by Henke, Shirl
Abner Grimes, the head stableman, came out to greet him, a surprised smile on his pox-scarred face. “Thank the Almighty you've returned, Master Quintin!” When he bobbed his bald head, the sun shone on his pinkened pate.
Quintin dismounted, giving Abner Domino's reins, then followed the old man into the dim interior of the stables. “What the hell's going on here, Abner? The yard looks like a fire tore through here, yet everything else is in order.”
“Well, sir, some Liberty Boys come callin'—outliers, really, they was. The mistress, she sent 'em flyin. Poured a vat of boiling soap on ‘em, she did. ‘Course, your cousin, Master Andrew, he 'n some of his men, they come along 'n helped her out. The mistress was that glad to see ‘em, what with yer father bein' laid up with his fever again 'n you bein' gone...” He rubbed down the big black as he talked.
Quint's face darkened. “So my cousin just happened to ride by and rescue her, did he?”
“Oh, not such an accident, I guess, what with him callin' so often. Sort of watchin' out for her in yer absence, sir. He's even been teachin' her to shoot a Jaeger rifle and a Queen Anne turn-off pistol. A woman needs protection in these troubled times.”
The garrulous old man talked on, but by now Quint wasn't listening. Protection, indeed! “I'll be at the house. Domino's not the only one in need of some grooming.” He stalked to the back door and strode down the hall in search of Madelyne, then nearly collided with the imperious old housekeeper.
“Thank heaven you're here! Master Robert is taken with that fever again and everything's in chaos, Master Quintin.”
“So I've noticed,” he replied tightly. “Exactly what did happen out there, Mistress Ogilve?” He gestured to the ruined yard he'd just traversed.
“Well, sir, it's not my place to criticize the mistress...” She hesitated, waiting for his urging.
“Just tell me what you know, woman!”
“She had one of the slaves turn a vat of soap over to frighten away some riffraff who'd come riding up. Of course, she needn't have done so, for Master Andrew was at hand with his men to protect us. Since you went away, he's been ever so solicitous—not that he wasn't before, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Well, after the whole debacle was over, the yard was in shambles. Needless waste, sir. I've tried to suggest, as much as it's proper for one in my position to do so, that the mistress leave the running of household matters in my hands. After all, your cousin and his men could have handled that man of Malvern's without her getting in the way.”
His eyes narrowed. “Luke Vareen? A big brute with a scarred face?” The bastard with Ephraim on the post road, the one her dog chewed up!
Agnes Ogilve fought down a smirk of satisfaction as she nodded. “Twas that trashy one, yes, sir. Whatever he thought by accosting her here, I'll never understand,” she added primly.
“Where is my wife now, Mistress Ogilve?”
She appeared to be flustered. “Well, she and Master Andrew went off shooting earlier today. I'm really not certain where...down near the slew, I think.”
He spun on his heel and retraced his steps to the back door once again. As it slammed, the head housekeeper smiled smugly.
Madelyne swam across the pool of water at the far end of a small slew that fed into the Savannah River. It was well hidden, canopied by dense stands of bald cypress and willows, surrounded by reeds and water hyacinths. She had discovered it only a few days ago after she and Andrew finished a shooting lesson. Recalling how pleased and amazed he was with her progress, she smiled. Poor dear Andrew. If only Quint possessed his patience and kindness.
Quint. He had been gone for more than six weeks with only one cold, impersonal note saying he had been delayed in Wilmington. As if what they shared by night meant nothing to him—but then, she was afraid it did mean exactly nothing. He was using her to provide Blackthorne Hill with an heir. He did not love her. Why had she been so girlishly foolish as to let herself fall in love with him?
She closed her eyes and floated in the soothing water, willing her thoughts away from her husband. Recalling her small victories as mistress of the plantation over the past weeks, she smiled with satisfaction. Even Robert seemed to respond to her a bit better. She'd nursed him with patience and gentleness, although his behavior was enough to try a saint.
