Lorraine, then thirteen, was left behind, bound as a dairymaid. Because Jonas “could no longer take care of her,” he had petitioned the court before he left to bind the girl to the Mayfields, an elderly couple who lived on the adjoining farm.
Lorraine had not minded the work on the farm. She liked the Mayfields and she found it pleasant to drive the sleek lazy cows, with bells jangling softly, through meadows bright with daisies. And the Mayfields had found a cubbyhole room for her in their cottage and treated her as if she were their own daughter. True, carrying the big crocks of milk was hard work, but Lorraine enjoyed skimming the cream with a big spoon in the cool recesses of the springhouse in summer, and making butter with the round wooden churn. The open-air work and good food gave her radiant health that glowed in her pink cheeks and sparkled from her wide blue-gray eyes.
Then, two years later another blow had fallen. Both the elderly Mayfields had been carried away by a fever; their only living relative, who lived in Sussex, had chosen not to occupy the farm, and all of the Mayfields’ possessions, including their land and goods—to Lorraine’s dismay, her own articles of indenture—had been sold at public auction.
Lorraine would never forget standing up there in the sunlight, surrounded by the farm wagon, pigs, a couple of lowing dairy cows, their bells jangling, old Mistress Mayfield’s favorite battered rocker, the milk crocks and pots and pans, the blankets and comforters and cutlery and beds and tables—and being sold just as if she herself were a chair or a table!
Oddsbud, proprietor of the Light Horse Tavern, had bid her in. She remembered staring at him fascinated, feeling as if she were standing on the outskirts of hell. He stood, legs spread apart in his stained trousers, rocking back on his heels, looking her up and down as if she were a mare or a ewe he was buying.
But she had since learned she had nothing to fear from Oddsbud—it was Oddsbud’s wife who was the enemy. Oddsbud had turned out to be an easygoing fellow, but his shrewish wife had been irritated by the sight of Lorraine, insisting at the top of her voice that Oddsbud was a fool, that they needed a bigger and stronger wench who could help with the heavier chores instead of a slender girl of fifteen summers. Nevertheless, over the woman’s shrill protests, Lorraine’s papers had changed hands. So, carrying her few possessions in a linen square, Lorraine had followed the arguing couple to their tavern.
Oddsbud’s’ wife had housed young Lorraine in a loft under the eaves, which had the advantage of a ladder that the girl could pull up so that late roisterers could not get at her. That was more for Mistress Oddsbud’s comfort than Lorraine’s, for the tavernkeeper’s wife objected to having her sleep broken by what she dourly characterized as “trouble” but which others might have described as mayhem. For the young bucks who frequented the Light Horse Tavern were a restive lot and given to roistering that often ended in bloodshed.
It was a hard life for the young girl who had been brought up to have such hopes for the future. And there were nights after Oddsbud’s termagant wife had been particularly scalding in her scorn, or indeed had taken the broom to her to emphasize a point, when Lorraine had stared hopelessly into the darkness through the chinks in the eaves and remembered the warmth at home and her mother’s love—all gone now, vanished like the smoke from a winter fire. . . .
At times like those, she asked herself how her father could have left her and gone off to seek his fortune. But sadly she reminded herself that men—especially new widowers—did that all the time, believing their paths in the western lands would be too hard and dangerous for their tender offspring. Lorraine had heard nothing from her father since he had left and now she felt that she never would. His bones might even now be bleaching upon some lonely plain or in some deserted valley, shattered by Indian arrows or tomahawks. Yet there were nights when she could only cling to the hope that he was well and would return soon to free her from this travesty of a job where men could strip her boldly with their eyes—and slyly reach out to pinch her as she walked by carrying brimming tankards of ale.
Perhaps the worst thing of all was that Philip should see her brought so low. Lorraine had loved Philip Dedwinton ever since she could remember, admiring the handsome lad from afar, watching him ride out with his sisters, looking disdainfully about him as if he owned the earth!
