Love A Rebel...Love A Rogue (Blackthorne Trilogy)

by Henke, Shirl

  “Speaking of the campaign, I hear you're moving on Augusta soon,” Quintin remarked as he sipped a spoonful of consomme.

  “We’ll be moving out within the week, royal militia along with several hundred of my regulars,” Ashburton replied.

  ”I hope you drive those rebel scum into the river and drown every man jack of ‘em,” Robert said fervently.

  “To the recapture of Augusta. Hear, hear,” the colonel and the major echoed.

  All four men raised their glasses in a toast.

  ”I say, Quintin, is your cousin still upriver with the Creek Indians?” the major asked. “They'll be useful allies when we sweep inland to drive those rebel pockets of resistance to ground.”

  “Devon may be anywhere. Boy's like the damned wind. Not like his elder brother, Andrew, who's solid as a rock,” Robert replied.

  Quintin scowled. “Devon has kept the Muskogee—or Creeks, as you call them, loyal to the British cause by delivering presents from his majesty to them, but as to using them in war...” He played with the crystal goblet of Madeira for a moment. ”I think it most unwise.”

  Robert's face was like a storm cloud, but it was Colonel Ashburton who answered. “How so, Quintin? They are fierce fighters.”

  “Yes, they are. Have you ever been in the back country and seen a massacre? Every subject born in this colony is familiar with what Indians can do when they go to war, I assure you.”

  “But the savages are under orders from British regular army, sir. I must protest,” the colonel replied in affront.

  Quintin scoffed. “Once loosed, no one controls a Muskogee war party. And they won't stop to ask whether a family is Whig or Tory before they scalp them.”

  “That scarcely speaks well for men like your half-caste cousin. He's always assured his majesty's government that his mother's people are loyal subjects,” Oliver said.

  “The poor devils only want to save their land. The army has promised to keep squatters out. That's one reason so many Georgians in the back country support the rebellion—land hunger. But I can guarantee you that if his majesty's government brings the Muskogee in on this war, it will drive a great many loyal subjects right into the arms of the Liberty Boys.”

  Colonel Ashburton considered Quintin's words, but his young companion snorted in derision. “Give us a few weeks in the back country and British steel will clean 'em out.”

  “Pray tell me more, Miles. When do you leave and who all is going on this sweep?” Quintin took a bite of juicy pink beef and washed it down with rich sweet wine. The dinner was progressing splendidly.

  * * * *

  “I noticed you did not mention your impending marriage to our honored guests. Having second thoughts?” Robert sat in a wing chair in his library, his eyes narrowed on Quint.

  “No.” Quint untied the ribbon that had held his shoulder-length hair clubbed at his nape. Rubbin his neck, he looked down at Robert in cold amusement. “The chit will serve well enough. She's plain, healthy, and has a modicum of education, so she should birth me no morons.”

  “Plain, eh?”

  “You know damn well I want no belle to charm all the men in Savannah and then let half of them lift her skirts.” He took a drink of fine cognac, smuggled from France, then laughed. “God above, if that old Calvinist spinster who raised her is any measure, Madelyne should be appalled enough on our wedding night that she'll want no man to touch her.”

  “Just so you touch her—and plant an heir in her belly that you know is your own,” Robert said.

  Quint leveled dark green eyes on the man he called father and asked cynically, “Can any man ever trust his wife enough to be certain his children are his own?”

  ”I chose the girl myself. Known her father for forty years. Good blood. Raised in the country by maiden aunts. You're a damn sight more fortunate than I.”

  Quint tossed down the last of the cognac, which had gone sour on his palate. “No need to preach to me. I'll wed her and bed her, but I will seek my pleasure elsewhere.”

  “Serena, eh?” Robert looked faintly amused now. “As long as you never thought to wed her, I have no argument with that, other than to advise discretion. She is Andrew's cousin by marriage, after all, and a lady.” Robert spoke the last word like an epithet.

  Quint looked at Robert with frank incredulity. “God above, you truly take me for a fool if for one moment you thought I'd wed Serena! I'm going out for a ride.”

