Chapter One
New Balcombe, Massachusetts Bay Colony
Summer, 1640
She was clad in only her shift.
Moonlight illuminated the thin cloth into a shimmering veil. The glowing ivory of her gentle, generous curves, hints of rose-pink nipples, a shadowy triangle between her long, lithesome legs—all teased Thomas’ imagination.
Blood rushed from his head to fill his cock.
Heart thundering, he leaned against the tree. He barely dared to take a steadying breath lest the vision of that girl dancing in the clearing might disappear and prove itself a mere figment of his long-starved lust.
Dear sweet Christ.
Not since his days at Oxford had he seen a woman’s body displayed so wantonly, then only in dimly lit, rented chambers. Never in brilliant moonlight.
The wind calmed. The rustling leaves of the tall trees grew silent. Her laughter carried to him. The sound—so free, so girlish—sent pleasurable shivers through him, sensual and immediate, as if a woman had raked her nails softly down his back. His erection throbbed, getting bigger, stiffer, straining his breeches. Sweating, he grasped himself and gave his aching shaft a firm squeeze.
God. It was more than a man, a widower of over a year, could bear.
More so for Thomas. Physical passion had repulsed his wife. For his beloved Patience’s sake, after the conception of his son, he’d left her in peace. Now he’d been three years without the ease of a woman’s soft, warm body…
That girl—Rosalind Abramson—was everything he craved.
She was within reach.
They were alone.
He wanted to go her. To seize her. To crush that beguiling body against his own.
No! He released his cock and took a deep steadying breath. He’d learnt how to master his passions. He was a Puritan now, no longer a libertine.
He would not yield.
He closed his eyes, but all he saw was hair burning like flames in the noon sun. He was taken back to a little over a year previously when he had been riding in a carriage on a seedy London street.
He had been with his family, on his way to board the Abigail for Boston. His son had taken ill from the stench of the docks and had forced the stopping of the vehicle. Thomas stood outside the vehicle, talking with the driver as they’d allowed the interior to air.
He looked up and saw her. Rosalind. She had worn no head covering—her curls had bounced wildly as she’d run towards him. She’d held her skirts—the most garish hue of green he’d ever beheld—high enough to display trim ankles and well-turned calves clad in pale pink silk stockings that gave her legs the appearance of being completely bare. She had lifted her knees and run like a boy. A fine sheen of sweat had sparkled on her flushed face and on the exposed tops of her generous breasts.
Thomas inhaled deeply and pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the memory away. But the image only intensified.
She had increased her pace, though it didn’t seem possible for anyone, much less a woman, to move that quickly.
She’d come upon him so fast and close, he’d thought she meant to crash into him. His man’s body, so starved for the touch of feminine flesh, had longed to feel her body colliding with his. Such desire—it had held him immobile. At the last moment, as she’d turned, bypassing him, her eyes, dark brown and large, had caught his—full of terror—he could feel it reverberate in his own bones… His heart had contracted with sympathy. A whoosh of air, scented with roses and musk, had blown over him as she’d hauled herself into the open carriage.
The carriage where his wife had waited.
The crack of a branch snapped. Drawn into the present , he opened his eyes.
She was still there.
Dancing in the moonlight.
Half naked.
As his neighbour’s bondswoman, Rosalind was always so close, so desirable yet so utterly uninterested in him. She was warm and friendly to others yet she dealt with him differently. She often acted aloof, slightly superior, as if he’d never done her any kindness.
But now she shared all with him, however unwittingly.
They were alone.
Alone.
A single chance to have her without risk of discovery. There would be no consequences. He need only reach out and take. He inhaled deeply. Dear God, give him the strength to resist.
Seemingly unaware of him and lost to her enjoyment, she laughed again. And that did it. His cock became so rigid that his arousal was agonising.
However, this wasn’t simply lust.
He loved Rosalind. He adored the nut-brown freckles that spattered across her cheeks as summer days grew long and hot. The way tendrils of her bright hair constantly escaped her cap to flutter about her face and the way they grew frazzled on rainy days. The curve of her smile and the timbre of her voice and the lazy sway of her walk. He knew all about her, what she’d been—an actress, a woman of easy virtue. It didn’t matter. She captivated him. He couldn’t even imagine marrying anyone else.