Though the Dedwinton sisters had always snubbed Lorraine, believing rightly that she would present competition to the marriage hopes of any one of them if she chose to, Lorraine had been taken from the first by handsome young Philip. She had admired him across a groaning board in the churchyard on holidays and amidst the attentive congregation at Sunday services.
Nor had Philip Dedwinton failed to notice the brighteyed young girl who watched him covertly—and blushed if he turned to look at her. Later, when Lorraine was a milkmaid out chasing the Mayfields’ brindle cow across their small meadow, Philip had had his chance to become a hero in the girl’s eyes. The Dedwintons’ red bull had broken through the split-rail fence and gone charging into the meadow. Philip, who was riding by, saw the bull and seized his opportunity. He galloped into the meadow and swept Lorraine up on his saddle—exactly as knights of old must have swept maidens up on their big war-horses. No matter that Philip knew the red bull to be tame as any milch cow. Lorraine looked up at him adoringly, sure her masterful young neighbor had saved her life . . . and won her heart forever.
Russet-haired Philip was well aware of how Lorraine felt about him. The summer she was fourteen he had come calling and had made his intentions plain to Lorraine—and even plainer to tight-lipped “Mother Mayfield,” as Lorraine called her. In the months following, Lorraine had managed to hold him off, but it hadn’t been easy.
Especially one night beneath the gnarled apple tree when there had been dancing, Philip had seized her by her slim young waist and bent her back in the shadow of its branches. Her lips had responded to his wildly and it had been a shock to her to realize that he was actually undressing her there on the summer grass!
She had scrambled up, flushed and indignant, and had given Philip’s excited face a ringing slap. He had caught her wrist in punishing fingers and for a moment anger had blazed in his brown eyes. Then he had let her go and she had rushed back to where the older women were grouped, preparing food at the outdoor fire. They had noticed that her color was remarkably high and her blonde hair was rumpled, but then, she was young and overheated by the dancing. No one had thought much about it except Lorraine herself, who couldn’t sleep that night for remembering the fiery feel of Philip’s questing hands sliding down beneath the thin material of her bodice.
She loved Philip with all her heart, but she was determined not to be had cheaply. Hadn’t her mother told her that which was cheaply got was held in low regard? Lorraine didn’t want Philip to hold her in low regard! She wanted to marry him and to love him always . . . and be loved by him. The very thought of being loved by him held her in thrall. Ah, Philip, Philip . . . with eyes closed she dreamed about him. with eyes open she watched him tremulously—but through lowered sooty lashes.
Philip, who was several years older, had responded elegantly to those stolen looks. He had strutted and paraded and preened and had even toyed briefly with the idea of marrying her. Indeed he might have impulsively offered for her had he been there when the Mayfields’ estate had been settled. But—fortunately, he realized now—he had been away visiting relatives in Providence at the time and so was out of touch with things at home while these changes took place in Lorraine’s life. Philip had come back to find Lorraine already two months into her new duties as tavern maid at the Light Horse Tavern.
Philip’s attentions did not cease, but they changed character subtly. For a tavern wench was fair game, was she not? He pursued Lorraine openly with hot attentions, catching her in corners when he could, finding occasion to brush against her pliant young body as she moved about the room, enjoying the shock of the contact which it was plain she felt, whispering to her in husky accents words and suggestions that m
ade her blush.
Lorraine was all too uncomfortably aware of him.
As she filled the tankards, Oddsbud, the tavern-keeper, smiled genially upon her. She had proved a good investment for him. Hot young bucks came from miles around to view and woo this wonder with the dazzling smile and moonlit hair. Three sturdy well-to-do widowers in the neighborhood had already offered to wed her, each promising eagerly to pay Oddsbud’s price if she would but have him. But the girl with the blue-gray eyes had turned them all down. A number of others—including Philip—would have bought her articles of indenture, but without promise of wedlock. Although his harpy of a wife had sneered at him as a fool for not taking a profit when he could, Oddsbud hesitated to turn the little wench over to any man with a hot light in his eyes.
“What are ye waiting for, Oddsbud?” his wife yowled. “A preacher to come and take her way to pray with him?”
