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

by Henke, Shirl

  LOVE A REBEL…LOVE A ROGUE

  BY

  SHIRL HENKE

  Originally published by Leisure Books

  Copyright 1994 by Shirl Henke

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without the written permission of the author.

  Prologue

  1759, Blackthorne Hill

  He huddled in the stall, crouching in quivering silence amid the itchy straw and trying very hard not to cry, not even to breathe. The shadows engulfed his small, thin figure, concealing him from his father, who had come in search of him.

  “Quintin, I know you're here. Show yourself at once.” Robert Blackthorne's voice cut like the riding crop he flicked angrily against his thigh. His agitation grew as the boy continued to defy him. He scanned the dark interior of the stable. Damnation, the child was so small and thin that he could fair squeeze between the cracks in the walls!

  Just then Robert heard a small hiccup in the musty silence. He cursed Obediah for saying the boy was not in here. The slave had lied for Quintin. So did all the servants. He stepped into a stall and found his quarry. “There you are. Come out before it goes harder on you.”

  Quintin forced down the sour bile gathering in his throat and stood up. For a seven-year-old, he was tall, if reed-thin. He held his chin up defiantly, swallowed once, then clenched his teeth lest his jaw betray him by trembling. Small, grimy fists were clenched tightly at his sides as he stepped into a shaft of yellow light filtering in from the open door. His black hair was matted with straw, and an angry bruise discolored one side of his face. He did not feel the pain as he looked up into Robert's cold blue eyes.

  Robert Blackthorne saw the flash of defiance in the boy's bright green eyes before Quintin averted his gaze. “Look at you, the heir to Blackthorne Hill, filthy as a stableboy!” He cracked the quirt smartly against the oak post by the boy's head and was rewarded by a slight flinch. Good.

  “You were forbidden to ride King's Pride. You could have injured a valuable breeding animal. Fortunately, he threw you before you broke his neck.”

  “I would never harm the colt! I halter-broke him myself. I've been riding him bareback all spring,” Quintin said in a sudden rush of pride.

  Robert's quirt did strike home this time, cutting through the linen of the boy's shirt, leaving a thin red line on his arm. “You ride like one of those damned savages! I know you were with that Indian trash of Alastair's!”

  “Devon is my cousin. He's not trash.”

  “His mother is a Creek Indian and a disgrace to my brother's name. I've forbidden you ever to speak with Alastair or his mongrel get.”

  Now certain that his cousin Dev had escaped while Robert searched for him, Quintin felt goaded beyond endurance. “Uncle Alastair and Cousin Dev are my family. They care about me. You don't. Why don't you let me go live with them?”

  “Go to your room at once,” Robert said, following his curt command with a swift slash of the quirt against the boy's leg.

  Ignoring the sharp pain, Quintin slipped by the towering giant and ran to the house, seeking refuge. His solace was not in his cold, beautiful room, however. It was in the attic.

  Several months ago, he had overheard two servants whispering about the Lady Anne's pretties, all packed away in the dusty confines of the third floor of the mansion. He had searched through a maze of crates, barrels, and boxes stacked far higher than his scant four feet. After a dozen or more forays, he had found the treasure—his mother's beautiful gowns, jewels and paintings. One cedar chest held the best keepsakes, at least from the viewpoint of a seven-year-old boy. So now he sat surrounded with her memories, clutching a bundle of old letters from his father to her.

  “If only you were here, Mother, things would be better. Father wouldn't be so angry all the time. Why did you have to go and die?” He stroked the satin ribbons holding the packet of letters, deeply absorbed in an imaginary world where a golden-haired lady held a small, dark-haired boy in her arms.

  “Mistress Ogilve told me this is where I'd find you—expressly where I've forbidden you to trespass.”

  “These are my mother's things. Why must they be hidden?” Quintin noticed that his father's manner had shifted. He was not shouting, but the unholy gleam in his eyes made the boy even more wary.

