by Henke, Shirl
Bastard.
Shaking off old nightmares, Quintin picked up his gift and headed up the large curving staircase, calling down to the houseboy below with instructions for his bath.
Madelyne stood rooted to the hall floor, watching the leather-clad savage bound up the steps. Merciful heavens, was this her future husband? The man who had ridden up to Aunt Claud's dressed like a prince from a storybook? Now his hair hung loose about his shoulders, and he was wearing the buckskin shirt of a backwoodsman, unlaced at the throat, with an indecent amount of black hair curling through the open front. How well she remembered that crisp hair, those hard chest muscles, and the pounding of his heart beneath her hands as he'd held her!
Rubbing his chest, Quintin reached the top of the stairs and looked up. Madelyne stood but a few feet from him. He sketched a bow as he observed her appearance. “A fetching gown. You look cool and refreshed after the long ride. Yellow becomes you.”
So did the clinging soft muslin cloth. He forced himself to attend to the business at hand, ignoring the dewy freshness of her skin and the way her dark, lustrous hair gleamed in the afternoon light A few wispy tendrils escaped, still damp from her bath. “Allow me to apologize for last night. I was drunk.”
Madelyne nodded woodenly, remembering her horrifying lapse into vulgarity, the awful word she'd hissed at him before she fled. “It would be best if we both forgot the encounter.”
His expression revealed how likely he thought that eventuality. “Yes, it would. That might best be accomplished if you refrained from wandering through the house with scarcely a stitch to cover your charms.”
Madelyne felt the blood rush to her face. She gave him a scathing inspection, from his windblown, unclubbed hair and unshaven face down to the leather shirt with its gaping lacing. He was actually rubbing those long tapered fingers across his chest! A frisson of heat snaked through her belly. Stiffening, she forced herself to reply to his taunt. ”I would say the pot is calling the kettle black. I had no earthly reason to expect anyone to be about when I ventured out unsuitably clad. Yet you actually rode from Savannah dressed thus—and have the nerve to lecture me on deportment!”
”A man has prerogatives reserved to his sex, mistress. And you are under my roof now, so you had best heed my warning.” His expression was harsh, then grew mocking as he extended one hand to her, holding out a book. ”I believe you dropped this in your haste to escape my talons last night.”
Madelyne forgot to breathe. Merciful heavens, it was that book! She had completely forgotten how she'd lost her prize! And he had retrieved it just to taunt her. “How kind of you to bring it all this way.” She reached out, willing her hand not to flinch when his fingers brushed hers as she accepted the book.
“Most ladies of my acquaintance would be scandalized by the confessions of an infamous English courtesan. Surely this isn't the sort of fare your Aunt Claud would approve.”
She clutched the book, refusing to back down. “That is precisely the reason I chose it.”
“Has your education been so constrained you feel a need for this sort of titillation?” He quirked one black eyebrow at her, waiting for her response. “Perhaps it would be best if you didn't read it. I feel confident I can instruct you adequately on our wedding night.”
“Perhaps I wish to broaden my education vicariously so I may make comparison after our wedding night.” What had she said? Madelyne watched his expression close. He stepped toward her, then stopped short and clenched his fists at his side.
“Only be certain, Mistress Deveaux, that you confine your education to vicarious experience in this area. If not, I assure you, you'll have cause to regret it!”
Chapter Six
Madelyne awakened late the following morning. Her sleep had been troubled by feverish dreams in which Quintin towered over her in anger one moment, then held her in a fierce, devouring embrace the next. She had not the heart even to open Fanny Hill. By the time she dressed and made her way downstairs, no one was about but servants efficiently engaged in running the enormous household.
Both Quintin and Robert had gone out on business for the day. Giving Mistress Ogilve a wide berth, Madelyne made her way through the house, trying to find some hint of warmth, something personal in the grand, cold rooms.
