To Love a Rogue

by Valerie Sherwood

  “I’ve been thinking on ye, Philip,” he sighed. “And ’tis plain the wench fancies you. Make me a reasonable offer.”

  “I have not enough ready cash.” Philip exhibited his few coins. “But I can give you a note of hand?”

  Oddsbud frowned. Take a note of hand and he’d end up in court trying to get his money! And Philip’s father would step in and claim his son had been defrauded.

  “I’m not interested in pieces of paper,” he told Philip impatiently, “but in yellow gold. What’ve ye got?”

  Philip bethought him of the betrothal ring he carried in his pocket. It was of yellow gold and set with a garnet—a stone Lavinia Todd fancied. Philip’s father had planked down good money for the ring and Philip was supposed to present it on bended knee to Lavinia on Thursday next to bind the match.

  He could tell his father he’d lost it! And arrange to have Lorraine keep on working for Oddsbud for a while with the world not knowing it was Philip who owned her. That way Oddsbud would still be responsible for her keep, but Philip could visit her every night at his pleasure.

  He drew out the ring. “I can give you this,” he said. “But it must be a secret between us.”

  “Why?” demanded Oddsbud suspiciously. “Are you telling me the ring’s stolen?”

  “Certainly not, but ’tis a betrothal ring and ’twas destined for”—Philip looked uncomfortable—“other hands.”

  A betrothal ring no less! The sly young devil!

  “I’ll take it,” said Oddsbud instantly. “And the coins too, or course. I’ll get you Lorraine’s papers now. Wait outside here, for my wife would not like it if she knew what a pittance I was letting the girl go for. But under the circumstances . . .” He winked conspiratorially at Philip and disappeared into the empty tavern.

  As he searched for the papers, which, along with his other valuables, he kept under his mattress, his wife entered carrying a broom. “What’re you doing there, Oddsbud?” she demanded suspiciously.

  “I’m selling Lorraine’s papers!” Oddsbud grinned, tossing her the coins. No need for his wife to know about the ring!

  “But she’s run away!”

  “Quiet,” growled Oddsbud. “The lad outside doesn’t know that!”

  Mistress Oddsbud pocketed the coins and held her peace. Oddsbud went outside and shoved the papers into Philip’s eager hands.

  Flushed and triumphant now that the deed was done, Philip swaggered rather grandly to a table in the empty common room. “Pour me a tankard on account, Oddsbud.” He wanted to be sitting there waiting when Lorraine came into the room. Then he’d fabricate an explanation for having run off, and cap it by showing her the articles he’d bought. She would be overwhelmed with delight, of course. He sat there meditating on what to tell her.

  In silence, Oddsbud brought the ale. He was hoping another customer would come into the tavern before this hot young buck thought to inquire as to Lorraine’s whereabouts. Before witnesses, Philip was less apt to demand the return of his betrothal ring.

  At that moment, Lavinia Todd, stung by Lorraine’s taunts, was galloping up the road in fury with her purple skirts flying. Walter, on a lesser nag, was hard put to keep up with her.

  “Wait, Lavinia!” he kept calling. “The horses can’t keep up this pace!”

  If Lavinia heard, she paid no attention. She was in full cry as she approached the Light Horse Tavern.

  Philip heard the thunder of approaching hooves and went out to see what was afoot. He still had not formulated what to say to Lorraine when Lavinia reined up before him.

  “Oh, how could you, Philip, how could you?” she choked. Her trembling mount seemed to echo her own distraught manner.

  So Lavinia had heard about the wager! Well, he must brazen it out. “How could I do what?” he demanded, trying to look innocent.

  “How could you buy Lorraine London’s articles of indenture and promise to marry her?”

  Philip looked dazed. How could Lavinia possibly know what had only just transpired? He rallied. “I never promised to marry her!”

  By now Walter had reached them.

  “Oh, yes, you did! She told me so!” Lavinia was leaning forward in the saddle, shouting down into Philip’s confused face.

  “No, I swear—”

  “Can you look me in the eye and tell me you did not buy her articles?” she challenged.

