by Henke, Shirl
Before her bemused brother could frame a reply, she vanished into the crowd, which was just beginning to disperse after the final words had been spoken over Robert's grave. Barbara slipped from the family graveyard and hid behind a copse of tulip trees, then decided on the swiftest yet most concealed course to the road below the stables. She would have to run like the wind through a corn field and then come up behind the outbuildings.
Devon ignored the cool looks of disapproval from distant cousins and other shirt-tail relations in the Blackthorne family as he made his way to where Madelyne and Andrew stood receiving condolences.
He was relieved that Barbara was not close by. Just seeing her silvery beauty from a distance had sent waves of pain crashing over him.
Madelyne smiled warmly and took his hand in hers as he stepped up to her. “It was so good of you to come, Dev.”
He returned her smile, saying, ”I know you'll scarcely miss Robert's cheery presence, but his death does place an extra burden on you. If there's any way I can help you, just send word to me in the city.”
“Madelyne has me to assist her with the Hill now that Robert is gone,” Andrew said with a smile both brothers knew to be false. “I'm certain we'll get on famously, Devon.”
”I do appreciate your offer, Dev. Won't you please come to the house for dinner and spend the night? You haven't seen James since he was a newborn.”
“I'm quite certain my brother has military duties calling him,” Andrew said smoothly.
“Just so, Madelyne. For once Andrew has the right of something. I must ride to catch up with my company. We're dispatched against rebel raiders to the south of here.”
Madelyne felt a stab of disappointment as she searched the crowd for Barbara, who had mysteriously vanished. She bartered for time by asking trivial questions about his activities and the course of the war as they strolled slowly toward the house. But finally Devon withdrew, promising to call again after his mission was accomplished.
Barbara waited in the dark shadows, her breathing labored from running the last hundred yards or so without stopping. “I'm a weakling. Panther Woman would best me easily if we were to fight for Dev,” she whispered to herself as she crouched behind the elderberry bushes that grew thickly along a bend in the road, neatly concealing it from any onlookers at the house. Of course, if anyone were in the dairy, they would see her waylaying Devon Blackthorne, but only serving wenches tended the cows. She would chance it.
Devon rode down the curving road, deep in thought. Then Firebrand shied, and the subject of his reverie materialized right in front of the prancing horse. He reined in. “What the hell are you doing here? I could have run you over.”
She had one hand on the bay's bridle and was breathless and disheveled. “Please, Dev—I ran down here to meet you. I knew you'd ride out when everyone went to the house.”
“You've had a lot of exercise for nothing, your ladyship,” he said tightly, turning the bay's head away from her grasp.
“You can't leave me. I fell and twisted my ankle. I can't walk back, Dev.” She leaned against his leg, letting her weight fall against Firebrand as if she could not support herself.
With a muttered curse, he leaned down and lifted her up in front of him on the horse. At once she threw her arms around his waist and buried her face against his chest. “We have to talk, Dev.”
“There's nothing to say, Barbara. Your antics are going to get one or the other of us killed.” He turned Firebrand off the road, riding toward the rear entrance of the house.
“Dev, I want to go with you. Monty will force me to marry Weymouth and I—”
“Marry him. He can get you safely out of this hell. Don't you read the broadsides circulating in Savannah? Haven't you heard what's happened in Virginia? Cornwallis surrendered his whole bloody army to the rebels and their French allies! After three weeks of being besieged in Yorktown, he gave up. The last effective field army his majesty had in North America—over seven thousand men—disarmed. It's over, your ladyship.”
“What wilì happen now, Dev? The British army in Savannah can't just sail away!”
“They can and they will. There's nothing for it but to evacuate the coastal cities under the protection of the Royal Navy. At least you and your brother can go home and resume your lives. I'm one of the less fortunate—Georgia is my birthplace and now I've lost even that.”
She looked into his eyes, which no longer held their devilish glint. His expression was as grim as his words. Touching his jaw with her fingertips, she asked, “Where will you go?”
