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

by Henke, Shirl

  “Yes, Monty, we were lovers. I still love him. I always will, even though he's repeatedly refused to take me with him.” She gave a sad, ironic little laugh. “Odd really, but Dev used much the same arguments you have—urged me to marry Weymouth and flee the colonies before the final debacle. But I’ll never go back to London.” Her voice was whisper-soft, but steely with determination.

  “Yes, you will! Ill have you bound hand and foot and carried aboard ship if I must.”

  She laughed mirthlessly. “Almost the identical threat mother used to send me here. I’ll not stand for it, Monty. You, mother, society—even the overvalued Caruthers name—be damned. I’ll not be coerced or manipulated any further.” She set down her glass and made a mock curtsy. “If you'll excuse me. I've quite lost my appetite for dinner.”

  Monty stared into the glass of rum he had repeatedly refilled after Barbara's shocking revelations. His own sister, the little silver-haired imp he had been so fond of since she was in the nursery—lying with a filthy savage. Bad enough that Devon Blackthorne was the ne'er-do-well younger brother of a colonial merchant, but he was an Indian as well!

  A rapping on the library door brought him out of his self-pitying reverie. “Tell cook I’ll not be taking dinner, Hawkes,” he said, thinking the butler had come to summon him to eat. He, too, had lost his appetite.

  “Begging your pardon, my lord, but there's a frontiersman here to see you—says his name's Archie Baird.” Hawkes's voice dripped disdain for the filthy, rough-mannered visitor who dared presume to darken the hallway of the Caruthers home.

  “Baird,” Monty repeated. Then his liquor-impeded brain recalled the fellow. What the devil did he want? “Send him in, Hawkes.”

  * * * *

  June, 1782, Blackthorne Hill

  Quintin did not take the same precautions as he had the year before when he returned to the plantation. The danger of a British patrol capturing him was almost negligible these days. They were in the midst of preparing to evacuate Savannah. He doubted very much that any straggling loyalists or British regulars would be patroling this far north of the city. The countryside belonged to the Americans now. Soon the cities would, too.

  He flexed his aching shoulder and wished once again that the interminable conflict were officially over. His last communication from Franklin indicated that the peace process was creeping along at a snail's pace.

  “But for me, the war's over now,” he murmured to Domino as he surveyed the prosperous plantation house and all its surrounding fields and outbuildings. The sullen noonday heat made him feel faint as he dismounted too quickly. He took his canteen, walked over to a cluster of rocks shaded by a hickory tree, and sat down to drink. The army doctor had warned him about overexertion and cautioned more rest before undertaking such a long journey, but Quintin was heartily sick of lying abed and desperately anxious to return home.

  Understanding his feelings, Marion had signed his release and bidden him Godspeed. Parting from the little Huguenot had been one of the most difficult moments of Quintin Blackthorne's life. The taciturn older man had become not only an honored commander and dear friend, but more nearly a father to Quintin than Robert Blackthorne had ever been.

  It was still difficult—no, impossible—to think of Robert Blackthorne as his father after a lifetime of being told he was a bastard. Now Robert was dead, penitent for his sins far too late for Anne or for his son. On the long and slow ride home, Quintin had thought a great deal about what Madelyne's letter said. Was Anne really an innocent victim? If so, was he guilty of the same jealous and ill-founded treatment of Madelyne? I must read that diary for myself.

  Madelyne had been in his thoughts continuously over the past year. He dreamed of her, even raved about her in his feverish delirium. James was a year old now. Would the boy resemble him?

  He stood up and capped the canteen. No more postponing the confrontation. He remounted Domino and rode directly toward the big brick house on the crest of the bluff.

  Madelyne was in the smokehouse selecting a ham for that evening's dinner when she heard the cry go up from the big house. Quintin, returned at last! And here she was, sweaty and dressed in dirty old clothes. Even the lacing on her bodice had been torn loose by James's strong little fingers.

