by Henke, Shirl
Red as blood, Quint thought. He chose one according to protocol and tested it with several thrusting and parrying movements. “This will serve, Malvern.”
Witherspoon, as the physician of record approved by both men,made his last formal and useless plea that the duel not take place. Quickly, Quintin and Ephraim took their positions on the flat, open ground beneath the willow, a famous dueling landmark just far enough north of the British-held city to be safe for Malvern.
For the first moments after the ring of steel resounded across the marshy river bottom, it seemed that Ephraim would easily win. He wielded the delicate blade like a seamstress handled a fine needle, thrusting with sure strokes that marked Quint several times, then parrying every attempt of Quint's bold offense with negligent ease.
”I don't like it. Malvern's drawn first blood,” Solomon whispered to Noble.
“Just nicks. Look how they're progressing from beneath the tree out into the sunlight,” the old doctor replied, sotto voce.
Quint almost had Ephraim where he wanted him, if only he could stay alive long enough to complete the maneuver! His seemingly rash desperation amused Malvern, who enjoyed toying with him. Just stay amused and condescending, you peacock...just for a few more minutes.
When they moved from the sheltering shade of the tree into the hard, clay-packed clearing, Ephraim felt the sun's sudden glare. He noted with satisfaction that Quint, too, perspired heavily as they circled each other, thrusting and parrying and counter-thrusting. Sweat beaded their faces and soaked the thin lawn of their shirts until the garments clung to their bodies.
Quint watched Malvern's face, noting the way he squinted in the bright light. That eyes bothering him. “Having trouble seeing, Ephraim?” he asked tauntingly. Although he never missed a move, Quint knew Ephraim wanted to turn and glare at Witherspoon.
“So, the good doctor has betrayed his professional ethics. I've learned to compensate, so it don't matter, Blackthorne.” He renewed the attack, now with far more seriousness, attempting to drive Quintin once more beneath the willow. One particularly deadly thrust sliced a huge rip in the left side of Quint's shirt, but he parried successfully, retreating toward the shade, yet arcing slowly around to meet a low-hanging limb whose swaying branches reached within five feet of the ground.
Malvern was moving from his right side toward the branches as Quint carefully let him attack, allowing several dangerous openings and taking painful slices from Ephraim's punishing blade. When Malvern was within a foot of the leaves, suspended without movement in the heavy air, Quint lunged recklessly, as if desperate. Ephraim laughed as he saw his opening—Quint's exposed left side. With a growl of triumph he closed in and thrust for the heart.
As swiftly as Ephraim moved, Quint moved with him, pivoting away as the blade sliced the sheer lawn of his clinging shirt. Ephraim felt the rustling willow leaves brush him before he saw them. He turned his head in reflex, trying to avoid them while at the same time recovering from the ineffectual thrust he'd made at Quint. The two movements gave Blackthorne the split-second opportunity he needed.
All the air hissed from Malvern's lungs as he felt the sudden clean, hard sting. “Amazing, it hurts less than a mere cut on the wrist,” he wheezed, dropping to his knees as Quintin withdrew his blade. It had penetrated between the ribs, cleanly into Ephraim's heart. He toppled forward and then rolled onto his back. By the time Dr. Witherspoon knelt beside him, Ephraim Malvern was dead.
Ephraim's second was a pompous cousin with hopes of inheriting the family estates now that the sole heir of Abner Malvern had been removed. He made a few token protests about the maneuver into the willow branches, but there was really nothing specific to reproach Quintin about, given the common knowledge of Ephraim's superior swordsmanship. It had been his intent to drive Quintin back into the shade. He had failed.
Solomon helped the dead man's cousin load the body onto his horse and then turned back to where Dr. Witherspoon was tending to several of Quint's freely bleeding injuries. Suddenly his eyes widened in startled surprise and he yelled out a warning, but it was too late. A small figure clad in ragged breeches and a gray shirt tumbled from the leafy boughs above their heads. The lad had lost purchase on a slender branch that snapped upwards with a rustling whoosh after being relieved of its burden.
