Читать книгу Playing the Rake's Game - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 11

Chapter Four

Fire! Ren came awake in a rush of awareness, his senses bombarded on all fronts: the heat, the overpowering stench of smoke and the blinding darkness. His brain raced. Teddy! The girls! He had to get to them. Panic engulfed him, adrenaline propelled him.

He lurched out of bed, stumbling in the darkness. His foot tripped on the corner of the bed and he swore. Outside the slats of his blinds orange flames flickered. His senses registered the scent of smoke more thoroughly now. It smelled of burning leaves. The panic receded infinitesimally. This was not England. Teddy and the girls were safe. But his fields...

Ren pulled up the blinds and stared in horrified amazement. This was not even the fire from yesterday. It wasn’t a chicken coop this morning, it was the cane fields. His cane fields! Talk about money going up in literal smoke. The panic returned momentarily before his brain caught up with his senses. He remembered his research. The fire was deliberate, a prelude to the harvest, burning off the leaves and the cane’s waxy outer layer to make reaping and milling more efficient.

Ren braced his arms against the window sill, breathing deeply, letting the shock pass. His family was safe half a world away. His fields were secure. All was well. But his panic was understandable. Knowing didn’t make the fire appear any less harmless or smell any better. The dawn sky was black with smoke and the orange flames looked menacing. It would have been easy to misinterpret the fire for something more sinister, especially when one was groggy with the fog of a sudden awakening.

Perhaps that had been the intent? In his more alert state, it occurred to Ren that Emma could have warned him, just like she could have written, informing him of the business situation. Again, she’d elected not to, choosing instead to let him find his own level.

Ren looked down at himself. He was stark naked and in his standard, early morning, state of arousal. He usually slept nude and he’d seen no reason not to continue the practice last night. If he had misunderstood the fire, and if he had let his initial panic drive him out the door, Miss Ward might have been in for quite the surprise. As it was, she might still be in for one, although this one would be clothed. If she thought she could burn his fields without his presence or permission, or if she thought she could force him into the role of the silly, uninformed newcomer, she would be wrong on all accounts.

Ren dressed in trousers and a clean shirt. He pulled on his boots and took time to put on a jacket. He didn’t want to give any ounce of credence to the idea that he’d rolled straight out of bed and raced to the fields. He wanted Emma convinced he’d not panicked.

Once outside, he spied a group of men gathered at the edge of the field and strode towards them. They were standing a safe distance from the flames, monitoring the fire’s progress with a nonchalance that affirmed his conclusion: the firing was deliberate. All three heads turned towards him as he approached, but not all were male. Of course she’d be there.

Emma Ward stood between two men, dressed in trousers, tall boots and a man’s cut-down shirt, her hair tucked into a tight, dark braid that fell over one shoulder; a look that emphasised long legs, high firm breasts and did absolutely nothing for taming his morning arousal.

Emma met his gaze with a cool stare of her own. ‘We are firing the fields today.’ Firing the fields, firing his blood, his temper. There was fire aplenty today.

Ren chose to ignore the obvious quality of the statement and went straight to the pronoun. ‘We? That seems an odd choice of words considering you left me in bed.’

Emma coloured, his innuendo not lost. ‘I did not leave you in bed the way you suggest. You’d had a long journey. I let you sleep.’ She turned towards the other two men with her. ‘Mr Paulson and Peter, allow me to introduce Albert Merrimore’s relative, Mr Renford Dryden. He arrived yesterday afternoon. Mr Dryden, this is my overseer, Mr Paulsen, and my field foreman, Peter, whom you met yesterday.’

Paulsen was a tall, slender man with leathery skin, a man who’d seen years under a hot sun. Peter was the thick-muscled African from the home farm. Ren offered his hand to the two men and took the opportunity to establish his ground. ‘I’m pleased to meet you. I will want to discuss the plantation with each of you over the next few days.’

