Love A Rebel...Love A Rogue (Blackthorne Trilogy)

by Henke, Shirl

  “You're a most unconvincing actress, Serena,” Quint said with a mirthless chuckle, but he lowered his mouth and met hers. All the tension of the past days welled up in him as he savaged her lips. Was it defiance of the hold Madelyne had on him? Or simply frustration over Solomon's deadly plight? At that point he didn't care. A moment's uncomplicated passion freed his mind of all other thoughts.

  Quintin did not hear Madelyne's soft gasp of pain when she rounded the hedge and saw him locked in a heated embrace with Serena. She stood frozen in astonished horror for an instant. Then fury swept over her. “You filthy hypocrite! Accusing me of your own sins! I hope you both rot in hell for this. You deserve each other!”

  Quint broke free of Serena in time to see his wife turn and flee toward the side exit from the gardens. He untangled Serena's clinging hands and ran after Madelyne, who was surprisingly fleet of foot in the full regalia of a wide hen basket overlaid with layers of petticoats. Her peach-silk skirts vanished around the corner of the house, but he was gaining on her. Just as she reached the end of the passageway between the Governor's house and the garden wall, he caught up to her.

  Madelyne felt his strong hands on her shoulders and tried to break free, but he easily turned her to face him. He held her immobilized with one arm around her waist while his other hand clamped over her wrist. “Let me go, you whoreson cur!”

  “Lower your voice,” he commanded. ”I don't fancy having to duel half the idiotic men in the colony because I've offended your delicate sensibilities.”

  “My sensibilities are quite intact, thank you. Tis you who have none—not a shred of decency.” The tears came now, burning and blurring her vision, dissolving the cleansing anger into pitiful, whimpering pain. “You humiliated me—castigated me for enjoying your touch, told me I was a harlot for ever speaking of such base physical cravings. Well, from now on, husband, you'll be better pleased with your wife. I despise your touch, and I'll never again respond to it!”

  He held her, but she ceased struggling now, just looked up into his face with contempt that struck him like a blow. Quint felt a sudden sense of desolation. Perhaps one careless moment's indulgence had cost him something very precious.

  “We need to talk, Madelyne, but not here, not tonight. I have to—”

  “Toby told me what you're going to do tonight. God help me, I've even become party to treason for you.”

  “We'll be missed at the dinner if we don't return.” He paused, then added, “Or do you want Serena to gloat? She's achieved her ends now.”

  “Frankly, Quint, I don't care a fig if Serena turns handsprings across Governor Wright's rose garden. Neither of you is worth the rope to hang you.” She slipped from his hold and retraced her steps toward the house with him trailing after her. “Cousin Andrew has asked to escort me to table,” she could not resist adding for spite.

  * * * *

  The Tybee Island prison ships loomed like black mastiffs on the horizon, silhouetted in the waning rays of moonlight. The air was calm and still, awaiting dawn—and another day of hell for the hundreds of men who lay dying aboard them.

  Quint crouched at the edge of the sound, looking toward the narrow neck of water where two flat islands met. “You're right, Noble. I can smell the stench from here. It's enough to turn a man's guts. How can civilized men treat prisoners this way?”

  The old physician shook his head. “I've heard our government holds British prisoners farther north under similar conditions. War's never pretty, and this is the ugliest kind. When I was aboard to treat our men last week, six more had died of smallpox. Some of them tried to inoculate themselves by using fluid from the pustules of infected men. Sometimes that works, but under the conditions they're forced to live in...”

  “Does Solomon have smallpox?”

  “Not when I checked him, but he's weak, Quint, very weak. I told you about the rations.”

  Quintin cursed. “Forcing Jews to eat pork or starve. Those royalist militia guards knew what men like Solomon would do, damn them to hell!”

  Just then Tom Johnwalker came crawling through the low, marshy grasses to where they were concealed. He was a hulking backwoodsman, who moved with surprising agility for his size. His grizzled face split in a wide grin as he whispered, “All our men is ready, Quint, 'n German George's boys is all sleepin' real easy, thanks ta the rum ya sent ‘em.”

  “An anonymous contribution to the cause, I assume?” Noble said, peering over his spectacles.