  Calmly, Robert walked over to Quintin and took the packet of letters from him, replacing them carefully in the cedar chest. He took a small key from inside the chest and turned the lock on the lid. Fixing a hard stare on the boy, he said, “We're due for a talk. I think this is the best time. Yes, a most opportune time for you to understand your position. You are my only heir, and all the considerable wealth of Blackthorne Hill will one day come to you.”

  “I don't want anything that's yours,” Quintin said, suddenly terrified by Robert's deadly quiet. He had grown used to being beaten, even being locked in the dark dressing closet in his room, but this icy calm was something new, and he had no defense against it.

  “We're going down to my study, just you and I, Quintin. I have something to tell you, something of great moment that no other living being must ever hear. Do you mark me, boy?”

  With a growing sense of dread, Quintin Blackthorne replied, “Yes, Father.”

  * * * *

  1767, Ravenal Hall, Outside Charles Town

  “Oh, Aunt Isolde, he's quite the prettiest thing I've ever seen!” The little girl's silky hair bounced in shiny ringlets as she jumped up and down with delight in front of a sleek white pony.

  Isolde Ravanal looked down into her niece's sparkling amber eyes, so like Marie's. She patted Madelyne's mahogany curls and laughed. ”I thought you would fancy such a pony. Now let us see, what shall we name him?”

  “Pegasus! For the winged horse in those wonderful Greek myths.”

  Isolde readily agreed, thinking delightedly of how her brother-in-law Theo would disapprove of his daughter reading Greek classics. She could hear his voice now: Filling the gel's head with rubbish, that's what, Isolde. With a wicked smile, she thought, And so I shall!

  “Madelyne, how would you like to take a ride? Pegasus is quite well trained. Of course, we should change into riding clothes while the grooms saddle your Pegasus and my Wild Star.” She watched as the girl's face rose, then fell.

  “Must we go to such bother? Father will arrive for tea this afternoon. It was nearly noon before we were able to get Aunt Claud to leave, and we have only a couple of hours.” Her voice took on a pleading tone that usually worked on her soft-hearted favorite aunt.

  Isolde tapped her cheek with long, slender fingers and appeared to debate. “Well... no one is about to saddle the horses...and changing would take time.”

  “We've ridden bareback before, only you held me on Wild Star. Now that I have a pony of my very own, I can manage him without a silly old saddle. I promise not to race.”

  Laughing, Isolde scooped Madelyne into her arms and hugged the small girl fiercely. ”I know your penchant for riding all too fast. I fear you shall take a tumble or two from Pegasus just as you have from other horses, but that is part of learning to ride. There is no greater freedom than feeling a horse beneath you while the wind blows in your unbound hair.”

  “Then let us ride like the wind, Aunt Isolde. Let us fly!”

  And off they rode, two pairs of bare brown legs clinging to the sides of their horses, their skirts rucked up and their hair flying freely behind them like gleaming mahogany banners in the warm Carolina breeze.

  Chapter One

  May, 1780, twenty miles south of Charles Town

  “Either y
ou turn to scrubbing that floor or I’ll have Will shoot that mongrel of yours, and there's an end to it!”

  Madelyne Marie Deveaux knelt with her arms about a brown dog of no particular distinction except for his imposing size. She glared up at the prim, cold face of her aunt as the dog began to growl low in his throat.

  Claud Deveaux pursed lips as thin as her emaciated body but did not yield an inch. With a wave of her hand, she silently summoned Will, a large, surly indentured servant who appeared from inside the house with an ancient fowling piece in his hands. “If that dumb brute moves, he'll die and you'll live to regret it; that I promise you,” Claud threatened.

  Madelyne felt the sting of tears. Helpless frustration welled up in her as she looked from the icy, unruffled demeanor of her father's sister to the leering servant with his weapon at the ready. ”Tis Will Tarant who's the dumb brute, not Gulliver,” she replied in a choked voice. “How can you be so heartless? All I did—”

  ”I am a God-fearing woman filled with Christian charity to take in a hoyden who disobeys her elders,’ Claud interrupted in her thin, precise voice. “Well, Madelyne, what will it be?” She eyed the dog with distaste.