  As Quint turned on his heel and quit the library, Robert stared into the dying embers in the fireplace and murmured low, “You're not the fool, Quintin, I am.”

  * * * *

  Quint rode swiftly from the city in the still night heat. He patted the big black's neck and murmured, “Domino, I bet you wish this weather would break even more than I do.” Horse and rider continued through the soft, sand-packed streets, Domino's hoofbeats muted and slow. Twice Quint was hailed by night sentries, once at Barnard Street and again as he left the city.

  Every British soldier in Savannah recognized the son of the worthy Loyalist, Robert Blackthorne. No one questioned his riding to Polly Bloor's tavern for a bit of fun. He headed northwest, following the twisting curves of the river until he saw the dimly winking lights of the Golden Swan high on the western bluff.

  He smiled, thinking of the first time a frightened lad of fifteen years had dared to set foot in the place, a purse clutched in one fist, asking for the services of a whore. Back then, Polly had been a toothsome wench if a man's tastes ran to big, fleshy blondes with wide smiles and ample breasts. She had been a good teacher for a green boy, Polly had, and he respected her honesty. She was a whore and made no pretense or excuse for it. Quint trusted Polly Bloor as he did no other woman.

  Of course, he and Polly were engaged in a totally different kind of activity now. A grim smile slashed his face as he dismounted at the tavern door. Bloody hell, how he would love announcing to Robert Blackthorne what he was doing. It might send the old son of a bitch into an apoplexy.

  A young stableboy who worked for Polly cheerfully took his horse. He flipped the lad a coin and entered the smoky interior of the tavern and coach house. Although the hour was late, business was still brisk. Two burly rivermen dressed in buckskins sat with huge tankards of ale before them, quaffing the warm, foamy brew and talking loudly. The scarred tables and chairs were made of sturdy oak and hickory, not the soft pine so prevalent in the area. Polly's customers were known to be hard on furniture from time to time.

  He wended his way between tables, greeting coach drivers, rivermen, planters, half-caste traders, and even a smattering of gentlemen from the city who came to Polly's for a sporting time. During daylight hours, horse races were often held on the flat open ground stretching behind the coach house. A great deal of money passed hands in Polly's place. Quintin's eyes scanned the room, but he did not see the man he was to meet.

  Polly Bloor came barreling through the doorway leading to the kitchen. “Quint, darlin', I been hopin' you'd get a thirst one of these nights,” she said, thrusting her ample bosom against his chest and enveloping his lean waist in her fleshy arms. She was a tall, rawboned woman who did not have to strain to kiss him full on the lips, even though he was six feet in height.

  “Yes, Polly, I had a thirst, but even more, I had a longing to see your beautiful smile,” he said as they walked companionably to a table in a secluded alcove. She yelled to the barkeep to draw two stout drafts of her best ale, then sat with him until the drinks were served.

  When the burly barkeep left, she winked at her guest and tossed off a stiff gulp of the ale. “Here's to old times, darlin’.” Looking around to make certain they were not overheard, she added, “Solomon Torres is upstairs. First door on the right. Lucy's in the room across from him. I’ll send her down to fetch you.”

  “Why all the extra precautions? We've always sat and shared a drink openly before.”

  Polly shrugged. “Solomon told me that he thinks he's bein' watched by some of Governor Wright's m
en. Most of the Jews in Savannah openly supported the rebel cause. Tis best if you aren't seen together.”

  “All right. Send Lucy down to entice me to her room,” he said as he tipped his chair back against the rough log wall.

  Lucy arrived, and shortly he was slipping into Solomon Torres's room undetected. The slim, sandy-haired man stood up at once and clasped Quint's hand in a firm shake. ”I trust Polly explained our problem. We may need to change our rendezvous after this. You can't be linked to any suspicious characters, my friend.” Torres's thin, angular face split in a wide grin, making him appear boyishly handsome.

  “We'll work something out,” Quintin said. “Our cause needs you, with your connections as a trader up and down the coast, as much as it needs me.”

  “What news have you got for me? I trust your father's bountiful table and wine cellar loosened the tongues of his guests?”