  “There's no help for it,” she murmured philosophically as she tried to smooth her hair beneath her mobcap. Springy mahogany curls fought her trembling fingers until she gave up and tossed the limp headgear aside and shook her hair free so that it flowed about her shoulders. With her heart pounding in her chest, she walked swiftly up the path to where Quintin was surrounded by a crowd of joyous servants.

  Sensing her presence, he turned and looked down the road to where she stood, a small solitary figure in shabby clothes. She hesitated for a moment, then resumed walking toward him with a wary expression on her face.

  Her eyes swept over him, noting the pallor of his beard-stubbled face, the thinness of his tall body, the way he favored his left shoulder. His brow was beaded with perspiration and he looked ready to drop.

  “Oh, Quint, you could have died in those swamps!” Her step quickened into a run as the crowd of servants parted to let her pass.

  Quintin stood still, staring at her with an unreadable expression in his green eyes, letting her come to him. At the last moment, before she reached him, Madelyne stopped short of throwing herself against him. Somehow he felt that had been her first instinct. Instead she stood with her hands out, palms open, waiting for him to make the next move.

  “Welcome home, Quint.” Her voice was ragged and breathless. Would he do nothing but look at her as if she were a beggar wench?

  Quintin took her hands in his and felt his own pulse leap with the contact. The world faded away as he stared into her fathomless amber eyes. ”Tis good to be home, Madelyne.”

  Holding hands, they walked toward the front door without saying another word. The servants chattered curiously about the reunion between their master and the wife who was accused of betraying him.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  As they neared the front door, Toby swung it wide and stood with tears in his eyes. “I'm so happy you're home safe, Mastah Quintin.”

  “Thank you, Toby. I'm happy to see you haven't changed—just as proper as ever.” He reached out and embraced the old man, who returned the hug heartily.

  “You look fair starvin', Mastah Quintin. I gonna fatten you up!” Delphine waddled into the front hall to inspect him with sharp black eyes. She held him at arm's length, then enveloped him against her pillowy girth. “Lawd above, you skinny as a newborn colt! You 'n Miz Madelyne go talk private while I start cookin’.” She turned and retraced her steps down the hall.

  “I'll see to a nice cool bath, if you like, suh,” Toby said.

  “That would be splendid, Toby. I could count the baths I've had in the last year and a half.”

  “Would you like to rest in the study while things are prepared, Quint?” Madelyne asked after the two of them were alone. Nervously smoothing her dusty skirts, she added, ”I need a bath, too.” Then her face pinkened in embarrassment at the unintentional connotation.

  Quintin smiled wolfishly. “I'd offer to share mine, but I fear I'm too dirty. Then again...” His voice trailed off suggestively.

  She blushed as her hand came involuntarily to her breast. ”I must feed James. He's almost weaned, but this is the one time of day...” Her eyes met his, challenging him. “Would you like to see your son, Quint? He's grown to look quite like you.”

  Would you recognize your own son? Robert didn't. Quint had never known a father's love. Could he give his son what he had never experienced? Suddenly he was afraid. “Perhaps it would be best if I cleaned myself up first,” he said awkwardly. His voice rang hollow in his ears. Coward. “I'll go upstairs and bathe and shave while you feed him.”

  “How long will you stay, Quint? Is the war over?”

  “For me it is. Marion gave me a full discharge because of my wound and the fever.
Just these past weeks have I been able to ride. I've been of little use to him for months, but then, there's been precious little for us to do. The peace process is under way, Madelyne, even if loyalists and patriots still skirmish in the back country.”

  “You've won. Everything, Quint. If you choose to take it,” she added softly, then turned and walked away.

  He debated following her to see their child. James. His son? Just as he was Robert's son. He felt hot and dizzy, still accursedly weak after his days in the saddle. Or was it just being here, facing his wife and the painful past she had so dramatically resurrected?

  He climbed the stairs and entered his big bedroom. Two houseboys had just filled the tub in the dressing room. He stripped unceremoniously, so accustomed to dressing and undressing himself that he knew Toby would be appalled. Dismissing the boys with thanks, he sank into the cool, fresh water with a sigh of relief.

  Toby entered the room and deposited a stack of fresh linen towels beside the tub, then gathered up his discarded clothes, clucking about how they should be burned.