  Madelyne patted Gulliver and commanded him to remain sitting as she rose to face her tormentors. ”I shall go to the kitchens straightaway and fetch bucket and mop.”

  Claud allowed a mere whisper of a smile to touch her lips. “That is sensible of you, Madelyne. I shall teach you gentle courtesy yet. This is suitable punishment for taking the coach horse and riding without escort, bare-back and astride like a common trollop.” She looked at the dog with her cold pewter eyes and added, “Take that beast and tie him in the stable. I'll not have him running loose anymore...if you value his life.”

  Madelyne hid her clenched fists in the folds of her coarse gray cotton skirts. ”I will see to him—if Will Tarant will put down his weapon. I fear lest he shoot one of us by accident!”

  Claud nodded and Will silently shambled back into the house. She then turned with a swish of gray silk and followed him. Madelyne watched them vanish into the gray frame structure that was as plain and drab as its owner. “Merciful heavens, how I hate it here. Everything is gray. Even the weather,” she muttered, glancing up at the sky massed with low hanging clouds. It was unseasonably warm for spring and the swampy air hung thick as tree moss. She turned toward the stable and began to trudge listlessly, the dog trotting obediently behind her.

  As she tied him with a crude length of rope, Madelyne sighed. ”I may reap a fearful penance before the day is done, but the ride was worth it, was it not, old friend?” She patted his head and he nuzzled her hand as if in agreement.

  Early that morning, Madelyne had slipped from the house and taken the carriage horse from her aunt's stable. Both horse and girl had loved the freedom of her impetuous excursion. So had Gulliver, tagging along behind them. It had been almost as if she were back in Charles Town, on an early morning ride with Aunt Isolde.

  Memories of her previous life again assaulted her with bittersweet poignancy. She left the dog and headed resolutely toward the kitchen. If Claud caught her dallying, her aunt would only prolong her penance. Madelyne had come to live with her father's spinster sister last winter when her Aunt Isolde died. Since her arrival, she had been engaged in a contest of wills with Claud Deveaux, a contest which the iron-willed old woman was slowly winning. How many nights without supper? How many days confined to her drab room? And now, the threat to kill Gulliver, her only remaining tie to her past life. After all manner of corporal punishment had failed to curb Madelyne's impetuous conduct, the shrewd old lady had finally hit upon her one weakness, her only friend.

  By early afternoon, the gathered clouds had dispersed and thin yellow rays of sunlight broke through, making the low-lying swampy plantation even hotter and more pestilent. Every breath was an effort as Madelyne and the black slave Essie beat the sitting-room carpet. The rug was regularly cleaned and turned, but not replaced even though the dark blue wool was faded from the sun. Although a wealthy heiress, Claud Deveaux did not believe in frivolous displays.

  Madelyne paused after one fierce swat and coughed, then resumed her strokes with methodical precision.

  Essie, a thin, wiry young woman, let out a low chuckle. “You be dreamin' dat rug is Miz Claud.”

  Madelyne stopped and grinned conspiratorially at her companion. ”Tis not as good as using the beater on her, but I suppose it does serve,” she said, rubbing one grimy hand across her forehead and shoving back masses of sweat-darkened red hair. ”A pox on this mop of mine. I shall fix it.” She reached into the large pocket of her skirt and extracted a calico kerchief, knotting her hair behind her head and binding it fast with the cloth. “There, that is much cooler,” she said, picking up the beater once more.

  Essie giggled. “You look like one of Massah Mose s high yeller wenches with yo' hair tied up.” An uncomfortable look swept across her face then. “Miz Claud got no right to work you like dis. You her blood kin.”

  Madelyne grimaced. “Don't remind me. I take after the Ravenal side of the family, not the Deveaux side.”

  Just then the sound of hoofbeats drumming up the front drive caused both women to stop and peer from their partial concealment at the side of the house. Mistress Deveaux had few visitors except for Madelyne's father, who was not expected.

  “Lawdy, Glory, look at dat one,” Essie said with awe in her voice.

