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

by Henke, Shirl

  Chapter Three

  Quintin swatted a mosquito and felt himself sweat as they rode steadily along the rutted post road. “Now I remember why I decided against the trading end of the family business and settled for plantation life. Swelter to death in summer, freeze your ass off in winter—and ride through mud the year round.”

  Devon laughed. “You're getting soft, Quint. City life's corrupted you. I remember a time when you and I used to ride into the Muskogee villages and spend months hunting and feasting with them.”

  Quint's face softened. “It was a good life then, wasn't it? Paradise for a couple of growing boys.”

  Devon's eyes danced as he recalled their youth. “Yes, especially when we reached puberty.”

  “Speak for yourself. I bestowed my virginity on Polly Bloor. She was an uncommon fine-looking wench back then.”

  “And a willing teacher, I'd wager. I won't deny I've enjoyed a toss with her now and again, but the women of my mother's tribe are cleaner and no less enthusiastic.”

  Quintin looked at his cousin, his mood suddenly turning serious. “How is Aunt Charity? I know she's had a difficult time since Uncle Alastair died.”

  Devon's expression shifted to grimness, then brightened. “Yes, the Blackthorne family scarce welcomed a half-caste Muskogee woman as the second wife of the exalted Alastair Blackthorne, no matter that she was better educated than any of their women, including my beloved elder brother's mother. But that's all over now. My mother is happy living with her people. She runs a school for the children in the village. Says they have to learn to read and write English so the white men can't cheat them.”

  “No need to fear with men like you as royal agents, Dev.”

  “I do my best. The Crown is the Indians' only protection. If this war drags on...I fear what might happen if we lose it, Quint.”

  Quintin quirked one black eyebrow. “Surely you, the cockiest Tory in Georgia, don't for a minute believe we can lose?”

  Devon sighed, then shrugged. ”I don't know. Now that those damned Frenchies and their Spanish friends have entered to aid the rebellion... If only General Clinton hadn't rescinded the paroles of those rebels who'd laid down their arms. You can't give your word as an officer and a gentleman, then simply change your mind because the circumstances don't suit. That makes his majesty's cause seem as despicable as that of the rabble who lead this treason.”

  Quintin nodded gravely. “Revoking their paroles and calling up former rebels to fight for the king has driven thousands of them back to their old allegiance.”

  Discussing the war with Devon always made Quint uncomfortable. With Robert, he loved the double game he played, but Devon was the only Blackthorne whose good opinion he valued. And one day he would lose it.

  “Awfully pensive, cousin. Thinking perchance about your bride?” Devon whooped with delight. “Mayhap she isn't as plain and mousy as you first recalled.”

  Quintin grimaced. “Must you bring up such an unpleasant topic to compound an unpleasant day? The chit is plain enough, quiet as a wake, and already more trouble than she's worth.”

  * * * *

  After three days, Madelyne was finding life in the Creek camp quite pleasant, if a bit primitive. She had always loved an adventure and this was certainly an alien and exciting one. It also keeps you away from your future husband for a while longer, a taunting voice whispered as she sat dangling her legs in the cool waters of the stream. The harshly beautiful face of Quintin Blackthorne flashed in her mind with such clarity that it startled her. She had dreamed of him again last night while sleeping in the crude brush shelter the Creeks had erected for her.

  They had been most fortunate that the trading party found them. The Creeks were on their way to another village, where the Crown's agent would trade them manufactured goods in exchange for their bundles of cured deerskins.

  Her reverie was interrupted by the snap of a twig behind her. She turned and saw Will Tarrant approaching. The big man had an unpleasant way of sneaking up on people. He was carrying a suspiciously bulging haversack slung over one shoulder, as well as a shot pouch and musket.

  “You look as if you're planning to leave,” she challenged.

  He sneered. “You can set with them red-skinned savages 'n hold Jemmy's hand, but I'm goin' to Savannah—fer help.”

  “You'll do no such thing,” she said with rising anger. How dare this cowardly oaf speak to her so disrespectfully!''You're indentured to my father for three more years, Will, and until then you will do as he bids you.” She climbed quickly to her feet and faced him.

  ”I done my duty, but I ain't livin' with no savages.”