That brought a shuffling of feet from Peter, who hastily looked away, and a hesitant nod from Mr Paulsen. Ren was pleased to see they were loyal and not wanting to betray their allegiance to Emma, but resistance was resistance. As such, it was only a step away from outward defiance. Ren decided to address it head on with a smile. ‘I am the primary shareholder now. I will, of course, be ably assisted by Miss Ward, but you should accustom yourselves to a new line of authority.’ Ren shot a stern look at Emma. ‘This is a partnership now.’

* * *

Partnership, her foot! This was a slippery slope to dictatorship if it was anything at all. Emma glared out over the smoky fields, arms crossed. If he was going to begin as he meant to go on, she should, too. His ‘partnership’ would have to be nipped in the bud, but that nipping would have to wait until they could return to the house. She was not petty enough to argue in front of Mr Paulsen and Peter.

Nor was she naive enough to think she was going to get away with nothing more than the veiled scolding of Ren’s last remark. That remark had been a warning and now he was making her wait for the other proverbial shoe to fall. She was not a patient person by nature and he’d already tried what little patience she possessed over the past four months waiting for him to arrive or not. Apparently, she was not done waiting.

She waited until the burning was nearly complete and could be left in Mr Paulsen’s capable hands. She waited through the walk back to the house. She waited while they filled their plates with a late breakfast and sat down at the table. She waited as he took a few bites of his eggs and buttered his toast.

Ren took a bite of that well-buttered toast and looked a question at her with an arch of his brows. ‘Yes? Do you have something you want to say?’

‘No, do you?’ Emma sipped at her coffee in hopes of disguising her agitation. She wanted him to engage first.

‘I have nothing to say that you do not already know.’ His eyes held hers, blue fire simmering in them. ‘You tried to play me for a fool this morning.’ His tone was even, neutral. ‘We both know it. You deliberately didn’t tell me about firing the fields.’

Emma gathered her practised defence. ‘By the time I remembered, I had already undressed for the evening.’ It had sounded better in her head. Out loud, it only proved to be provocative and Ren had indicated already he wasn’t above innuendo. He would not let such a reference pass.

‘Were you now?’ His gaze was steady but the faintest ribbon of a smile played across his mouth, bringing to mind images that were entirely too intimate for the breakfast table, images that left her stripped bare beneath his gaze and not the least bit protected from the direction of his thoughts and hers.

Emma looked down at her eggs. ‘I couldn’t very well traipse around the house in my nightgown.’ That was even worse. She was making a mess of this. Usually, she was considered quite the wit. Not today. Not with this man.

‘I, too, had retired for the evening,’ Ren said drily. ‘In fact, I was wearing far less than a nightshirt. Had you come, you would have been overdressed.’ The last comment brought her eyes up, her cheeks starting to heat. ‘I sleep in the nude, Emma. In case you were wondering.’

‘I wasn’t,’ Emma snapped in mortification. It was absolutely a lie, however. She had been wondering, her mind filling rather quickly with images of a naked Ren Dryden.

‘More to the point, I awoke naked and nearly ran out to the fields in my altogether. I wonder who would have looked foolish then—me, for running out naked in concern for my crops, or you for having overlooked the simple courtesy of notifying me?’

Emma’s cheeks were twin ovens now, her mind a riot of inappropriate images of her guest. She tried to sound oblivious to the implications of his words. ‘I think we’re being a little dramatic about a harmless episode.’ Hot cheeks or not, she positively refused to let him turn this into an inquisition. Nor would she let him turn this into a favour he’d done her in which he’d saved her from embarrassment.

Ren’s eyes were shrewd when they met hers. ‘A harmless episode, but not an isolated one. In the past...’ he stopped here and flipped open a pocket watch, doing a quick calculation ‘...eighteen hours since my arrival, you’ve made it clear you don’t want me here. But I am here and this will be a partnership. There will be no more of these attempts to dissuade me.’

