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

  Claud watched as Madelyne pulled her hair free of the sweat-stained red kerchief. It fell in damp, tangled clumps about her shoulders and down her back. “Take off your cap,” she commanded the servant. “Let Madelyne at least confine her hair decently beneath it.”

  Madelyne did as she was bidden, still wondering what on earth was happening. Dumbly she followed Claud down the hall to the front sitting room.

  Blackthorne took one look at the filthy urchin and nearly burst into bitter laughter. Restraining himself, he bowed and smiled perfunctorily. “Your aunt said you were a hard worker. It would seem she did not exaggerate.’ God, her hair, some unde-finable dark shade, was confined beneath a mobcap that suspiciously resembled the one the indentured maid had been wearing. A few straggling tendrils fell across her forehead and more stuck damply to her nape. She was small and thin like her aunt. Beyond that he could tell little, for her dress was loosely cut of a coarse gray cotton and hung like sacking on her.

  He had steeled himself for her to be plain, even prayed for it, but he would have no half-wit in the bargain! He studied her wide set eyes, an odd shade of pale golden amber. “Can you speak, mistress? I am Quintin Blackthorne. Your father and mine campaigned against the French in the late wars.”

  Her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth as she stared at the cold, beautiful stranger. He is rude, no matter his blinding looks. Yet she knew Claud watched her with a pinched expression on her face, ready to pounce if she misspoke herself. ”I—I am Madelyne Marie Deveaux, Mr. Blackthorne. My father has never mentioned the Blackthorne family to me.”

  “Of course not, child. Fathers do not speak of that beastly war against the Papists with their children,’ Claud chided her.

  “Have you any skills with sums?” he asked, ignoring Claud.

  Madelyne's chin went up a notch. Aunt Isolde had seen to a thorough if highly unorthodox education for her. “Yes, I can do sums and read. Even write a passable hand. I have read the classics in Latin and—”

  “Enough of such vainglory,” Claud interrupted. “The important thing is that you can read your Bible and know the Heidleburg Catechism.”

  “Yes, of course, Aunt Claud,” Madelyne said, struggling not to show her anger. She searched Blackthorne's chiseled features, which revealed nothing except for the startling dark green color of his eyes. At least that much of my curiosity is satisfied.

  He nodded. “She will do. Have her ready to travel in a fortnight.” With that abrupt announcement, he turned and swept up his hat. “With your permission, ladies, I must ride for Charles Town at once.”

  As Madelyne stood at the window watching him ride away, a shiver of premonition ran down her spine. “Whatever did he mean?''she asked Claud.

  “Your father will arrive tomorrow. Tis for him to explain,” was all the old woman would answer.

  * * * *

  “He is what!” Madelyne dropped her spoon, which fell with a clatter into her bowl, staining the white linen tablecloth with a fine spray of soup. Claud started to reprimand her, then subsided when Theodore laughed dismissively.

  “He is to be your husband. Deuced sorry to have missed Robert's young pup. Haven't seen 'em in years. It's all arranged now that he's met you. That was his only condition to the marriage.”

  “He acted more like he was inspecting a mule than having a conversation with his betrothed! Father, why did you not tell me?”

  Theodore swallowed his soup. It was thin and lacked seasoning. Silently he cursed Claud's parsimony, eager to be quit of her and his troublesome burden of a daughter. “Eh? Don't you like his looks? I hear all the women in Charles Town fair swoon over ‘em.”

  “His looks are not at issue, Father. He is quite...handsome.” She colored, realizing that she had almost said beautiful! “He was rude to me and seemed most displeased with the whole of it.”

  “Mr. Blackthorne would not have been displeased if you had looked the part of a lady,” Claud remonstrated sourly.

  “Twas you, Aunt, who set me to beating rugs in the afternoon heat!”

  “Only because you defied all my efforts to teach you God-fearing deportment!”

  “Enough!” Theodore gave each of the bristling females a quelling look. “I'll not have bickering at table. It quite disturbs the digestion,” he said, rubbing his ample abdomen. “Now, here is the way of it, Madelyne. You will return with me to your beloved Charles Town to purchase a suitable trousseau, then off you go to Savannah. Quintin Blackthorne is one of the wealthiest planters and traders in Georgia. You are fortunate indeed to make such a match.”