  Quint snorted. “They didn't question where it came from, just swilled it down. Now let's go to work. Noble, you and Hosea's men are to wait here with the horses.”

  “If he's not in shape to ride, I'm taking him home with me,” the doctor said stubbornly. He and Quint had not agreed earlier about the wisdom of that idea, but Noble was determined.

  “Let's pray it doesn't come to that,” Quint said grimly. He signaled to a small party of men who shoved two Indian canoes into the black water. As he climbed into the first canoe, he heard Johnwalker whisper.

  “I'm coverin' you from the shore, Quint. Any sign of trouble 'n me 'n my boys'll be on 'em like stink on a skunk's tail.”

  “Just don't be too hasty, Tommy.” Quintin and his men glided into the water, silently, their oars muffled with thick woolen padding. The night was ink-black now, the moon almost gone, the first rays of dawn yet to come. This was a desperate gambit, one he knew his superiors would disallow, but Solomon Torres was rotting aboard that ship because he had gone to the pier in Quintin's place, to receive a message from Franklin.

  The Muskogee canoes were far superior to clumsy ship's boats—light, swift and easily maneuverable. They glided up to the side of the hulk on which Noble had ascertained Solomon was imprisoned. So far, absolute silence reigned. Quintin tossed a loop of rope about the rigging suspended over the bow of the ship and secured it, then climbed up carefully. Once he cleared the deck, he scanned the blackness for any sign of the watch. A low snore from a crumpled figure lying on the deck greeted him. The fat guard clutched an empty jug of rum on his chest.

  Let it work. Quint signaled for the others to come aboard, then followed the diagram of the ship Noble had drawn him. He had committed it to memory days ago. They moved down the companionway into the back of the ship. Not a single guard stirred. A prickle of unease raced up and down Quint's spine. Then he heard the restless noise of prisoners—moans, curses, coughs. The stench was enough to pull at his guts by this time. He struggled to breathe as he knelt at the grate to the hold, then hefted it up. The creak seemed louder than a screaming panther in the night stillness, but no one came. Was everyone drunk?

  Dressed as he was in his royal militia uniform, he prayed none of the other prisoners would question his taking Torres away in the middle of the night. He signaled to one of his men to hold open the grate, then climbed down the ladder into the bowels of hell. Men lay everywhere, randomly sprawled across the filthy, damp wooden floor of the hold.

  The stench of excrement blended with the sickly sweet odor of disease. Some of the poor, ragged beggars slept, but most stared in the darkness with vacant eyes as his flickering candle passed them by. No one questioned him.

  Finally Quint located Solomon in a far corner with two other men. He signaled to his friend not to give any sign of recognition. “Come with me, Torres. We've prisoners to bury at daybreak.”

  “Solomon is too weak for burial detail,” one companion whispered, his own breathing labored.

  “These are your fellow Jews who've died aboard the hospital ship. If you want them laid to rest by their own kind,better step lively,” Quintin replied in a cold, clipped accent.

  “If my cousins could come, too. Between the three of us,we could serve well enough,” Solomon rasped.

  Quintin shook his head. “No, they're as weak as newborn kittens. You, Torres. Just you.” Once they were above deck, Quint stepped out in the open, ready to climb over the railing when the voice of Major Montgomery Caruthers called out.

 
“Quintin Blackthorne, you're under arrest for treason.” The major stood by the stairs to the quarterdeck with a Wogdon dueling pistol in his hand. The twelve-inch barrel gleamed evilly in the torchlight. Half a dozen armed soldiers spread out around them.

  “A trap. Was it my lovely lady wife, Major, who turned us in? No, don't answer. Quite unchivalrous if you did. I know the answer, anyway,” Quint added coldly as he raised his hands. The two men with him did the same, while Solomon Torres stood in the shadows.

  Suddenly a shot zipped narrowly past the major's head, knocking his hat across the deck. A volley erupted as Tom Johnwalker and three other men climbed over the railings. Caruthers aimed his pistol at Tom, but Quint dove at him, causing his shot to go wide and knocking him to the deck. As they rolled around, Quint seized Caruthers's wrist and tried to wrest his second pistol from him. Johnwalker knocked the militiamen aside as if swatting flies, using the rifle he had just fired as a cudgel. Two of the loyalists were down, shot by rebels, while the other four were engaged by Quintin's men. Even Solomon, weakened by near starvation, joined in the fight.