That hateful housekeeper was losing ground. With any luck she'd convince Robert to give her charge of the housekeeping staff and Mistress Ogilve's ledgers within a fortnight. There were certain discrepancies she wanted to—
“Enjoying your bath, my pet? I'm amazed my dear Cousin Andrew isn't about to frolic with you.” Quintin stood with his shoulder against the trunk of a willow, his arms across his chest. He looked like an outlier himself, unshaven and dressed in filthy buckskins. Madelyne knew that look—he was furious.
She splashed water all around her as she faced him, sputtering and coughing. “So, you finally decided to return home. I thought the British had you in the Carolinas.”
“Doubtless your devoutest wish, but no, obviously they did not.” He began stripping off his clothes with rough jerky movements as he talked. “I've heard all about your escapades at the house.”
“Distorted versions by that hateful Mistress Ogilve, I’ll wager!”
“If you stayed indoors like a dutiful wife, you could have met me and forestalled her tale,” he said as he finished peeling down his tight buckskin pants.
Madelyne felt her mouth go dry as she watched the play of light through the leafy branches of the tree make patterns on his lean, muscular body. He untied his hair and shook it loose about his shoulders, then started toward the water.
“What are you doing?” She couldn't keep a small squeak of alarm from her voice. He was so irrationally jealous. Surely he couldn't believe she and Andrew—
“I'm going to bathe, a luxury I've been denied these past weeks in the Carolina swamps.” He looked around the hidden pool. “How did you discover this place? I thought no one had seen it since Dev and I were boys.” He paused and scowled. “I forgot. Andrew used to come here, too—to spy on us and tattle so I'd get a caning for associating with my disgraceful half-breed cousin.”
He dove into the water and surfaced beside Madelyne. She quickly moved away. “You've never liked Andrew, have you? Boys do petty things—things they should put behind them when they're grown.”
He smiled but it was a cold parody of amusement. “Oh, we're all grown-up, all right. In fact, right now I'm thinking some very grown-up thoughts indeed, but first I'll wash the swamp stench from my body.”
He dove beneath the water and came up several yards away, then began to swim across the pool to where she'd set her towel and some toilet articles beside Speckles. He left the water only long enough to grab her bar of soap,then plunged back in. When he broke the surface, he narrowed his eyes at her. “Speckles has no saddle.”
”I like to ride bareback when I'm alone.”
“You also like to swim naked…when you're alone,” he added silkily. “Where did you acquire all these unorthodox tastes? Somehow I can't imagine your aunt Claud approving.”
“She tried to break my spirit by taking away everything I loved—every simple pleasure Aunt Isolde taught me to enjoy. It was my mother's sister who raised me—to be free. Claud made me a prisoner.”
“And you saw me as a means of escape?” He looked at her with obvious incredulity on his face.
“No, Quint, I saw only an angry man who didn't wish to wed me but agreed to it when he believed me to be someone I'm not. Tis you, not me, who repents our marriage.” She turned in the water and swam away from him, fighting desperately not to cry.
Quint rinsed the soap from his hair and tossed the bar onto the shore with an oath, then swam after the water sprite whose floating masses of dark hair and milky breasts incited him to unreasoning lust. She was in the shallows when he caught her. He grabbed one slim ankle and pulled her back into the water with a loud splash.
“Perha
ps I do repent our marriage, but tis done, Madelyne. You're my wife and I never share what's mine—not with Andrew, not with any man.” He held her tightly against his body as she thrashed in the waist-deep water. Then, using one hand, he held her jaw tightly and forced her to look up and meet his eyes. “Did you let him touch you?”
Madelyne could see the anguish beneath the anger, and something inside her softened. He said he had put childhood memories behind him, but she could still see the scars of Robert Blackthorne's cruelty, set deeply in his pain-filled eyes.
“No one but you has ever touched me, Quint. Or ever will.” She held his fathomless gaze, willing him to believe her.
Quintin studied her beautiful face, so earnest and imploring. Before he could think rationally, his body, so long denied, reacted. He bent down and took her mouth in a fierce, possessive kiss.
Joyously, Madelyne wrapped her arms around him and returned the kiss, letting her lips open and welcome his invading tongue. They stood locked in an embrace as the water lapped around them. Then Quint lifted her buttocks and whispered against her throat, “Wrap your legs around me.”