  But that cold, arrogant man doesn't want me, she pleaded silently, realizing that her father had taken the matter completely out of her hands. She looked at Claud's pinched face and pewter eyes. At least I'll escape this hellish place, she silently consoled herself. Yet a small niggling voice asked, Have you escaped one hell only to plunge into another? Eyes as cold and green as the Atlantic in December flashed into her mind, chilling her, scorning her.

  * * * *

  May, 1780, London

  “You are a disgrace to the Caruthers name! A young, unwed girl, running with that scandalous crowd. Lord Darth is the most infamous rakehell in London. Do you think someone of his ilk will ask for your hand?” Barbara's mother's eyes glowed like blue flames as she stared at her recalcitrant daughter, who remained totally unruffled, affecting a bored expression. Her face was the mirror image of her mother's twenty years earlier, a flawless, heart-shaped visage with patrician features, delicate yet oddly strong for all its beauty.

  With complete indifference, Barbara smoothed the pompadour of her elaborate white wig and swished her pink satin skirts as she turned toward her mother, Marianne Caruthers. “I wondered when it would all come down to this. Lord Darth, that fearful villain, paying attention to me—instead of you!”

  Marianne took a swift step forward, then regained her composure. “Darth is twice your age. Not at all suitable.”

  “For me or for you? Everyone from London to Bath knows you were his mistress until he tired of you.”

  This time Marianne took that last step and slapped Barbara. “You will never again repeat that,” she ground out in a low voice. “Never!” She whirled back, steadying the panniers of her peacock-blue gown before she reached for a pile of papers on the Queen Anne desk behind her. “How long do you think I'll continue to pay these?” She threw the markers at Barbara.

  Like oversized snowflakes, they fluttered all around the girl, falling to the heavy Persian carpet. Barbara touched a note with the toe of her slippered foot. “I've just had a run of bad luck at whist the past few weeks, that's all. Twill turn in my favor again.”

  “You overspend your allowance every month. Your father gambled away a goodly portion of our wealth. I will not stand by and watch you dispatch the rest of it!”

  “Is that the reason you so mourn the loss of Darth? Was he a generous patron, Mother? He'll never marry you either. At least I have the straight of that!”

  “And no gentleman will ever marry you if you continue as you have. You're the daughter of a baron! You must wed advantageously. Considering your fondness for the high life, I would suggest you heed my warning.” Marianne paused and studied Barbara consideringly. “The Earl of Wickersham called again yesterday morning.”

  Barbara stiffened, then made a moue of disgust. ‘‘Wickersham is a buffoon, fat, old—”

  “And rich. He's in the market for a wife and is quite taken with you. I do believe he would even be indulgent enough to pay your gaming debts if you handled him properly.” Marianne waited with one delicate brow arched.

  “Never!” Barbara shivered with loathing. “To win his indulgence, I'd have to submit to his foul breath, slobbering lips, and perversions! Or haven't you heard the whispers about town, Mother? His last wife killed herself because he forced her to join him in his sport with a young boy.”

  “Wickersham is an earl with land holdings from here to Ireland. You're just spreading unfounde
d rumors. A girl your age shouldn't even know of such filth, much less speak of it!”

  “And our family needs his money, so it really doesn't signify what his morals are—or his looks. I've had other offers from far more pleasing men.”

  “But none as rich by half. Young fools whose fathers hold the purse strings.”

  “Understand this, Mother. I would not marry Wickersham if he were the last peer in the realm.”

  Lady Marianne's lips pursed and her eyes darkened with frustration. “Then you make your own bed, my pet. See who pays these.” She gestured to the markers lying about the floor. I shall not stand behind your debts ever again. You are cut off from all further allowance as well.”

  “If Monty were here, you wouldn't dare treat me so!”

  “But your brother is not here. He's off in that ghastly colonial wilderness fighting rabble. I am in charge of your expenses, not Montgomery.”

