by Henke, Shirl
Madelyne panicked. He was so big, so forbidding, scowling at her, touching her. His long tapered fingers dug into her arms through the sheer white batiste, scorching her. His warm breath washed over her. He smelled of brandy and another unidentifiable essence, male and compelling. She pushed at him with the book, trying in vain to put space between them. He wrenched the volume from her hands, then seized one slim wrist. She lost her balance and tumbled against him, long hair and voluminous clothes wrapping about them both.
Quintin dropped the book and clasped her to him. His breath was labored and his whole body rigid with lust. He could feel her squirming against him as soft little mewling protests formed on her lips.
“Damn, don't you have anything on but this transparent stuff? Tis less than mosquito netting!”
“Let me go. You're drunk! I'll scream the house down,” shegasped.
His grip was so strong that it squeezed the breath from her. “So, scream and bring my father and all the servants to see you half-naked, roaming alone through the corridors.”
“You are despicable! First you insult me and make it plain you are loath to wed me; then you attack me. You are no gentleman, sir!”
“And you are...what are you, Madelyne?” He studied her small, heart-shaped face. The wide-set eyes glowed like amber and her hair—God, her russet hair—gleamed black as ink in the dim light. He tangled one hand in it and pulled her soft open mouth up closer to his. When she tried to turn away, he tightened his hold on her hair, immobilizing her head until she grew very still, staring up at him like a rabbit caught in a snare.
Madelyne watched those sculpted, elegant lips draw closer and closer to hers. He's going to kiss me. She tried to relax, but now the panic was being replaced by another, even more disquieting emotion. She became aware that his shirt was open and her fingers sank into the springy black hair of his chest. Every inch of him was lean and hard, splendidly made. God help me, I want him to—
Quintin kissed her, slowly at first, tasting the sweet heat of her mouth, feeling its pliancy as he worked his lips over it, slanting his mouth against hers, first one way, then another until he felt her respond. His tongue probed delicately at the seam of her lips until she opened for him; then he plunged inside. He was losing control, all inhibitions being thrown to the wind by liquor. The kiss grew deeper, more possessive, more savage.
Madelyne melted at the first brushing contact of their lips, thrilled at the firm way his mouth seemed to command hers, moving and tutoring her responses. When she opened and his tongue invaded, twining with hers, a hot jolt of raw pleasure bolted through her, right down to her toes. Her fingers involuntarily clutched at the hard muscles of his chest, but gradually his kiss seemed to go out of control. He ground his lower body against hers, holding one buttock in his hand, lifting her up to press into him as his caresses continued to roughen. Alarmed, she began to push ineffectually against the iron wall of his chest. His breathing was labored, and he began to shake uncontrollably as he pulled her down toward the carpet.
Just as he knelt, she gave one final, desperate shove and twisted free of his grip. Caught off balance, Quintin's hold loosened and she wrenched free, letting out a harsh sob of pain as his fingers tore loose some strands of hair where it had tangled around his hand.
“You bastard!” She backed away from him in terror, but Quintin remained frozen on one knee, looking up at her, his expression harsh, his eyes blazing.
“More than you know,” he whispered.
Madelyne rubbed her stinging temple where the hair had been torn, then gathered up the folds of her robe and fled like a wraith from the man kneeling in the moon-drenched room.
* * * *
The morning was hazy and overcast as she sat sweltering in the confined space of Robert's two-wheeled chair, a favorite conveyance on the rough back country roads of Georgia. The light-weight vehicles were built for speed but were sturdy enough to withstand mud, potholes, and deep ruts in the uneven trails that passed for royal highways.
Madelyne cast a cautious glance at Robert's profile as he held the reins in his strong dark hands. She could see little resemblance between father and son. Robert's face was craggy and blunt, while Quintin's was finely sculpted. He must resemble his mother.
Nothing had been said of the long-dead Lady Anne, an English noblewoman wed to Robert after his family had grown rich in trade. She desperately wanted to understand this troubled family, but feared to ask the fierce and unpredictable Robert anything of a personal nature. Still, it seemed unnatural that a woman of such illustrious lineage, as her father had described Anne Caruthers, would not be remembered by so much as even a single portrait in the huge city house filled with likenesses of all the Blackthornes.