‘My apologies if you feel that way,’ Emma replied, but her tone was unrepentant. He’d proven to be a worthy opponent at present, catching on far too quickly to her strategy. That didn’t mean she had to admit to it. It did mean, however, she would need another. Simply ignoring Ren Dryden wasn’t going to work.

Her brain began to recalibrate. The new gambit would have to be something more subtle, something that would bind him to her without arousing his suspicions. After all, if he was going to stay, how could she best use him? Could she make him an ally against Gridley? He’d been quick enough to support her yesterday.

Emma studied Ren, well aware that he was watching her, waiting for her to cede the terms of their partnerships. Watch me all you like. He was not entirely immune to her. He knew very well what he was doing with his innuendo and his eyes. A man didn’t play such games with a woman he wasn’t attracted to. She was used to men watching her, men like Arthur Gridley and Thompson Hunt. Men who were always wondering about her, thinking they knew how best to manipulate her for their own gains.

Like them, perhaps Dryden’s own confidence could be played against him. But how to do it? Perhaps a temporary show of agreement was in order until she sorted things out.

Emma stuck her hand out across the table, evincing appropriate reluctance. Her about-turn would have to be convincing. Ren Dryden would not find complete, immediate capitulation compelling. ‘Very well, since it seems I have no choice, I agree. A partnership it is.’ She would honour that partnership until it was no longer judicious for her to pursue a course of assumed equality. Her next gambit, whatever it was, needed to be something more. Her first gambit had not worked, based as it was on faulty assumptions about who Ren would be. She needed time to think the next one through. Agreement bought her time and this time she had to succeed. She wouldn’t get another second chance.

Ren relinquished her hand, but his eyes didn’t stray from hers. ‘Perhaps we should seal our partnership with a tour of the property. I would like to start learning about the plantation immediately.’

A little spark of excitement travelled down her spine, a most unwanted reaction. She had the distinct impression he wasn’t necessarily referencing the plantation. Her pulse raced, oblivious to what her mind already knew: it was only a game. Ren could flirt all he liked, but in the end, she needed to be the one in charge. If this was to be a game, she preferred it to be one played neutrally, at least on her part.

‘I can arrange to have Peter or Mr Paulsen show you around.’ After a morning of sharpening wits with him, a little distance was in order. She needed time to plan. Emma rose to make her departure, but Ren was ready for her. He rose with her, blocking her access to the door.

‘I’m sure they’re capable, but I’d prefer you. We can go right now.’ He held his arms wide, showing off his riding attire with a laugh. ‘Fortunately, I am dressed for it and so are you.’ He gave her a conspiratorial grin at the inside joke. ‘You’re not in your nightgown and I’m not in my altogether, so there’s no excuse.’

Emma recognised defeat. She’d been flanked. She would not be able to dismiss him as easily as she had yesterday by pawning him off on her servants. She smiled tightly. She had to capitulate, there was no way out of it and he knew it, he’d orchestrated it that way. ‘Very well, I’ll call for the horses.’

His grin widened. ‘No need, I’ve already done that. I told the groom to have them ready at half past.’ Not your groom, but the groom. Beneath his casual manner there was a sharp reminder that while Sugarland was her place, it was also his. Theirs. Together.

Emma let the comment pass and led the way out to the drive. Sharing would take some getting used to. It would demand she reshape the way she viewed him entirely. At least temporarily, she had to move away from seeing him as the interloper, someone who was here only on Merry’s posthumous good grace. Still, she had to be strong. Otherwise, Ren would think she was soft. Men exploited softness.

Horses were indeed waiting outside and Ren gave her a leg up, tossing her into the saddle with ease as he had done yesterday. He adjusted her stirrup and checked her girth one last time. It was either quite gallant of him, or quite patronising. Emma shot him a wry look, assuming the latter. ‘You should know, Ren Dryden, I don’t like high-handed men.’