He shrugged, but the careless insouciance was gone from the gesture. “I'm not certain. First I plan to resume my search for McGilvey and his renegades and rid the countryside of them. When the rangers are disbanded, I’ll probably go back to the Muskogee. Now that British rule is over, the American settlers will pour west like locusts into Indian lands.”
“And you'll fight for your mother's people?” She felt a cold sense of dread. “You could be killed, Dev.”
”I could be killed while I'm wearing this uniform, too. Maybe McGilvey will get me.”
“No!” She held tightly to him.
He replied with forced lightness, “As you can see, your ladyship, my prospects—as an Englishman or a Muskogee—aren't all that bright. Go home. Forget me and begin a new life.” In spite of his resolve, he grazed her tear-stained cheek with his fingertips and then kissed the salty droplets from her lashes.
Barbara tightened her arms around his waist and her mouth sought his hungrily. When she felt his lips respond and open to hers, she thought she had won and murmured between kisses, “Damn your prospects, I’ll make a good Muskogee wife. Take me with you.”
A good Muskogee wife. Her words hammered at him until reason and sanity returned. Firebrand had stopped behind the farthest outlying stable building. He forced himself to push her away and then deposited her, breathless and disheveled, on the muddy ground. “You wouldn't last a week on a forced march in the swamps,your ladyship. You'd best hurry and repair your gown and coiffure before anyone sees you. Good-bye Barbara.” He turned the bay and kicked it into a gallop.
“Damn you, Devon Blackthorne! Damn the whole bloody rebel army! I won't leave Georgia,” she called after his retreating figure, but he did not look back.
* * * *
April, 1782, Golden Swan Inn
Madelyne held James's little body close to her, sheltering him from the spring rain whipping about her as she alighted from the coach. She signaled to Obediah and the rest of her escort to take the horses to Polly's barn, then entered the warm golden glow of the tavern's main room. Shaking the rain from his shaggy pelt; Gulliver trotted behind her. He kept a wary eye on anyone who approached Madelyne and the baby. At the Swan, only Polly could do so with his approval. The blazing fire in the fireplace was as welcome as Polly's broad smile and hearty hug.
“I been wantin' to see you 'n that little rascal,” she said as she led them through the noisy crowd to her own private quarters in the rear of the Swan. “Tut, now, ain't he a love? Gettin' real good-sized, too.”
“He's eating chopped meat as well as mashed-up vegetables now. And he has three more teeth.” Madelyne unwrapped her prize and handed him to Polly for an inspection.
She tickled the baby and elicited burbles of laughter which revealed his new teeth. “Growin’ so strong 'n so good natured. Got pink cheeks, luvie, don't you? Pretty soon you'll be havin' a birthday!” she cooed to James.
“Yes, soon he'll be a year old. And his father's not seen him since he was a newborn. I've heard talk in the city of a British evacuation. The war's over in all but name, Polly. What have you heard that you sent for me?”
Polly Bloor's chafed face reddened even more than usual as she met Madelyne's eyes. “Just let me get you some refreshment. Then well talk. And as for you, you rascal,” she said, looking down at the wet dog, ”I have a fine meaty hambone out in the kitchen.” Gulliver followed her obediently, tail wagging.
> Madelyne carried her son to a large, comfortable armchair and sat down with him. He regarded her with clear emerald eyes, following her every movement with avid interest. Polly returned in a few moments and set a lavish tray of food on the table, including a small bowl filled with finely minced venison and carrots for James.
As she spooned the mush into his round little mouth, she said, “Quint got your letter about old Robert's death. He didn't mourn much.”
“I wrote him about the diary. His mother didn't betray his father. She was innocent. Didn't that mean anything to him?” Anger warred with pain. She had written so many letters in the past months, all ignored.
Polly chose her words carefully as she continued feeding the baby. ”I reckon it means a lot to him, but the fact is, well...he ain't been able to write. Got hisself shot—now mind, it ain't bad,” she soothed as Madelyne's face paled. “General Marion hisself wrote me for Quint, sayin' he'd be comin' home to the Hill soon's he can travel.”