  “Lavinia, ’twas only a wager!” He managed to look aggrieved.

  “A wager! What do you mean, wager?”

  Their bickering had brought Oddsbud out. He had heard most of the conversation and now he saw a way to profit from it.

  “I’ve not sold Lorraine’s articles to anyone,” he declared mildly. “The wench ran away this morning with a stranger who came to the inn last night.”

  Philip spun about. He was staring at Oddsbud glassyeyed. “She . . . ran way?” he gasped.

  “Aye.” Oddsbud regarded him guilelessly. “As all know. There was no use in pursuing them—the stranger had a fast horse. They’ll be far away by now.”

  “I do not believe you!” screamed Lavinia. She jerked her horse’s head around and thundered back the way she had come, with an unhappy Walter pursuing her.

  “You tricked me!” Philip accused Oddsbud. He was panting, his face pale. “You knew Lorraine had run away—yet you sold me her articles!”

  “Now, now, you young bucks never recognize a favor when you see one,” chided Oddsbud. “The girl’s conspicuous, and where can she hide? And the man’s a stranger who’ll be on his way soon without her. Ye can claim her at your leisure and”—he winked slyly at Philip—“for her running away, ye can tack another year or so onto her term of indenture. Besides, the wench is angry with ye now—ye’d be taking a spitting cat to your bed. And do you want her around whilst you’re wedding that angry heiress who just yowled at you? Get you married, lad, bed your bride and make sure of her dowry—and then go after the bound girl. Ye can have both!"

  Philip fell back. There was sense to the tavernkeeper’s words. With Lorraine gone, making up with Lavinia should not prove too difficult. Even if Lavinia learned about the wager, he could pass it off that he was drunk, and beg forgiveness—women liked that. His older brother was always getting away with things by gracefully begging forgiveness afterward.

  Still he glared at Oddsbud. The fellow had tricked him. And now he could not even exhibit those articles of indenture—he must hide them.

  He growled that he was in need of a metal box. Once he received it, he bade Oddsbud a surly goodbye and mounted up. As soon as he was out of sight of the tavern, he left the road, walking his horse over the spongy ground. He knew a place by a small tinkling waterfall where he could bury the papers safe and dry and return for them when he needed them.

  Gleefully the tavernkeeper watched him go. The lad was off to secrete the papers somewhere. Meantime Oddsbud planned to turn the ring over to a sea captain he knew, in whose ventures he sometimes bought shares—pity, the fellow had been here night before last, he might have sailed away by now. Ah, well, the evidence would be gone and the chickens would never come home to roost—he’d even be considered a kindly soul for not advertising for his runaway bound girl!

  Chuckling, he went back inside his tavern. As he did so, a blazing arrow struck the tavern’s thatched roof and set it alight. Oddsbud never had time to reach his musket. A dozen Indians converged upon him.

  Philip of course knew nothing about it, though if he had bothered to look back he would have seen the smoke. He rode for some time through the forest, and at last, the way having become too narrow and himself about to be swept from the saddle by low-lying branches, he left his horse tethered to a tree and walked on moccasined feet through the brush toward his destination. He could hear the rippling sound of rushing water and smell the scent of wintergreen as he knelt and with a wedge of rock scooped out a small hole. He put the metal box containing Lorraine’s articles into it, and had just covered it up with the soft mossy earth when he heard
a twig snap and a lowvoiced Indian command.

  Hidden by the concealing underbrush, Philip froze. There were rumblings of Indian troubles all about these days, and now and again an outlying cabin had been burned, some distant settler’s family murdered. And here he was, caught out alone and on foot in deep woods without so much as a knife, let alone a musket! He began to sweat as through a narrow gap in the leaves he saw a war party of some twenty dark-skinned men file swiftly past on silent moccasins. It seemed to him that all the Indians in the world were out there—pray God they would not find his horse, for then they would come hunting for him!

  At last they were gone and Philip could breathe again. Grown stiff from his rigid position, he still stayed where he was for the better part of an hour before he found his horse and made his way home by a prudently circuitous route.

