Ladies Prefer Rogues: Four Novellas of Time-Travel Passion

by Janet Chapman

  Laurent was especially pleased that Margo listened to them with respect, not pity. She laughed gaily when Jonas, a woodworker, told her he was thinking about carving little naked lady figures to sell in the French Quarter Market since his dogs and cats weren’t doing so well. Clarence, who had been an assistant gardener at one time and did the best he could these days with one arm, told her that, if Jonas could do nekkid ladies, he was going to market his juju plants, which increased male virility.

  Of course Margo had to go and tell them an outlandish story about some magic blue pill that was popular in her time. The pill could presumably help men who couldn’t raise their flagpoles anymore, or help them keep the Grand Ol’ Flag waving for an exceedingly long time.

  Every male within hearing distance went on alert, ears flapping. He just shook his head. A lady discussing male parts?

  Amazing! He should have been repulsed. Instead, he was beguiled, never knowing what she was going to say or do next.

  And he was still thinking about that damn thong.

  Ivory and Cordell ducked their heads with embarrassment as they walked up to him. He shook both their hands and said, “Welcome back.” Their relief was palpable that they weren’t to be kicked out on their asses for leaving him in the lurch, Ivory last winter, Cordell, much earlier.

  “I’ll work real good fer ya, Master Laurent, if ye’ll give me a chance ta earn some money,” Cordell said.

  “Me, too,” Ivory chimed in.

  “I’m not your master. Never was. Just call me Laurent, or Mister Duvall,” he told them, then changed the subject. “Things weren’t so golden up north, huh?”

  “Pfff! They made us work jist as hard fer less money.” Cordell grimaced with disgust. “I ain’t got but five dollars in my pocket.”

  “And they still called us niggers,” Ivory added.

  “Well, we can certainly use your muscles here. I’m thinking about trying for a late crop of sugar to see if it’ll take. I could only get ten acres in with the little help I had.”

  “Yes, sir,” they both agreed, just thankful to be back.

  “Congratulations on your new baby, Ivory. Is it a boy or a girl?”

  “A girl. Suzette. But Delilah won’t talk to me nohow, ’ceptin while she was birthin’ the baby. Then she kept cussin’ me fer all her pains with names I cain’t repeat.”

  “You didn’t expect a brass band from her after leaving her pregnant, did you?”

  “Nah, but I expected at least a teeny tiny kiss.” Ivory grinned. “And I was here fer the birthin’.”

  “And, you, Cordell?” Cordell had left his then nine-year-old son Jacob behind, with the best of intentions, hoping to make a better life for the two of them.

  “Jacob was happy to see me. I missed him so much. He’s off now with the book I bought him in Philadelphia. David Copperfield.”

  Laurent went into the kitchen to grab a bowl of red beans and rice sitting over a low fire in the hearth.

  Granny Belle was in her rocking chair talking to Margo as she chewed on her wad of tobacco, spitting occasionally into the fire. For as long as he remembered, she’d had that cud in her cheek. Next to her was old Cassius, nodding off in his matching rocker. Cassius, who had once been the head gardener, would be going to the promised land soon, according to Granny Belle.

  Leaning against the wall, he ate, preparing to be amused as he watched and listened.

  “You bake bread every day?”

  What? You thought we had it delivered?

  “Yessirree. Get up at dawn ta mix and knead the dough. Let it rise while ya build a fire . . .”

  “Build a fire? From scratch?”

  No, from toenails.

  “Milk the two cows. Gather the eggs. Feed the chickens. Slop the hogs . . . well, ya kin do that later.”

  “A cook does all that?”

  “You betcha.” Granny Belle glanced over at him and winked. “Then ya gotta make breakfast. The mens do like a big breakfast. After that ya gotta decide what ta have fer dinner. Mebbe a chicken. Ya do know how ta kill ’n’ pluck a chicken, dontcha?”

  He could swear he heard Margo murmur something about what to do with the chicken, and it rhymed.

