To Love a Rogue

by Valerie Sherwood

  “As well as any, I suppose.”

  “Then lead me past the tavern we just quitted by some back road or cowpath, for I’m thinking I hear the sound of a waterfall over yonder and I’ve no mind to be trapped between white water and the law.”

  The law! Yes, of course the law would pursue them both—she the escaped bondservant, he the man who had helped her escape!

  Lorraine peered ahead through the mist. “I think . . . yes, turn hard right at that big tree. There’s a little brook. Your horse can walk along its bottom for a while and we can lose any pursuers, even if they follow us with dogs!”

  Raile looked down into her clear upturned eyes, so luminous in the wavering light, with approval. “I doubt me they’ll pursue us with dogs,” he murmured. “I heard none barking about the inn.”

  “No, Oddsbud’s wife hates them. She told Oddsbud she’d have no dog about, for a dog would gobble up the scraps she throws to the chickens and they at least can be stewed and served at table!”

  “Such a woman must have been hard to live with,” he muttered, wheeling his horse.

  “Awful,” agreed Lorraine with feeling. She felt the warmth of his body as she swayed against him when they made the sharp-angled turn. Swiftly she righted herself, turning her head to hide a blush.

  Raile appeared not to have noticed.

  Moments later they found the stream—a bare trickle beneath the aspens. And after a mile or so he said, “We’re well past the tavern by now, lass. Bring me back to the main road by the shortest route.”

  She did so, taking him by barely discernible trails, gold-washed in the early-morning light, and shadowed by trees that loomed up and disappeared like vanishing giants.

  “This road,” she warned him, “will take us to Providence.”

  “I’m aware of that, lass. ’Tis the same road I used yesterday.”

  So he had come by way of Providence then. . . . She waited for him to say more, but he did not.

  On through the morning mist thundered the big brown horse, the sound of his hooves muffled on the soft dirt of the roadside. The stallion’s riders were silent too: the man because he had a mighty ache in his head from the heavy blow he had sustained last night, the girl from a mixture of indignation and grief, for all the dreams she had cherished these last three years had blown away into the mist.

  She was thinking, remembering, reliving . . . that wonderful night at harvest time under a full orange moon when Philip Dedwinton had drawn her away from the other young people who were laughing and dancing around a bonfire. Pulling her behind a mountain of corn husks, he had brushed his lips against her cheek, and when she would have run away, he had seized her hand and told her huskily that she was the loveliest thing in Rhode Island. She had been so young and full of blushes. Her mother was still alive then, and her father had not yet gone away. Her future had seemed bright.

  And then Lavinia Todd had blown in like a gale from the Atlantic.

  Lorraine shivered.

  “Are you cold?” asked Raile sharply, feeling the quiver of her slight young body against his arm.

  “No,” said Lorraine in a choked voice. “I’m not cold.”

  Not her body. Just her heart.

  Lavinia had arrived, with her wonderful gleaming dark brown hair, her haughty smile and scathing bronze eyes, with her gorgeous London clothes and her flirtatious walk, just after Lorraine’s bright doomed world had crashed. It was the week after Lorraine’s father had bound her to the Mayfields. So Lavinia had always referred to Lorraine—with a supercilious sniff—as “Who? Lorraine? Oh, you mean that bound girl?” And then her laughter would trill. Lorraine had heard her say it more than once and had smoldered.

  For in a way, Lavinia had moved into the spot Lorraine was just beginning to occupy before her mother died.

  Reigning belle.

  Country Rhode Island society was not so classconscious that a bound girl who came of good family could not attend picnics and outings—as the indulgent Mayfields had always let Lorraine do. But it was hard on Lorraine, appearing in worn dresses, the patched and mended remnants of better days, and seeing Lavinia in her rich and fashionable creations lording it over everyone.

  She remembered the sparkling snows of that first winter after Lavinia’s arrival. Lorraine, still saddened by her mother’s death, had been trudging down the road carrying a crock of butter to one of Mother Mayfield’s neighbors. Philip, dashing by in a one-horse sleigh, had reined in his nag and swept Lorraine up, wrapping both her and the butter crock up in a blanket.