  Lavinia, careening wildly down the road to Providence with Walter pounding behind her trying vainly to keep up, did not fare quite so well.

  She had not ridden half a mile before she heard from Walter in the rear a sudden shout that ended in a gasping cough. She turned in the saddle to see Walter’s head loll forward. He was gazing down fixedly at an arrow that had pierced his chest. He pitched from his saddle in a kind of horrible slow motion and as he did so Lavinia could see that the arrow had gone clear through his body and come out on the other side.

  Lavinia never faltered. She flung herself forward, lying along her horse’s neck, and dug her heels into his sides. Behind her two dark-skinned warriors had leapt into the road and one loosed a silent arrow.

  It was dead on target, and had Lavinia’s mount not stumbled over a rock just then, she must surely have died as swiftly as Walter had, but that slight stumble— though the recovery was swift—saved her. The arrow went through her hair, only grazing her scalp so that a little trickle of blood ran down her forehead and into her terrified eyes.

  Her horse dashed around a tree-sheltered bend of the road and Lavinia rode on, screaming all the way to Providence with Walter’s riderless horse galloping after.

  Ten minutes later Oddsbud and his wife were dead and the Light Horse Tavern was burning to the ground.

  The chief sachem of the Wampanoags had made his move at last. Ten thousand Indians would soon be on the march.

  And all New England was about to go up in flames.

  CHAPTER 7

  EXHAUSTED AND ASLEEP in the ruined cottage, Lorraine and Raile were ignorant of these fast-moving events. They were so far back from the road that the sound of hooves did not penetrate the underbrush as Lavinia went pounding by, nor the hooves of those men who came up the road later to retrieve Walter’s body and to stare solemnly at the still-glowing embers of what had once been the Light Horse Tavern.

  Finally Raile started awake at the sound of an owl and stared up at a bright moon shining down through a cloud-splashed sky. He glanced alertly at the girl, for a moment angered that she had not awakened him. Lord, it was late! But a quick look at Lorraine revealed her lying in crumpled fashion, like a tossed-aside rag doll, sleeping an exhausted sleep.

  She did not even stir as he rose, snapping a twig. She lay curled up like a child, her long fair hair cascading over one slender arm, shimmering pale in the moonlight, and he thought: How young she looks, how untried. . . . And once again wished he could give young Philip Dedwinton a thrashing.

  Well, they’d better be on their way. Still, after all she’d been through, he was loath to wake Lorraine. Let her catch a few winks more while he watered the horse. He padded off to find his horse and lead him down to the riverbank beneath the trees.

  The horse drank thirstily, then shook his head so that big drops splattered Raile. Raile chuckled and patted that long neck. A good horse was Old Ezra, as the man he’d hired the beast from had promised.

  Suddenly he pulled on the horse’s bridle, urged him back into a shadow of the trees.

  Out on the black shining river was a long canoe with three Indians in it. They were paddling purposefully toward shore. It was plain they hadn’t seen him.

  While Raile stood silent, holding the horse in check, the Indians beached their canoe, hid it beneath some overhanging branches, and stole along the bank, disappearing into the trees. They carried tomahawks in their hands.

  A scouting party, if he was any judge. . . . And that might mean more canoes coming along at any time now, drifting downriver from the interior. At least these three had not been heading in the direction of the ruined cottage where the girl lay sleeping.

  Raile frowned. The Indians had gone directly inland from the river; they might head toward Providence—or away from it. He could take the girl and ride down a road to Providence that was barely a trail, but who knew where the Indians were going? He might run into them. And while he would not have hesitated to take on the three of them, there was Lorraine to consider. She had been through enough without having to dodge Indian arrows!

  He felt he had remained motionless long enough. The Indians—whatever their intentions—were out of earshot by now. Swiftly he guided the horse back to the road that led to Providence, gave that big sleek rump a light slap and sent it on its way. “Old Ezra knows his way around here. If ye get lost. Old Ezra will bring ye back to me,” the man from whom Raile had hired the horse had boasted. Old Ezra was going to have a chance to make good that boast this night! Ah well, he had paid almost what the horse would cost for the hire of him, so the farmer would be out little if the horse never returned.