  “The worst part is the guts . . . and the smell of wet feathers.”

  Margo’s face turned a bit green.

  “Are ya sure ya handled chickens before?”

  “Uh, sure. I just haven’t done it lately.”

  Lady, I would bet my left elbow you don’t know one end of a rooster from the other.

  “And best ya use the hens. Them roosters is too tough.”

  “How do you tell the guys from the gals? I mean, do I have to turn them over and check for family jewels?” She laughed at her own humor.

  He almost choked on his supper.

  Granny Belle just chuckled.

  By the sound of things, his crazy lady from the future didn’t know spit about cooking, especially over an open fire. Well, he would have to find some other job for her.

  And he thought of her thong, again.

  Just then, she seemed to notice him for the first time. “Think it’s funny, do you?”

  “Very funny.”

  “I can’t cook.”

  “No kidding!”

  “Don’t be sarcastic.”

  “I’ll be anything I want. You came here under false pretenses.”

  “Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.” She grinned at him. “Don’t worry. I’ll make myself useful.”

  “That sounds promising.”

  “Are you flirting with me?”

  “I don’t know. Would it bother you if I was?”

  She stared at him, then slowly admitted, “No.”

  “We’ll decide tomorrow where you can best be used, but there is one thing you could do for me today, darlin’. Well, not now. Later. Tonight.”

  She eyed him warily, probably thrown by his use of the endearment.

  “Show me your thong.”

  Four

  Where was a hot tub when you needed it? . . .

  It was only nine o’clock, and Margo was exhausted as she and Lettie trudged up to the third floor, with the maid who led the way frowning at the water she was spilling.

  When she’d found out there was a bathtub on the floor where she would be sleeping, Margo had been ecstatic . . . until she learned it had only cold water coming in from an outside cistern. So, she was lugging her own hot water to mix.

  “Don’t pay any attention to Sophie,” Lettie whispered. “She’s just a high yaller who was always a house servant, thinks she’s better than anyone else. Won’t do anythin’ but dust and change linens.”

  Margo wanted to correct Lettie’s political incorrectness but decided to pick her battles in this time period.

  Sophie was very light skinned and skinny as a rail. Probably more than fifty. And, yes, she was arrogant and almost possessive about the house, remarking on fingerprints and dirty shoes more than once.

  “This is the guest room,” Sophie said, opening the far door, then pointed to a room across the way, announcing, “the bathing room.” She went in to lay down some towels and used a dust cloth in her belt to shine the porcelain sink with its one faucet. As she passed her and Lettie to go back downstairs, she gave them both looks that pretty much said, “Leave the bathing room spic and span or you will answer to me.”

  Lettie giggled. “She treats me like I’m seven years old when I’m twenty and seven.”

  “You’re the same age as me.”

  “Really?” Why such a thing was so pleasing to her stumped Margo until Lettie added, “I feel like we’re sisters.” Tears filled her eyes. “I’ve been so lonely.”

  Margo hugged her then. In truth, she’d always wanted a sister, and if she was going to be stuck here, she couldn’t have picked a nicer one. Swiping the tears from her eyes, Lettie went into her own bedroom, the first on this floor, and got a nightgown for Margo, one which Margo doubted she would use. It was voluminous, a
nd in this heat, had to be unbearable.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” Lettie called out and closed her door.

  Margo turned the water on in the bathtub, filling it half full before adding her two buckets of hot water. The result was tepid water, but wonderful, she thought, as she took off her clothes and sunk down into the depths. She would have loved a bubble bath, but even she knew that was beyond possible.

  She must have dozed. The water was cold and her fingers and toes shriveled by the time she got out and pulled the plug. She dried with the towels Sophie had left for her and arranged the wet cloths neatly over the edge of the tub. She grimaced as she realized she would have to don the same underwear, figuring she would wash them out tomorrow.

  Bent over, wearing only her bra and thong, she was about to pick up her dirty clothes and the nightgown when the door opened suddenly.