Madelyne landed atop Quint's shoulders, toppling them both to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. Her hair came free of the leather cap she wore and spilled like rich red satin around his face and shoulders. A pair of.30-caliber Queen Anne's turn-off pistols landed several feet from them. Quintin seized her by her shoulders and thrust her away from him, then grabbed one silver inlaid pistol and rolled to his feet, examining it.
She could still smell the mixture of male musk and blood from his sweat-slicked body as she lay sprawled in front of him, dazed and relieved. Yet she was frightened, too, for he was drenched in his own blood.
Quint glared down at her as Solomon and Noble stood rooted to the ground in shocked silence. “What in the hell are you doing here and how did you get here?”
There was such a deadly edge to his voice that she took a moment to unstick her tongue from the roof of her dry mouth. How awful she must look to him! His disgusted perusal of her body attested to the fact. “I overheard the discussion about the duel and followed the road to the river—early, before dawn. Gulliver and my horse are over behind that clump of cattails across the slew.”
“And just exactly what did you intend with this?” He held the pistol in the palm of his hand.
She scrambled to her feet, feeling at a horrible disadvantage on the ground. “You're not the only one who's a dead shot, Mr. Blackthorne.”
Solomon's low chuckle rumbled across the still hot air. “By the Almighty, Quint, she'd have shot the blighter to save your miserable hide!”
“I’m deeply touched, mistress, but I fight my own battles.” His voice was as crisp and cold as a December frost.
“This duel was my fault.''As she lowered her eyes from his icy green glare, she murmured, ”I couldn't have your death on my conscience.”
“You'd better let me clean and bind those slashes before you bleed to death and ruin your wedding. Then you can settle matters with your lady,” Noble said, once more resuming his attention to Quintin's injuries.
“This hoyden is no lady. The wedding was ruined the day my father and hers proposed the damnable match.”
* * * *
If ever I see you in boy's clothes or in any other way improperly attired, I will tan that pretty little backside until you'll not sit a horse for a month. Madelyne stood in front of a large oval mirror in her room at Blackthorne Hill, recalling Quintin's coldly furious threat to her the afternoon of the duel. That had been a week ago. This was her wedding day. Ever since she was a young girl, Madelyne had dreamed of this day. Yet the pale face and haunted eyes staring back at her from the mirror did not reflect her dreams at all. A marriage made in hell, he'd called it. He despised her, and Madelyne could scarcely blame him after all that had happened.
She had reacted to his arrogant rudeness and irrational jealousy with a fierce temper and rash, cutting words. In that she'd been justified. But the misadventure with Malvern was sheer stupidity on her part, a reckless act that could have gotten Quintin killed. As if that weren't enough, she had not even been able to slip away from the dueling scene without being caught.
When her father arrived yesterday, over a week behind schedule, he had soundly berated her again for all her sins. Madelyne blinked back tears. No one had wanted her since Aunt Isolde died.
Madelyne ran her fingers lightly across the feather-light gold tissue of the overskirt, which was drawn up with silk tapes in the polonaise fashion over a darker gold brocade petticoat. The bodice of the gown was inset with a white silk stomacher elaborately embroidered with gold thread. A sheer gold tissue veil floated below her shoulders. It was fastened to a dainty turban perched among the elaborate curls atop her head. Soft slippers with high hee
ls and gold buckles peeped from beneath her petticoats. The gown and its accouterments were exquisite enough to surpass any girlish fantasy.
But the weight of the Blackthorne family jewels lay like a millstone against her bare throat. She touched the elaborate gold chain set with a dozen glowing emeralds in gradations. The largest one nestled like an icy green teardrop in the vale between her breasts, where the low-cut neckline of the bodice revealed a wide expanse of creamy flesh.
Beautiful. Cold. Green. The stones mocked her as cynically as Quintin's eyes did. At the marriage, he would place his seal on her—the large, square-cut emerald ring that matched the necklace.
She fought the urge to tear off the heavy jewels, the lovely gown and headdress, to flee this crowded mansion filled with strangers. Yet reason won out; she could not escape. The door opened, and the maid entered and bobbed a curtsy. It was time to go downstairs and face them all.
