Lord Rogue

by Patricia Rice

  “At least dancing on tables must have been more fun than feeding chickens,” Alicia commented as she tied the sling behind Becky’s neck.

  “Don’t be funny. It hurts like hell,” Becky muttered.

  Alicia sent one of the men back to the bunkhouse for whiskey and another to check on the sleeping babe. With the boat gone, she had no way of taking Becky to a doctor beyond the wagon. It would be a nightmare journey, but she could see no other course. The arm had to be set.

  As she ordered the wagon brought out and piled with blankets, the foreman acting in Auguste’s place watched her nervously.

  “Look, ma’am, maybe you ought to wait ’til Auguste gets back. The whiskey will ease the pain and then we can take her nice and easy up the river with the babe and all.”

  Alicia looked up at him as if he were crazed. “Auguste intended to bring back supplies and wait to see how the boys fared before returning. It could be days. The arm has to be set now. Can you do it?”

  Becky shrieked in rage at the thought, but her audience ignored the protest.

  “No, ma’am, I surely can’t, but that old wagon ain’t got any springs, and it’s going to be a rough trip. You’ll have to stay here without any womenfolk around you. It ain’t right.”

  “Nonsense. I’d planned on returning to St. Louis anyway. I can’t let Becky go alone. Who would look after her baby?”

  At Alicia’s pronouncement Becky protested vehemently. “You ain’t going in that wagon! That babe will be born bouncin’ in a rut and then where will you be? We’ll send Auguste back for you. I’ll be OK.”

  The whiskey bottle was produced and Becky sipped while the horses were hitched and blankets piled in. Torn by indecision, Alicia watched a hint of color return to Becky’s cheeks but noted the whiteness of strain around her lips. There was nothing else she could do to relieve the pain, but it felt like desertion to let Becky travel alone.

  The decision was taken from her hands when the men swaddled Becky and her daughter in blankets, surrounded them with bags of grain to prevent jostling, and announced there was no more room for Alicia. She could have protested, but she didn’t. The pain in her back reminded her that she had other responsibilities and that Becky was a woman grown.

  Dinner was a dismal affair, the meat burnt during the interruption and the bread unmade. The men ate as if starved, however, and the tin plates returned to the house were already cleaned.

  Alicia silently blessed their thoughtfulness and dragged up the stairs for a well-earned rest. The men could fend for themselves for the rest of the day. With half the crew gone with Auguste, there were few enough to do the chores. They would keep occupied. As an afterthought she returned downstairs and lit the lamp at the foot. It grew dark early these days.

  Returning to bed, she could find no comfortable position but tossed restlessly until the sun went down and the room fell into darkness. Gradually, exhaustion took its toll, and she slept.

  When she woke, it was to moisture running down her thighs and a pain so excruciating it was all Alicia could do to keep from crying out. She bit her tongue and clenched her fingers in the covers and let the searing pain roll over her until sweat popped from her forehead, and she thought she would die. When it finally let loose its grip on her belly, she was too exhausted to do more than lay there panting until the next one hit her a few minutes later.

  She mentally screamed in anger as she realized what was happening again. She was losing the babe! She couldn’t let it happen. She had to hang on, to pray, to plead with God not to let her lose this one too. It was all she had. Travis would never come back if she lost his child. Please, God, no!

  Alicia writhed with the agony of her thoughts as much as the pain ripping through her. She couldn’t control it, couldn’t stop the unbearable pressure pushing at her middle, forcing the child from her. Desperately she stuck a corner of the quilted comforter between her teeth to keep from biting her tongue with the pain. Travis! Where was Travis when she needed him? He had to come, had to save his child.

  Tears poured down her cheeks as her body convulsed once more with searing agony.

  Travis walked his exhausted horse over the last ridge overlooking the farm. It was nearing midnight. He should have made camp hours ago, but he was too close to wait any longer. He didn’t expect his wife to be there, could barely hope that she might be in St. Louis, but he had to see for himself.