  “Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you were in here. I was going to brush my teeth.” There were old-fashioned tooth brushes and tooth powder sitting on the dry sink.

  Like a deer caught in the headlights, she just stood and stared at Laurent. He must have washed somewhere else. He was wearing clean clothing, drab as usual, and his wet hair was brushed off his face.

  And, hey, he was doing a bit of staring, too. In fact, you could say he was devouring her with his eyes. With dilated pupils, and parted lips, it wasn’t hard to figure out what he was thinking.

  “So, that is a thong,” he finally said in a sex-husky voice.

  “It is. How did you . . . oh, Lettie told you.”

  He nodded. “And I’ve been picturing it all day.”

  “Does it live up to your expectations?”

  He grinned. “I don’t know,” he clearly lied. “Maybe you should turn around so I can get the full effect.”

  It was beyond Margo’s understanding why she would even consider such a suggestion, even more confusing was her standing here, practically naked, and not screaming or ordering him out or complaining about him invading her privacy. Truth to tell, his arousal was turning her on. And she didn’t need to look down at her breasts to know her nipples were hard and pressing against the white lace of her bra.

  Which was exactly where he was looking now. “And that lace torture instrument?” He waved a hand at her chest area.

  “A bra. A Victoria’s Secret push-up special. A torture instrument, huh? You’ve gotta be the first man in history to dislike Victoria’s Secret lingerie.”

  “I never said I didn’t like it, but surely it is meant to torture a man.”

  She smiled.

  He smiled back and stepped farther into the room, closing the door behind him.

  The air practically sizzled with the chemistry they were creating.

  “You know, Laurent, I’ve never kissed a man with a mustache before.”

  “Is that a fact, darlin’? What a coincidence! I’ve never kissed a hundred-and-forty-year-old woman.”

  He made a twirling motion with his hand, indicating he wanted her to turn. Did she have the nerve?

  “Okay, here’s the deal. We believe in equality between the sexes in my time. I’ll turn around if you’ll take off your shirt.

  The smile he flashed her was pure wickedness. He had the shirt undone and tossed to the floor before she could say Chippendale dancer. And, oh, boy, was he a prime example of southern men . . . Rebel with a real good cause—her. All suntanned muscle and definition. As buff a body as Larry Wilson’s, but his physique was the result of just plain hard work.

  He folded his arms over his chest and cast her a challenging look.

  “If you make a crude mark, or say I have cellulite, I am going to wallop you a good one.”

  “Do it,” he said in a strained voice.

  And she did. Slowly. Very slowly. She could swear he moaned and that she could hear his breathing. When she was facing him again, she didn’t have to ask if he’d liked it or not.

  He told her with one succinct exclamation. “Lord have mercy!”

  Without hesitation, she stepped into his open arms. As he began to lower his mouth to hers, his eyes holding her gaze, she murmured, “This is probably a mistake.”

  “Probably.”

  “Just one kiss.”

  “Just one . . . for now.”

  And then he kissed her. One kiss. One never-ending kiss. It started with his lips learning hers with gentle shaping, but once he got the fit he wanted, he became ravenous, using his lips and tongue and teeth to persuade her to mimic all his actions.

  Which she did.

  He made a raw sound of satisfaction deep in his throat. His one hand held her in place with fingers cupped on her nape, but when he put the other hand on her bare buttock and drew her closer, she felt her knees give way.

  Still not breaking the kiss, he turned and pushed her against the door. His tongue was deep in her mouth, his hands caressing her everywhere. If she was in any doubt about his attraction to her, the erection pressing against her stomach would give her proof . . . hard proof. If he was in any doubt about her attraction to him, the way her hands were exploring his back and shoulders and flat male nipples would give him proof.

  How they had gone from zero to raging excitement in minutes was a wonder. It had never happened to her before.

  “Margo?”

  “Hmmm?” she said against his open mouth.

  “Margo? Are you all right?”

  She realized then that it was Lettie, and not Laurent, saying her name. Lettie was on the other side of the door, knocking lightly.