  “Then I shall simply have to pawn my jewelry. Darth will help me if I ask him,” Barbara added, a dare in her voice. God, how she despised the procession of men who had traipsed in and out of her mother's bedroom ever since her earliest childhood memories, long before her father had died. Indeed, she had only taken up with Darth Kensington to infuriate Marianne. She liked him little better than Wickersham.

  The two women stared at each other in a silent contest of wills. Marianne was still voluptuous and striking, but clearly past her prime. Her skin beneath the powders and creams was crepey and flaccid, her once magnificent blue eyes now marred by tiny wrinkles at the corners. Barbara had inherited her mother's perfect face and her father's height. Slim and supple, yet handsomely curved with strong young muscles and not a wrinkle or a sag anywhere on her body.

  At that instant Marianne hated her. Never before had she considered her daughter to be more than an irritating nuisance, easily foisted off on nannies. Now she had become a rival—a woman who displayed the same mulish determination Montgomery had when he purchased his commission in spite of his father's threats and her pleas. Where did her children's willful strength come from? They must both be throwbacks to some distant ancestor, she decided.

  Then as thoughts of Monty filtered through her mind, a new idea occurred to her. “Barbara,” she purred, “you and your brother were always so close.”

  Barbara shrugged. “In the nursery. I've not seen him in six years. The army is his life now.”

  “Yes, he has done well, I suppose, a major serving General Prevost. Although he does find life in the southern colonies a bit more rustic than even Philadelphia, which I understand was pestilent.”

  ”I never realized that you bothered to read his letters.” Over the years, Monty's letters had grown fewer and fewer as his rank and duties escalated, especially since that dreadful war had begun.

  “Oh yes, I've perused a few. Enough to know he's presently stationed in a tropical backwater of mosquitoes and roaches, surrounded by roving bands of rabble who terrorize the countryside.” She paused. “If you find life under my roof so insufferable that you must resort to wild escapades, and you refuse the Earl of Wickersham's suit, then perhaps it would be better if you went to Montgomery. Your brother can deal with you. I wash my hands of you!”

  “To Savannah!” Barbara fairly shrieked. ”I won't go.”

  “You will—if I have to have the servants truss you up like a Christmas goose and haul you aboard ship.”

  Barbara looked at the venom gleaming in Marianne's eyes and realized that she meant every word she said.

  Chapter Two

  June, 1780, The Charles Town-Savannah Post Road

  Madelyne stood in the rough, dusty road looking from the broken baggage cart to the nearly naked red savages approaching them. I will not panic. I will remain calm for Jemmy's sake. The young groom lay beside the collapsed cart. He had been pinned beneath a smashed wheel, which he had been trying to lift free and replace. Will Tarrant and the other men had quickly freed him. But now, from the corner of her eye, she saw Tarrant clutching his fowling piece apprehensively. “Don't be a fool. There are at least a score of them and but six of us.” She added less certainly, “They are supposed to be friends of those loyal to the king.”

  All the Indians were indecently clad in scanty breechclouts and moccasins. The tallest of the group moved forward slowly, his right hand raised with the palm open. Madelyne studied his clear brown eyes, trying not to stare at the grotesque tattoos that lined his naked chest with dark blue ridges. Like his fellows, his earlobes were deformed and elongated, pierced with heavy copper ornaments. His head was partially shaven, leaving only a small fringe of hair around his forehead and one long strand adorned with feathers and beads which fell halfway down his back. His cheeks, too, were scarred with smaller versions of the hideous blue tattoos.

  Gulliver growled low when he felt Madelyne's quiver of fear, but she patted the dog and soothed him. “He seems peaceful enough. Now let us pray he speaks English.” The sound of her voice reassured the dog, who cocked his head and watched as the savage halted about ten feet in front of Madelyne.

  “Good day, sir. We are in a bit of distress. Our cart wheel snapped and my groom was gravely injured when the cart fell on him. Can you help us?”

  The savage listened intently, his face unreadable. Then he asked in guttural but understandable English, “You liberty men?”

  “Most certainly not!” Madelyne drew herself up to her full five feet and one inch of height and stuck out her small chin pugnaciously. “We are loyal subjects of King George. I am Madelyne Marie Deveaux, betrothed to Mr. Blackthorne of Savannah.”