  “Here, men, into the boats before them other lobsterbacks come to see who's shootin’,” Jed Cooper yelled.

  Quintin came up on top of Caruthers and slammed his fist into the major's jaw, then jumped free of the unconscious man and assisted Solomon, who was struggling to reach the railing. All the fugitives were over the side in a matter of moments.

  “How did you know it was a trap?” Quintin asked Johnwalker as they climbed into a canoe.

  The big man grinned. “Piece of real luck. Soon as you was inside the cabin, the moon cleared the clouds one last time, real dim-like. I seen that major's pretty red uniform movin' across the deck with a pack of militiamen behind him. Knew they wasn't there to help you free the prisoner.”

  Quintin turned to look back at the ship, readying his pistol to fire as their boat rowed furiously for shore, heedless of the noise now. Suddenly more shots rent the air, this time coming from another prison ship directly to the north of them. A musket ball caught Jed Cooper squarely in the chest. He was flung backward into the water, dead instantly.

  The murderous fire cut into the men in the canoe, but fog and darkness soon shrouded them. The alarm was spread, and the fugitives could hear Major Caruthers barking orders while the ship's boats were hastily lowered into the water. The rebels made shore, where Noble Witherspoon and the balance of their men waited with the horses.

  Hosea and Tommy helped Solomon from the canoe while the doctor looked on. “Are you able to ride, Solomon?” he asked dubiously.

  “I can, but I think Quint's been hit,” Solomon said to Noble.

  Quintin shook his head. “Just a scratch I can get Polly to bind up. Caruthers and his men will be here in a few moments.”

  “My men 'n me are goin' back to Richmond County, Quint. Now that you've been recognized, you better come with us or theyll hang you, sure,” Johnwalker said.

  “No. I’ll go north eventually, but not right now. You and your men ride hard and create enough distraction to throw the militia off my trail. I'll take Solomon to safety first.”

  “Is the Swan still a safe place to leave messages?” Hosea asked as Noble tried unsuccessfully to inspect the slash across Quintin's shoulder.

  “Yes. Use Polly's place, but be damn cautious approaching it. She's our only agent left who can get into Savannah. I don't want her betrayed as I was.”

  “Who did this, Quint?” Noble asked.

  “My wife,” Quintin replied tightly as he swung up on Domino. He looked over to Solomon. “Shall we see what this royal militia uniform can buy us before word of my shift in allegiance reaches the countryside?” With that, he kicked the big black into a gallop.

  All the men dispersed in the darkness as the shouts of Caruthers and his men echoed across the water.

  Quintin and his Jewish companion rode southwest, away from the city, then veered to the north by way of a back trail he was certain the British in Savannah had never seen. It was full daybreak when they reached the bluffs on the river. Polly Bloor's tavern awaited them. Solomon was struggling to keep his seat as Quintin scrutinized the area surrounding the inn.

  “Let me go in first. I can out-distance any pursuers on Domino. If it's clear, I'll signal you.” He paused, then added, I’m sorry about your cousins, Solomon. I'd have taken them with us if I could have.”

  Torres gestured with his hand. “You had no choice. Malachi and Abraham have been there for months. They were so weak, they'd never have made it into the boats. I'm amazed I did.”

  “Soon I'll have you dining on a fine, fat chicken—of course it won't be kosher, but Polly's kitchen is clean.”

  “If it's food without maggots in it, I'll forego kosher and beg God's forgiveness later,” Solomon replied.

  Soon both men were in Polly's cozy private apartment with her fussing over them. As Solomon devoured a juicy chicken breast, she treated Quintin's injury with trembling hands.

  ”I don't believe Madelyne betrayed you, Quint.”

  “Believe it, Polly. She and Toby were the only ones who knew about our plans to rescue Solomon.” His eyes narrowed as he recalled their furious argument in the garden and his cousin Andrew's fawning attention to her at dinner the preceding night. “She's a loyal little Tory,” Quintin said bitterly. ”I think she hoped to become a widow last night.”

  Polly shook her head but remained silent. She had seen that implacable look in Quintin Blackthorne's eyes before and knew there was no crossing him when he was this way. “Give me that shirt and coat, love. They're too blood-stained to save. I’ll get rid of them 'n bring you clean clothes.”

