by Henke, Shirl
“Only thing they ever agreed on was to distrust the female sex.”
“But why? This morning I found a hidden portrait of Quintin's mother. He practically threw it away and forbade me to ever speak her name. What kind of family are the Blackthornes? Andrew and Devon seem the soul of kindness, but Robert and Quintin...I don't understand them, yet I'll be bound to them for as long as we all shall live.”
“Someday Quint will tell you about his mama. I got a feeling about that...in his own good time.” She studied Madelyne, then said baldly, “You love him already.”
“No! I don't. He's arrogant and rude, and he's made it perfectly clear that he despises me.” Remembering his brutal yet nearly successful attack on her in the library in Savannah, Madelyne felt her face flame.
Polly patted her hand. “What Quint says and what Quint feels inside don't usually turn out to be the same. Just remember that and be patient. But mind, don't let him ride roughshod over you neither.”
“My temper can be every bit as formidable as his.”
“Good. He needs a female with spunk.” Polly laughed, but Madelyne was not reassured.
They discussed the Blackthorne family and life at the Hill. Polly even shared a bit of gossip about Robert's brother Alastair and his black sheep son Devon, whom she obviously liked as well as she did Quintin.
Finally Madelyne realized the late hour. She had to ride for Blackthorne Hill. “If Quintin and Robert find I've ridden out alone, they'll be furious and I've already done enough to make them angry. I'd best be leaving. Thank you, Polly, for everything. I feel I've made a friend. I hope you do, too.” Madelyne extended her slim hand.
Polly clutched it in her big red one and gently squeezed it. “That I do, Madelyne. If ever there's anythin' you need, you just come to Polly. I'll always be here.”
As she rode back along the rutted road, Madelyne mulled over the day's perplexing events, glad to have found a confidant in Polly Bloor, yet disquieted by what the innkeeper had told her about Quintin. He and Serena had been lovers. He distrusted all women, yet obviously he enjoyed their bodies. Once again the disturbing passion that flared between them replayed itself in her mind. You love him, Polly had said. Nonsense! I don't even like him. But merciful heavens, something drew her to him. She could not begin to comprehend her own feelings.
So absorbed was Madelyne in her own thoughts that at first she didn't notice the dapple gray's limp, but when the mare stumbled, she dismounted and checked her right front hoof. “Oh, Gulliver, what will we do now? Speckles can't be ridden, and we're still an hour from the plantation.” Quintin would be furious with her.
The sound of hoofbeats echoed on the afternoon breeze. Perhaps some gentleman from a neighboring plantation could offer her a ride. She waited expectantly, then felt a stab of dismay when a man dressed in greasy buckskins and wearing a coonskin hat rode into view, accompanied by another tall, thin rider dressed more like a gentleman in linen smallclothes and a handsome blue twill jacket. Gulliver began to growl. Madelyne stood her ground, hoping that they would be decent back-country settlers. Before she could address the one she surmised to be the leader, the other spoke.
“Well, what we got us here, Ephraim? Looks to be a real fine lady in trouble.” The woodsman was thickset, with an ugly purple scar on his cheek.
“Mind your manners, Luke.” The one in gentlemen's garb doffed his hat.
Madelyne's relief was short-lived when Ephraim eyed her coldly and inquired, “Are you a patriot, mistress, or do you follow German George?”
“Mr. Malvern, he be a member of the Georgia Legislature,” the other ruffian said, scratching his fat belly.
“Well, mistress? On the road from Augusta, I heard some fascinating news. That rich royalist whoremaster, Quintin Blackthorne, has brought a comely bride to his river house.” Ephraim's eyes were as cold as pewter and gleamed with hate.
“Heard she's got lots of dark red hair,” the big fellow called Luke said, leering.
“My name is Madelyne Deveaux and I am a loyal subject of his majesty, as is my betrothed, Quintin Blackthorne. Surely you gentlemen don't carry your war to women?” She faced them with as much bravado as she could muster, but her knees were wavering like a newborn foal's.
Luke dismounted and stepped several paces toward her before Gulliver's growling gave him pause. “If'n you favor that dog, call him off,” he said nastily.