  At the mention of Blackthorne, the Indian's eyes suddenly lit. He struck his palm against his chest with a resounding thump and said, ”I am Mad Turkey, brother to Blackthorne. What means betrothed?” He pronounced the word carefully.

  Under his curious scrutiny, Madelyne knew she was blushing as she replied, ”I am on my way to Savannah to marry Mr. Blackthorne—to become his wife.” Good blessed heavens! Not only was Quintin Blackthorne rude and surly, but he consorted with wild Indians! To what kind of family was her father sending her?

  “His woman?” He grunted, then quickly gave several curt commands to two of his followers who came forward. They ignored her four armed escorts and knelt beside poor Jemmy. After a cursory examination, another rapid exchange was made in their bewildering tongue. Then the one identified as Mad Turkey said, “The boy has many hurts. You need medicine man. You come, my camp.”

  Madelyne watched in growing consternation as several Indians began to fashion a crude stretcher from uncured deerhides, which they took from their pack animals.

  “We go now,” Mad Turkey said, pointing toward a twisting path leading into a dense stand of oak and hickory trees.

  “Would it not be better to send for help and wait here with my bags? All my trousseau—my bride gifts—are in the wagon and my servant is injured too badly to travel.” They mean us no harm, she told herself, smoothing the green twill skirts of her riding habit.

  More orders were issued to the Indians. When they began to take the trunks and boxes from the cart and heft them up, Clyde and Avery looked at her questioningly and Will Tarrant seemed about ready to threaten the savages. Madelyne shook her head, whispering to Jasper Oldham, who stood closest to her, “If they wanted to loot our wagon, they had but to kill us straightaway. We'll go with them. We're close enough to Savannah. The leader will send for help. It won't take long, I'm certain.”

  “You may believe them stinkin' savages,but I don't,” Will said sourly.

  Madelyne ignored him and went to Jemmy's side, Gulliver loping after her. The lad was unconscious as they laid him on the makeshift carrier. As Madelyne and her escorts led their horses, following the Indians into the dark embrace of the trees, she prayed she was not making a monumental mistake—perhaps the last one in her life!

  * * * *

  June, 1780, Savannah

  The Blackthorne city house stood on St. James Square, just across from Go
vernor Wright's official residence. As befitted the home of the most illustrious trader, planter, and stockman in the colony, the edifice was made of fired brick and stood three stories high. The candles in the chandelier winked from a front window. Tonight Robert Blackthorne and his son Quintin were entertaining senior officers of the British general staff in charge of the occupation.

  ”A pity Governor Wright could not be here. This is damned fine Madeira, Robert,” Colonel Ashburton said as he swallowed the rich wine.

  ”I hope the governor isn't ill. Tis the season for ague,” Quintin said.

  “Nothing of the sort. He and General Prevost had to confer on plans for the sweep north,” Major Oliver replied as a servant set a Wedgewood bowl before him. The delicate, spicy fragrance of turtle consomme filled the air. Taking a sniff, he said, “You do know how to set a splendid table, Robert.”

  The elder Blackthorne nodded his head, allowing a slight smile to ruffle his austere features. He wore no wig and his iron gray hair was unpowdered, a Georgia custom dictated by the heat, but the cut of his charcoal satin waistcoat and pearl linen coat was impeccable. A flawlessly arranged stock of black silk added to the mien of somber power that enveloped his person.

  “Even among us colonials, Miles, there are a few who have cultivated the finer points of civilization.” Robert's eyes swept the magnificent Chippendale table covered with an Irish linen tablecloth and set with fine china. Massive silver candlesticks held spermaceti candles, which bathed the whole room in golden light.

  ”I daresay we have every luxury in this house that one might find in the homes of England's finest gentry, and all we have to do is work for it.” Quintin cast a look of challenge in Robert's direction.

  “Quite so. Rather like we poor military men serving his majesty in this damned campaign—only our pay is always in arrears,” Colonel Ashburton said cheerfully, taking another swallow of the excellent Madeira, unaware of the tension between father and son.