  As Travis entered the deserted farmyard, a loneliness so piercing that he nearly wailed his anguish swept over him. No one stood guard over the corral. No cigarette glowed in the darkness outside the bunkhouse. No light shone in the small cottage that was Auguste’s. They were gone. The home he had harbored longingly in a corner of his mind all these months no longer existed.

  He could scarcely bring himself to walk the last few steps around to the front gates, where he might see the house. It would echo empty and lonely if he set foot in it. It would be even worse than those few weeks before their marriage when he worked alone on fixing it for his bride. At least then there had been hope. Now hope was gone, replaced by ashes so bitter he could taste them on his tongue.

  As Travis passed beneath the soaring eagles, a light flickered in the depths of the house, and his heart leapt to his throat. A lamp! Someone had to be there, then. Not daring to hope, not even daring to think, Travis tied his horse to the post and strode up the porch stairs.

  The door gave at his touch, not even fastened. Travis frowned at that, but the lamp burning welcomingly on the newel post. He had not meant to come this far. He had only meant to watch and wait and see if he could find the answers before turning around and leaving again, but the lamp drew him forward.

  He picked it up and the light gleamed on a polished mahogany bookcase in the hallway. Marveling at this wealth of books that had not been there when he had left, Travis swung the lantern in the direction of the front parlor. Elegant damask covered sofas, and chairs were drawn together cozily by a soft Aubusson carpet over the paneled flooring. Had he wandered into a stranger’s house, then?

  Fearing that might be the case since otherwise he would have to admit to hope, Travis stepped toward the parlor rather than the staircase. If he could just find some sign of Alicia, some evidence that she remained . . .

  A muffled moan decimated all thought of caution. The whimper came from overhead, and in two strides Travis was on the staircase, the lantern flinging crazy shadows up the hall as he raced toward the sound.

  He found Alicia in the back bedroom, the blood-soaked linens sending him reeling back to another place, another time. He roared his rage at finding her thus alone, unaware he made any sound at all as he set the lamp aside and bent to take her limp form in his arms.

  She acknowledged his presence by grabbing his arms, digging her fingers into his biceps while pain washed over her. Her hair was soaked from her efforts, and Travis brushed the damp strands back from her face while the contraction passed. When it stopped, he silently removed her soaked and ruined gown.

  This wasn’t the first time he had done this, but that first time it had not been his own child coming into this bloody world. Travis’s hands shook as he stripped away the hampering lengths of material and threw them in a corner near the dead fire. The room was icy, but sweat poured down his back as he worked to make Alicia comfortable.

  The pain returned, and Travis held her while she struggled through it. There wasn’t even time to curse the women who had left her alone or rail at his own ignorance. Alicia’s whimpering cries flailed at him, torturing him with anguish.

  “Scream, Alicia! For God’s sake, scream!” Travis commanded, unable to control his emotion as well as she. He wanted to shake her until her shrieks shattered the walls and brought help running, until some miracle came to save them both.

  He could feel mother and child slipping beyond his grasp forever, and beads of sweat formed on his brow. He had been a damned fool for too long, but this was too high a price to pay for stupidity. He clutched Alicia close,
as if to prevent her escape.

  “Oh, God, help me, Travis! Help me!”

  The plea shook Travis to his senses. If force of will could save them, Alicia had enough for both of them. His would have to play a more practical role. “Hold on to the bed Alicia. Hold that post.” Travis wrapped Alicia’s hand around the carved cherry as he lay her back against the pillows. He knew nothing of babies other than that this one was coming and might need help. He knew he would need both hands for that.

  Alicia clung to the post, the screams welling in her throat as the pain pushed down into her very soul. She feared Travis was a miracle of her fevered mind only. She held her eyes shut against the pain, unable to concentrate on anything other than pushing out the heavy weight tearing her apart.