Looking out at the pleasure gardens on the hillside, she decided to cut some marigolds and daisies to bring at least a touch of life and vibrance into the perfect austerity of Blackthorne Hill. On her way out, she called Gulliver from his assigned place beneath the back porch. She and the dog passed several pleasant hours as she gathered and arranged bouquets with the assistance of a slave girl named Hattie, whose irreverent sense of youthful fun reminded Madelyne of dear Essie, forced to stay behind with Aunt Claud.
“I'll just place this lovely Meissen vase in the small sitting room at the rear of the hall,” she called gaily to Hattie. “That should be enough.”
“More than enough, making a mess with falling petals and pollen dust,” Mrs. Ogilve said, materializing from around a corner to plant her solid bulk firmly in the middle of the wide hall. “Master Robert has never wanted flowers in the house.”
Madelyne held the heavy vase like a shield in front of her. A showdown with this rude, imperious woman was inevitable. ”I bowed to your wishes and let my dog remain outdoors so he wouldn't shed on your carpets, but I see little harm in a few flower petals falling. There is an army of servants to clean up. If the master didn't want flowers in the house, it strikes me as odd that he allows such time and attention to be given to those enormous beds on the hillside.”
“They were planted by order of the first master.”
“Then it's high time we used their bounty,” Madelyne replied, stepping forward and forcing the dour housekeeper to stand aside or be dusted with pollen.
“What a curious place,” Madelyne murmured to herself as she entered the room and searched for just the right spot to set the flowers. The cosy little haven was bright, having two windows,one facing south and one facing west. Its furnishings were the cane sort popular in the West Indies. The colors were warm, vibrant yellows and lush light shades of green. She decided at once to make it her own sitting room since it appeared that no one in the house ever used it.
After placing the bouquet on a round cane table hung with a delicate yellow damask cloth, she looked about. Several chairs with high backs and plump stuffed cushions faced the magnificent view of the fields falling away behind the leafy branches of the majestic live oaks outside the western window. A settee stood against the inside wall, with a small, square table at each end. Madelyne made a thorough inspection, sitting in the chairs, then reclining on the settee, which she found to be most comfortable.
Suddenly a thought struck her. Could this room have belonged to Quintin's mysterious English mother? It fit with nothing in the rest of the house. Had Anne Caruthers ever spent time in the British Indies? Overcome by a premonition, Madelyne reached for a drawer at one side of the table and pulled it open. An old and very musty Bible lay alone in the small space. She took it out with trembling fingers and opened it. “Lady Anne Letitia Caruthers” was written on the flyleaf in a flowing, delicate script. There was no other entry. Madelyne replaced the Bible and was drawn irresistibly to the drawer of the other end table. It was stuck. She tugged until it opened.
Inside were several obviously personal items, some stationery, still faintly lavender-scented even though brittle and yellowed with age. A small bottle of ink had dried solid, and a quill lay neatly beside the ink. Then she saw it—just a faint glitter, wedged against the loose cane in the drawer's bottom. It was a miniature in a gold frame. Madelyne knelt on the floor so she could reach all the way back and pry the treasure free without scratching it.
“So, you were Anne,” she whispered, studying the beautiful, sad face in the tiny portrait. She was exquisite, with luminous green eyes and dark golden hair. Now Madelyne understood from where Quintin had inherited his perfectly aquiline features. Anne had
the same strong mouth and straight brow, elegant cheekbones and stubborn jaw. His was a stronger, masculine version of the same face, cast with his father's darker complexion and hair. She held the miniature to the light, absorbed in studying the hauntingly sad look in those green eyes when a tight, furious voice interrupted.
“What the hell are you doing snooping in here?” Quintin snatched the portrait from her fingers. Without even glancing at it, he threw it back into the drawer and shoved it closed.
Madelyne stood up on wobbly legs. “This was your mother's room, wasn't it? Why does no one ever speak of her?”
“You're right, Madelyne. No one ever speaks of her. She's long dead and best forgotten,” he replied tightly.
After days of confrontation and bullying from this enigmatic man, Madelyne felt a bright crimson flood of anger wash over her. “Best dead and forgotten! Every room in this house is filled to bursting with portraits of ancestors from hundreds of years ago. The illustrious Blackthorne family evidently saw fit to haul them all the way across the Atlantic. Why isn't the Lady Anne worthy to be honored among them?”
