Читать книгу Playing the Rake's Game - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 10

Chapter Three

The home farm was all disorder and confusion when they arrived. Ren leapt off the horse, hauling Emma down behind him, letting his senses take in the scene.Smoke was everywhere, creating the illusion or the reality that the fire was worse than it initially appeared, It was hard to say which it was in the haze. Panicked workers raced about without any true direction futilely attempting to fight the flames. A lesser man might have panicked along with them, but Ren’s instincts for command took over.

Ren grabbed the first man who ran past him. ‘You, get a bucket brigade going.’ He shoved the man towards the rain barrel and started funnelling people that direction, calling orders. ‘Take a bucket, get in line, a single-file line. We have to contain the fire, we can’t let it spread to other buildings.’ That would be disastrous.

Ren turned to Emma, but she was already gone, issuing orders of her own. He scanned the crowd, catching sight of her dark hair and light-coloured dress as she set people to the task of gathering the livestock away from the flames. Clearly, there was no need to worry about her. She had things well in hand on her end. He just needed to see to his. Ren shrugged out of his coat and positioned himself at the front of the bucket brigade, placing himself closest to the flames.

Reach and throw, reach and throw. Ren settled into the rhythm of firefighting.

* * *

After a solid half hour of dousing, his shoulders ached and his back hurt from the repeated effort of lifting heavy buckets, but they were gaining on the flames.

Confident the line could handle the remainder, Ren stepped aside and looked for Emma. He found her in the centre of the farmyard talking with a large, muscled African and another man dressed in tall boots and riding clothes, holding the reins of his horse. He was obviously a new arrival, having missed all the ‘fun’ of fighting the fire. His clothes were clean and lacked the soot Emma had acquired. Even from here, Ren could see Emma’s gown wouldn’t survive the afternoon. At a distance, too, he could tell this wasn’t a friendly conversation on Emma’s part. Emma waved her hand and shook her head almost vehemently at something the man said. Whoever he was, he was not welcome.

Ren strode towards the little group not so much for Emma’s protection—she’d given every indication she could handle herself today and in fact preferred to work alone—as he did for his. Anyone who was a threat to Emma might very well be a threat to Sugarland. At the moment that was recommendation enough to intervene. Ren didn’t hesitate to insert himself into the conversation. ‘Do we know what happened?’ he asked, his question directed towards Emma. Up close, she was a worried mess. Her hem had torn in places and a seam at the side had ripped, the white of her chemise playing peekaboo. Her hair fell loose over one shoulder. She looked both dirty and delicious at once, a concept his body seemed to find very arousing in the aftermath. All of his unspent adrenaline needed to find an alternate outlet.

The big African spoke. ‘Dunno. One minute we were working and the next, there was a bang.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘The shed just went up. There was no warning, no time.’ He shook his head.

‘The building was a chicken coop.’ Emma explained to Ren, filling him in. ‘Some of the chickens were outside, but we likely lost at least twelve.’

Ren nodded. It could have been worse. As fires and damages went, this was minor; Just chickens and a shed. The loss would be an inconvenience, but they would recover from it. It could have been the hay, the cows, the food staples, human lives even. Fires were dangerous to a farm’s prosperity.

The business of the fire satisfied for the moment, Ren turned his attention to the newcomer. Ren stuck out his hand when it became apparent Emma wasn’t going to make introductions. ‘I’m Ren Dryden, Merrimore’s cousin.’

The stranger shook his hand, smiling. He was a strong man, tall, probably in his early forties. ‘I’m Sir Arthur Gridley, your neighbour to the south. It looks like you’ve come just in time.’ He gave Emma a sideways glance of friendly condescension that perhaps explained her reluctance to make introductions.

‘Our Emma’s had a struggle of it since Merrimore passed away. It has been one thing after the other for the poor girl. She’s had quite the run of bad luck: a sick horse the other day, the broken wagon wheel last week, trouble with the equipment at the mill. We’ve all tried to pitch in, but Emma’s stubborn and won’t take a bit of help.’

Emma’s mouth hardened into a grim line. Ren wondered what she disliked most, being talked about as if she weren’t here or having her weaknesses exposed to an outsider. Or maybe, on second consideration, it was Gridley she was most opposed to.