She obeyed and he slid into her. She gasped at the hot, sudden pleasure as he began to thrust slowly while holding her in the warm water. The sensation was totally new this way and very erotic. Madelyne combed her fingers through his long, wet hair and kissed him again, moving her hips to the rhythm he set.
After a few moments Quint could not keep his body under restraint. He began thrusting faster, harder, out of control as he savaged her pliant body. And Madelyne clung to him, blind with passion, willing him to understand her love in the only way she could express it.
When his whole body went rigid and began to shake, she felt a sharp, piercing thrill. As he spilled his seed deeply within her, she joined him in the surge of swift, glorious release. He stood in the water, holding her as she clung tightly to him. Both of them were shivering and mute, unable to meet each other's eyes, afraid of what they might reveal.
Chapter Fifteen
September, 1780, Savannah
Phoebe Barsham opened the latch on the gate and stepped inside the high, enclosed courtyard at the rear of Andrew Blackthorne's city house. The smell of garbage assailed her nostrils, but she had smelled worse in London's East End. The glow of rats' eyes greeted her from the refuse heap by the fence. She didn't flinch, but tossed a stone at them and they scuttled off. She'd seen rats in London, too.
But now her lot in life was about to change. She knocked on the rear door and waited until an old harridan of a kitchen maid opened it.
“Go away. It's too late ta be peddlin' vegetables er the like.”
“I ain't ‘ere ta sell vegetables. I'm ‘ere ta see Mr. Andrew Blackthorne.” At the old crone's skeptical look, Phoebe shoved her aside and entered, drawing on her considerable height to intimidate the maid.
“Just tell 'im Phoebe's ‘ere with some information 'e's been wantin'.”
She was shown into a small, dimly lit rear parlor. Andrew turned to her as soon as the door was closed and snarled, “Are you insane, coming here?”
“Well now, I was real careful. No one seen me.”
“You stupid cow! You're just as incompetent as that bastard Vareen you sent to me. He botched the job. Madelyne scarcely needed rescuing from a pack of men who couldn't even stand upright!”
“T'weren't Luke's fault she throwed boilin' soap in ‘is face. 'E's blind in one eye now.” She shivered in revulsion, remembering what Luke Vareen had looked like with his new disfigurements.
“Why have you come here? You were to send me word through the tavern by the waterfront.”
“No time for that. I got some news you'll be wantin'...wantin'real bad.''
His brown eyes grew darker as he narrowed them on her. “What news?”
“It'll cost ya. I wants me papers from the master. Wants ta shake the smell of cow shit 'n country from me shoes fer good.”
“Tell me what you have and I'll consider it.”
“You 'eard ‘bout thet Jew feller bein' arrested last week? Solomon Torres. Now 'e's a real special friend of the young master.”
The hairs on the back of Andrew's neck prickled in premonition. “Yes. He's accused of spying for the damned rebels. All those Jews are a pack of traitors.” He waited, watching the greed in her eyes. She had come to Savannah with the Blackthorne household for the opening of the fall social season. Her aunt had seen to elevating her from the dairy to the parlor. In her new post as maid, what could Phoebe have overheard to send her rushing to him like this?
Reading his thoughts, the crafty chit said, ”I ain't tellin' no more till you pays me.” She stuck out her chin pugnaciously.
Andrew studied her a moment, then shrugged and walked over to an escritoire in the corner. Unlocking it, he opened a small box inlaid with mother of pearl and counted out a hefty portion of silver coins. “This should pay for your papers and allow you a good start in your new life.”
Phoebe's eyes gleamed with avarice as she scooped the pile of silver into her pocket. “Tomorrow night, after Governor's Wright's ball, Quintin Blackthorne 'n some of ‘is patriot friends er goin' ta row out to the prison boat 'n rescue Torres. I 'eard 'em plannin' it. Yer cousin, the fancy heir ta Blackthorne ‘ill, ‘e be a rebel spy!”