In truth, Oddsbud was not. But he felt abashed at times before Lorraine’s level look, and some vestiges of gallantry—mostly lost like his youth—kept him from playing this last shabby trick on the young girl who had known so much misfortune. And, he told himself, although her beauty sparked fights—especially by that wild young crowd led by Philip Dedwinton—the increased trade she’d brought to the Light Horse Tavern was worth a bit of trouble.
The tavern was filled with smoke from long-stemmed clay pipes and noisy with coarse voices. Up until the time Philip had delivered his compliment, Lorraine had wished herself anywhere else. Now, coming back to the table with three brimming tankards of ale held high, there was more spring in her step. Carefully she made her way between the revelers—husky farmers for the most part, but with a drover or tradesman here and there among the company. Walking in Philip’s direction, she studied him openly as he lounged back against the wall, his muscular right leg drawn up so that one moccasined foot reposed upon the wooden bench on which he sat. There was an arrogant quality of ownership in the smile that he bestowed upon her—a smile that made her blush and miss a step, almost spilling the ale upon a buckskinned fellow as she passed his table.
“Ho, there!” cried Tate Corbin, the man in buckskins, ducking. Then, “Missed me!” with a loud guffaw as Lorraine hastily righted herself.
Carefully, as if they had been the china cups her mother had so briefly owned before Jonas London had gambled them away, Lorraine set the tankards down upon the table. As she did so, her young breasts were tantalizingly near Philip Dedwinton and he moved forward quickly to take the tankard, brushing them with his arm.
Lorraine jumped as if she had been scorched and retreated before his mocking glance, every nerve aquiver. He would not have dared to do that when she had a father and a mother to protect her! In silent shame she fled across the room, found work to do among the barrels and kegs piled up in one corner.
“Aye, I’ll have her this night,” vowed Philip lazily, and rose. He beckoned to Tate Corbin, who got up and followed him out to confer unobserved.
CHAPTER 3
THE CONVERSATION BETWEEN Philip Dedwinton and Tate Corbin was held around a corner of the tavern where the horses of the guests were tethered. It was a low-voiced discussion, but not so low as to go unremarked by a new arrival who was bent down out of sight. The stranger was fumbling in his saddlebag for something which he found and put into his pocket as he listened. The conversation was of sufficient interest that the stranger stayed immobile in the shadows until, chuckling, the two locals swaggered back into the inn. Whereupon the stranger stood upright again and stared after them, a thoughtful frown upon his dark face.
He was a man whose frowns would be marked uneasily by most men. Tall and extremely light of foot, with lithe sinewy muscles and robust good health, his was a figure to reckon with. His powerful shoulders bulged the fine cloth of his blue coat, and his lean hard hands were gentle and sure as he gave his horse’s head a pat.
“I won’t be long here, laddie,” he muttered in a soft Scots burr. “Once my business is conducted, there’ll be hay and grain and a stable for you this night.”
And he set forth toward the tavern’s green-painted door.
In the doorway he paused, stood at his ease, and looked cautiously about him as was his custom, his keen gray-eyed glance only seeming to be casual—for he was a man who saw much that others missed. These were country rustics who peopled this tavern, he decided. No man among them was wearing a wig, nor had a coat cut properly to fashion—except possibly the young brown-haired dandy seated at a board by the window with three cloddish friends.
Not that he himself wore a wig. For he hated the things, much preferring to let the sun shine on the good thick head of hair God had given him, and having a fine contempt for powdering and preening.
His brief survey of the room had told him much about these people—and about the way they lived.
As he stood, slowly pulling off his gloves, the company in the low-ceilinged common room turned curiously to survey him through the smoke.
They saw a weathered face atop a tall muscular body. His dark thick hair was drawn neatly to a small queue at the back of his neck. Straight dark brows and beneath them gray eyes of a disturbing lightness that raked the room completely without warmth. Beneath those cold eyes, surprisingly, was a mouth that turned up naturally at the corners, giving its owner a most genial look, indeed a deceptively gentle appearance. Many men had mistaken that look for weakness until a hard hand or a bruising shoulder had taught them better. He wore a blue coat with silver buttons, fitted to the waist and skirted, that boasted city tailoring, a pair of dark blue breeches encasing his lean thighs, and a pair of dusty boots beneath which the discerning eye could perceive the gleam of fine leather.