  In any event, they would not be riding Old Ezra. Raile had found other transportation down on the riverbank.

  Back at the ruined cottage, Raile stood looking down at the sleeping girl with compassion. Even when he bent down over her, she still did not awaken, so deep was her exhaustion. Then suddenly her eyes snapped open, filled with fear at sight of him hovering over her.

  Before she could make a sound, he had clapped his big hand over her mouth.

  “Quiet,” he warned. “There are Indians about and it may be they’re up to no good.”

  “Are the Wampanoags attacking?” Lorraine whispered fearfully. “We’ve been expecting it ever since Sausamon was murdered last year!”

  “Sausamon?” He frowned.

  “John Sausamon was an Indian convert who always kept us posted on what the Indians were doing,” she explained. “Three Wampanoags were executed at Plymouth for his murder. And after that . . .” Her voice trailed off. After that, unease had spread throughout New England, and there had been occasional murderous outbreaks. All Rhode Island was on edge. Lorraine reflected on what it must be like to find an Indian with a tomahawk come bounding through your window, or to be cut down by a silent arrow whilst you were clearing your land.

  “What I saw might have been a scouting party.”

  “Oddsbud said if only the Wampanoags attacked, the danger would be here in Rhode Island—but if the Narragansetts joined them, all New England would be finished!” she added. She shared the belief hereabouts that the Wampanoags’ chief sachem had already formed a tribal confederation amounting to some ten thousand warriors. “Were the Indians you saw Wampanoags?”

  “I do not know one Indian from another,” he muttered brusquely. “But get up and follow me as quietly as you can. We are going downriver.”

  She looked startled, but scrambled up with alacrity and followed him like a shadow as he made his way quietly to the riverbank.

  “What of the horse?” she whispered.

  “Old Ezra would prefer not to travel by canoe,” his voice wafted back to her.

  She clutched his arm. “But shouldn’t we warn somebody? About the Indians?”

  “There were but three of them,” Raile said, pulling the Indians’ canoe out from under the concealing branches as he spoke. “Best to outrun trouble this night, for we’ll have plenty of our own if we stay in this vicinity.”

  Oddsbud, she thought uneasily, and the law. She realized that she was now a hunted thing and could be hauled back to face her tormentors.

&
nbsp; Impatiently Raile urged her toward the canoe and she climbed gingerly into it, hoping it would not tip over.

  Moments later they were paddling downriver, speeding along with the current, heading toward Narragansett Bay and the fast ketch that waited at anchor there.

  The wild shore sped by, dark trees and occasional settlers’ cottages seen fitfully through the scudding clouds that kept blowing across the moon’s bright face. Around them the surface of the river was smooth and dark and shining. Tense, both hands gripping the sides of the canoe, Lorraine sat silent, for Raile had warned her that voices carried far across the water.

  “Keep a sharp lookout for war canoes,” Raile muttered. “Don’t say anything if you see one—just point.”

  Seated before him, Lorraine shivered. Every man’s hand is against us now, she told herself, and felt her heart thump at the thought. The Indians would kill us where we are, and those I once thought were my friends would drag me back to humiliation and servitude—and worse.

  Still they pushed forward over the smooth dark water, and still her thoughts pursued her. Not a light showed on the dark shore. They might have been alone in the world, gliding over the face of a continent.

  Behind Lorraine, upriver, lay her past and the man she had loved for most of her short lifetime—a man who had proved false. Shatteringly, hurtfully. Ahead lay an uncertain future. With her now in the canoe, paddling swiftly, expertly, was a lawless man who had known many women—far too well! He had proved trustworthy thus far—still, she had known him but a matter of hours. What did she know of him really?

  Lorraine set her delicate jaw and stared fiercely ahead of her at the moon’s path in the shining water.

  She would take her chances! Anything was better than returning to the Light Horse Tavern.

  And yet how strange it seemed to be leaving Rhode Island like a thief in the night, floating downriver in a savage war canoe!