  “You're just using this as an excuse, Will. Mad Turkey sent a runner to fetch his friends in the Blackthorne family and they'll be here soon.”

  “Pah! Them dirty redskins ain't got no rich white friends.” He spat on the ground near the hem of her muslin skirt.

  “You are the dirty one, Will Tarrant, not the Creeks who bathe in the stream every morning. Now go back to camp and do as Jasper tells you.”

  “Think again, Mistress Deveaux,” he said with a sneer, reaching out for her with his big meaty hands. “Always figgered sooner or later you 'n me'd tangle.”

  Madelyne felt the breath crushed from her as he seized her in a tight embrace. Gagging from his fetid breath, she turned her head from his face and kicked at his shins, using the heel of her boot to grind down on his instep. He let out a yowl of pain and then struck her, knocking her to the ground. Once freed of his vice-like grip, she gathered her wind and screamed.

  A Creek youth named Smooth Stone came flying from the heavy foliage and launched himself onto Tarrant's back. Madelyne struggled to her feet, searching frantically for a weapon to aid the boy, for Will was easily twice his size. As she grabbed a stout oak limb, she screamed for Gulliver, who had been sleeping at Jemmy's side when she left camp.

  * * * *

  Major Montgomery Ashley Caruthers, leading a company of Kings Rangers on a special courier mission to General Cornwallis, heard the cry of a woman's voice, then men shouting and a shot being fired. “That was an Englishwoman's voice!”

  The major wheeled his horse off the trail and plunged toward the burbling sound of the creek some hundred yards beyond a nearly impassable stand of trees and underbrush. There was no discernible path through the thicket stretching between them and the stream. “Scatter out, men. Arms at the ready!” The seasoned loyalists under his command unslung their Pennsylvania rifles and began to guide their mounts into the thick trees.

  Lieutenant Nathaniel Goodly was the first to find his way through the woods. He saw a white woman of obvious quality kneeling beside a fallen white man dressed in crude frontiersman's clothes. A Creek Indian also knelt beside them.

  Quickly dismounting, Goodly knelt to take aim at the savage, but the woman threw herself directly into his line of fire. Goodly cursed and lowered his Ferguson breechloader, then drew his bayonet and attached it to the barrel, preparing to charge the savage.

  Madelyne screamed for the idiot soldier to stop, that the Creek was a friend, but it seemed he could not comprehend her. She did not hesitate, but seized the barrel of the rifle and clung to it like a leech lest its stupid owner kill Smooth Stone.

  “Please, mistress. I know you're hysterical, but—”

  Gulliver came bounding up as his mistress and the soldier struggled. He launched himself at Goodly, eliciting an oath of pain and surprise from the lieutenant. The dog had his jaws firmly clamped onto a large portion of his linen breeches and a sizeable chunk of his left buttock as well. Neither Madelyne nor Gulliver would relinquish their hold. Madelyne shoved and Gulliver ripped in unison. The lieutenant went down, rolling on the ground with his bare rump most indelicately exposed, one plump white cheek bleeding profusely.

  By now several more men dressed in the natty green uniforms of royal rangers had come crashing into the clearing around the creek. Madelyne seized the lieutenant's rifle and fired a shot in the air
to get the attention of all her would-be rescuers, who were pouring from the trees like bats from a cave. “Don't shoot the Indian!” she shrieked at the top of her voice.

  Major Caruthers, known in civilian life as the seventh Baron Rushcroft, had never in his decade with the army encountered such a situation. The colonials, Whig or Tory, were a blasted perverse lot at the best of times, and this was certainly not the best of times. He knew enough not to act precipitously. Signaling for his men to hold their fire, he surveyed the scene.

  One very young Creek stood stoically beside the fallen body of a coarse-looking white man. The woman had apparently attacked his lieutenant and set her dog on him as well. Now more Creek warriors were entering the clearing from the opposite side. Yes, he would most certainly not act precipitously.

  He rode up to where Goodly lay thrashing on the ground and eyed the huge brown dog that now sat benignly with the seat of the lieutenant's breeches lying at his feet. Caruthers dismounted with extreme caution and muttered curtly to Goodly, “Bloody hell, man, cease that infernal yowling at once.” He eyed the woman, who now lowered her rifle and smiled tentatively at him.