The man seemed nice enough, certainly eager to be neighbourly but Ren noticed Emma had stepped closer to him during the exchange. Closer to himself or away from Gridley? Perhaps there was more there than met the eye. He’d have to follow that up later. Right now he had an explosion to solve. ‘I’m going to walk through the ruins and see if I can’t unearth any signs of what might have started the fire. I’d welcome any assistance.’ He’d let Gridley prove himself. After all, Emma didn’t much like him at the moment either. She might have an aversion to men in general or just to men who posed a threat to her authority.

Ren moved towards the remains of the chicken coop, Gridley on one side, Emma on the other. ‘Look for anything that might have triggered an explosion: a wire, a fuse, a match. I don’t think the fire had time to get too hot, clues have likely survived.’

He’d meant the instructions for Gridley, but Emma moved forward, ready to brave the ashes. Ren stuck out an arm, barring the way. ‘Not you, Miss Ward. What’s left of your slippers won’t last. Hot or not, any residual ash could burn right through those flimsy soles. I need you to talk to people, they know you. Perhaps someone might remember some strange activity around the coop before the explosion.’

She shot him an angry glare. He wasn’t scoring any points in his favour with this latest directive, but she went. Did she go out of acquiescence to his request or as a chance to be away from Gridley? His curiosity would liked to have seen what she’d have done if Gridley hadn’t been there.

Digging through the rubble was more difficult than expected. Ren had thought it would be fairly easy to determine the cause of the fire—after all, the coop hadn’t been that big to begin with once the smoke had cleared and there wasn’t that much debris.

Ren pushed back his hair with a dirty, sweaty hand and looked around him. They were nearly done and nothing had shown up. Gridley waved at him a few feet away and strode over.

‘I think I’ve found something,’ he called out loudly enough to draw attention. He held up a small bundle of grey cloth. The people working near him gasped and moved out of the away with anxious steps. Out of the corner of his eye, Ren saw Emma hurry towards him.

Ren took the item from Arthur Gridley and turned it over in study. ‘What is it? It looks like a child’s doll.’ A poorly made one. It was nothing more than cloth sewn into a crude resemblance of a human form.

Gridley and Emma exchanged glances laced with challenge. Emma’s voice conveyed a quiet anger when she spoke. ‘It’s obeah magic. This is a bad-luck charm.’ She shot an accusing glare at Gridley.

Gridley blew out a breath, sounding genuinely aggrieved. ‘I’m sorry, Emma. It’s the last thing you need.’ He stepped forward to put a consoling hand on Emma’s arm. This time Ren didn’t imagine her response. She moved out of reach, stepping on the toes of his boots as she backed up. Gridley’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, opting instead to pretend he didn’t notice the slight.

‘This doll didn’t start the fire,’ Ren put in, drawing them away from whatever private war waged between them. He fingered the doll. Something wasn’t right, but his mind couldn’t grasp it.

Gridley gave a harsh laugh. ‘I’m not sure it matters what started the fire. I’m not even sure it matters only a chicken coop burnt down. It’s not the fire that’s damaging.’ He nodded to the huddle of people forming behind the big African. ‘Emma’s likely not to have any workers in the morning. Obeah magic is powerful and they believe in it.’

The tension between Emma and Gridley ratcheted up a notch. Gridley shifted on his feet and Ren flicked a covert glance over his person, noting the telltale beginnings of tightening trousers. Gridley tugged at his coat front in the age-old effort to disguise a growing arousal. For all of Gridley’s bonhomie, Ren would wager his last guinea Emma didn’t care for her neighbour as much as the neighbour cared for her, if caring was the right word. He wasn’t convinced yet that it was. There were other less flattering, less worthy words that recommended themselves.

The big African approached tentatively. ‘Miss Emma, no one wants to go back to work today. The healers need time to purify the farmyard, to make it safe again.’

Gridley spat on the ground and prepared to respond. ‘Now you listen here, you’re making a working wage—’

Emma interrupted firmly, her anger directed openly at Gridley. ‘This is my place. I will handle any business that needs handling.’ Ren had to give Emma Ward credit. Even in a tattered gown, she commanded authority. She’d acquitted herself well today in the face of a crisis.

