by Henke, Shirl
”I see no pole,” he said with a scowl as he looked from the cow to Phoebe.
The dairymaid's sniveling turned into a smirk. “She attacked me, Master Quintin, whilst I was only doin' my job.”
“That's a lie! I threw the pole in the grass and told her to help me free the Jersey. She refused.”Madelyne wrenched away from him and knelt beside the cow. “Here, see, she's caught.”
Quintin swore and strode over, pushing Madelyne out of the way. He reached down with both hands and stroked the cow's leg as he examined it. “Pat her nose and keep her quiet while I work her leg free.”
Madelyne did as he'd bidden her, all the while watching his hands—those lean, strong hands that had caressed her with such skill, now gently touching the Jersey with the same assurance. He deftly freed the hoof, checked it for injury, then stood up, brushing off his pants.
“She's fine, just wedged herself into a rabbit hole.” He gave the Jersey a swat,and she trotted obediently down the road toward the dairy. “You'd best attend to your job, Phoebe,” he said, dismissing the girl before she could protest. Then he turned to Madelyne. ”I expect no better than churlish fighting from the likes of that one,but I'll not tolerate it from my wife. Look at you, half-naked, filthy, disheveled.”
Madeline's anger returned, roaring down on her like ocean waves. “She abused that poor animal, disobeyed me, and then attacked me! What was I supposed to do, let her strangle me? Perhaps that would suit you. Then you'd be rid of a wife you never wanted!”
She turned and began to run up the road, tears blinding her until she tripped. Gulliver followed her and then fell to licking her face as she knelt in the dust, utterly miserable.
Quint could see the rise and fall of her breasts where her chemise and bodice had been ripped loose. Her hair spilled across her shoulders in tangles. He wanted to scoop her up and carry her into the tall, sweet meadow grass where he could pull the rest of her clothes free and silence her tears and protests with a kiss, his hands caressing... Shaking free of the hold she had over him, Quint took Domino's reins and walked him over to where she and the dog were sitting.
He reached down and extended his hand. “You can't go running up to the front door in this condition, Madelyne. Come, I'll ride you around the back way,” he said.
The odd note of gentleness in his voice broke into her misery like a ray of sunlight after a storm. This was as near an apology as she'd ever receive from this aloof, arrogant man. She reached up and took his hand, allowing him to help her stand. Then he mounted the stallion and scooped her into the saddle in front of him. Cradling her in his arms, he rode slowly across the pasture, circling toward the rear of the big house at the top of the bluff.
Neither of them saw Phoebe turn and watch them ride away. Her black eyes were filled with hate.
Chapter Ten
Madelyne sank back into the tub of warm, scented water and sighed. Her body ached from head to toe. She was scratched and bruised, but above all her pride was again in tatters. Quintin had let her off at the rear door and taken Domino down to the stables. “At least he didn't defend Phoebe, and he waited to berate me until after he'd dismissed her,” she murmured to herself dejectedly.
As she soaked away the grime from her brawl with the serving girl, Madelyne thought about the past several months since Quintin Blackthorne had stormed into her life and turned it upside down. His shocking confession the morning after the wedding had explained many things about his behavior—and Robert's. She shivered in the warm water, thinking about the bitter, loveless childhood her husband must have had. Old Robert was not a forgiving man, not even to an innocent child.
Madelyne had renewed her vow to break down the barriers that separated her from her husband and to teach him to trust her, but her success seemed to reach no further than their bed. He made love to her each night with such feverish abandon that it brought a flush to her body even thinking of it. But his passion for her was itself a double-edged sword, for the more he desired her, the more he resented her for making him feel vulnerable.
He was afraid to let down his guard and give his heart to a woman. Again she puzzled about the Lady Anne. Why had she betrayed her marriage vows and left an innocent child to suffer the consequence of her sins? How had Robert found out? How sad for Quint to have no memory of his mother, just a legacy of hatred for all of her sex.