  “We’ll deliver the crock of butter later,” he had declared.“You need cheering up!”

  He had driven her triumphantly all the way to Providence, where merrymakers had spilled out of one of the stone-end houses. One of those merrymakers had been Lavinia Todd, languishing on the arm of a young Providence rake as she picked her way daintily through the snow in a pair of tall pattens.

  How sharply Lavinia had looked up at Philip, ruddyfaced from the blowing wind and so handsome in his new red cloak! And then her gaze had strayed to Lorraine, and her bronze eyes had gleamed with a predatory light.

  Somehow from that moment Lorraine had found herself pitted against Lavinia in everything: In quilting—Lavinia deft with a needle, had won easily. In dancing—Lorraine was perhaps more graceful but Lavinia knew all the new steps and was quickly the rage. In conversation—Lavinia knew the latest quips from London and dazzled everyone with her wit and knowledge.

  And yet through it all, Philip had remained true.

  Or so Lorraine had thought.

  But then had come the Light Horse Tavern. Lorraine, cleaning the pewter tankards, had seen Philip Dedwinton riding by openly with Lavinia and Lavinia tossing her bronze curls as she glanced at the tavern windows. Lorraine’s heart had ached over that, but every time Philip strode into the tavern’s common room he had had some fully reasonable explanation for squiring wealthy Lavinia: Mistress Lavinia’s horse had gone lame, and he had carried her back home. Mistress Lavinia’s mother was ailing and he had volunteered to escort Lavinia to the doctor’s house.

  Oh, he had been very convincing. . . .

  And the little tavern maid had believed him, every word.

  Lorraine shuddered as she thought about it, and the shudder caused her breasts to bounce again along the stranger’s hard muscular arm that circled her lightly. Lost in her bitter thoughts, she leaned back against his chest, entirely unaware of the contact.

  But if Lorraine was unaware of the touch, the arm that held her so securely was not. Even as he frowned from his headache, Raile Cameron was all too aware of the soft brushing of the girl’s sweet young breasts. The light strands of fair hair that blew back against his sun-bronzed face seemed to have their own delicate perfume.

  A luscious wench this—and brokenhearted. His own heart went out to her.

  “Are you tired?” he asked abruptly.

  “What? Oh . . . no, I’m not,” said Lorraine in confusion, coming back from her memories.

  “The horse needs resting. D’you know where there’s water?”

  Lorraine peered about her. She had been barely aware of where she was, but now the mist had lifted she could see that she was in familiar territory. The Mayfields had lived not far from here.

  “Up ahead there is another stream and a beaver pond. ’Tis not far—I know the spot.”

  He gave her an approving look. “We’ll stop there, lass, and linger through the day till dusk, for I’ve no desire to be passing some lumbering farm cart whose driver will have naught better to do than to describe us to all comers—and reveal the way we are going.”

  “Of course.” There was a catch in her voice, for it had come to her suddenly that she was a girl on the run. If she was caught it could mean a whipping—or worse yet, the pillory! And of a certainty it would mean a long stretch tacked onto her time of indenture.

  From that moment until she told Raile where to turn off through the sun-washed trees, Lorraine kept an
anxious lookout for farm carts.

  With Lorraine’s sure directions guiding Raile’s expert hands on the reins, the horse picked its way carefully over the fallen leaves and twisting vines while his riders bent their heads to avoid the low-hanging branches that sometimes threatened to sweep them from the saddle. The patch of woods was thick and brushy, and had been left in its natural state because the land was swampy in spring and hard to drain. Around them a woodland that as they approached seemed alive with singing fell into a hush as they passed. Even the horse’s hooves were muffled as he trod across a forest floor carpeted by violets.

  “Here we are,” she told him at last.

  Raile reined in, dismounted, and lifted Lorraine down, setting her feet on the sponge-soft mosses and feathery green fronds that bordered the clear waters of a spring.

  They both drank thirstily from their cupped hands. The water was cold and clear.