Perhaps when they arrived at the plantation she would learn more of Quintin's mother. I really want to learn more of him, she admitted to herself. After his frightening and inexplicable behavior in the library, she had spent the rest of the night dreaming strange, disturbingly erotic dreams.
Just thinking of what he had almost done to her—no, truthfully she had to admit, with her—filled her with humiliation. But soon he would have the right to her body. What would happen then? He had been so angry with her last night, almost as if he blamed her for his bestial behavior. But you did respond to his kiss, a voice of conscience niggled.
On rising that morning, she had both dreaded and anticipated confronting him, simply to gauge his reaction to last night. Would he apologize? Or remain cold and aloof? Madelyne had her speech of reconciliation carefully rehearsed, determined to mend the breach between them and to understand the demons that seemed to drive Quintin Blackthorne. But damn his soul, he had not appeared at breakfast.
Robert had informed her that she was to ride with him to Blackthorne Hill. Quintin had some business in town and would be along later in the afternoon. She derived a small measure of satisfaction thinking of the headache he must be stricken with after consuming so much liquor.
On the ride to the plantation, Robert was morose and silent for the most part. Finally, after several false starts at conversation, she drew him into discussing his various business ventures. He was inordinately proud of the wealth he had accrued from buying and selling land and growing beef cattle and other livestock, especially fine horses. Blackthorne Hill also grew a substantial rice crop as well as being virtually a self-sustaining kingdom where all basic food staples were raised on the premises.
“Place has been in our family since m' father bought the first plots from Mr. Oglethorpe back in '35. Of course, the first house was of wood, a good bit smaller than the brick one. Sits on the river bluff. I can see my fields and my stock, survey it all from the front porch.” Robert's voice was filled with intense pride.
”I understand the Blackthorne family is also commissioned as his majesty's agent in trading with the Creek Confederacy.” She dared not ask about Devon directly but was curious about him and Andrew.
“We trade with about a half dozen of the Lower Creek towns. Deer hides for weapons, iron tools, cloth, rum and such like. It's profitable,” he said in a detached tone as if it held little interest for him.
“Is it wise to sell rum to the Indians? I've seen it wreak enough havoc among the lower classes of white men.”
Robert snorted in disgust. “Keeps 'em in line. The savages crave rum worse than whites, but they drink it in the back country. Only rebel squatters wandering into their lands are at risk from drunken Indians. Serves 'em right.”
“Yes, I suppose that's true. Certainly Mad Turkey and his warriors were most hospitable to me. They were traders. Do they come to Blackthorne Hill with their hides?”
“Not that close. Those that bring goods to us deal at the warehouse on the river. Our men more often take shipments to them in the trading towns.”
“Is that Devon's job? To live with the Creeks and regulate the exchanges?” His expression darkened, and he affixed her with slate-blue eyes so cold they reminded her of Quintin's equally icy gree
n ones.
“You will be best advised not to discuss Devon Blackthorne with anyone, Madelyne. He is a half-caste and a rogue. The family is disgraced by what he is and how he conducts himself.”
“Quintin seems on good terms with him,” she dared to venture.
Robert's face was hard as he replied, “They are the same age and grew up together when my brother Alastair was still alive. I believe Quintin befriended Devon simply to defy me.”
“On the contrary, I think they are genuinely fast friends.”
Robert turned and faced her with his most daunting stare. “You are a bold and sassy chit, just as Quintin said. I fear Theo has misled me as to your biddable nature.”
Madelyne bristled but struggled to control her anger. “That is scarce surprising. My father has seen me but a few days a year since my mother died when I was five.”
A shout interrupted their confrontation. One of the servants riding ahead of them raised his hand and waved.
“Just around that bend will be your first view of Blackthorne Hill,” Robert said by way of explanation.