  Quint smiled grimly. “If only he knew how well. Tis almost too easy, Solomon. They bray about how quickly they'll crush the Georgia patriots and then give out every detail about troop movements, ordinance, anything I ask. As we suspected, they plan a sweep north to try to recapture Augusta—leaving in three days. Ashburton is marching with a battalion and about forty royal militia.” Quint proceeded to give a detailed account of men, weaponry, and marching order while Solomon wrote it all down in his own code.

  “Good, although I fear we won't be able to muster enough men to hold Augusta now. At least the state officers can escape to a less accessible location. I leave before dawn with my trading wagon. Once we're well up the road, I'll ride ahead for Augusta and tell Stephen Heard what to expect.”

  “You're a good man, Solomon. Let's drink to a successful—er, holding action against his majesty's troops.” Quint took the bottle he'd carried upstairs and poured two drinks, then handed one to Torres. “Rum is kosher, isn't it?”

  Torres laughed and drank with relish. “If not, I'm a poor Jew indeed!” He paused and looked across the table, the flickering candlelight softening his angular face. “How did you come to the patriot cause? Your family is staunchly loyalist, longtime friends with James Wright.”

  “Governor Wright is a good man in an impossible job, as are many Englishmen on both sides of the Atlantic. Look at all our champions in Parliament, men like Edmund Burke, even the Earl of Chatham himself. Yet no one listened to their warnings, and now the die is cast. As for me,” Quint shrugged, “let's just say I had a natural predilection to defy my father, combined with the patriot influence of my mentor while I was at university in Philadelphia.”

  “Your mentor?”

  ”A most remarkable man. A writer of subtle wit, elected as fellow of the Royal Society for his brilliant scientific studies. He had no formal education beyond being apprenticed as a printer in boyhood, yet he's become our most brilliant statesman—Ben Franklin.”

  Torres's eyes widened. “Our ambassador to the French court, who negotiated the alliance with France and Spain?”

  “Yes. A man of rare common sense. While everyone else was clamoring for war, Ben worked tirelessly in London for compromise, but when war was inevitable, he knew where his loyalty must lie. Tis not always an easy decision. Some, like my father, cling to German George with blind prejudice, but others genuinely believe we can keep our rights as Englishmen if we remain loyal and are patient. Once I hoped for that, too.”

  “But now it's gone past hope, and each man must choose sides.” Torres sighed. “All my family has been in the patriot camp, but I know you and your cousin are on opposing sides.”

  “Yes, Devon is an ardent loyalist. I always knew he'd take his stand with the British. His mother is half Muskogee, and the Confederation has always leaned toward the Crown. British soldiers are their only protection from the encroachment of our settlers.”

  “Balderdash. The royal governor's wrung cessions of land from them repeatedly.”

  “But the royal governor has made them dependent on the trade goods we bring them. Remember, even a shaky ally is better than an avowed enemy. The Muskogee—”

  Quint was interrupted by the sound of glass breaking, furniture cracking, and curses rending the air. A smile quirked his lips. “Something tells me that my cousin Devon has put in an appearance below.”

  The whole taproom was in chaos when Quint reached the head of the stairs. He scanned the melee of men punching and kicking, gouging and rolling on the planked floor, until he saw Devon's dark blond head in the thick of the brawl. His cousin was busily engaged in crashing a tankard of ale over the head of a huge, bull-necked fellow who obligingly collapsed onto the floor.

  Just then a deafening report from Polly's blunderbuss quieted the uproar. Men froze with fists raised and turned to where the buxom owner of the Golden Swan stood atop a scarred oak table, with a second piece sweeping menacingly across the crowd. “All right, you rum-soaked coxcombs! Next man jack to break anythin' in my place gets a taste of scrap pot metal in his gizzard.”

  A few bellows of laughter erupted. Men just engaged in mayhem slapped their foes on the back, and everyone settled down to eating and drinking once again.

  Quint, holding the rum glass in his hand, sauntered down the stairs, watching as Devon pinched a pretty young barmaid and then seized Polly from the table. Dev swung her, blunderbuss and all, to the floor as if she weighed no more than a feather. When he bent to kiss her, she scolded him.