  While the horse drank, Raile looked around him appreciatively. He stretched his arms and sniffed the air. “Wintergreen,” he said, and reached out and touched with his finger the sap that oozed from the broken limb of a small black birch tree. He tasted it.

  Lorraine shook out her skirts and took a deep breath. She tossed back her head and ran her fingers—wet from the cold spring water—through the pale tangles of her hair. The result was more fetching than she knew, and the man’s eyes lingered.

  “These are the Chipmunk Woods,” she told him with a sigh. And to his questioning look: “In summer the chipmunks are everywhere here—chattering, scurrying about. . . .”

  “One would gather you know this place well,” he murmured.

  “I used to live right over there.” She pointed. “It’s out of sight through the trees. This place belonged to the Mayfields once and I was bound to them after my father left. They were good to me. . . .”

  As if to justify the name she had given these woods, a fluffy little chipmunk suddenly appeared over the top of a fallen log and sat and jabbered at them. Raile, who had been lounging against a hickory trunk admiring Lorraine, straightened up and the chipmunk took off hysterically, making a wild leap for the next fallen branch and disappearing precipitately through the long grass. “We’d better not linger here,” he suggested. “Not if there’s a house that close. Someone might come to the spring to find water—and find us.”

  Lorraine shrugged. “The Mervises live there now. In fine weather like this, the men will be out working in the fields on the other side of the house and the women will bring them lunch. They have a well close by the house—they won’t bother to come all this way to the spring.”

  He was looking at her steadily. “Perhaps you’re right, but let’s move on.”

  Leading the horse across the soft spongy earth, they left the little spring with its scents of wintergreen and hickory and followed the meanderings of the narrow spring-fed stream until it broadened out into a wide pond surrounded by aspens.

  Raile’s restless gaze searched the edge of the beaver pond, found a little hillock covered with grass and violets where the tree branches dipped low and they would be hidden from the view of any casual passerby.

  “I think you might like a chance to bathe and rest,” he said gently, indicating the hillock. “Meantime I’ll prowl about and see if I can’t find a bit of hay for Old Ezra here.” He patted the horse’s long neck. “For I doubt me they took such good care of him at the tavern.”

  “I’m sure they didn’t,” said Lorraine with feeling—but her voice had steadied. “Oddsbud’s wife insists they short the food of all the animals in their care. But there should be plenty of grass around the split-rail fence just beyond the trees there, for the Mervises lost their horse last year. They think the Indians must have butchered the horse, as they’ve done so many others, because they never found the poor beast. So now the Mervises are afraid to pasture their cow near these woods lest they lose her too.”

  “Let’s hope they’re still cloistering the cow!” He grinned. “Where is this split-rail fence?”

  “Just head in that direction.” She nodded.“You’ll find it.” She was kicking off her shoes as she spoke. And as Raile moved off through the trees leading the obedient horse, she sat down and impatiently pulled off her garters and stockings, for the one thing she wanted most at this moment was to slip into the water and wash the very feel of Philip Dedwinton from her body.

  To be free of him at last.

  Yet even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it would not work. There had been too many years of loving Philip to throw off his memory with a single contemptuous gesture.

  She stripped off her dress and petticoat and chemise—carefully, because the fabric of all three was old and worn and they were all she had in the world. Then, with her fair hair bound up, she stepped gingerly into the beaver pond, shivering as her foot sank into the cold water.

  Lorraine washed quickly and sprang out to seek a patch of sunlight. She dried herself with her petticoat, and hung it up at a sunny spot in the branches of a nearby aspen.

  As she tugged on her shoes and stockings, eased into her chemise and russet dress, she became aware of a gnawing feeling in her stomach and realized she was hungry. Usually, at the tavern she tried to find an apple or a piece of bread to take to her room, but last night she had missed that, and this morning’s breakfast as well.

  Her gaze roved speculatively about. There was certainly no food in sight, but she remembered a patch of wild strawberries not too far from there. Of course, they were across the road, which Raile had wanted to avoid in the daylight hours, but she would be careful, and if she hurried she could be back with a kerchief full of strawberries before Raile returned.

