Ladies Prefer Rogues: Four Novellas of Time-Travel Passion

by Janet Chapman

He shrugged. “Good enough. Better than no crop at all.”

  Cordell, who had grown up at Rosylyn with Laurent, although Laurent was about five years younger than him at thirty-three, scanned the fields with him, then shook his head. He knew what he was seeing. A field crew of himself, Cordell, and Ivory, the only able-bodied adult males, along with Cordell’s ten-year-old son Jacob, fifteen-year-old Sulee with her club foot, and twenty-two-year-old Fleur, a once pretty woman with cafe au lait skin, whose mother had thought her daughter’s prospects were greater at one of the Creole Quadroon Balls in the city. Unfortunately, her protector, who’d purchased her for a mistress, had a cruel streak, and one of his beatings had gone too far. Delilah would be back helping in the fields once she recovered from childbirth.

  A bell could be heard ringing in the distance, and everyone headed toward the house for the noontime meal.

  “I’ll be there shortly,” he told Cordell. “I need a swim to cool off.” And wasn’t that the truth? Before he could face Margo again, he needed to be cool, calm, and collected.

  He could swear he heard laughter in his head.

  Chillin’ out southern style . . .

  Margo ran into Laurent, literally, as she rounded a corner of the house, heading toward the dairy shed where milk and cheese were kept cool.

  “Ooompfh!”

  “Steady,” he said, taking her by the upper arms. Which he did not immediately release. “Got your balance?”

  Hah! I’ve been off balance since I first met you. She was staring at his mouth, remembering what that mouth could do. Then she realized that water was dripping from his hair onto his face and neck and that it had seeped into his cotton shirt and pants, showing damp spots here and there. “A bath?” I wonder if two people could fit in that tub. Hah! I’m not about to lug all those buckets of hot water up two flights of stairs.

  “No, a swim.”

  “In the river?” Hmmm. Possibilities there.

  He shook his head and answered distractedly, “A stream runs through the property down to the river. Sometimes, like now, it’s deep enough for a cool swim.”

  “I could use a swim.” And other things. “Take me with you next time.”

  “And scandalize everyone from here to Baton Rouge?”

  “I think I’ve already done that.”

  He chuckled, but the whole time she’d been speaking, his eyes were on her mouth. He was remembering, too.

  She licked her lips, just to make sure.

  He gasped, softly.

  She smiled.

  “Temptress!” he said, releasing her forearms.

  No one had ever called her a temptress before. She liked it.

  “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

  “The dairy shed to get some clabber cheese.” The cottage cheese-like mixture was made from the clabber of sour milk.

  He arched a brow. “So, you can cook after all?”

  “Not really, but I’m learning. If you must know, I’m going to try to make my famous cheesecake, which should be something, baked in a hearth oven without a springform pan . . . wait, what are you doing?” He had linked one of her hands with his and was tugging her forward.

  “To the dairy shed,” he said with all the innocence of a spider to a fly.

  Once inside the small room, which was partially underground and much cooler than the outside, he shut the door and sat down on one of the wide benches. When he pulled her forward it was to sit on his lap, and not across his lap, either, like a little girl, but astraddle, like a big girl, with her dress flipped up, and her almost bare bottom resting on his thighs. Holy Moly!

  “You’re awfully good at that move. Do it a lot?”

  “Not nearly as much as I’d like.” His palms were running up and down the outside of her arms, from the edge of her cap sleeves, down to the wrist, then back up again, over and over.

  “You smell good.” He nuzzled her neck.

  And caused every hormone in her body to go on red alert. “I had a little sample of perfume in my purse. Jessica McClintock.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.”

  “I had the strangest dream last night,” he said.

  Oh, my God! Did he just blow in my ear?

  “It was me, but not me.”

  Forget the freakin’ dream. Blow in my ear again.

  “I had very short hair, almost a shaved head, and I was running and running along a beach.”