Ren gave her stirrup a final tug and looked up, blue eyes sparking with amusement. ‘You should know I don’t like scheming females. I think that makes us even.’

He swung up into his saddle with athletic grace, the heels of his boots automatically going down in the irons, his thighs naturally gripping the stallion, a bay Merry had bought from an officer who was returning to England. She felt a sharp stab of heat at the memory from yesterday of those thighs gripping her.

‘You’re a horseman,’ Emma said as they turned their mounts out behind the house to begin the tour.

‘I love to ride. My family prides themselves on their stable. We all grew up in the saddle.’ Ren drew his horse alongside hers, his tone easy, inviting conversation as the path widened to easily accommodate two riders abreast.

‘Do you have a large family?’ The way he’d said ‘all’ implied that he did. She’d not imagined him having siblings. She’d spent her time planning for the arrival of an old man with few ties.

‘Big enough. Not as large as some,’ Ren answered. ‘I have two younger sisters and a younger brother. How about yourself, do you have siblings?’

She shook her head. ‘I barely had parents, let alone brothers and sisters. It was mostly my father and me. He was in the military and we travelled.’

‘That must have been exciting.’ Ren was studying her, giving her the full attention of his gaze. It was warming and unnerving all at once. This was supposed to have been a safe conversation but it was proving contrary to her intentions. Was it real or was it merely his brand of superficial politeness? Worse, was it the beginning of a seduction? Was he being nice to capitalise on the truce they’d established over breakfast? She’d seen such niceness often enough from those who had something to gain. If he thought to kiss the plantation out of her, he wouldn’t be the first to try and he wouldn’t be the last to fail.

This was where seduction, if that was what he was up to, became tricky. One had to be careful not to forget the game, no matter how appealing the fantasy. She wouldn’t make it easy for him or for herself. Neither could she appear to be entirely resistant. Resistance would not convince him she’d rethought her position on his presence. Still, things didn’t have to go too far.

Emma decided to put a halt to the moment before she had herself imagining he cared about something other than his fifty-one per cent. ‘It was lonely. My father’s career was all consuming. He lived for it and the adventure of always moving can be something of a burden when one is craving the stability of a normal home and friends. There was no one to fall back on when my father died.’ They reached a fork in the rough trail. She gestured they should go right.

‘There was my cousin,’ Ren answered, swiftly coming to Merry’s defence.

‘Yes, there was Merry and I will always be grateful. He was all that was generous and kind to a lonely sixteen-year-old girl.’ The trail narrowed and Emma pushed ahead of him. They were climbing now. Emma was glad for a reason to proceed single file. Even after four months, her grief over Merry remained raw. Too much sincerity, feigned or not from Ren Dryden, and she’d be a gusher.

They reached the top of the incline and dismounted. Emma went to stand at the edge, using the time to gather her emotions. But Ren did not give her long. He came up behind her, his boots giving fair warning as they rustled the grass. He was close, close enough for her to smell the scent of honest sweat mixed with the scents of horse and morning soap. The combination was decidedly male and not at all unpleasing. There was power to it and strength.

‘This is the highest point on Sugarland, from here you can see everything.’ It was one of her favourite places to visit. She and Merry had come up often when he was well. The last time had been two days before he died. The trip had taken all of his strength. She remembered worrying that he would die on the hilltop, that it had been his reason for coming; he’d wanted to depart the earth where he could see his legacy spread before him. It was the day he’d warned her of his suspicions about Gridley. She wished he’d warned her about Ren Dryden, too.

Ren let out a low whistle of appreciation. ‘That’s an amazing view. I can see why you’d want to come. A man could be a king here, surveying his domain.’

‘Or a queen surveying hers,’ Emma amended. This was her kingdom, a reminder of all she fought for, of all she defended. A reminder, too, of what she stood to lose if she was not a vigilant guardian. Gridley would wrest this place from her if she gave him half a chance. Perhaps Ren Dryden would, too.