“How badly was he hurt? Don't sugar the medicine, Polly. Tell me whatever you learned.” Madelyne held her breath, all the anger gone as stark terror for Quintin replaced it.
“Wound wasn't the bad part. Fever set in. They ain't got much in the way of doctors or medicine in the swamp. But he's comin' ‘round. General says he should be able to ride within the month, but I don't want you countin' days and frettin' so yer milk dries up fer little James before he's got a full set of teeth.”
Madelyne smiled in spite of her trepidations. “Don't you fret, Polly. I'll take care of Quint's son until he comes home—to claim his birthright.”
Outside the tavern, a small man slouched in the stable, listening to the armed riders who had accompanied Madelyne Blackthorne talk about their mistress. He pulled his coonskin cap low over his greasy gray hair and spat a gob of tobacco on the dirt floor between the front feet of Mistress Blackthorne's fine carriage horse. No one paid any attention as they passed around a jug of rum, laughing and talking.
When one of the heavily armed riders mentioned the friendship between his rich-as-sin mistress and the common strumpet who ran the Golden Swan, the eavesdropper pricked up his ears. This was not what he had been sent to learn, but it might be very useful, very useful indeed.
“Mistress Blackthorne's been tryin' to reach the master for months to tell him about his father dyin'. Guess old Polly finally got her word through the American lines.”
One of the stablemen laughed. “British been snoopin' around here for over a year. Never caught Polly spyin' yet. She's a shrewd one. Picked her the winning side, too.”
“You think she finally got a message from Quintin Blackthorne for his wife? I'd sure admire havin' him home to run things. I don't much like taking orders from a snip of a female, even if she is pretty as hell.”
The men continued to speculate about Polly's courier system and concluded that it was indeed likely that Quintin Blackthorne was on his way back to claim his inheritance now that the war was winding down and his father was cold in his grave.
Archie Baird spat another gob of tobacco and moved out of the shelter afforded by the stable into the mild spring rain. He had been hanging around the Swan trying to ferret out any word about George McGilvey. Devon Blackthorne was offering a fine reward for information about the renegade. But he also knew that Major Caruthers had an old score to settle with Quintin Blackthorne, from nearly two years ago when the rebel had trounced the fancy English lord and freed a prisoner from the prison ship he was in charge of guarding. The hell with McGilvey. There would be a fat purse from the Englishman when he learned Quintin Blackthorne was coming home. After he collected from Caruthers, maybe old Archie would pick up the raider’s scent again and collect both rewards.
Whistling in the rain, he rode for the city.
* * * *
Savannah
Major Montgomery Caruthers took a swallow from the tumbler in his hand and grimaced. “Damned filthy rum,” he muttered, taking another swallow and wishing desperately that it was fine brandy such as Sir Alfred drank.
At first, Monty had been flattered when Weymouth offered him friendship, even though it soon became obvious that the viscount was using him as an entree to court Barbara. With the Caruthers estates being run through by their mother, it had become obvious to him that both he and his sister must marry well.
Monty congratulated himself on the fortunate accident that had brought Weymouth and Barbara together in Savannah. He did enjoy the man's company, but wished the viscount had not encouraged his old compulsion for gambling. Alfred held a fortune in his markers. With Barbara so unresponsive, Weymouth now asked that her brother exert his influence on the lady. If she could be persuaded to marry him, the viscount was hinting, rather broadly, that he would see his way clear to tearing up Monty's markers.
This was the solution to all their problems. He had only to convince his willful younger sister of the wisdom of paying more serious attention to Alfred’s suit. That might prove difficult, he realized as he waited for her to respond to his request that she join him for a pre-dinner libation here in the privacy of the library. She was late.