  “That’s what Navy SEALs do. It’s part of their military training.” Now blow in my damn ear again. Or . . . oooooh, yes, lick my neck.

  He laughed. “Fighting men learn to fight better by running?”

  She smacked him playfully on the chest. “Jogging develops muscles and stamina.”

  I can think of a few other things related to stamina, honey.

  “Sometimes they go for twenty-mile runs before breakfast.”

  “You do tell the tallest tales.” He put his hands on either side of her waist and pulled her even closer, at the same time spreading his thighs wider.

  She saw stars as his erection pressed against the thin silk of her thong. But wait, this was too much too soon. Slow down, Margo. Slow down. “What else did you dream?”

  He smiled, a wicked I-thought-you’d-never-ask smile. “After that kiss, I could think of nothing else but a repeat performance.”

  Hallelujah! “I thought about you, too.”

  She combed her fingers through his wet hair on either side of his head, framing his face. Then she leaned forward and kissed him.

  Margo had kissed a lot of men in her twenty-seven years, some of them frogs, some of them really nice guys, like her gay fiancé. But this was different. Just the gentle slide of her open lips against his was an explosion of the senses.

  He groaned and kissed her back.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and rubbed her breasts against his chest. With the heat they were creating, his shirt would probably dry. Heck, they would melt the butter, too.

  The kiss was alternately soft and seeking, then hard and demanding. It was hard to tell who was kissing whom.

  So, it was no wonder that she was so dazed that she had no idea how her dress had been unbuttoned in front, her bra shoved down, and his mouth broke the kiss to come down and suckle at her breasts.

  But then, her hands had been at work, too, tugging his shirt out of his pants and exploring his shoulders and back. She even slipped her hands into the back of his pants to caress his buttocks.

  They were both out of control, both of them sighing at different touches, moaning to show what pleased, or especially pleased, each other.

  Margo was soon undulating her hips toward him, and his tongue in her mouth was imitating her actions below. His hands were on her bare butt, guiding her, as if she needed guidance.

  Soon, way too soon, she arched against him in a mind-blowing orgasm, and he clutched her tightly as his erection rode her cleft.

  “Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” she cried.

  He just groaned, long and sweet.

  Then she was slumped against his shoulder, and his hands were soothing her with soft strokes of her back.

  “That was incredible,” he said, kissing her quickly as he lifted her off his lap.

  “Tell me about it!”

  With grins, he noted that his trousers had one more damp spot, and she noted that she would have to wash her thong, which prompted him to make a remark about how he would enjoy picturing her walking around bare-assed under her long dress.

  Then, just before he opened the door, reminding her to get the clabber cheese, he urged, “Come to me tonight.”

  Five

  Match that! . . .

  When Margo walked into the kitchen a short time later, she saw that everyone was seated at the long table eating ham and red-eye gravy, beaten biscuits, leftover gumbo, grits with butter and milk—sometimes called Southern oatmeal—and lemonade. Apparently, there was a lemon tree at Rosylyn. Who knew?

  The only ones mi
ssing in the kitchen were Laurent and the snooty maid, Sophie. From one of the other rooms could be heard loud voices. Laurent shouting and a female voice whining.

  Margo arched an eyebrow at Lettie, who got up from the table and came over. “Laurent came in to find Delilah in the dining room bawling her eyes out, tryin’ ta nurse her baby and cut cloth for new clothes at the same time, with no one helpin’ her.”

  “Sophie, I know you’ve been a house maid at Rosylyn for thirty-some years. We don’t need the blasted furniture, that isn’t even being used, dusted every day. What we need is for you to sit your skinny ass down and help Delilah with the sewing.”

  Even though there was silence in the kitchen, except for the clank of silverware on pottery plates, they could not make out Sophie’s argument.

  “I don’t give a good rat’s ass, woman! Either help Delilah and start teachin’ Fleur, or you can get the hell out of here.”

  It appeared as if Sophie was weeping now.