“What are you going to do, kill me and my dog? Such brave patriots!” she said scornfully.
“Never think it, my dear lady,” Ephraim sneered, his narrow face twisted with relish. “We just plan a bit of an object lesson—to humble prideful Tories like you and the denizens of Blackthorne Hill.”
Why did I ever do anything so foolish as to ride out alone! Now I'm trapped. She backed up, seizing the riding crop from her saddle.
Luke reached for her with a snarled oath, but before he could lay hands on her, Gulliver leaped at his chest, knocking the big man to the ground. Luke struggled to free his knife from his belt, but as he and Gulliver rolled and thrashed on the sandy ground, the dog was decidedly winning. Cursing, Ephraim Malvern dismounted and drew a pistol from his coat. Madelyne's quirt quickly disarmed him and left a bloody weal across his wrist.
“For that, you Tory harlot, you'll pay dearly,” he ground out as he reached for her whip hand while using his other arm to protect his face.
Madelyne quirted him again, but his longer arms and far greater strength swiftly enabled him to disarm her, ripping her bodice and chemise half off one arm in the process. “You're just like Blackthorne. I wish it was him I had here.”
“You get your wish, Malvern. Now release Mistress Deveaux before I use my new Kentucky pistol on a most tempting target,” Quint said, his voice like silk edged with steel.
Malvern turned quickly to face his enemy, shoving Madelyne away. By this time Gulliver was standing over the badly mauled Luke, looking toward her. When Luke yanked a knife from its sheath, Madelyne raised her hard-soled riding boot and kicked his wrist with every ounce of her strength, sending the weapon flying. The dog moved closer to his throat and snarled, his fangs dripping with saliva and a good sampling of his victim's blood.
Quint ignored them as he dismounted and strode over to face Ephraim. “So this is how a distinguished member of the patriot legislature behaves when no one is about to observe his actions.”
”I am a gentleman and a patriot as well as a planter, sir. You may be a successful planter, but that is all I can say to recommend you,” Malvern replied haughtily as he squared off against Blackthorne.
“You've always coveted our lands and our success, Malvern, but to attack a woman just because she is affianced to me is despicable even for you.” Quint raised his hand and gave Malvern's face a resounding slap.
Ephraim smiled evilly, rubbing his jaw. ”I had hoped to provoke you one way or another. At last your foolish little bride has accomplished the task for me. My second will call at Blackthorne Hill on the morrow to make arrangements. Being the one challenged I, of course, choose foils.”
He bowed curtly to Quint, then turned to Madelyne and did the same, his eyes nearly opaque as he took in her torn clothes and disheveled appearance. “My regrets, dear lady, but you have served your purpose. How fortunate I am to have encountered you. Come along, Luke,” he called over his shoulder as he mounted his horse and rode away.
The bloody backwoodsman with torn buckskins scrambled to his feet with a muttered oath, backed away from the dog, and ran for his horse without even attempting to pick up the knife Madelyne had kicked into a clump of wild roses.
As the pair galloped off, Quintin turned to an ashen-faced Madelyne. “Are you satisfied? Malvern has wanted to challenge me for years.”
“He obviously hates you. Why didn't he?”She watched his furious expression turn to cynical humor.
“Because if I were challenged, I'd have the choice of weapons and I'm a dead shot. He was trained to use foils by the best fencing master in New Orleans.”
Madelyne saw red specks dance before her eyes and fought waves of blackness. ”I didn't mean to endanger you, Quintin. Truly I didn't,” she whispered, reaching out to touch his arm, as much to feel his warm, firm flesh as to steady herself.
He threw off her hand as if it were a viper and turned toward Domino, swinging effortlessly into the saddle. “Don't bury me yet, my unhappy little bride,” he said as he reached down for Speckles's reins.
“She's lame. That's why I—”
“You were afoot at the mercy of Malvern and his trashy lickspittle because you did an insanely stupid thing. There is a war going on, in case it's slipped your notice! Women do not ride unescorted in these times. Ladies never do, but I’ll not waste my breath on that issue,” he added bitterly as he leaned down from his saddle and hauled her up in front of him.