Madelyne barely remembered her own mother, but what little she could recall was sacred, and she'd had a lifetime of love from Aunt Isolde as consolation. Quint had grown up with nothing. “If only he could love me as...” She sat up in the tub, splashing water all about the floor of the dressing room. The sentence seemed to complete itself in the still warm room ”...as I love him.”
Love him? How could she love a cold, arrogant whoremaster who had bedded every woman in the colony and despised them after—none more so than she! Yet all he had to do was look at her with those burning green eyes and she melted like wax in the hot Georgia sun. God help her.
She sank back into the tub, replaying the bitter pattern their life had become. Each night he came to her bed and claimed his right to her body. Her young, starved flesh always responded so wondrously to his touch. Yet Madelyne craved more—a warm smile, a tender kiss, to be held and cherished when their passion was spent, but Quint never offered those things. He simply rose and left her to sleep alone in her bedroom while he returned to his.
Hot tears slid down her cheeks and dropped into the rapidly cooling bathwater as she recalled the humiliating scene several weeks ago when she had finally worked up her courage to confront him.
Quint had just rolled away from her and slid from the bed, beautiful and arrogant in his nakedness. As he reached for a navy banyan and belted it about his lean hips, she had sat up in bed and clutched the sheets about her, gathering her nerve.
“Must you leave?” Her voice was husky, partially because of her satiety, but more because her throat was dry with fear.
He quirked an eyebrow and looked at her. “Our mutual needs have been assuaged, haven't they? Why should I stay?”
She felt her cheeks heat and lowered her lashes. “Because...that is, I had thought it the natural thing...for a husband and wife to talk, to have some exchange of civility or affection, not just…”
“Just bedsport?” He supplied the crude word easily. “Be grateful for your passionate nature, Madelyne. At least you enjoy the act. Many ladies, so I'm told, abhor it and its logical consequence—the breeding of heirs.”
“And that's the only reason you wed me—to ensure a male heir for the Blackthorne property. No need for a shred of kindness between us as long as I perform my duty.” Her voice rose with anger. “You leave the house for the day and confine me to it. You can't even abide the sight of me at the breakfast table! I can't live like a prisoner in a gilded cage, Quint!”
“Would you rather return to your aunt Claud's charming house? Considerably less gilding, but a cage, nonetheless.”
“Not a cage of my choosing.”
“Your father made you a good bargain, Madelyne. Here you have wealth, position, and a life of ease. I don't even require that you beat rugs to learn Christian piety—only that you give me a son.”
“You make what we do so calculated, so heartlessly cold.”
Quintin had laughed with withering scorn. “Ah no, my dear little wife, what we do is anything but cold.”
Madelyne dashed the tears from her cheeks and forced herself to put the sordid confrontation from her mind. It had solved nothing, nor would rehashing it serve her. She was exhausted, physically and emotionally. Lying back in the tepid water, she let her mind go blank and drifted off to sleep.
Quintin gave Domino a thorough rubdown himself, trying to work off the baffling surge of anger that always followed his confrontations with his wife. She had looked so small and vulnerable kneeling in the dust of the road with tears streaking her dirt-stained face. Phoebe was vicious and jealous, traits which had quickly led him to abandon her bed.
Doubtless Madelyne's story was true.
And yet you turned on her and hurt her again. He cursed, then gave the stallion an affectionate swat and headed to the house. He'd sluice off by the well and then go upstairs to change for dinner.
When he reached the top of the back stairs, Quintin paused to shake the excess droplets of water from his hair. He'd already unfastened his shirt and shrugged it off as he entered his room. The thick carpet muffled the sounds of his boots as he pulled them off and tossed them for Toby to pick up later. He kicked his trousers into the pile of clothes and headed for his dressing room, padding silently across the floor. The sight that greeted him when he opened the door caught his breath, then knocked it from his chest as if he'd been dealt a blow by a smithy's hammer.
Madelyne lay in the big brass tub in the center of the dressing room with her head resting against the tub's rim. Long, silky, mahogany hair hung over the side, spilling onto the floor. Her chin was tilted up, her disturbing golden eyes closed, and her dark amber lashes fanned across her cheeks. She was sound asleep.