  “Do with them what you will, Toby. Just bring me anything clean and I shall be everlastingly grateful.”

  Madelyne fed James and laid him down for his afternoon nap. “Soon, little one, soon he’ll know,” she crooned, stroking his soft black hair as he fell into a deep sleep.

  Hastily she stripped off her dirty clothes and scrubbed her body from the large basin of water Nell had fetched. Then she donned a fresh cotton day gown of deep yellow and tied back her hair with a matching ribbon.

  Looking nervously at the door to the dressing closet joining their bedrooms, Madelyne decided not to interrupt his bath. Instead, she went through the hall and entered his bedroom, where Toby was setting out a veritable feast of sweet smoked ham, sharp cheese, crisp corn dodgers, and fresh raspberries with clotted cream.

  He opened a bottle of chilled white wine and poured it into two crystal glasses, then turned to Madelyne, smiling. “I'll be downstairs, if you need anything else,” he said.

  Appreciating his understanding, Madelyne smiled warmly. “Thank you.” When Quint entered the room a moment later, she raised one glass and offered it to him. “Delphine has outdone herself,” she said, motioning him to join her at the Pembroke table near the window.

  “As long as it isn't sweet potatoes and fish, I'll love it,” he replied lightly, raising his glass to hers, then drinking down a hearty slug.

  Madelyne took a sip, then placed her glass on the table and walked over to his desk. She withdrew the old leather diary and placed it on the table. “Would you like to read it now?” she asked gently.

  “No. I'll need time…” More time than I ever realized, he thought miserably.

  Clearing her throat for courage, she said, ”I know this is very painful for you, Quint, but after he read it, your father was hurt far more irreparably than you—his life was over and he'd misspent all of it. He begged your forgiveness.”

  “So you wrote... I don't know if I can forgive. Or forget,” he said, staring at the worn leather volume pensively.

  “Do you want to repeat your father's mistakes? You have to face the past so you can leave it behind and get on with the future.”

  He pulled out a chair for her and then seated himself at the small table. The intimacy of the arrangement struck him oddly. ”I still desire you, you know. No matter what I believed—right or wrong—about you, I couldn't free myself from the hold you have on me.”

  The words seemed torn from him as he spoke in a low, swift monotone. Madelyne placed her hand over his and felt the fire that always leaped between them. “Then perhaps there is hope for our marriage yet. We have all the time in the world now, Quint. Let's not waste it.” She raised her glass and proposed a toast. “To new beginnings.”

  Studying her with those unnerving green eyes, he silently chimed his glass against hers and drank, then turned his attention to the food, although just looking at the diary had erased his appetite.

  They ate in tense silence for several moments, each imbibing of the wine more freely than was their wont.

  Quint broke the silence first. “Delphine is as splendid a cook as I remembered.”

  “I know how you hated the charred sweet potatoes and dreamed of her corn dodgers smothered in honey,” she said, then flushed as he stared at her.

  “How did you—”

  “Polly let me read your letters to her,” she replied, struggling to keep the accusatory tone from her voice.

  He put down his fork and sighed, running his fingers through his long hair, then cradled his head in his palms. ”I was certain of so many things then, Madelyne. Now I don't—”

  A loud crash and a hoarse scream interrupted his sentence. Both of them stood up rapidly, but Quint was first to reach the door and fling it open, only to be met by a Brown Bess musket pointed at his mid-section. A fish-eyed young corporal held the weapon levelly, backing Quint into his bedroom as Major Montgomery Caruthers ambled in, accompanied by half-a-dozen more soldiers, all armed to the teeth.

  “So, at last we meet again, Blackthorne,” Caruthers said smoothly, brushing a speck of lint from his immaculate scarlet uniform. “Luck has finally smiled on me. Imagine my delight when I heard that the infamous American spy had returned to his home.”

  “Monty, you can't arrest Quint! The war's over. You're leaving—”

  “Tut, m'dear. You and Barbara will be much better off without the Blackthorne men in your lives,” he soothed, patting her shoulder comfortingly.