Barbara had spent two days at Blackthorne Hill and only returned to the city that afternoon. As she dressed in an elaborate pale-blue silk gown and had her maid coif her hair in a high pompadour, the realization had struck her—she would much rather be back at the Golden Swan with Madelyne and Polly, playing with little James. I'd love nothing more than to have a baby of my own to love. Dev's baby.
But such was never to be. He had made that abundantly clear from the start. After a cursory inspection of her toilette, she headed for the library with a falsely bright smile on her face.
Opening the door, she greeted her brother. “Good evening, Monty. Frightfully sorry I'm late, but the roads are so difficult between here and Blackthorne Hill. I vow I was fair soaked from the rain.”
He frowned, wondering how to initiate the delicate matter he had to discuss. Handing her a glass of sherry, he bussed her cheek perfunctorily and said, “You spend too much time with that Blackthorne woman.”
“Quint and Madelyne are our cousins—as well as Andrew's. I thought you and he were as thick as thieves,” she replied crossly. “Surely you can't blame Madelyne for Quintin's actions.”
He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture and smiled. “No, of course not, it's just that I fear for your safety on the roads. You know how rebel partisans lurk everywhere these days. Alfred expressed concern for your safety just yesterday.” He observed her as she nervously played with her sherry glass.
“Weymouth is a dear sort, but entirely too fussy for my taste. Anyway, I had an adequate escort.”
“Nonsense. We've few enough men to spare. I'm afraid you'll have to curtail any further excursions into the country.”
“Then I shall go without an escort. The way things are headed, just telling Elijah Clarke's rebels that I'm a cousin of Quintin Blackthorne would allow me safe passage,” she replied waspishly.
“Dammit, Barbara, there's a bloody war going on out there!”
“So I've repeatedly been told.''A haunted look came into her eyes as she recalled Dev's words to the same effect.
“Don't be angry with me, Puss,” he said, crossing the room and raising his crystal tumbler to toast with her wineglass. “We've something to celebrate. Some wonderful news.”
“Is General Clinton sending his army from his stronghold in New York?” she asked dryly.
“No politics. This is of a personal nature.” He could see a warning look come into her eyes, but persevered. “Weymouth has offered for you, Barbara. The catch of the season. You've landed him.”
“Well, I'll just throw him back then. I've told you and him that I'm not interested in his suit.”
“He's a bloody viscount! What are you waiting for, the Prince of Wales? Really, Barbara, you have a head on your shoulders. You know the straits our family is in—”
“I know the straits our famous Caruthers profligacy has
placed us in, yes. I was guilty of it myself back in London. That's why mother shipped me off, if you recall. Now she's run through everything at home and you've amassed more debts here. Well, I'm sorry, Monty, but I won't marry a man who repels me. I don't care if I have to take in sewing!”
“How quaint a notion. Did your little Huguenot friend put it in your head? I knew I should have kept you from spending so much time rusticating in the country with her, pining away for a life of bucolic tranquility.”
“It's not bucolic tranquility I want, Monty. It's love,” she blurted out, then blushed to the roots of her hair in mortification.
“Love?” he scoffed. “Now I know I must forbid you to associate with that traitor's wife.”
“My feelings have nothing to do with Madelyne's influence.”
“What, pray, brought on this ridiculous impulse?”
”A man.” She paused, knowing that she had his full attention now. Well, why not? Barbara saw her future stretching bleakly before her and felt goaded to tell the truth. She wished she had from the time Devon had left her at Reynolds Square with her carefully rehearsed tale.
“Everything I told you about my rescue after the shipwreck was a lie, Monty. There was no kindly fisherman and his wife.”
“Some colonial found you?” His throat was dry. He crossed to the desk where the rum bottle sat and poured himself another drink.
“Devon Blackthorne found me.”
“That ranger? Andrew's half brother...” He paled.
“Yes, Monty, that's right. Andrew's Muskogee brother, tainted with savage blood. He saved my life and took me to one of their villages. I lived among them all that time I was missing.”
“And I suppose you and Blackthorne were lovers?” he asked coldly, certain by the look on her face that it was true.