  Laurent released her lips, reluctantly, and pressed his forehead against her.

  In a raspy voice, she said, “I’ll be out in a minute, Lettie.”

  “I was worried. You were in there so long, I was afraid you might be in trouble.”

  “Oh, I’m in trouble all right,” she whispered.

  “We both are,” he whispered back, nipped her chin, and stepped back.

  “You might have fallen asleep in the tub, I reckon,” Lettie said.

  “I did, but I’m out now.” Quickly she donned the huge nightgown.

  “She’s gone now,” he said, opening the door for her.

  But she wasn’t.

  Lettie stood there, mouth gaping at her shirtless brother who strolled past her big as you please and then at Margo’s unbuttoned nightgown.

  Then she grinned widely. “Fiddle-dee-dee!”

  Gimme some sugar, baby . . .

  Laurent spent the entire morning doing hard labor in the fields.

  His father would be horrified. But then, his father had been dependent on the slaves who worked for him. At the height of its prosperity, Rosylyn’s thousand acres had supported the Duvall family, the overseer’s family, and about two hundred blacks, including a hundred field workers. Now, he had a mere ten acres in healthy cane; maybe he could plant another ten in sugar or some other crop now that Ivory and Cordell had returned to help.

  Before the war, there had been more than a thousand sugar plantations in Louisiana. He doubted there were more than two hundred now. Of those, half were owned by northern speculators, either northern by birth or backed by northern money. It was a losing situation without the work force, and the profits weren’t sufficient to support paid field hands. Maybe sometime in the future, but not now.

  Slavery! He had hated it then. He hated it now. Except he was the slave. Slave to a plantation he never wanted and a gaggle of people, white and black, who looked to him for support.

  If that weren’t bad enough, sugar growing was dependent on the weather, and God only knew what it would be day to day in Louisiana with its tropical-like climate. Heat and humidity, of course, constant rainstorms known as gully washers, and then the occasional hurricane. He wondered suddenly if there actually would be such a disastrous hurricane to hit the Gulf Coast like the crazy woman had related.

  Which of course brought to mind the kiss. The kiss like no other he’d ever experienced. He’d been married to Elizabeth for two years before sh
e died ten years ago. Before the war. Before everything went to hell. Maybe it had been a blessing for her to be taken so early. He’d known Elizabeth from childhood. He’d been fond of her. And, yes, they had engaged in sex on a regular basis, even good sex on occasion, but never had a mere kiss from her turned him raging hot. He needed to control himself or he would be in big trouble. Hell, who was he kidding? He was already in trouble. He would have the woman in his bed shortly, he knew he would, and he could not wait.

  “Who ya talkin’ to?” asked Cordell when he came up to the water wagon and took a long drink from the ladle sitting in the bucket. By now, the water would be lukewarm, even though seven-year-old Precious refilled the buckets every hour. Precious was a little girl who had wandered down the River Road one day two years ago, with no memory of who she was or where she’d come from, except for her name. No one had ever come to claim her. In between water duties, Precious’s job was to pick the caterpillars off the plants wherever she saw them. Another worry.

  “No one. Just mumbling.” See, now the crazy woman was turning him crazy. “How’s it going?”

  Swiping a forearm over his forehead, Cordell replied, “We got all the drainage ditches cleared out this morning.”

  “We’ve had a dry spell the past two weeks, but I expect it’ll rain this afternoon.”

  “The sugar looks healthy,” Cordell remarked.

  “God willing,” he replied back. The cane was about three feet high now, good for mid-July, and would be ready for harvest in October. Everything about growing and harvesting followed a particular pattern, even the cutting, which always involved only four strokes of the blade, two sweeping vertical swathes to remove the leaves, a horizontal cut to the ground, then a last chop to take off the top. “I’ve been reconsidering what I told you yesterday. Maybe it’s too much of a gamble to try a later sugar crop. Maybe we could try diverting the rain drain off into a rice field instead of just sweeping it off to the swamps.”

  “Is rice bringing in a good price?”