  ”I apologize for Gulliver's behavior. He only thought to defend me,” she said, patting the great beast affectionately. “You see, the Creek boy saved me from that brute's attack.” She gestured to the dead Tarrant.

  Lud, the chit was a real stunner—not quite the thing back in London, of course, with all that dark hair and queer-colored amber eyes, but striking nonetheless. He returned her smile and bowed gallantly. “Major Montgomery Caruthers, at your service, mistress.” He eyed the dead woodsman and the Indian youth uneasily.

  Madelyne opened her mouth to explain the situation, but just then two more riders burst upon the scene. She let out a low groan as soon as she recognized the tall, dark man on the black stallion. Damn Quintin Blackthorne! Goodly, lying on the ground, let out another bleat of pain. There would be no helping her fiance's foul humor, but she could at least offer succor to the poor young soldier who had tried to be her rescuer. She knelt and said, “Please turn over and let me stanch the bleeding.”

  “Mistress, you must not. My men can take him to our surgeon,” the major remonstrated.

  “That's quite all right, Major. I've often assisted my aunt in caring for gravely ill and injured people.” She pried the young man's hand from his bleeding posterior and examined the painful gashes Gulliver's teeth had made. She could hear the crunch of Quintin's boots on the gravelly ground as he strode toward her, but she refused to turn.

  Quintin heard that voice and instantly recognized it. It was Madelyne Deveaux, but where had all that glorious mahogany hair come from? It spilled over her shoulders like mulled wine.

  “But, mistress, this is no task for a lady!” Major Caruthers remonstrated, paying no heed to Quintin's approach.

  “Ah, but this is no lady, Major,” Quintin interjected. She raised her head and met his gaze. Quintin felt gut-kicked. Gone was the filthy urchin covered from head to foot in oversized gray clothing, eyes downcast and face smeared with soot. Clear amber gold eyes glared at him from beneath delicately arched brows. Her chin had a mutinous set, but the anger only enhanced a strikingly beautiful face.

  “Major Caruthers, allow me to present my fiance, Quintin Blackthorne of Savannah.” She returned her attention to the lieutenant, ignoring the glowering figure looming over her. “Mr. Blackthorne had little to recommend his manners in South Carolina,” Madelyne went on. “Being at home in Georgia has done nothing to improve them, I see.”

  “Your manners have suffered enough since first we met to match us well, m' dear,” Quintin said from between clenched teeth. He reached down and pried her bloody hands from the whining boy's backside.

  Madelyne jerked free. ”I can help him. Twas my dog that caused his hurt, all over a misunderstanding. The lieutenant was trying to be kind to me.”

  ”A mistake I'm not likely to make,” Quintin replied, turning to Caruthers. “Major, send for your surgeon. I'll see to my future bride.”

  Devon sat on his mount and watched the exchange between the trio with a wide grin on his face. Plain? Meek? His cousin must be losing his eyesight at an alarmingly early age, not to mention his hearing, if the sharpness of Madelyne Deveaux's tongue was any indication.

  As Caruthers signaled two of his men to assist Goodly, Devon interrupted, “If I might be so bold, let me see what can be worked out with our hosts.” He dismounted and conferred in the Muskogee dialect with Mad Turkey. “My friend here offers us all the hospitality of his camp, where the food is plentiful, as is medical care for the injured lieutenant. It's nearly dusk now, and none can ride safely tonight. There'll be no moon.”

  Caruthers appeared to consider as he studied Devon's buckskin clothes and obvious familiarity with the Creeks who now surrounded him. Doubtless one of those colonial half-caste bastards, he thought, realizing that it was a fortunate circumstance that these savages were friendly. ”I appreciate the offer, Mr.—”

  “Allow me to present my cousin, Devon Blackthorne,” Quintin said with a grim quirk of amusement in his expression.

  Madelyne watched the exchange, her own anger at Quintin's high-handed attitude toward her forgotten. Something was going on between the English officer and the two Blackthorne men. She observed Devon, looking for some family resemblance, finding none but their exceptional height. “The Creeks have taken splendid care of my injured coachman,” she said. Smiling at Quintin's intriguing cousin, she continued, “Please forgive Quintin's lack of manners. I'm Madelyne Deveaux, Mr. Blackthorne.”