Madelyne fell across the horse like a sack of seed grain, her belly bruised by contact with the saddle. As she writhed and kicked, Quint gave her rump a swat, cursed, and kneed Domino into a canter toward home.
* * * *
Devon Blackthorne was in big trouble. He looked around at the drunken mob of Liberty Boys surrounding him, their faces red from drink, their voices raised in a bellowing roar of enthusiasm.
”I say we hang the savage-loving son of a bitch!” one voice cried out.
“No. Too quick. His damned Indians don't kill us that easy. I say we burn 'im,” yelled another drunken voice.
“Tar 'n feathers, tar 'n feathers,” went up the chant.
Devon cursed his stupidity for stopping in this back-country settlement for a cool draft of ale. He had been certain that this far from the coast no one would recognize him as a Crown agent. But one of Elijah Clarke's men had chanced upon the same tavern. Now he was surrounded by a howling pack of mongrels. If they tarred him, he'd probably die of the burns or the attendant poisoning that so often accompanied them. At best he'd be crippled and hideously scarred.
Better to die fast and clean. He kicked over the big oak table in front of him, sending chairs, tankards, and ale flying in all directions as he drew a wicked-looking hunting knife from its sheath. Letting its silvery glitter arc back and forth, he tossed it from hand to hand. He dared the leader to step forward. “You'll have a hard time killing a Muskogee warrior, cowardly traitors! Come and die with me!”
A roar went up from the crowd, and several men shouted orders, contradicting each other, but no one would face Devon head-on. Finally, as he backed toward the corner of the big log cabin, two men came at him using chairs as shields. While he was engaged with them, another fellow slipped behind him with a heavy hickory club and smashed it into the side of his head. Devon went down to his knees, dropping his knife as he fell face forward onto the earthen floor.
They dragged him outside and headed toward the smithy's shop, where a good hot fire burned all year round.
“Strip off them moccasins 'n let's see how tender his feet get when we light a few coals 'neath ‘em,” the ringleader called out.
“Git the tar a boilin’,” another commanded two youths, who scurried off toward another cabin across the street.
Devon regained consciousness slowly, his head throbbing mercilessly. He tried to reach up and touch his temple, then realized that his hands were bound at his sides. He struggled, trying to clear his vision.
A disembodied voice cut through the haze of pain. “He's awake. Now.”
Devon bit back a scream as they put the coals to the soles of his feet. His body arched in agony. Then he slumped back into unconsciousness. When a bucket of warm, brackish water hit him in the face, he came around once again,only to smell the acrid stench of hot pitch. Rough hands ripped at his pants, baring his legs up to his thighs.
The burning, corrosive tar was poured gradually across one foot, then up his leg to his calf. He hurled curses at them, sweat beading his brow as he looked down in horror at what they were doing. When his left leg broke free of his tormentors' hold, he kicked at them, spraying the ugly black tar all about the circle of drunken faces. A meaty fist punched his face; then another struck his stomach until he subsided, gasping for breath. Then they began on his right leg.
Suddenly shots erupted and horses' hooves thudded dully against the hard dry clay. A clear command rang out. “You will cease this abomination and free that man at once!”
Devon lay bound on the hot, dusty earth while chaos broke loose around him. Men cursed and yelled as the sounds of gunfire blended with the solid thuds of fists striking flesh. It was over quickly. The mounted men in sweat-stained green uniforms quickly scattered the mob of Liberty Boys, who went flying into the surrounding woods, chased by soldiers wielding sabers and firing rifles.
Devon felt the ropes around his torso being cut loose. He turned to a stern-faced man with dark hair and shrewd blue eyes. “Whoever you are,you have my everlasting thanks,” he rasped out as his rescuer assisted him in sitting up.
In a heavy Yorkshire accent, the man replied, ”I am Thomas Brown, Lieutenant Colonel in the King's Rangers and Superintendent of Indians for the Eastern Department.”
Devon cocked an eyebrow, then winced as one of his tar-covered legs rubbed against the other. “I've heard of you, sir. I'm Devon Blackthorne, late an agent licensed for his majesty's trade with the Lower Creek towns.”
“You're Alastair's son by his Muskogee wife,” Brown said with a nod of approval.
