To Love a Rogue

by Valerie Sherwood

  She clapped her hands and a soft-eyed barefoot island girl, wearing a blue-and-gold turban on her head, came forward to lead Philip away.

  “Those are my new racing colors—blue and gold,” Lorraine told Philip, indicating the maid’s turban. “They will also be the colors of my livery when I get around to having uniforms made. The governor helped me choose them. I have ordered a coach from England, Philip.”

  “A ... a coach?” he echoed faintly. No one he knew had a coach.

  “Yes, the governor has promised to send instructions to the maker of his own coach, which is black and silver. Mine of course will be blue and gold.” She waved gracefully to the girl. “Take Master Philip to the green bedchamber and bring him a bath. You will be called for dinner, Philip.”

  Stunned, Philip followed the island girl. En route they passed the open doorway of a bedchamber so large and of such magnificence that it brought him to a halt.

  “Whose bedchamber is this?” he asked—but he knew.

  “That be mistress’s bedchamber,” said the girl in lilting English.

  Philip stuck his head in to survey the broad sweep of windows looking out over the blue Caribbean, and opposite, the gardens. He took in the sheer white cambric and delicate China-blue silk hangings, the thick soft pile of the dusky blue and turquoise Chinese rug, the large polished mahogany bed with its fragile ruffled white cambric coverlet trimmed in pale blue ribands, the dressing table with its French gilt mirror, the repoussé silver mirror and comb. ... He dragged his eyes away.

  And he had given up all this—for Lavinia! The thought made him feel physically ill.

  But wait, all might not yet be lost! He was hardly aware of the handsomeness of the pale green bedchamber to which the island girl had led him, so frantically was his mind working. And before he was immersed in the scented soapy water of his bath, he was in schemes of how to win Lorraine back.

  He had not expected her to be so rich. His head whirled with it. But not yet married—she had said that. Oh, what a fool he had been! But, he told himself, he would remind her of their happy times together, he would find a way to brush against her with his body, she would feel the nearness of him, he would heat the wench up!

  He hardly noticed whether the bathwater was cool or hot. What did it matter? He had left cold, snowy, burned-over Rhode Island for a tropical paradise and a beauty of vast wealth and undoubted power. A woman who would soon own a coach! He could hardly wait for dinner—but he was forced to. The candles had been lit and a velvet darkness had descended upon the island before the girl in the blue-and-gold turban returned to bring him to the drawing room.

  Lorraine was standing with her back to Philip as he entered. She had not gone riding after all. She had walked across the green lawn to the edge of the cliff that overlooked the ocean and there she had remained for a long time. Thinking. Remembering. When she had returned to the house her face was set. She had called her overseer and had given him some instructions that made him blink in surprise.

  Now as she stood waiting for her guest, she gave Philip time to take in the luxury of her surroundings, the elegance of her sheer white flounced cambric gown with the black velvet ribands that made her skin seem the more radiant, the beauty of her blonde hair dazzling in the candlelight. Finally she turned to him with a brilliant welcoming smile.

  “Shall we go in to dinner, Philip?” She took his arm.

  Beneath the crystal chandelier, the long table was piled high with silver and flowers. When they were seated, a huge silver bowl filled with white hibiscus blossoms faced him. He had to crane his neck to see around it.

  “Lorraine, I cannot see you for all these flowers,” he complained.

  Lorraine clapped her hands and gave a low-voiced order. The flowers were removed to a large sideboard and Philip found himself considering his hostess across a formidable array of plate. Branched silver candelabra with candles alight vied with the tall silver salts for magnificence.

  “Am I to presume that you and Lavinia are already married?” she asked. “Philip, do not put down your spoon—this conch soup is very good.”

  “Lorraine, let me explain about that,” he said hoarsely. “Lavinia and I are not married. Lavinia—”

  “Oh, do not talk about Lavinia—tell me about the others. What of Mistress Bowman? Is she well?”