Emma stepped forward towards the foreman, distancing herself from him and Gridley. ‘Peter, tell everyone they can have the rest of the day off. They may do whatever they need to do. But make it clear, they are to be back at work tomorrow. If the harvest fails, we all fail and failure doesn’t pay the bills.’

‘You are too generous with them,’ Gridley warned in low tones. The man was treading on dangerous ground. Couldn’t he see Emma was spoiling for a fight? Maybe a fight was what he wanted. Perhaps it was the presence of conflict that fuelled his desire. Some men were like that.

Emma’s chin went up in defiance and Ren didn’t think much of Gridley’s chances. ‘It is my mistake to make then. The last time I checked, it was my name on the deed, not yours. If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go home and clean up.’

Ren laughed to himself as he gave Emma a leg up on the horse. She’d neatly dismissed Sir Arthur Gridley and Gridley had been furious over it. Perhaps he’d been expecting an invitation to tea? Or perhaps not, given Emma’s overt dislike of him. There probably hadn’t been invitations to tea for quite a while. Such dislike didn’t grow up overnight or without cause.

* * *

Ren wasn’t laughing when she did the same thing to him back at the house, the sun starting to set in the sky. She wanted a bath and would it be all right, given the excitement of the day, if she took dinner in her rooms? She didn’t think she was up for company.

He’d granted her request. He had little choice otherwise. She’d prettily made her excuses, playing the delicate maiden to the hilt, which had been entertaining to watch but hardly believable. He’d seen her in action today. Anyone who handled herself the way Emma had wasn’t going to be put off by company for dinner. Still, he played the gentleman and gave her the reprieve. He allowed himself to be handed over to her house servants and hustled off to his quarters.

Ren stepped inside his rooms and immediately understood what she’d done. The minx had not only dismissed him, she’d relegated him to the care of servants and tucked him into the far reaches of the house. Even worse, Ren could find little to complain about. It wasn’t as if she’d put him in the attics or that the house was so large it needed a map to navigate. It was the principle of the matter and what it signified.

The garçonnière was a novel idea borrowed from the French, a large spacious set of rooms put aside for a family’s bachelor sons. On the surface, the rooms were the practical answer for housing a male guest. It was what lay beneath that surface Ren took issue with. He could indeed come and go as he pleased through a separate entrance without tramping through the main house. In fact, he need not even interact with anyone in the main house if he chose or vice versa; the main house need not interact with him, which he suspected was more the case.

The footman, Michael, offered to stay and unpack, but Ren excused him. He wanted time to think and sort through what had happened that day. Ren pulled off his cravat and undid his waistcoat. There was no sense in standing on ceremony for oneself. He was alone.

The impact of it hit him hard as he stacked his linen and filled the drawers. For the first time in his life, he was entirely alone without his family, his friends and without his title; it meant nothing here at the moment. Even the institutions that had filled the backdrop of his life to date were absent. What he wouldn’t give for a quiet evening at his club, laughing over brandy with Benedict. Ren set out the personal effects he’d brought; his game board, his writing kit. He would need to pen a letter to his family and let them know he had arrived safely. He even rearranged a few pieces of furniture to better suit himself. He’d put his stamp on this place yet whether Emma Ward liked it or not, starting with these rooms.

The welcome he had received today was not what he’d expected. The element of surprise had served him well. Emma had not been able to hide behind the pomp and ceremony of a planned reception. She’d been forced into an impromptu situation which had left her exposed. Surprise worked both ways, though, and there’d been surprise for him as well. He’d not expected a single shareholder. He’d been prepared for a consortium of businessmen. He’d expected people would be glad, even relieved to see him. The burden of running a plantation would be lifted from their shoulders. The reality had proven a bit different. Emma Ward was clearly not eager to be relieved of her duties or to share them.

It did make him wonder what Emma Ward had to hide. Ren set out his shaving gear, a plan of attack starting to form. With another woman, he would have chosen a strategy of overwhelming kindness and politeness. He knew already that gambit would have disastrous outcomes with Emma Ward.

