land would be difficult—the roads are poor, and past eastern Pennsylvania, the Indians are rumored to be hostile. I believe the best way would be by boat, first into New York and then north along the Atlantic. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” he said, returning his gaze to the window.

  If I were more suspicious by nature, I would have been tempted to read motives beyond an interest in Colonial geography into his apparent fascination with the terrain. For the next while I watched him closely, but his thoughts were carefully guarded and I gleaned nothing except that he needed a shave.

  After yesterday’s rush, Ben rode the horses slower, and it was early evening when we passed our first familiar landmark. As Brighmor Hall came into view, my heart swelled with an onslaught of emotions. It should have been impossible to feel so much at one time—grief, anger, and fear contended for space, but even beyond these, was a great sense of relief to finally be home.