  Then the pain moved and the scream ripped from her throat, ringing out into the night until it grew deathly silent again. Hands shaking, Travis gripped the slippery shoulders emerging from the womb, delivering his firstborn into the world with a sense of awe. The babe wailed its outrage as he wiped it and wrapped it in linen, but even as he lay the squalling bundle beside his wife, the silence from the bed was deafening.

  The wails of a newborn babe combined with the sobs of the broad-shouldered man kneeling helplessly beside the lifeless form on the bed.

  Chapter 37

  A faint sound from the bed brought Travis to his feet. His heart lodged in his throat as he watched Alicia move her head restlessly on the pillow. She was alive! Hope flooded back. He lay the infant beside her and squeezed her hand. He thought she squeezed back, just a little.

  Travis sent prayers to a God he had nearly abandoned. Let her live and he would do anything she wanted, be anything she wanted.

  If nothing else, this last half hour had taught him his own selfishness and the stupidity of pride. He had created a dream out of wood, but he should have known Alicia wasn’t a carving to be manipulated at his will. She was a woman, the woman he had always wanted and more.

  It might be a long time before she ever trusted him again. The punishment of seeing her day in and day out and not touching would be physical torture, but he could endure it. He could endure anything if he were only allowed to see her smile and laugh, hear her intelligent conversation, dwell in the comfort of her companionship for the rest of his life. That would be enough.

  Alicia’s breathing grew stronger, and loud footsteps pounded up the stairs—his damned men had finally arrived.

  Travis barked commands for fires and hot water. Once again wearing the mask with which he faced the world, he turned back into the room. Using the cold water in the washbasin, he scrubbed the wailing infant as best as he could, wrapping him in one of Alicia’s shawls when he was done.

  The cries stirred his patient, and she opened her eyes. Not knowing what else to do, Travis lay the child where she could see him.

  “What will you name him?” he asked, unable to conceal the catch in his voice as the lamplight flickered over the Alicia’s wan face.

  “A boy?” Alicia touched the squalling bundle.

  “A son.” Now that he had time to think, Travis felt a stirring of anger at all he had been denied, but out of concern for Alicia, he kept it hidden. Those damned fools he’d sent to St. Louis had better be riding like the wind.

  “Then he should be named after you,” Alicia murmured, her eyes closing.

  “Maximillian? Over my dead body.” Travis stared in awe at the tiny creature he had created. The infant had already found his fist and quieted, and he felt a fierce protectiveness. No son of his would carry the trail of names that had been his inheritance from his father.

  When the small party from St. Louis arrived at the river landing an hour or so after dawn, Travis had fallen into an exhausted sleep on the floor beside Alicia’s bed. He had done all he could to make her comfortable, but she was unconscious of his efforts. Still, he would not leave her alone.

  The knock on the bedroom door woke him. Finally! Hoping his messenger had found the physician, Travis checked his sleeping patients before he slipped into the hallway to greet Dr. Farrar.

  The young doctor studied Travis’s travel-stained and rumpled attire, his collar-length, dust-coated hair and unshaven beard, and shook his head. “I see you arrived in time. How is she?”

  Travis shoved a dark strand of hair back from his face and rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. “They’re both alive. That’s all I can say. And when I find out why she was here alone, I intend to cut some throats.”

  “You may as well start with your own,” the doctor informed him curtly. “If you don’t, the ones below probably will. I recommend you wash before you greet them. Let me by. I want to see Alicia.” Not offering further explanation, he shoved past Travis and closed the door.

  Not caring who or what waited below, Travis staggered down the stairs in search of warm water and a cup of coffee. It was only dawn and it already felt like a long day. He didn’t dare allow the joy of his son to overwhelm him. Too much could happen to rob him of that joy. He had learned long ago to take things one step at a time.

  At the bottom of the stairs he was greeted by Chester Stanford and an effete stranger flanked by two uniformed British soldiers. With a groan Travis ran his hand through his hair and cursed his birth, the fates, and English perseverance. His past had finally caught up with him.