  Laurent’s voice was softer now. “We all have to pull our weight here, Sophie. We all have to adapt.”

  Lettie and Margo scurried to sit down as they heard foot-steps approaching.

  “What?” Laurent asked as he entered the kitchen, noting the silence.

  They all immediately resumed eating and chatting, and everyone made a special effort not to look at Sophie as she came in and sat by the hearth, next to old Cassius and Granny Belle, who handed her a plate full of food. The three ate from their laps, even though there was room at the table.

  Laurent sat down on the bench next to Margo and squeezed her thigh under the table. “Was I too harsh?”

  She shook her head. “It needed doing. I had an employee one time, the sweetest girl, but she was always late, and left early, and spent half the day gossiping with my other employees. I had to give her a warning or dismiss her.”

  “What is it exactly that you do?” Laurent asked as he filled his plate and poured lemonade from the pitcher into a tall glass.” Even without ice, it was refreshing.

  “I own a dating agency.”

  “Huh?”

  She tried to think of a term he would understand. “Matchmaking. I told you that before, I think.”

  “You mean that you match men and women together for marriage?” Lettie’s eyes were wide with wonder.

  “Sort of. Not everyone is looking for marriage.”

  “What else might they be looking for?” Laurent inquired with a grin, which was soon reflected on the faces of all the other men at the table, even Jacob.

  “I could use a little matchmakin’,” Ivory remarked, glancing at the far end of the table where Delilah sat, her baby asleep in a cradle next to Granny Belle.

  Delilah shot him a glare. “What you could use is a lick of sense.”

  “Now, Delilah, I said I was sorry.”

  “Sorry doan count fer nothin’,” she remarked back. “How many women did ya poke while ya went gallavantin’ off?”

  “Delilah!”

  Laurent must have thought it was time for a change of subject because he turned to Margo and asked, “Do you make money from matchmaking?”

  “Yes, actually quite a bit.” She told him how much each person paid to get her services, and there was a gasp around the table.

  “I don’t have that kind of money, but I sure would like you to match me up with some fella before my hair turns gray,” Lettie said.

  “Lettie!” her brother reprimanded.

  “What? Did you think I was resigned to bein’ a spinster the rest of my life?”

  “I might be able to help you,” Margo offered.

  “Don’t you dare,” Laurent cautioned.

  “Or what?” she challenged.

  He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “I’ll paddle your sweet ass.”

  “Promises, promises,” she shot back, causing him to about choke on the piece of biscuit he’d just put in his mouth. Then, she told him, “It’s a natural instinct, Laurent, for men and women to want to meet and mate.”

  There was communal silence as everyone was all ears.

  “I can’t believe you said that, out loud.”

  “Why? Women want to fall in love, marry, and have children. Men want to have sex, marry, have sex, then have children, and more sex.”

  Laurent burst out laughing and the others followed suit, even Granny Belle, who said, “I declare!”

  “What would you like in a man?” Margo asked Lettie.

  “That is enough on this subject,” Laurent decided.

  They ignored him.

  “Taller than me and kind. He doesn’t have to be good looking, but not repulsive, either. I don’t care if he’s a Yankee or Rebel. I don’t care if he has money, but he has to have enough to take care of me and our children. I’m tired of being poor.”

  Laurent chuckled and said, “Hey, if you have any rich women available, I’m tired of being poor, too.”

  “Oh? And what else would you want?”

  He just grinned and gave his full attention to the food on his plate. When the others were no longer looking his way, he told her in a voice low enough for only her to hear,

  “She has to look good in a thong and give kisses that could melt wax.”

  Granny Belle toddled up to the table with a new tray of biscuits and glanced at her and Laurent, then glanced again. “Lord-a-mercy! What have you two been doin’? Yer lips look bee-stung.”

  Laurent’s face turned red and probably matched hers. Lettie craned her neck forward so she could see Laurent on Margo’s other side. Then she clapped her hands together and exclaimed, “Well, fiddle-dee-dee!”