Quintin seized her shoulders and almost shook her. Recalling his loss of control the night he nearly raped her in drunken lust, he released her as if scalded and backed away. “There is only one thing you need to know, and you'd best believe me when I tell you—never again speak her name aloud in this house! Never!”
Madelyne saw the stark pain underlying his fury before he could turn and stride from the room. She stood numb and shaken, all her earlier anger drained from her. “By all that is holy, what kind of a family are the Blackthornes?”
Tears stung her eyes as she quickly left the lovely little place she had hoped to make a haven. Madelyne felt in desperate need of a comforting embrace. She sought out Gulliver behind the house, where he had been banished. She threw her arms around him and sobbed while he licked her face and thumped his tail. Gradually, as she regained control of her emotions, Madelyne looked across the yard to where the stables stood. Perhaps a ride would be a good idea. She needed to work off some of her fright and frustration before she had to face Quintin at the dinner table.
She changed quickly and used the servants' stairs at the rear of the house to slip undetected out to the stables. Gulliver shadowed her as she instructed a groom to saddle her mare, Speckles.
“You'll be needin' a couple of boys to ride with you, Mistress Deveaux. The countryside's full of them rebel rascals, cutthroats 'n thieves, all of ‘em. I'll—”
“No, no, that's quite all right. I have Gulliver here, and he's protection enough. I'll not go onto the main roads.” She could see the worried look in the young Irishman's freckled face, but she felt in no mood to wait for grooms. She wanted to be free of every vestige of the Blackthorne family at least for this afternoon.
Madelyne retraced her ride down the bluff road and observed the activity at the trading post for a few moments. Then she headed along a narrow trail through the back country, knowing it was too dangerous to chance riding the busy post road alone. After about an hour, her stomach began to growl, reminding her that in all the turmoil of the day she had eaten nothing. The frugal Mrs. Ogilve would doubtless find a kindred spirit in Claud Deveaux, who allowed no food to be served between seven and noon.
“If only there's an inn somewhere along this road,” Madelyne said to Gulliver. She had a few small coins in the purse at her waist, surely enough for a modest midday repast, although during these troubled times of war, the value of currency was in greater flux than ever.
The deserted back road held no hope of food, but if she cut across the fields toward the river bluffs, there was a lone inn she recalled passing on her ride here from Savannah. Madelyne knew it was dangerous to approach the post road alone, but this was Georgia, the only colony to retain its royal government. The rebel riffraff were scattered in the woodlands to the north. Feeling reckless and daring, she turned Speckles toward the post road.
After about half an hour, she scanned the bluffs ahead. A large frame structure stood silhouetted on the horizon. The wooden sign creaking in the breeze announced The Golden Swan, Mistress Polly Bloor, Proprietor. For all the grand-sounding name, the inn looked none too respectable, frequented by boisterous rivermen and sweaty planters. But surely if a woman owned the place, it must cater to respectable folk. She could see the insignia of the royal post carrier on one horse's saddle at the hitching post. Then a small, nattily dressed man with a meticulously groomed wig and velvet coat emerged from the inn. A handsome coach quickly pulled about, and he stepped in. Given the rarity of inns along the whole of the Charles Town-Savannah road, Madelyne knew it was here or nowhere. Her stomach growled. She approached the inn and dismounted, tying Speckles to one of the blocks, then venturing to the door.
The noise from inside sounded friendly, if a bit loud. This is the Georgia back country, not a Charles Town coffee house, she reminded herself as she stepped cautiously to the door. If there was no private room for ladies, she would, of course, leave. Letting her eyes adjust to the dim light, she surveyed massive smoke-stained beams stretching across the low ceiling and sturdy oak chairs and tables scattered about in cluttered disarray. Men of all classes of society ate, drank, and engaged in vociferous conversation.
The fireplace at the far wall was immense, and from the large iron kettle bubbling inside its stone walls a delicious aroma wafted toward her. In spite of the warm, stuffy room and the boisterous hum of voices, Madelyne wanted to be served.