Quint walked closer and watched the rise and fall of those perfect little breasts. With each breath the warm, perfumed water lapped against their pink tips. Her legs were bent to fit in the round tub but he could still see the dark reddish curls at the juncture of her thighs, submerged in the water.
His body was hard, his breathing labored. Lust swept through him, just looking at her, smelling the musky honeysuckle essence of her. I'm besotted by a slip of a girl, he thought furiously. Yet he knew what he would do—must do. Seizing a soft linen towel from the chair against the wall, he strode to the tub.
Madelyne was awakened by Quintin's deft fingers stroking with silky insistence along her collarbone, then moving lower to break the water, teasing her breasts, which instantly sprang to tingling life. When she opened her mouth to emit a soft little gasp, half surprise, half protest, he silenced it with his lips.
Quintin lifted her wet, gleaming body from the tub, continuing the kiss as he carried her into his room, leaving a trail of water across carpet and polished oak floors.
“No, Quint. You can't do this. The servants—’’
“You should have thought of that before you fell asleep in the tub in my dressing room,” he whispered, continuing to feast on her wet, perfumed throat.
“Toby was out and Nell couldn't lift that heavy tub to drag it into my room—”
“Bother the tub,” he said hoarsely, tossing her onto his bed.
“I'm soaking wet.” She bounced up, leaving a wet stain on the brocade coverlet.
He took the towel from his shoulder and began to rub her dry, starting with her shoulders, then massaging lower to caress her breasts, belly, thighs. When she moaned, he let a low growl of laughter escape, then buried his face in her damp hair, inhaling her fragrance.
She felt his warm breath against her skin. All thoughts of stained bed linens were forgotten. I should hate him for using me thus... But she didn't. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him close. Already she ached for his possession, her hips arched and her nails dug into the muscles of his back. She could feel him tense as he roughly pulled the towel from between them and threw it to the floor. He parted her legs and thrust deeply into her.
With unconscious volition, her legs wrapped about his hips, pulling him closer and deeper as she matched his wild, abandoned pace. He muttered an unintelligible oath as his mouth again found hers and plundered it.
She was so tight, yet so wet, so perfectly made to sheathe him. With no other woman had it ever felt this way. Somehow he knew it never would with another again, but the disturbing thought quickly fled as he felt her reach her release and blindly followed her over the precipice, tumbling into hot, sweet surcease that robbed him of breath and speech and rational thought.
Slowly, as if returning to consciousness after a drugged sleep, Quint rolled to his side and raised his head to stare down at her. Taking a lock of sweet, damp hair in his fist, he held it up to the waning afternoon light, letting the burnished glory of it catch fire. His eyes were troubled when he turned them to meet hers.
“Why is it always like this between us? I can't stop taking you this way any more than I can stop saying hurtful things to you.”
Beneath the puzzlement, Madelyne could sense wariness and pain—or was it merely regret? Never before had he seemed this vulnerable. Perhaps it was her chance. She reached up and stroked his cheek, tenderly brushing his shoulder-length raven hair back so it did not shadow his face. What could she read in those fathomless green eyes? Listen to me, Quintin Bíackthorne, my beloved. Listen to my body…my soul. She placed her fingertips on his lips, then replaced them with her lips. She kissed him softly, like the fluttering of butterfly wings, lightly brushing his mouth with hers.
“We've made a rough beginning, perhaps, but we can still make things better between us. We're bound for life, husband, but it need not be so hurtful a union if only you will try to trust me...just a little bit.”
The ghost of a smile played about his lips. “Trust does not come easily for a man like me, betrayed at birth.”
”I know, Quint.”
He looked uncomfortable as he admitted, “I've never told anyone, not even Devon, about my bastardy—no one until you.”
”I knew that, too,” she replied softly.
“Woman's intuition?” He actually smiled at her.
”Tis a very private pain,Quint. You only released it in anger because you feared what was growing between us. You've fought it ever since that night in the library of the city house—and don't say it's merely lust.”
His brow creased in a frown. “Then what would you call it, Madelyne? Love?”