  The stranger, garbed in high white cravat and an immaculate buff coat trimmed in gold braid, stared at Travis’s grimy appearance with varying emotions ranging from hope to disbelief. “Lord Delaney?” he finally ventured.

  Travis lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Who asks?” he demanded with all the arrogance of his position.

  Relief swept over the man’s face. He stepped forward bravely, offering his slender uncallused hand in salutation. “Jeffrey Scott, my lord, Lord Royster’s agent here in the states.”

  Travis glared at the two red-coated soldiers. “Did you come to arrest me and haul me back to London just for my father’s amusement?”

  Chester Stanford looked startled, and he almost appeared ready to interfere, but the agent shook his head cheerfully.

  “No, no, nothing like that. These men merely helped me to arrive here safely. The route is rather dangerous, and Lord Royster insisted I have accompaniment. We need to talk when you have a minute. I have come a long way to see you, but I understand you have just become a father. I can wait awhile longer.”

  Travis grunted agreement, nodded in the direction of the parlor indicating that they wait there, and headed for the kitchen. To hell with his father and the British army, he needed coffee and a shave.

  By the time he returned to the parlor, Travis had scrubbed and shaved and changed into a clean linen shirt from his saddlebag. Hearing nothing from his wife or the doctor upstairs, he carried a cup of the bitter brew his men had left cooking into the room with angry defiance.

  His first question, however, was to Alicia’s father. “Has the doctor said anything?”

  Chester Stanford shook his head. “Not yet. Sit down. You look like hell.”

  Jeffrey Scott gasped at this disrespect, and watched the scene warily.

  Travis sank into a high-backed chair beside the fire, and gazed with interest at the changes Alicia had wrought in this room. Although he could not begin to name the style in which it was furnished, he felt at home among the solid woods and warm blues and golds. He propped his boots on a needlepoint stool and set his cup on the table beside him. Alicia had thought of everything.

  “All right, Mr. Scott, I assume you did not come all this way to verify my identity. What does my father want?”

  “He has been searching for you these past three years. When I wrote him that we had word of you, he booked passage at once. Since I left New York to come in search of you, he has arrived in New Orleans and even now awaits news. That is how anxious he is to see you, my lord.”

  Travis gritted his teeth at the man’s unctuous tones and tried to curb his temper. “If you want anything from me at all, you had best sto
p calling me ‘my lord.’ I am not your lord or anyone else’s. I am a citizen of the United States, a resident of St. Louis, and a farmer. You will find no nobility here.”

  The agent boldly objected. “You are heir to an earldom and titled a viscount by birth. That cannot change. I will honor your request and address you as you choose, but you cannot deny your inheritance.”

  Travis rose and paced restlessly to the window. “Oh, but I can, and I do. This is my home. My father has a son who will be more than happy with the title I deny.”

  “But there you are, my—” Scott stopped and rearranged his wording. “Sir. Your brother died three years ago. A pestilent fever. It almost took the life of one of your sisters, but she recovered, the Lord be praised. There have been no other children. You are all he has, my—sir.”

  Travis swung around in irritation, his eyes blinded by the light outside. “He has two fine, lovely daughters, a young wife, and the rest of his life to breed sons. He does not need me.”

  Nervous, aware he had started out on the wrong foot, the agent attempted to change tactics. “He is your father. He has been ill, and he feels his mortality. He simply wants to see you. Can you not give him that much?”

  Travis walked to the doorway and listened for sounds from above. He wanted to see Alicia, talk to her, find out where he stood. His father had ceased to be a part of his life a long time ago.

  “I cannot give you anything. My wife is ill. I have a newborn son and no idea how he fares. I cannot and will not leave them alone. You have come at the wrong time, Mr. Scott. You should have been here six months earlier.”

  Not giving Scott time to question that remark, Chester rose and confronted his son-in-law. “Don’t turn your back on the man, Travis. I don’t know what has gone between you and Alicia, but I believe you owe her the opportunity to speak her opinion. It might be she would like to meet her father-in-law when she has recovered. Don’t close your mind to the possibilities.”