  “She is well enough,” said Philip shortly. He leaned forward. “Lavinia and I have called it off. We were not—”

  “Tell me of the war,” she cut in. “How fares Rhode Island now?”

  Defeated, Philip answered her questions, giving her a play-by-play account of the progress of the war. No, Rhode Island still had raised no troops, they had remained neutral. The eleven hundred men serving under Governor Josiah Winslow of Massachusetts were half from Massachusetts and half from Connecticut—but those who had crossed from Rehoboth to Wickford had been carried by Rhode Island ships. Joined by those who had moved overland, skirmishing as they went, Winslow had marched over Tower Hill inland to storm the Narragansett stronghold on an island in the Great Swamp.

  “When was this?” she asked him.

  “In December. The swamp had frozen to ice and the troops marched in across it.”

  “But you were not there, were you, Philip?” she asked softly.

  He flushed, sensing the censure in her voice. “Of course not! I told you, Rhode Island remains neutral, Lorraine!”

  “Of course. Neutral—and burned to the ground.” She smiled benignly upon Philip, but little lights danced in her blue-gray eyes.

  Philip sensed uneasily that he had been found wanting and promptly launched into a spirited description of the Great Swamp Fight where some four thousand Indians, behind formidable fortifications, had caused heavy casualties before the wooden fortress they defended was set ablaze. It had taken three assaults to subdue it. The wounded had been transported to Newport. “But the war still rages,” he told her. “None can tell when it will end.”

  He stopped as he noticed her regarding him oddly from the head of the table. She was very beautiful there in the candlelight, very desirable.

  “Lorraine,” he began, almost in desperation, “Lavinia and I were not right for each other—I guess you always knew that. From the moment I saw you, I knew—but I was fighting it, as would any man! Lavinia had become so jealous of you that she broke our engagement—and believe me, I felt nothing but relief when that happened, for I had been tricked into the betrothal in the first place and knew not how to escape.”

  Across from him Lorraine said nothing, but continued studying him.

  “Lorraine, why did you not tell me of your good fortune?” he demanded. “Didn’t you know that I would have been overjoyed for you?”

  Lorraine’s smile was deceptively bland. “But you would have insisted that we live in Rhode Island, Philip, where Livinia would forever have plagued me!”

  “No, I would not!” he protested.

  “Nonsense, of course you would. Eat your stewed turtle, Philip, you will find it delicious. Can you believe I have my own turtle crawls?”

  He could believe anything in this topsy-turvy world into which he had been flung, where bound girls had coaches and racing colors!

  “But who takes care of all this for you?”

  “Nicholls does—and I am becoming more adept at handling business matters every day. These chairs, that sideboard, Philip—they are both products of the new furniture factory I have started.”

  He looked dazed. He swallowed the delicious food, but did not taste it. The little tavern maid he had seduced by trick in Rhode Island was gone—and in her place a princess of commerce had risen!

  “How did you find me, Philip?”

  “I overheard Captain Bowman tell his aunt that you were here.”

  “And possessed of a fine plantation, I have no doubt?” she added ironically.

  “No, he said nothing like that—only that you were safe.”

  Philip had been too quick to protest and Lorraine gave h
im a mocking look. “Ah, don’t deny it, Philip,” she sighed. “Still . . . you have come a long way to find me.” There was a soft note in her voice that a man who attracted women could not mistake.

  “I would have brought you here in style had you but asked it!” he boasted.

  “Would you indeed?” she murmured, and again those little lights danced in her eyes. “You must be sparing of the wine,” she cautioned him, waving the serving girl away when he would have had his glass refilled. “There will be more wine—later. I would not have your senses dulled, Philip,” she added demurely.

  His heart leapt. The wench was leading him on!

  “And now for dessert,” she said mildly. “Perhaps we should enjoy that upon the veranda on such a night as this?”