  Madelyne peeked around the corner, clutching the rug beater with both hands, as transfixed as Essie with the elegantly dressed rider astride his magnificent black stallion. His boots gleamed as brightly as the raven locks of his blue-black hair. His bottle-green coat was faultlessly cut across wide shoulders, and he wore a plain buff waistcoat. He reined in the black and dismounted in one smooth motion. His pants hugged his long, slim legs indecently, Madelyne thought.

  Then her eyes traveled up his broad chest, above the stark white silk of his stock, to fasten on the most arresting face she had ever seen. Harsh and hawkish it was, and unfashionably darkened by the sun—the face of a fallen angel. The purity of its lines were in classic proportion—firm jaw, straight nose, high forehead, with heavy angular eyebrows framing dark eyes that keenly swept the front of the squat, ugly house. Madelyne squinted, trying to decide the color of those piercing eyes, but the distance was too far. His lips were sculpted as if by the hand of Michelangelo, but he did not smile.

  Until Essie inadvertently poked her in the ribs with her rug beater, Madelyne forgot to breathe. Both women watched as he tied the stallion to the post and strode grimly to the front door, vanishing from their sight.

  “Who is dat debil? Sho is a pretty 'un. Think he be kin to you?”

  “He's certainly no relation to Aunt Claud. I'd bet my last good ball gown on that—especially since she’ll never let me wear it again. It's been packed away for so long it's probably molded by now.”

  ”Miz Claud don't hold wid dancin', ner ladies showin' what God give 'em in low-cut dresses neither. Bet you looked like a real princess in one of them gowns, Miz Madelyne.”

  Madelyne sighed, then turned back to the rug with resignation. ”Tis no matter, Essie. I'll never dance again—or have a beau to ask me, if Aunt Claud has her way. We'd best get this rug cleaned and rolled so Abram can replace it before evening or I'll spend another night without dinner—and I'm starved!”

  * * * *

  “Mr. Blackthorne, what a delightful surprise. My brother Theodore said you would not arrive for another week,” Claud said, making a stiff little curtsy in front of her tall visitor.

  “My apologies, Mistress Deveaux, but I was able to complete my business in Charles Town more quickly than I anticipated, since his majesty's forces have retaken the capital. I must be on my way home to Georgia and could not dally longer.” He sketched a bow, his face as unsmiling as hers.

  “Of course. I understand. You're here to see the girl.” Claud paused, struggling to conceal her agitation. “If you would but take so
me refreshment, I will prepare her.”

  “No need. I only require a few words with her and tricking her out in finery will interest me not in the least. I must be back in Charles Town before dark.”

  '1 would offer you the hospitality of my home, Mr. Blackthorne. You need not ride back tonight.”

  ”I think it best if I do,” Blackthorne replied dryly. Her hospitality was probably as cold and thin as yesterday's porridge. But if her aloof Calvinist manner was any indication, she had raised the chit to know her place, and to obey.

  “If you're certain, I shall summon her. She has been set at tasks outdoors all afternoon. Please forgive her appearance. Madelyne is a hard worker.”

  ”I am gratified to hear it. Have no fear for her appearance. You and I both know virtue is internal.” He smiled as she nodded in fierce agreement. That had struck a familiar chord in her Huguenot soul.

  ”I will fetch her directly.” Claud swished from the room. She found Madelyne in the yard and was appalled. The girl was filthy! “Come with me,” she said imperiously. “And none of your sass. We have an important visitor, who would have a few words with you.”

  Madelyne's mind raced. Surely the beautiful dark stranger could not want to meet her? Before she could gather her scattered thoughts, Claud's bony fingers clamped on her shoulder with surprising strength.

  “You listen to me, niece, and you heed me well. Mr. Blackthorne's father is an old friend of your father's. You will be meek and polite before him. One word of hoydenish sass from you, and I promise you will not eat for a week—and you will never again see that filthy mongrel. I will have him destroyed! Now take that disgraceful kerchief from your hair and—”

  “Mistress Deveaux, the gentleman says he must be gone soon.” The maid Leta burst into the back sitting room and curtsied breathlessly. “He would not take tea but sent me to ask after Miss Madelyne.”