Madelyne watched anxiously as the chair turned, following the narrow, rutted road into a clearing along the banks of the Savannah River. The river's course was sluggish and twisting here. Just where it made a sharp turn, a huge bluff rose majestically above the wide-open land along its banks. Pens filled with horses, cattle, and swine were laid out at the northern edge. A large dairy, a poultry house and a tanning shed all lent their pungent odors as they rode nearer. The loud ringing of a smithy's hammer on an anvil broke through the noises from the livestock. Situated right on the banks of the river stood a large wooden building set up on stilts to keep the flood water from inundating the first floor during rainy seasons.
“Is that the trading post?” Madelyne asked, fascinated by all the sights, sounds, and smells of the busy plantation.
“Yes. The trading pirogues can pull up to the front porch at high water to load and unload goods.”
Several huge, unwieldy flat-bottomed boats burdened with cargo bobbed in the current next to the wharf that fronted the post. As Madelyne studied the craft, the sun suddenly broke through the sullen overcast, reflecting brightly on the muddy waters of the Savannah. She shielded her eyes and turned to gaze northward toward the bluff. At her gasp of astonishment, Robert actually smiled.
“Quite a sight, isn't it?”
“I've never seen its like in Charles Town.” She was rewarded with the most sincerely pleased expression she had yet seen on Robert's usually harsh, scowling countenance.
As the chair climbed the winding bluff road, the extent of Blackthorne Hill's glory unfolded before Madelyne's amazed eyes. Plots of every imaginable sort of vegetable were neatly interspersed between apple, peach and pear orchards. Below on the swampy river plain hundreds of acres of rice fields lay under cultivation. Two big kitchen buildings were bustling with cooks preparing the evening meal for an army of servants and slaves as well as special delicacies for the family. An elegant coach house and a long, sturdily constructed stable stood near the road as it crested the hill. Formal gardens bordered by boxwood lent fragrance and vibrant color to the scene. But everything was merely a backdrop for the big house that sat in the center of it all, like a sentinel guarding all the workers and the wealth of Blackthorne Hill.
If Madelyne had thought the city house grand, this one defied description. It was easily twice the size, the massive brick walls symmetrically broken by huge windows, open to admit the steady breeze that blew across the heights. Towering live oaks shaded the shingled roof, cooling the interior.
Dozens of men and women, black and white, obviously all house servants, neatly lined up along the curving driveway leading to the front door. As they alighted from the carriage, Madelyne noticed one woman, plumpish and tall with coarse, mannish features and piercing black eyes, who stood apart from the rest.
She curtsied obsequiously to Robert, her gray buckram skirts rustling as she moved. Madelyne imagined her to be the kind who would starch even her undergarments. The plain white cap covering her salt-and-pepper hair was crisp and snowy in the wilting afternoon heat.
“Welcome home, Master Robert.”
He nodded, then took Madelyne's hand and presented her to the staff, beginning with the head housekeeper. “This is Mistress Ogilve. She has run Blackthorne Hill most efficiently for thirty years.”
The woman flushed a bit beneath his praise and simpered a smile at Robert, then turned hostile assessing eyes on Madelyne, the new mistress, as if warning her not to interfere in her domain.
Madelyne forced a bright smile and tried to look as cool and presentable as she could in the heat. Robert proceeded down the impossible-to-remember line of indentured servants, slaves, and free workers, presenting her as the future mistress of Blackthorne Hill. All she could think of was a cool drink and a long soak in a tub, but she kept the smile pasted on, trying desperately to put names with faces as each servant was introduced.
Whatever else the shortcomings of her marriage, she would be accorded wealth and prestige far beyond any she had ever imagined. The Blackthornes must be as prosperous as any family in the colonies. But Madelyne would have traded all of it if the man she was to wed truly wanted her.
When the ordeal was finally over, Robert left her to the care of Mistress Ogilve, who escorted her upstairs. “This’ll be your room for now,” the housekeeper said as she opened the heavy oak door and marched into a lovely small room near the end of the long second-story hallway.