Emma would need to be handled directly and firmly. He’d seen how she’d treated Arthur Gridley, with unabridged disdain. She’d eat a ‘nice’ man alive, the sort of man who made the mistake of thinking she was a delicate flower. Ren chuckled at the thought, another image taking shape in his mind. If she was a flower, she would be the sort that lured their prey with their beauty and then shut their petals tight until there was no escape for the poor unsuspecting soul.

She would learn soon enough he was no fool to be played with. It would take more than bad manners to deter him. If Emma Ward thought a cold welcome would send him packing, she was in for another surprise. Of course, she had no idea of what he had faced in England—not even Kitt knew. Emma’s bad-mannered welcome couldn’t begin to compete against the consequences of genteel poverty awaiting him if he failed here; of watching his sisters become spinsters for lack of attractive dowries, or watching them settle for questionable matches simply because only men of dubious character would take them; of watching the estates dwindle into disrepair for lack of funds to fix roofs and replace failing furniture; of watching the tenants move off the land one by one looking for more lucrative fields.

Genteel poverty was a slow social death sentence. He would not go easily down that road. He would fight it with every resource he had for the sake of his family. Even if he could afford to leave Sugarland, which he couldn’t, even if his family wasn’t depending on his success here, which they were, this was his fifty-one per cent and more—this was his future. He was here to stay. Both practice and principle demanded it.

* * *

Ren Dryden couldn’t stay! Emma slid deep into the soapy bubbles of her bath. Watching him manage the fire today had been proof enough of that. He’d done a good job, stepping in at a moment’s notice. Too good of a job. He’d been a natural leader the way he’d formed the bucket brigade and then joined in, working alongside the others. Perhaps he’d been afraid it was his fifty-one per cent on fire, Emma thought uncharitably, soaping her arms. The men had respected him, too. She’d seen it in their faces when he’d given orders. He was not what she needed—a man with enough charisma to usurp her years of hard work.

That was exactly what would happen if he knew the truth of things. She’d desperately wanted to paint a picture of idyllic prosperity, that all was well in the hopes of convincing Ren Dryden there nothing to do here. He might as well go home. Then the chicken coop had exploded, the obeah doll had shown up and Gridley had nearly let the rest of the cat out of the bag with his ‘poor Emma’ remark. If Dryden thought his investment was in danger, she’d never dislodge him. He’d shown today that he was a protector by nature and protectors were warriors by necessity. They would fight for the things they cared about.

Heat that had nothing to do with the bath water began to simmer low at her core. Such a man was intoxicating, his strength a potent attractant and how she’d been attracted! She’d been poignantly aware of him today even amid the crisis. Her eye had followed him throughout the afternoon, her gaze drawn to the rolled-up sleeves and the flex of his arms hauling the buckets, to the ash smearing his jaw, the blaze of his eyes as he barked orders. There’d been the feel of him behind her on the horse, all muscle as his power surrounded her.

There was an intimacy about riding astride with a man, about being captured between the power of his thighs, nestled against his groin, home to more intimate items. It was a position Dryden had been comfortable with. He’d not thought twice about the potential indelicacy of drawing her close against him. It suggested he was a man comfortable and confident with his body, a man who would be good at a great many things, bed included.

Oh, it was poorly done of her to harbour such thoughts about her guest, especially when she wanted that guest to leave. She suspected she wasn’t the only woman who’d entertained the idea of bed with Ren Dryden. He was the sort who could conjure up all sorts of hot thoughts with a single look, a single touch.

That makes him dangerous! her more logical side asserted. He was particularly dangerous to a woman like herself, who valued her independence, who didn’t want to be protected. Protection meant sheltering, shielding. She wanted neither. If she wasn’t careful, Ren Dryden would undermine all she was simply because it was in his nature to do so. Her best interests required she stay the course—ignore him when possible and when it wasn’t, resist.

In the meanwhile, she needed to continue life as usual. That meant praying her workers showed up and firing the fields tomorrow as planned in preparation for the harvest.

Firing the fields! Emma shot up in her bath, sending water and suds splashing on the tile floor. She should have told Ren. It was too late. She’d already effectively said goodnight with her dismissal and going to him now would require getting dressed. She wasn’t about to traipse through the house in her dressing robe. Ren might believe she’d rethought her welcome and that certainly wasn’t what she wanted. Ren Dryden was a spark she couldn’t risk igniting.