Copyright © 2008 Lisa Whitefern
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
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“Let us search her body and find more evidence of her obscene lusts,” growled Putnam.
He attempted to yank the shift from her body and tore it on one side. Her pulse hammered in her throat, making it impossible to speak. Putnam’s shaft pressed against her buttocks. His finger was near her mouth, and she tried to bite it but could not quite reach. He held her too tight.
Shame rose in her cheeks as the eyes of the men in the crowd raked over her body and the women hid their faces.
Robert slid his hand slowly over her shoulder and then lifted her arm to reveal the fleshy mole underneath.
“The third nipple!” he cried out, triumphant. He took it between his thumb and forefinger. “It feels exactly like the other two.” Putnam stroked the mole and played with her nipples. She squirmed with both fear and arousal, whimpering as her body betrayed her.
“Let’s see where else the devil’s kissed her,” whispered Robert. He slid his hand between her legs. She spat at him, and he grabbed both her wrists. He dropped her torn shift back over her head. “Fetch the rope from my saddle.”
Mary Warren rushed to do his bidding. Tears of shame burned in Faith’s eyes. Robert bound her hands tightly in front of her with coarse rope.
“Can the witch not have a trial?” asked Grace Way. “Sarah Good is getting a trial.”
“There is no time for it now,” said Putnam, a malicious glint in his eye. “’Tis All Hallows’ Eve. ’Tis best we deal with the witch now, for when darkness hits the sky, Satan and his other minions will swoop down to help their own.”
Putnam picked her up and set her on the lumpy pillion of his horse. A scream caught in her throat, and cold sweat trickled down the back of her neck. Then Putnam mounted the horse. He set the horse off at a fast trot, and the crowd cheered. Turning her head, Faith saw the rest of the crowd mounting their own horses.
“Where are you taking me?” she shouted over the rhythmic sound of hooves on the dirt road.
“Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live. The witch Jezebel was thrown from the tower, and horses trampled her until she was a bloody pulp. You’re fate won’t be quite as bad.” The sneer in his voice made him sound almost amused. “And then, pretty one, I will have the land your husband owed me long ago. He gave me your daughters as servants, but they are shiftless, cold girls who deny me bedroom duties and please me not at all.”