Devon grinned in spite of the agony pounding up and down his body. “I'd forgotten you lived for a year among my mother's people.”
“Until those bloody damn rabble ran me out of my own land in Georgia. Did the same thing to me,” he said grimly, gesturing to the tar.
“So now you lead rangers in raids against the rebels.”
“And coordinate British military activities with those of our Indian allies,” Brown replied, studying Devon with a question in his keenly assessing gaze.
“How would you like a brand new recruit, Colonel, sir?”
”I was hoping you'd ask that.”
Chapter Seven
Quintin rode out before dawn. Fog blanketed the river and climbed to the bluff above it in thinning layers. As the hot late June sun rose, cutting through the cool gray miasma, he considered what the next few hours would bring. Perhaps my death. He wondered how that might affect Madelyne. Would she be happily rid of him and the alliance forced on her? Or was he preferable to a life with her estimable Huguenot aunt?
Certainly she'd played distraught and penitent when he rescued her from Malvern. He could still see those wide-set amber eyes filled with fear, the ashen pallor of her normally sun-touched complexion. She'd tried to reach out to him—just as any other manipulative female would, he thought in dismissal. Then why did he still remember the quiver of those soft lips? He shifted uncomfortably in the saddle, recalling how much he still wanted to touch her. Soon you'll get your fill of her...if you live to claim your wedding night reward.
Solomon Torres watched the sardonic smile grimly twist his friend's lips as they rode to the arranged place on the Savannah road. ”I think you should call this whole insane thing off, Quint. Malvern's waited for years for this chance.”
“And my bride helpfully supplied him with the golden opportunity.” He shrugged fatalistically. ”I can't cry off, Solomon. You know what that would do to my reputation. I'd be ruined, never accepted in society again. Think what that would do for my work. If I'm not received by the gentlemen of the city, I'm of no further use to our cause.”
“You could always join the Continental Line. General Washington has need of some decent officers, the good Lord knows,” Doctor Witherspoon said dryly.
Solomon looked at their companion, whose small, wizened face was made even more owlish by the wire spectacles perched insecurely on his nose. “Noble, you know Quint is far more valuable as an agent. Any fool can join the army.”
“Yep,” Noble Witherspoon replied sourly. “Charles Lee and Horatio Gates are living proof of that!”
With
tolerant amusement, Quint observed the earnest young merchant and the cynical old physician, both lifelong friends. “Gentlemen, please. The issue of my skills versus the dubious accomplishments of Gates and Lee aren't at issue here. I'm bound to face Malvern.”
“If only you could avoid the fencing foils.” Solomon's expression was grim.
“I've been given a gentleman's prerequisite instruction with swords of various sorts, including the French foil, even if I lack the expert instruction of a New Orleans dueling master. Don't bury me yet, my friends. I've a trick or two planned.”
Solomon looked at Witherspoon when the old man chuckled and said, “Ephraim was my patient several years ago before his republican politics forced him to flee Savannah. I didn't think it too serious a breach of my oath to mention to Quint that he has developed a very weakened right eye. Inherited, I'd say. His father had the same affliction.”
“Combined with greed! Two generations of Malverns have wanted Blackthorne Hill. Ironic that Ephraim joined the revolution hoping to oust us from our lands only to risk losing his when the British recaptured Savannah and restored royal government,” Quint said.
“We could turn him in to British authorities. After all, he is a member of the legislature,” Solomon ventured, then subsided, seeing the stubborn set of Quintin's jaw. ”I only hope the disease in that eye has made him stone blind!”
Ephraim Malvern was waiting at the designated place as the three riders approached. Quintin looked at the smug expression on his adversary's face. Just keep that set of mind, Ephraim. He dismounted beneath an enormous willow tree whose feathery branches provided some protection from the sticky heat. He slipped off his coat and waistcoat, leaving only his loose lawn shirt with its billowing sleeves.
Malvern did the same. Both tall men were unencumbered now, with complete freedom of movement, clad in supple buckskin pants and soft boots. Ephraim's second opened a long, polished-walnut case. Two beautiful foils gleamed evilly on the red velvet lining.