A surge of elation swept over Andrew. He threw back his head and laughed. This was too good to be true, but a bítter street urchin like Phoebe was not clever enough to fabricate such an outlandish tale. It must be true. He could already imagine the horror on old Robert's face when he received word of Quintin's death—as a traitor! “Tell me all the details you overheard. Who's involved with my cousin? When and how do they plan this rescue attempt?”
* * * *
Phoebe walked north on Abercorn Street toward Broughton, retracing her steps across the city from Andrew's house to the master's. But soon Robert Blackthorne would no longer be her master, and his son, who had rejected her in favor of that pale, skinny stick of a wife, would be dead. She would show them—especially her Aunt Agnes, who was always correcting her speech and sniffing at her morals. She would be free of them all. Slowing her step, Phoebe patted the coins in her pocket again.
It was a fatal mistake. A long thin arm caught her by her throat and yanked her back into a copse of cabbage palms. She kicked and fought, but her attacker was terribly strong.
A familiar voice whispered, “Surely you didn't think I could allow you to live, knowing I betrayed my cousin to inherit his fortune? Foolish, greedy Phoebe.”
She struggled harder as Andrew murmured a sigh and cut her throat. Quickly he ripped open her pocket and retrieved the coins he'd given her. Then he rolled her deeper into the trees and vanished into the darkness.
* * * *
Considering that the countryside was ravaged by war, Governor Wright's gala appeared opulent indeed. A slave orchestra played a sprightly tune while a glittering assembly of satin- and lace-clad ladies and gentlemen danced, talked and laughed. Port and Madeira flowed freely, imported from Portugal at great expense. The formal dinner would be a sumptuous repast of dozens of courses, each served with wine. The upstart rebels might terrorize the countryside, but in the coastal cities of the South, the Royal Navy protected ocean trade. Any luxury a loyalist family could afford,they might purchase.
Serena scanned the crowd of powdered heads, quickly catching sight of Quintin's black hair. He always stood out—taller, darker, utterly splendid, a lithe panther in a roomful of milling sheep. She patted her own raven locks and began to make her way toward him as he slipped through a set of open doors leading into the gardens.
That pathetic little chit Madelyne had finally left his side and was talking with Andrew. Poor fool. She actually believed he was her friend! Let the two of them discuss books and politics. Serena had other plans. Her gown was the sensation of the ball, cut low across her breasts, falling in a bouffant train from her shoulders down her back. The brilliant crimson taffeta caught the candlelight, sendin
g off glittering sparks with every rustling move she made.
“Are you tired of her yet?Or are you still trying to get an heir on her, Quint darling?”
Quintin turned at the sound of Serena's purring voice and stifled an obscenity. “I'd prefer not to discuss my wife, if you don't mind, Serena.”
“As you wish, Quint darling.”
“I’d also prefer you to drop the endearment. It might be misunderstood if anyone overheard us.”
She laughed and took his arm, leading him across the lawn toward the privacy of a tall box hedge. “How stuffy and proper you've become. Marriage must be taming you. Who'd ever have thought it.”
Her remarks hit too close to the truth. Quintin felt a surge of anger. He quirked a brow at the coldly beautiful woman and said, “Being tame and proper are qualities marriage never instilled in you, nor ever could.”
“Ah, Quint, if I'd but wed the right man. For you I'd be whatever you wished me to be.” She put a note of earnest entreaty in her voice, then added sadly, “But you had to go and marry your little Huguenot. I miss you, Quint.”
“You miss my attentions in bed, Serena, that's all. You don't really want marriage—at least not the sort I'd demand, with fidelity and children to inherit Blackthorne Hill.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You're certain your little Huguenot wife is such a paragon of faithfulness, then? La, of course! She must be horrified at what you make her submit to in bed, but dutiful enough not to protest,”
He laughed hollowly. “You just might be surprised, Serena.”
She studied the harsh, angular beauty of his face in the moonlight. “You were right earlier. Let's not talk about her. Let's talk about us.” She glided closer to him and wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him toward her.
He began to unloose her clinging hands when she pleaded, “Just one kiss...it'll be good-bye, Quint. I've lost you.” She squeezed out a tear from beneath thick black lashes.