People filled the hall around the curving stairway, and hundreds more stood crowded in the large front parlor where the Anglican priest waited. Gentlemen sweated silently in fine satin coats, gold watches glittering, suspended on ribbons from their satin waistcoats. Ladies gowned in billowing skirts and petticoats undergirded to Herculean proportions with hip pads, rumps, and buns, were bedecked with garnets and pearls. Even diamonds winked here and there. Many wore velvet face patches cunningly cut in the shapes of stars and quarter moons.
Although the heat had led most men to disdain wigs in Georgia, a few older men held to the custom, while others powdered their own queued and curled locks in various shades from snow white to dark tan. The women were a bit less practical with their long tresses fantastically coiffed with cotton pads beneath the hairdos, allowing them to rise a foot or more above their brows. Satin calashes and silk turbans were elegantly sprinkled among straw bonnets.
Overflowing the rear hall and out onto the grounds about the house were all the family servants, ebony faces mixed among the paler complexions of indentured bondsmen,all glowing beneath the hot afternoon sun. Everyone had turned out to celebrate the marriage of the heir to Blackthorne Hill.
Quintin waited at the foot of the stairs, his face expressionless as he looked up to where Madelyne would make her descent on Theodore Deveaux's arm.
When she turned the corner and paused at the top of the stairs, the bride could sense the ice-cold stare of her groom. Then her eyes met his and everything changed. The air, so still and thick, suddenly seemed charged with electricity, as if a storm had just blown inside the house.
She allowed herself to drink in the splendid maleness of him. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black silk broadcloth coat, the cuffs lined with bottle green. His waistcoat was of matching dark green satin, and his long legs were snugly fitted with black satin breeches. Unlike many other men, he wore his raven hair simply clubbed back with a thin black silk ribbon, no curls, no powder. The white silk stock at his throat made his swarthy face seem even darker. The chiseled lips were straight, turned neither up nor down, but in his eyes she saw the fire—cold fire. Fierce anger burned in the green gaze that was riveted on her, anger...and something else.
God above, she is beautiful! Quint watched her float down the stairs encased in a golden glow, managing the elaborate gown as if it was no more than a simple shift. All that glorious mahogany hair was worked into silky curls spilling about her bare, creamy shoulders. Even before she came close, he could smell the enticing essence of honeysuckle, her special fragrance.
Quint cursed his body, which defied his iron-willed determination to remain cool and detached through this endless day. He could feel the tightening of his loins, feel the heat steal from there and circulate all the way to his fingertips. His heartbeat accelerated as she drew near. Then he stepped forward, taking her hand from old Theodore's, and walked with her through the press of people into the big parlor. A benevolently smiling priest waited with his Book of Common Prayer. He would wed them to each other for life.
Madelyne tried to still her trembling when Quintin took her cold hand in his warm one. She felt chilled in spite of the heat from the crowd. Somehow Quintin's steady grip gave her an odd sense of strength. As they knelt before the priest, she dared a glance at his profile. He was so splendidly handsome, so strong. If only he did not despise her. If only he wanted the marriage...as much as she did.
This was her chance. Given some of the callow boys and fat, smelly old men who had courted her, Madelyne realized that she could have done far worse than this mysterious, vulnerable man who had some long-buried pain lurking beneath his facade of harsh words and tautly leashed desire. Surviving a childhood with Robert Blackthorne must have been a sad, bitter experience.
In spite of Quintin's mistrust of her, he did desire her. A spark flashed between them each time they touched. She had responded to it with anger and shock, but also, if she was honest, with pleasure. He was an enigma, a man with a mysterious background who mistrusted all women. She vowed, even as she uttered the solemn promises of the marriage ceremony, that she would teach her new husband to trust her...perhaps even to care for her one day.
When the priest gave his final benediction, Quint rose and assisted her with his warm, steady grip. She looked up into his eyes, but could read nothing. He's schooled himself to hide his true feelings from everyone. But brandy broke down even the strongest man's resolve. Perhaps he perceived her as his weakness and, mistrusting women as he did, resented her intrusion into his life. Madelyne dared a smile at her new husband as they walked through the parlor to the stately cadence of the recessional. He returned the smile, but somehow it did not extend to those icy green eyes.