  “I guess my days as a royal militiaman are over for good,” Quint said, handing her the ruined clothes.

  “What will you do now, Quint?” Solomon asked. “I've got family in Charles Town who will offer me shelter, even forge papers to get me past the British sentries. You could go with me and convert,” he said, trying to lighten his friend's grim humor.

  Quint laughed softly. I’ve too great a fondness for shellfish and pork. No, I have other plans. When I was in South Carolina, I met a man called Francis Marion. A tactical genius who understands this war better than anyone we have in the South. I’ll join him for the duration. In a way I'm glad the subterfuge is over for us, old friend”

  “But at what cost, Quint?” Torres asked sadly.

  Just then the door at the end of the hall creaked. Polly stood up and motioned for both men to be quiet. She started for the door to her private quarters, but before she could reach it, a knock sounded and it swung open.

  “Polly, love, where are you? I've brought someone to meet—” Dev stopped in mid-sentence as his eyes moved from Polly Bloor to Quint and Solomon. “What the hell's going on here?” he asked as he looked at the red furrow across Quint's shoulder. “You've been shot.”

  Taking a deep breath, Quintin raised the pistol he had concealed beneath the table and leveled it at his cousin. “Come in, Dev, and bring the young lady with you.”

  Dev's eyes darkened in shocked bewilderment. He felt Barbara's hand on his arm and took it protectively in his, shielding her with his body. ”I brought Lady Barbara to Polly for a change of clothing that will see her safely into the city. She can scarcely approach Major Caruthers's residence dressed in Panther Woman's cast-offs.”

  Quintin studied the sunburned blonde in the colorful calico skirts and shirt of a Muskogee maiden. In spite of her unconventional dress and simply braided hair, she was a real beauty, a nonpareil in London society, he was certain. “You're related to Major Montgomery Caruthers?” He could see the resemblance in their blue eyes and aristocratic features.

  “The major is my brother,” she replied. ”I was shipwrecked in route to Savannah where I was to join him.”

  “I'm happy to assure you he's in splendid health,” Quint replied dryly. “You see, it was the major who tried to shoot me last night—as I was helping Solomon here escape from
one of the prison ships off Tybee.”

  Barbara gasped in amazement, but Devon just stared, mute for a moment.

  “Yes, Devon. Your cousin has sprouted horns and a tail. I'm an American spy—or at least I was until my wife betrayed me to this lady's brother. The British are searching for me right now, doubtless offering a sizable reward, dead or alive.”

  Devon's face turned to granite as he realized that Quintin was in deadly earnest. “Why? In God's name, why? To spite Robert?” he asked with anger and disgust in his voice.

  Quint sighed as Solomon carefully removed Devon's weapons from his person and ushered him and Barbara to the round oak table by the hearth. “No, Dev, much as my father and I hate each other, spiting him is no reason to risk my honor, my fortune, my neck,” Quint said, moving his aching shoulder gingerly to keep it from stiffening further.

  “Then why?”

  “You said it yourself. This is a civil war. There are good men on both sides.”

  Devon snorted in disgust. “Patriots you call yourselves—yet you ally with Europe's most despicable despot and defy the lawful authority of an elected parliament.”

  “Many of whose members protested the way these colonies were being treated. We've grown apart from the mother country, Dev. Franklin spent years in London pleading for reason. Neither he nor I chose rebellion lightly.”

  “But you did choose it. You chose to lie and deceive everyone who trusted you.” Devon's eyes were almost black with anger now. The pain of betrayal stung bitterly.

  “I'm sorry for it, Dev. A thousand times I wanted to confess to you...but I know you well. You'd have been forced to do your duty.”

  “And you couldn't have that.”

  “Not and do mine,” Quintin said philosophically. He turned to Polly and pointed the gun at her. “Fetch some rope from that cabinet, Polly. I regret forcing you to hide us, but I do appreciate your hospitality. Now, be a love and tie up my furious cousin and the lady for me. I'll check the ropes after you do.”

  Polly responded with alacrity, and Quintin went through the motions of verifying that she had indeed tied the captives securely. After having her gather a large quantity of food for their journey, he tied her too.