  Wanna play, sugar? . . .

  Everyone was asleep, and Laurent was waiting for Margo to come to his room.

  He’d bathed in the stream, again, after the evening meal, then shaved off his mustache when he’d gotten back to the house. He wasn’t sure exactly why . . . maybe it was a physical manifestation of his unconscious decision to put the past behind him, to move on to something new in his future. Because he for damn sure needed to make a decision about Rosylyn . . . either he did something dramatic to get it back into a profitable position again, or he chucked it all and headed off for new horizons, taking only Lettie with him.

  Or maybe it just involved this new, crazy woman who’d entered his life, turning it upside down.

  He’d heard Margo splashing in the tub down the hall a long time ago. What was she doing in her bedroom? Why was she waiting so long? If she didn’t come soon, he would go for her.

  But wait. The soft padding of bare feet in the hall drew his attention, followed by the swish of the door opening. Then it shut with a resounding snap.

  He stood before one of the open, floor-to-ceiling windows, one of four in this corner room. It had rained all afternoon, and the air was thankfully cooler than normal.

  They would create their own heat.

  “You came.”

  “Did you doubt I would?”

  “I would have come for you if you didn’t.”

  “Would you have carried me?” She tilted her head and regarded him saucily. “Rhett picked up Scarlett on more than one occasion.”

  “Enough with Rhett!” He beckoned her with a forefinger to come closer.

  She balked and shook her head.

  So, he approached her, slowly.

  “Laurent! You shaved your mustache. For me?”

  “For me,” he said, declining to explain. “Do you prefer the mustache?”

  She bit her bottom lip as she studied him. “I like both.” She laughed. “There’s a very vulgar expression in my time about sex with a mustached man . . .”

  He could see by the light from the full moon that she was blushing, a unique occurrence for her, or he would have thought so. “Don’t stop now.”

  “A mustache ride,” she blurted out, “and don’t ask me to explain.”

  A grin twitched at his lips. He needed no explanation. “We might be able to accomplish that without the mustache.�
� Forget might. Definitely.

  She blushed even more when she realized that he’d understood. Shifting from bare foot to bare foot, she tried to find the right words for her next declaration. “I want you to know that I don’t do this very often.”

  “Do what?” Laurent found his brain operating at a sluggish speed, slowed down no doubt by the boiling blood churning through his body, which had been in a state of simmering half-arousal all day since he’d left her in the dairy shed.

  “Make love with someone I’ve just met.”

  “Do you think I do?” If you only knew!

  “I don’t know.”

  “The only sex I’ve had in more than a year has been solitary.”

  She laughed. “Likewise.”

  His eyes went wide, and he laughed, too. “You come out with things I’ve never heard a lady say.”

  “What? You think women in your time don’t masturbate?”

  His jaw dropped. He clicked it shut and was about to reply when she continued.

  “You want a lady in bed?’

  “Hell, no! I am more interested in knowing why you are wearing that shroud.”

  “It’s the only one Lettie gave me.”

  “Take it off. No, let me.” In record time, he had the hem up and over her head. For a moment, it stuck on her arms and around her neck, giving him an up close look at her nude body. No scraps of lace this time. Just all that lovely skin.

  She was tall for a woman, though a head shorter than him. Her breasts were large and high. Well, large compared to her slim frame. The areolae and already pearled nipples were a dusty pink. Her nether hair was blonde and curly, a shade darker than her head.

  “You are beautiful,” he choked out as he tossed the nightgown behind him.

  He was barefoot and shirtless, and while he’d been getting his fill of her, visually, she had been a busy bee. Without even being asked, or begged, she was undoing the buttons of his trousers, uncaring or deliberately brushing the backs of her fingers against his erection. Before he knew it, she was releasing his engorged penis while he stepped out of his pants.

  He let out a whooshy exhale, attempting to gain some control over his roiling passion.

  “Nice,” she whispered as she studied him with wanton appreciation.