  “First you nearly wreck my place, now you'd charm me, you rogue.”

  ”I had to defend the honor of Priscilla Watson from the slander Rafer Dooley was spouting. I'd defend you the same, Polly.”

  “You'd defend anything in skirts, then reach right up em—if she be pretty enough!” She allowed him to give her a fulsome kiss.

  “I might have known it was you wenching again, Devon,” Quint said.

  “And well I may, as I'm still a free man bound to no woman, while you, cousin, are pledged.” Devon's dancing brown eyes mocked Quint as a lazy smile slashed his face.

  Quint did not return the smile. ”I should've known you'd get word of my betrothal even in the back country.”

  “You're to be wed Sunday next, yet here you are consorting with Polly's lovely wenches. For shame, Quint.”

  ”Tis no joking matter, Devon. You know my feelings about leg-shackling. I'd none of the chit if my need were only for a bed mate.”

  Devon threw back his head of shaggy gold hair and laughed, clapping one long arm about his cousin's shoulders. The two tall, slim men strolled across the noisy taproom, sidestepping broken pieces of furniture, heading toward a table by the rear door. “Be a love and bring us more of the fine libation Quint is drinking, Polly my girl,” Devon called over his shoulder.

  As they took their seats on opposite sides of a narrow plank table, the dim light from a lantern made Devon's brown eyes and swarthy skin appear even darker, the only visible signs of his quarter Muskogee blood. The bold, sensual mouth, sculpted nose, and winged eyebrows were classically handsome and set off to perfection by his golden hair. He took a swallow of the rum Polly had set down in front of him and then said softly, “If you're so displeased with the chit as your black scowl bespeaks, you can leave her with the Muskogee.”

  Quint's eyes narrowed and he reached across the table, taking hold of Devon's shirt-sleeve. “What are you talking about? If this is one of your jests—”

  “Not at all. I just received a message from Mad Turkey's temporary hunting camp. It would seem they're offering hospitality to Madelyne Deveaux, late of Charles Town and environs.”

  As Devon related the details of Madelyne's misadventure, Quint swore beneath his breath. “We've not even wed, and already she's causing me trouble. Why the hell did she travel through that boggy swampland with a baggage cart? Any sensible female would wait for a drogger and sail down the coast.”

  Devon shrugged. “Why not ask the lady yourself? That is, if you feel inclined to accompany me when I rescue her. If not, I could be prevailed upon—”

  Now Qu
int's face split in a grin, but his eyes were like green ice as he interrupted. “I'd not trust you with the wife of a Salzberger pastor!”

  Devon laughed heartily. ”A pox on you, Quint. Our German settlers have hard-working, God-fearing women, but they do lack a certain—er, charm.”

  “Then you'll be disappointed in Madelyne too. The girl is plain and seemed dutiful. She won't tempt you, believe me.”

  “So, you did inspect your prize before agreeing to the marriage. Is she really paragon enough to make a confirmed misogynist like you end his bachelor days?”

  Quint grunted and finished his rum. “You know I have to have an heir.” At Devon's raised eyebrow and leer, his cousin added, ”A legal heir. That does require being saddled with a wife, but I'm at least certain I've taken all precautions to have one who'll not play me false.”

  Devon shuddered. “Being not only the black sheep of the family but also a second son, I need have no qualms about marriage and heirs. Anyway, I still think my mother's people have the right of it—trace descent through the maternal line. That way there are never any doubts about inheritance.”

  “Still Muskogee law punishes adultery even more rigorously than does English law.” Quint's green eyes locked with Devon's brown ones. “It would seem that men in all societies have reason to mistrust the wiles of women.”

  “Ah, but women offer us such compensations, I'm willing to overlook their defects.” Again came the slash of white as Devon grinned. “I'm most anxious to meet your plain little puss. God, Quint, I do hope she has some bit of spirit from her Huguenot ancestors. She'll need it! You are an overbearing bastard, you know,” he added with genuine affection.

  “Quite right,” Quint replied enigmatically.

  Devon raised his glass after the pretty barmaid poured him a refill. “Here's to your bride, Quint. We'll ride to her rescue at first light.”