  Eager to be doing something that would take her mind off Philip and the hurtful events of the night before, she ran through the woods. Minutes later she had crossed the road—looking up and down it first to make sure it was empty. From the road it was but a short walk to the strawberries—and there they were on a sunny bank, nestled red and ripe among the dewy green leaves. Quickly she picked enough berries to fill her kerchief and hurried back through the woods to where she had crossed the road.

  No sooner had she reached the road’s edge than she was stopped by a sudden sound from around the blind turn—a masculine voice, pleading:

  “Ah, do have me, Lavinia. I promise you I’d make a much better husband than Philip Dedwinton, for all know that he pursues Lorraine London when he’s not off courting you!”

  And Lavinia’s voice, answering frostily, “You mean that blonde tavern wench? Oh, that’s all over. Philip cares nothing for Lorraine—he told me so!”

  “Then he lied!” On a despairing note. “I passed him on his way to the Light Horse Tavern only last evening. Lavinia, I can’t live without you—”

  The muffled ending to his words was punctuated by a sudden sharp sound like a slap and Lavinia’s angry, “How dare you, Walter?” As if Walter had seized Lavinia in his arms and been abruptly thrust away.

  There was a snort from a horse and the sudden pound of hooves coming straight toward Lorraine from around the blind turn.

  At the sound of those hooves, Lorraine, who had been frozen into immobility by the shock of hearing familiar voices from out of nowhere discussing her, was galvanized into action. She plunged across the road, hoping to reach the other side and disappear into the trees before the quarreling pair could reach her.

  She judged wrong.

  For as she leapt forward, a trailing vine tripped her and sent her sprawling, along with the kerchief of strawberries, into the road.

  Lorraine had barely reached all fours before there on a sleek gray horse pounding around the turn was Lavinia Todd, followed by a young man astride a big rangy roan. Lorraine recognized him as Walter Grimes, one of Lavinia’s more persistent admirers.

  Lorraine scrambled up from the dirt, dusting herself off from her fall. She was humiliated that her rival should see her without her petticoat and with her damp hair uncombed. It would have hurt h
er even worse if Lavinia had known what had happened last night, but the pair of them were thundering toward her from the direction of Providence and couldn’t know yet what had happened at the Light Horse Tavern.

  Though Lorraine might still have had time to dart across the road and disappear into the trees, the thought never once occurred to her.

  Something taut and angry in Lorraine had snapped at the sight of elegant Lavinia bearing down on her looking so fashionable in her smart plum riding habit, her purple petticoats fetchingly displayed from her sidesaddle.

  Lorraine staggered to her feet and planted herself squarely in the middle of the road.

  Lavinia looked as if she would have liked to run Lorraine down, but she pulled up impatiently, her mare sidestepping and dancing at being halted so suddenly. Walter, who had come up beside Lavinia, brought his horse to a rearing halt and reached out to steady her mount.

  Lorraine ignored Walter, who was staring in amazement to see her so far from the Light Horse Tavern. Her blue-gray eyes focused on Lavinia.

  “I am surprised to find you out riding so far from home, Lavinia,” volunteered Lorraine. “I should think your mother would keep you close to home in times like these.” For it was no secret that there had been Indian attacks on several outlying cabins recently and there were some who felt the roads weren’t safe.

  Lavinia shook her head and her bronze curls blazed red in the sunlight. The implication that she was afraid to ride out because of recent mutterings about Indian uprisings brought a flush to her high cheekbones. Lavinia had often boasted that she was afraid of nothing. As she stared down coldly at Lorraine, her voice dripped contempt.

  “I am surprised to find you taking off from your duties at the tavern,” she said. “I would think you could ill be spared. After all, someone must scrub the floors and carry out the slops! Yet here you are bumbling about, strewing strawberries. . . Lavinia cast a significant look at the kerchief of strawberries, some of which had spilled out upon the road.

  “The tavern?” Lorraine’s winglike brows shot up. “Oh, that’s all over,” she said, measuring Lavinia with her steady blue gaze.