The tall stranger was a sight to make any tavern wench stand straighter and pat her hair and pluck nervously at her skirts. A sight to make the men’s gaze turn thoughtful, wondering who he might be and what his business was in this backwoods part of Rhode Island.
Just as the stranger moved into the room, Lorraine stood up from where she had been kneeling among the kegs and turned about. For a startled moment they faced each other full on, and the lean gentleman in the blue coat lost stride for just a fraction of a second.
So forcefully did that fresh piquant face strike him that it was a moment before he could tear himself away to answer the tavernkeeper, who had hurried forward to usher this fine gentleman to a chair by the hearth.
“I prefer this one.” His guest demurred and nodded toward the window where the four young gentleman sat.
The stranger’s voice was brusque, accustomed to command—and to being obeyed. The landlord, taking note of it, gave him a respectful nod, although it was with a sigh that he led his guest to a table beside the boisterous foursome. The traveler settled his long legs upon a rude wooden chair and leaned back against the wall to watch as Lorraine approached.
His gaze raked her up and down in silent appraisal, pausing longest on her lovely torso and then critically evaluating the beauty of her face. Lorraine’s cheeks were hot under that punishing stare as she came forward to inquire in a soft voice what he would have.
“Some ale and a bit of conversation,” said he. “And then whatever you have by way of supper.”
“The ale and the supper we have,” she said carefully. “But the conversation, sir?”
An alert silence prevailed at the next table. Every eye there was upon her, every ear straining to hear.
“Yes,” said the newcomer. “Who are you? And to whom do you belong?”
At that brusque question, the young girl drew herself up haughtily. “My name is Lorraine London, sir. And I belong to myself. Although I am bound for another year to the keeper of this tavern.”
“Hmm,” he said, seeming to lose interest. “You may bring my ale, Mistress Lorraine.”
As he waited, he glanced about him, studying the patrons more closely. A likely lot of clods, he thought dispassionately. He was late and he hoped the man he was to meet had not given him up and left the t
avern. It could be that he had missed him. His horse had thrown a shoe a short way out of Providence and the blacksmith had taken near half a day to reshoe it. If he missed his man here, it meant he would have to search for him, and there was danger in that—for them both. He was tempted to quiz the tavernkeeper, but years of experience in these matters had taught him to stifle such impulses.
Raile Cameron was the stranger’s name and he was at heart as much a fighting Scot as ever were those ancestors of his who had lost their lives at Flodden Field. Raile cared nothing for the law—for it was English law that governed these colonies, and what had a hardy Scot to do with that? But he cared very much for well-laid plans and hated to see them go astray over a small accident like a horse throwing a shoe!
His ale had not been brought before his question was answered.
A fellow in worn leathern clothes, wearing the Indian moccasins that most men in these parts affected, came jauntily into the inn. “Have ye heard the news?” his great voice boomed out. “Harley Moffatt’s horse threw him and Harley hit his head on a stone not ten miles from here. They say he’s dead.”
“I knew Harley well,” said Oddsbud soberly. “And a great shame it is. ’Twas his bad leg made him lose his seat on the nag, no doubt.”
Harley Moffatt was the name of the man Raile Cameron had come so far to see. And there could be only one Harley Moffatt with a bad leg in these parts. So now he’d have to take the arms elsewhere. For Moffatt—scoffed at by many as an alarmist—was expecting imminent war with the Wampanoags. Their chief sachem, Metacomet, whom the colonists called half-scornfully “King Philip,” using the Christian name that had been given him, had been very active. Moffatt claimed that while Rhode Islanders were mired in endless lawsuits over land ownership, quarreling with Connecticut and charging plots and counterplots by powerful Boston interests, “King Philip” Metacomet had been quietly gathering his forces. A wily and dangerous leader, the Indian had been fined back in 1671—which had done nothing to improve his temper.
To Love a Rogue Page 4