  Philip rose quickly to accompany her. Magic was in the air. Above them in the velvet blackness burned the brilliant white stars of the Southern Cross. The night was filled with tropical scents, witchlike, compelling. He took a deep breath. He had been afraid that all this newfound wealth would turn her away from him, but it was plain that it had not. Lorraine had always desired him and now she was making it clear that she desired him still! She would be his again! He would slip into the warmth of those soft remembered arms and feel again the unbelievably silky texture of her skin. He would woo her, he would win her—and then all of this would be his! She had been tantalizing him all through dinner, displaying her remarkable beauty, her elegance, her charm—and all the trappings that in his mind made up an aristocrat. Her mother had been an aristocrat, he recalled. Ah, this new sophisticated Lorraine would grace his home and his heart far better than Lavinia ever could!

  “Lorraine,” he said abruptly, reaching out in masterful fashion to take possession of her hand. “I am not hungry. Let us walk—I have something to tell you.”

  “Good, I am not hungry either,” she said, lifting her hands to clap them, so as not to touch him.

  She is afraid of me, he thought. Afraid of what her senses will do to her if I touch her! His chest expanded.

  “We will stroll around the grounds, Philip. You may take those away,” she told the servant who was bringing compotes of tropical fruits in silver saucers.

  Lorraine kept her hands lightly clasped before her as they walked along the garden paths. Around them palm fronds whispered sensuously and the white flowers of the hibiscus glowed like pale moons in the darker shadows.

  “Isn’t this a romantic setting?” she asked him.

  “It is your true setting, Lorraine,” he told her warmly.

  She shrugged her white shoulders. Her filmy white flounced gown floated out behind her, ethereal in starlight. “I suppose it is.”

  “Lorraine,” he said huskily, “all could be the same between us. We could forget the past—be married right away.”

  She reached up to pluck a hibiscus blossom. “Married? Why?”

  He was startled. “Why . . . because I love you, of course. That is what brought me down here!”

  “Is it?” She gave him a fleeting glance. “I wonder. . .

  They had come out now upon the green velvet of the lawn. Around them the huge old trees were mysterious in starlight.

  “Oh, Lorraine, you know it was!” He would have taken her in his arms but she eluded him.

  “No, Philip,” she said gently. Her voice had a wistful quality. “Did you enjoy bathing in scented water in the green bedchamber, Philip, dining on silver and crystal and snowy damask?”

  “Oh, yes,” he sighed. “I truly did.”

  “Good. I am glad you did.” Her voice had gone hard and she stepped back. Her eyes were blazing. “For it is the last you will ever see of any of it! Take him!”

  From the shadows of the trees emerged half a dozen men, converging on Philip. They looked very intent.

  Philip backed away from them. “What . . . what is this?” he cried. “Lorraine, have you lost your senses?”

  “No, Philip—but you have just lost your freedom.”

  He was backing away toward the cliff overlooking the dark blue expanse of the Caribbean. The men were closer now. Lorraine moved along with them.

  Philip had reached the edge. His voice took on a ragged quality. “Lorraine!” It had a sound of wild appeal.

  “You have a choice now, Philip.” She sounded bored. “You can either hurl yourself over the cliff—it’s a hundred-foot drop to the bottom—or you can let these gentlemen take you.”

  Philip prudently chose the latter. His hands were bound under Lorraine’s direction and a rope attached to those bonds.

  “Why?” he cried in bewilderment. “Why are you doing this?”

  Lorraine’s faint smile played on her face. Only her mocking voice betrayed that she had become a woman of silk and steel.

  “I am going to teach you humility, Philip.”

  She beckoned to the silent men who surrounded him. “Bring him along. If he resists, drag him. If he kicks at you, cuff him. Brook no resistance.”

  Philip did not resist. He went along with fear-crazed eyes and a beating heart. Would this madwoman have him thrown into the fire or into a pit with snakes? He had heard evil things of the islands!

  She had the men push him into the square forbidding room that had once been the old slave quarters, empty now, and affix the rope that bound his wrists to a ring in the wall.