“Gloating, madam?” he whispered with a flash of white teeth.
“Merely trying for a hint of appropriate amiability, considering the circumstances.” She returned his whisper. All the while they both nodded and smiled at the press of well-wishers as they made their way from the crowded parlor to the front hall.
“We must show ourselves to all the servants gathered outdoors. Tis an old custom my grandfather began when he brought his first bride to Blackthorne Hill.” Quintin led her out onto the long porch with its massive columns, where they waved to a sea of men, women, and children of all ages and colors.
“All these people work for the Blackthorne family?” she asked in amazement. She'd realized the plantation was large, but this was incredible.
“We have nearly six hundred black slaves in addition to over three hundred indentured servants. Then there are all the free men who work for our lumber mills and ship our trade goods and cash crops up and down the river.”
“This is an empire. If you had searched in England, you could have married a noblewoman.”
“My father did marry a noblewoman,” he replied tautly.
A sharp retort froze on her lips. Until she had solved the mystery of Anne, she would blunder no further.
Quint assisted her down the low, wide steps into the crowd, and they accepted congratulations. Madelyne felt the sincerity and genuine joy radiating from the sea of beaming faces. She watched Quintin laugh with burly laborers, accepting handshakes, even fatherly pats on the back from wizened old men. He knelt and accepted hugs from giggling children, seeming to genuinely enjoy their affection. Would he be a good father? Here was a side of the cold, arrogant Quintin Blackthorne that she had never seen before. Several comely young women eyed her with thinly disguised jealousy and took advantage of the opportunity to kiss the master and “wish him happy,” as Phoebe Barshan, the housekeeper's niece, said coyly.
Madelyne knelt in the grass and accepted a bouquet of fragrant magnolias from one shy little slave girl. The goodwill of these simple people touched her deeply. No one who worked for Claud Deveaux would have responded this way. Perhaps I can make a home here...if only I can win Quintin.
He watched Madelyne mix with his people, seemingly pleased to do what many a haughty Savannah lady would have found demeaning, and it touched him more deeply than he felt comfortable admitti
ng.
Just then Solomon tapped him on the shoulder, drawing his attention from the celebration. “This message was delivered by our rider from Savannah,” he said, handing Quintin a sealed letter. No one in the crowd took note as he slipped it inside his waistcoat.
Madelyne felt Quintin's hand curl beneath her elbow, lifting her from where she knelt, talking with several children. She turned expectantly to him.
“I've something urgent to attend to. If you wish, you can freshen up before the revelry begins.”
After they returned indoors, Quintin excused himself and vanished toward the library. Madelyne quickly found herself surrounded by strangers. Their felicitations, although delivered in far more elegant language, did not seem as open and honest as those she had received outdoors. Her head ached, and she was swelteringly hot in the crowd of overdressed men and women awash in perspiration and perfume.
When Andrew Blackthorne took her hand and saluted it, she felt a warm sense of relief just looking into his earnest, smiling face.
”A bride so soon deserted by her bridegroom? I shall have to upbraid my cousin,” he said with a wink.
“Quintin had business to attend to in the study. He promised to return in a few moments.” She felt called upon to defend him.
“Soon the dancing starts. You and Quintin are to lead off the first reel. Tis a tradition in the family.”
“This family is filled with all sorts of obscure and interesting customs, I find.”
”I shall be more than happy to interpret them for you,” Andrew replied, leading her toward the hall. “If you like, I'll escort you to a place where you can sit in quiet for a few moments.”
”I would be most grateful.”
Before they could make good their escape, Robert bore down upon them with several British officers in tow, including General Prevost, commander of the occupation forces in Savannah. With all due pomp, he introduced his new daughter-in-law to the doughty old Swiss mercenary, as famed now for his temper as for the amorous exploits of his youth. There was a stock joke that half the junior officers in the British army were Augustine Prevost's get. Tall, with a beaked nose and an imposing thatch of silver hair, the general saluted her hand with great relish.