  “Yes, you certainly are, aren't you, lovely lady,” he said with a wink at Quintin. He bowed and saluted her hand ardently while Quintin glowered at them. “What say, cousin? Shall we all partake of the Muskogee hospitality? Your fiancee gives them high praise and would abide a day longer.” He pointedly ignored the British major.

  Quintin nodded curtly. “We'll stay the night. The Creek Confederacy always welcomes his majesty's soldiers. If these gentlemen wish to partake of Muskogee hospitality, I'm certain they're welcome.”

  “Quite so.” Caruthers saluted Mad Turkey, then issued crisp orders to his men. Lieutenant Goodly, assisted by two soldiers, followed at the rear of the motley crew who headed toward the Muskogee camp.

  * * * *

  “More tea, Mistress Deveaux?” Lieutenant Goodly stood hovering at her side, kettle in his hand.

  Madelyne looked up and favored him with a brilliant smile. Poor boy, he hadn't been able to sit since his unfortunate encounter with Gulliver. “Yes, another cup would be lovely, thank you.”

  Major Caruthers watched Madelyne with keen blue eyes as she sat surrounded by his officers and men, like a queen holding court in the midst of the wilderness camp of Creek Indians. “May I say, Mistress Deveaux, you look particularly fetching this morning. The green of your dress so favors your hair and eyes. You'd be all the rage in London.”

  Madelyne laughed as she carefully arranged her skirts, reaching down to give Gulliver a pat as Smooth Stone fed him bits of venison. “Ah, Major, you quite spoil me, as the boy here spoils my pet. I only unpacked one of my trunks and pulled out the first cool dress I could find. Twas bad enough wearing riding habits in this murderous heat while I was on horseback, but encamped this way...well, this is much more comfortable.”

  ”I assure you it looks far more than merely comfortable,” the major replied.

  Madelyne studied him covertly as he and two of his junior officers made light conversation with her. The major was the epitome of an English gentleman, pale smiling face framed by light brown hair, with manners as impeccable as his uniform. She could imagine him easily in a Charles Town drawing room with his hair powdered, dressed in a satin waistcoat and velvet breeches. Yet her treacherous mind kept conjuring up visions of Quintin, whose hair was far too black to be powdered, whose face was harsh and unsmiling, whose skin was sun-darkened.

  ”A penny for your thoughts, mistress?”


  Madelyne blushed and focused her attention once again on the gaggle of officers surrounding her. ”I was only thinking of how fortunate we were to be rescued—not once but twice, by the Creeks and by his majesty's gallant soldiers.”

  ”I still think you should return with us to Charles Town. It's not safe to traverse the back country post road in these troubled times. You could catch a drogger from there to Savannah and arrive in only a few days.”

  Madelyne shook her head. “No, no that's quite impossible. Father would be furious. Since he almost drowned at sea when a hurricane blew up along the coast, he never allows anyone in our family to sail.”

  Quintin had spent a perfectly miserable night because of Madelyne Deveaux. The sharp-tongued hoyden with all that glorious hair and those arresting eyes was far from the waif he'd met in South Carolina. But even yesterday's debacle could not prepare him for the sight of her dressed in a sheer muslin day gown, sitting surrounded by fawning British officers as if she were hosting a London salon. He snarled an oath and stalked angrily toward the cluster of men obscuring his view of his betrothed.

  “Easy, my man, easy,” Devon said, placing a restraining hand on Quint's rigid shoulder. They both watched the dandyish looking Major Caruthers kiss her hand.

  Quint shook Dev's hand away and continued toward the assembly as Madelyne knelt and hugged the dog.

  “Gulliver is quite a champion to the Creeks since he saved Smooth Stone's life,” she said, rising with the assistance of Major Caruthers.

  “They'll make a totem to him if you don't leave soon,” a captain said.

  Another officer added, “Perhaps it would be more interesting to see a totem with poor Goodly here on it, bare arsed and all—beggin' the lady's pardon.”

  Goodly blushed beet red and stammered as all the men burst into hearty laughter. Only Madelyne restrained herself with a mere twitch on her lips as she defended her misguided rescuer. “La, Captain, you and your fellows are too hard on the lieutenant by half. If you had been first to arrive, I'm certain any of you could have made the same mistake and suffered the loss of your breeches!”