  “You will have plenty of room here,” she announced. “Much more than in a cubbyhole in an attic. After all, twenty-two people used to sleep here before I came.” She indicated with her foot the long low slab that ran down the middle of the room. “Each one had only that much width to sleep on—see how lucky you are, Philip? You will have the entire room. And tomorrow perhaps we will let you pluck some grasses and carry them in to form a pallet. You will need your sleep, for at first light you will be roused and taken to work in the canefields. Those clothes you’re wearing won’t be suitable. You will be given a straw hat and a pair of coarse cotton breeches. Oh, and boots too—the cane stubble, after it is hacked down, would cut your flesh like a knife. You will work from dawn until dusk, through the heat of the day—and then come back here. This is to be your life, Philip—get used to it.”

  The door to his prison clanged shut and one of the men inserted a heavy iron key, then handed it to the woman Philip now knew was to be his jailer.

  “Sleep well,” Lorraine caroled, and he heard their footsteps retreating.

  He was left alone in the cell-like quarters where only a little light filtered in through a small window to relieve the darkness. The men who had bound him were more efficient than he had been in Rhode Island—he was unable to untie his bonds. Dawn found him slumped against the stone wall below the metal ring, still helpless.

  The other men got him up, offered him some coarse bread and water, threw a straw hat and hacked-off cotton trousers and boots at him, and marched him to the canefields, where he joined others who looked at his askance.

  In midmorning the mistress of the manor rode up to inspect the cane. Lorraine breezed by Philip without recognition, exchanged pleasantries with her overseer, and rode on. Philip followed her with eyes filled with dull rage.

  Sunburned and exhausted, he stumbled home.

  Lorraine chose to visit him that night. She talked to him through the iron bars of his window that faced toward the house.

  “I fear you are not used to such strong rays of the sun,” she said in a lightly pitying voice. “Tomorrow we must remember to provide you with a loose cotton shirt.”

  “Spare me your pity,” he croaked.

  She laughed. “I do not pity you, Philip. I just do not want to incapacitate a good field hand. The overseer tells me you show promise.”

  “The overseer be damned!”

  “And spirit too,” she mocked. “It seemed cruel to keep you boxed in by shrubbery as you were last night, so today I have had a great bush removed so that you may look out your window. I bid you good night.”

  “Go to the devil,” mumbled Philip.

&
nbsp; Tired though he was, his curiosity impelled him to look out that window when a faint light shone down through it. And he beheld a vision.

  The “viewpoint” in the shrubbery had been arranged with precision. From his window Philip could see the great double casements of Lorraine’s bedchamber, open now to the soft night air. The hangings blowing at her window were of sheerest white cambric, almost transparent, and there was a strong light behind it. And there, against that light behind that sheer rippling curtain, Lorraine was undressing, pausing to stretch luxuriously, throwing back her head with her long lovely hair tossing about, combing it out. Her body was presented in silhouette—but what a silhouette! The vivid detail of every lovely line of her was etched into his very soul.

  Despite himself, despite his anger, despite his deep fatigue, Philip felt a wild desire to break out, to fling himself through that gossamer curtain and crash to the floor with her and ravish her.

  Damn her witchery! It had him in thrall again! Oh, why had he carried her home to Lavinia? Why had he not borne her to his bed that night in Yorktown, brought her to heel! That was where he had erred, by not forcing Lorraine into submission before he took her aboard the Lizard.

  Lorraine moved again behind that blowing curtain. She stretched up her arms and whirled around, making a delectable display of her lovely slim torso and legs.

  Philip groaned and fell back from the window.

  The next day was the same for him—work and misery.

  And the next night—torment and desire.

  Several times after that Lorraine rode through the canefields and each time either ignored Philip or regarded him with distaste, but never again did she speak to him before the men.

  By the end of the week Lorraine had tired of her sport, and regretted that Philip had ever come to Barbados. She had the shrubbery that had been dug up moved back so that Philip was cut off from his nightly agony. But by that time word had buzzed about that the beautiful mistress of Venture had a runaway bondservant she had brought back so that she might torment him—with her body!