Madelyne followed her into the tidy room, filled with Queen Anne furniture. The coverings on the canopied bed were solid dark rose, with the color repeated in the rose-and-blue carpet in the center of the room. Although tastefully decorated, the room seemed cold to Madelyne. Her pretty bedroom at Isolde's had been more simply furnished with a turned bedstead and delicately inlaid chest of drawers. The pale green-and-gold bed hangings and carpet had given it a warm and cheery feeling. Even the walls of this room were covered with rich silk fabric in the same somber hues as the rug.
“After the marriage, Master Quintin may want you to move to the bedroom at the head of the hall.” The housekeeper's eyes were crafty and assessing, as if waiting to see what Madelyne's reaction would be to the cryptic remark.
Refusing to rise to the bait, Madelyne asked instead, “Would you be so kind as to send a tub and bathwater up for me? And I'll need a maid to assist me in changing.”
Tight-lipped, the housekeeper bobbed a curtsy. “Very good, Mistress Deveaux.” She rustled out, leaving Madelyne to wait for a maid before she could even peel the linen traveling gown from her body. Her stays bit into her ribs, and her fine lawn undergarments felt as if they had melted against her skin.
Later, as she lazed in the tub, Madelyne reviewed her first impressions of Blackthorne Hill. She felt tremendously overburdened. For all the grandeur of the estate,there was a soullessness to it. The downstairs rooms were lavishly furnished with the older more baroque William and Mary furniture. The carpets, chandeliers, wallpaper—every furnishing and fixture in the house—was the best that Europe could yield. The decor was carefully planned as if by a woman's hand, each room elegantly outfitted to blend with the others and to please a man who wanted to flaunt his wealth while pretending to taste.
Had the dead Anne Caruthers selected the beautiful rose-and-blue patterns, the Sevres china, the Sheffield silver—all to please Robert Blackthorne? Then why was there nothing left of feminine warmth in the grand old house? Each room was meticulously clean and ordered, yet none of the small personal touches that said people lived and laughed and loved were present. The walls were hung with old family portraits, the most recent being one of Robert as a young officer at the opening of the late war against France in 1757. No portraits of Quintin as a child and none of the mysterious Anne seemed to exist. Why?
Hearing the clatter of hooves on the front driveway, Madelyne had an intuition that Quintin had just arrived. A fine prickle of goosebump
s spread across her wet skin in spite of the sultry air. Quickly she rose from the tub and began to towel herself dry, feeling oddly vulnerable in her nakedness.
Quintin entered the cool interior of the house and went immediately to the large sideboard in the dining room where Delphine, the head cook, always kept a large ewer filled with tangy, cool ale. His head was splitting from the effects of last night's overindulgence, and the long hot ride had certainly not helped ease the pain. Pouring a tankard full of the foaming golden liquid, he downed it in several gulps, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took a deep breath.
In keeping with his usual custom, which sorely irritated Robert's sensibilities, Quintin wore no coat when he rode, only a loose shirt of soft buckskin, with the lacing open down his bare chest. He looked as savage as Robert always accused Devon of being. Indeed, it was from Devon that he had learned to enjoy the unconventional but far more practical back country clothes.
Quintin took another swallow of ale, then looked down at the dusty leather pouch he had carried from the city. A slow smile played mirthlessly across his lips. He had been constrained to purchase the expected bridal gift for Madelyne, a gaudy and costly set of matched pearl jewelry, but this little token would give him far more pleasure than the pearls when he presented it to her. He opened the pouch and extracted it.
After a bath and change of clothes, he'd seek her out and offer it to her, along with some sort of apology for his behavior.
He swore as he remembered the fiasco last night. He had lost control of himself and attacked the girl like a rutting stag! She had the damnedest effect on him, and he didn't like it. What insanity had brought her, half-naked, floating into his private domain at two in the morning? Grudgingly, he had owned up to the need for at least a few perfunctory words of regret for his actions, but she was scarcely blameless in the matter. He'd make that quite clear. His face felt hot as he recalled the stinging epithet she'd flung at him. How he'd grown to loathe that word. His earliest childhood memories seemed filled with it.