I dare not reveal too much...too quickly. She caressed his brow, smoothing the wrinkles. “Perhaps not...exactly, but given time we might...”
A sharp rapping sounded on the bedroom door, and one of the houseboys called through the heavy oak. “Mastah Quintin, Mastah Robert wants you at the horse pens. One of yo hosses got hisself loose 'n can't nobody catch 'im.”
“I'll be right out.” Quintin disengaged himself from his embrace with Madelyne, then on impulse leaned over and kissed her on the top of her nose. “You have freckles,” he whispered irrelevantly, then slid from the bed and gathered up his discarded clothes.
She watched the sinuous beauty of his hard body as he dressed. She could still taste the faint salty musk of his skin, feel the crisp black hair spread in such cunning patterns on his body. If only they had not been interrupted, what might he have said? How might he have responded to her questions?
Madelyne felt a heady warmth about her heart as she recalled his tenderness. This time he had not withdrawn in anger, cold and aloof when they finished making love. Perhaps this new openness was a sign that he was ready to meet her at least part of the way. She would make him love her. She would!
In the midst of buttoning his trousers, he looked over at her guileless expression as she stared at him. ”I won't be long.”
“I'm not going anywhere, Quint.” Not now that I've finally gotten as far as your room . . . your bed.
After Quintin left, Madelyne stretched as lazily as a cat, then threw back the sheets and rose. She wandered into her room and closed the door lest Toby, Quintin's elderly black valet, return and find his master's wife undressed. She selected a gown for dinner and was about to ring for Nell to assist her with the lacings when the door to Quintin's room opened and closed. Surely he couldn't be back this soon. Madelyne walked through the connecting dressing closet and opened the door silently. Some sixth sense made her cautious. Peering through the slit of the opened door, she smothered a gasp.
Quintin's valet, Toby, had opened his master's desk and was extracting a volume that looked to be a ledger from inside the cabinet. But Toby, she knew, could neither read nor do sums. What was he about? The hair on her nape prickled as she watched him place an envelope inside the ledger, carefully close it, and replace everything undisturbed.
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As soon as he left the room, Madelyne reentered it and walked to the desk. For a moment she hesitated, then pulled down the gate and slid the ledger out. Her hands trembled as she opened the heavy volume. The pages separated right where Toby had placed the message. I shouldn't open it. It's for Quint—or is it? What's going on here that a servant knows about and I don't?
Madelyne slid the folded pages from the ledger and began to read:
British regulars from Gov. Tonyn sweeping up Florida coast. Alert E. Clarke. Good site for ambush at ford of Altamaha.
She paused as her eyes blurred over the seemingly incredible words that she must surely have misread. Against her will she read further, skipping down the page of tightly written notes and instructions:
Cornwallis delays facing Gates until he can muster more ordinance. Expect British ships at Wilmington within week. Cargo manifest: 55 cannon, howitzers and mortars (amounts unknown), two ton shot, 2,300 pounds bullet lead, 30,000 gunflints. Once supplies reach Cornwallis's officers, the general will move into South Carolina with all dispatch. Americans must be warned...
The paper fluttered to the floor, dropped from her nerveless fingers. The evidence contained in the note was damning, and it was clearly the bold penmanship of Quintin Blackthorne. Madelyne struggled to breathe as scenes from past months flashed before her eyes. She could see Quint laughing and exchanging confidences with Govenor Wright, entertaining British officers, casually questioning and encouraging them when they discussed military matters, often urging them to drink more than her Calvinist sensibilities felt decorous.
My husband is a spy and a traitor to his king and country! How desperately she wished that she had never opened the bedroom door—or ever trusted naively in her foolish love for Quintin Blackthorne.
“And I was fool enough to wish for a wife who could read and cipher.”
Madelyne whirled, her back against the sharp edge of the desk's drop leaf. She knew that every ounce of blood had drained from her face as she tried to swallow over the dry, hard lump in her throat. “It would seem there is more to your mysterious past than just your heredity. Tell me, is Robert also a traitor?”