  Quint looked from the hard-eyed corporal to the smug major. He could see no means of escape as the soldiers ringed him. Then he turned to Madelyne, who had Caruthers's hand on her shoulder. ”I wanted to believe...God help me, I did believe you,” he said in a hoarse harsh voice. His icy green eyes stopped her as she tried to reach out to him.

  The major motioned for the soldiers to seize Quint's arms and bind them roughly behind his back. “Now, I've recovered my escaped prisoner. Never fear, Madelyne, he'll not get away again to trouble you further.”

  “Please, Monty—he's my husband. Don't do this,” she cried as the soldiers dragged Quintin from the room.

  Quint did not even look back at her as she stood alone with fists clenched impotently at her sides.

  As they tied Quint on Domino, Caruthers said casually, “Quite a splendid piece of horseflesh. Once we get to Savannah, it will be his majesty's property, of course. Perhaps I shall purchase him.” Jauntily he mounted his chestnut and tossed a purse to Archie Baird.

  The grimy backwoodsman, who had been watching the house for weeks, eagerly accepted his payment, then rode quickly away from the hate-filled looks of the servants who realized what he had done.

  Quintin watched Archie depart and wondered if Madelyne had hired him to lie in wait. If so, he must have been watching the Hill since she sent the letter about the diary and Robert's death. Quint willed himself not to think of the fool's paradise he had almost believed existed.

  * * * *

  Savannah

  “Well, what did she say?” Alfred Weymouth asked, rubbing his sweaty palms nervously on his tight breeches.

  “My sister consents to be your wife, Weymouth. I think this calls for a bit of a celebration, don't you?” Monty Caruthers replied.

  “Most certainly!” Weymouth rang for a servant and ordered a bottle of his best Madeira to be opened. He motioned the major to take a seat in the lavishly appointed parlor of the elegant townhouse appropriated for his use during the occupation. “Can't say I'll be sorry to bid farewell to this sandy, mosquito-infested little sinkhole.” He stared out the bay window at the street below him. “At least the rebels who owned this place stocked a decent wine cellar.” The viscount took a sip, then turned and regarded the major over the rim of his goblet. “May I call on the morrow? Barbara and I should discuss the wedding.”

  Monty swallowed a gulp of the Madeira as he replayed last night's bitter confrontation with his sister. “Marrying the viscoun
t is for your own good,” he had remonstrated.

  “My welfare has nothing to do with this. I'll wed the viscount to gain Quintin Blackthorne's freedom. In return, Weymouth will pay off your gaming debts. Tis a bargain made in hell, Monty. The only good to come of it will be Madelyne's reunion with her husband.” Barbara had spoken with such bitter loathing that he had quit the room at once.

  Returning to the present, Caruthers picked up the threads of conversation with Weymouth. ”Er, yes, I imagine you may call in the afternoon, but first there is the matter of arranging that damned spy's release. Bloody awkward business, that, but you know how women take notions. My sister thinks herself Madelyne Blackthorne's dearest friend. All the better when we'll no longer have to associate with these colonials.”

  “I do wish we were leaving with the colonies still firmly under his majesty's control, however,” the colonel replied.

  Raising his glass, Colonel Alfred Weymouth, Eighth Viscount of Leicester, proposed a toast. “To the Lady Barbara and to his majesty!”

  “Hear, hear. To your health, as well,” the major added, drinking deeply as he thought, You're going to need it, wed to that she-cat against her will!

  * * * *

  After spending a fruitless morning at General Alured Clarke's headquarters in Savannah, Madelyne was exhausted and frightened nearly witless. In spite of the inevitable end of the war, they were holding Quintin for trial. The captain she had spoken with was the soul of kindness as he explained to her that if her husband had merely been an American soldier, they would not have held him, circumstances being what they were. But Quintin Blackthorne was known to have been a spy, and the higher military and royal authorities felt that was quite another matter.

  She had begged to see the new military commander, but he refused, and she was politely but firmly ushered into the street where her horse and chair waited. Desperately, she thought of anyone in authority upon whom she could prevail, but she was an outsider, with no influence now that Robert was dead.