A large blond woman of middle years saw Madelyne standing hesitantly in the door and swished her ample hips through the tangle of furniture toward her.
Polly Bloor noted the young woman's expensive clothes and beautiful mahogany hair, then saw the dog guarding his mistress. The proprietress greeted the lady. “So, you're the girl Quint's going to marry.” She gave Madelyne a thorough perusal. When the younger woman's level amber eyes met her hazel ones, Polly nodded approvingly. “You don't flinch. Need that if you're gonna stand up to the likes of Quintin Blackthorne—or that old goat Robert.”
“How—how did you know who I am?”
Polly laughed, revealing several missing teeth. “Only thing travels faster 'n gossip on the post road is a hurricane blowin' up from the Indies! I'm Polly Bloor, owner of this place.”
“I'm Madelyne Deveaux, Mistress Bloor, and I'm fearfully hungry. I know it's not proper for a lone female to dine in a public room—”
“That ain't anythin' to fret about. Ridin' alone with this gawd-awful war goin' on is risky, though.” She studied Madelyne's set features and then looked at the large dog standing beside her, eyeing the men inside the taproom. “I've a nice cosy room in the back where you can have a bite, all respectable and proper. Here, just let me show you the way around to the side entrance.”
In a few moments, Madelyne and Gulliver were ensconced in a small room just off the kitchen, where a servant was busily cutting sweet, honey-cured ham into paper-thin slices. The smell made her stomach growl, and the dog sat with ears cocked, his eyes glued to the juicy pink meat piling up on the wooden cutting block. Madelyne took a sip of lemonade and waited. So everyone in Georgia knew she had come to wed Quintin. Did they also know how unhappy her bridegroom was with the dismal prospect of her for a wife?
Polly bustled in with a plate heaped with sweet ham, sharp cheese, and crispy corn dodgers. Placing it in front of Madelyne, she added, ”I got a pot of venison stew that's rich 'n tender. Want a bowl of it, too?”
Madelyne smiled ruefully as she slipped a slice of ham to Gulliver. ”I fear I may not have enough coins to be such a glutton.”
Polly let loose a great booming laugh and replied, “Eat your fill. Quint runs a regular bill here. I think he’ll be able to afford all a little bitty thing like you can eat.”
“If he chooses to pay for it,” Madelyne blurted out, then felt color heat her face. What had she said? By tomorrow everyone in seven parishes would hear it!
A shrewd look came over Po
lly's round, kindly face. “So, Quint's not happy with old Robert's match. I figgered as much. It ain't you, dearie. It's just the idea of leg-shackling. Gets most wild young stallions like Quint real testy and chomping on the bit.”
“Especially if his father chose the bride.”
“Mind if I set down? We're in private, but you bein' a lady 'n all...”
“Please do join me.” Madelyne waved the older woman into the scarred oak chair next to hers. She smiled at Polly, deciding she liked her. “You can't know how starved I am for the company of another woman, Polly.”
“You were sent all the way from Carolina without any female kin. Then you met up with Serena Fallowfield in Savannah. That'd make any female right desperate.”
Madelyne stifled a laugh, then grew wistful. “She isn't very pleasant—at least not to me, although Quintin seems to enjoy her company a good deal.”
“He's enjoyed more 'n her company. So's many another man what took her fancy. She's nothin' special to Quint,” Polly hastened to add.
“At dinner in Savannah he seemed to feel differently.”
“It ain't Serena you gotta worry about, dearie. Quint'd never marry a wild one like her. Couldn't trust her. Trustin' even a good woman don't come easy to Blackthorne men. Stand up to him and always tell him the truth. That's what you gotta do.” She hesitated, watching Madelyne as she fed scraps of her meal to Gulliver.
Madelyne looked up, confused and uncertain about how much to discuss with this kindly woman. “You've known Quintin for a long time?”
“Since he was a lad. He's not had an easy time growin' up, but he's a good man.”
“You mean the enmity between him and his father was always this bad?”