‘Tell me about it, tell me everything we see.’ Ren’s voice was quiet, intimate at her ear. It sent an unlooked-for trill of awareness down her spine, so unlike the prickles of hatred, even fear, that Gridley’s presence roused.

Ren pointed in the distance. ‘What’s that building over there?’

‘That’s our sugar mill. Once we harvest the cane, it will be refined there. We’re big enough to support our own mill. We’re lucky. We mill the cane for some of the smaller plantations, too, who don’t have their own,’ Emma explained.

She moved their gaze to the east. ‘That’s the main house. Then there’s the cane fields.’ They were black beneath the sky, the recent firing causing them to stand out stark and naked against the lush background. ‘There are the vegetable fields and the home farm.’ She paused to glance over her shoulder, taking in Ren’s expression. ‘You’re surprised. We’re self-sufficient here. The trick is to balance the land between what we need to feed ourselves and what we can afford to grow for cane. Sugar cane is our money crop, but it won’t do us any good if we starve or if we have to spend our profits on food. Already, so much of what we need has to be imported from England. It would be a shame to have to import food, too.’

Ren nodded slowly. She could almost see the wheels of his mind turning behind those eyes of his. He was interested in the plantation. Well, she’d see how interested he was in the middle of a sweltering summer when there was work to be done, although he’d done well yesterday with the fire. He hadn’t hesitated.

‘Is cane difficult to grow?’ he asked, his gaze going back to the charred fields. ‘From my reading, it doesn’t seem to be.’

‘Not too difficult. The cane regenerates itself.’ She started to explain the process, acutely aware of the potent male presence behind her. Ren was making it difficult to talk about ratoon crops and he wasn’t even touching her. He was just standing there. Only he wasn’t. He was flirting silently with his body.

No, flirting was too superficial of a word. Flirting required witty banter and gay repartee, not an agricultural discussion. This wasn’t flirting, this was sampling. He was letting her sample his physicality—the smell of him, the heat, the sensuality of him as he turned even the most mundane comment erotic by murmuring it near her ear.

There was no doubt he was a man who understood precisely how to use the nuances of space and touch to create a certain appeal. The bigger question was why? She had yet to meet a man who didn’t have ulterior motives when it came to women or when it came to her. She didn’t need to be a genius to figure out what Dryden was after. She’d been alert to that potential ever since he’d climbed down from Sherard’s wagon in all his broad-shouldered, blue-eyed glory.

His subtle flirtation here on the bluff confirmed what she’d suspected. Even being alert for such a move from him, it was disappointing. Perhaps a small part of her had hoped the man she’d seen at the fire would be different. Not that knowledge of his likely game was enough apparently to stop her pulse from racing, or a little frisson of excitement from running down her spine as he abstrusely put his body on invitation. But it needed to be.

She was a smart woman and experience had made her smarter than most when it came to the nature of men. Those experiences would need to be her armour now. Emma stepped forward, away from the heat of his body. ‘We should be getting back. I have work to do.’ Anything would be better than being near Ren and his intoxicating presence without a plan of her own. Too much of him and she’d forget her resolve and his agenda.

* * *

Emma filled the ride back with business. She talked about the native flora and fauna, the seasonal changes on the island, even the hurricane of 1831 which had left much of the island devastated and claimed fifteen hundred lives. All of it done in an attempt to create distance and a reminder they were business partners and would be nothing more. She couldn’t afford to be more with him.

The house came into view and Emma felt a surge of relief. Sanctuary! She would not have to deal with Ren again until dinner. She could bury herself away in the office behind closed doors. That relief was short-lived. As they approached the drive, it was evident she had company. A rider was dismounting from a tall sorrel stallion. Damn and double damn. Hadn’t yesterday been enough for him?

Ren drew his horse alongside. ‘Expecting guests?’

Emma grimaced. ‘Sir Arthur Gridley isn’t exactly a guest.’ He’d probably seen the smoke from the crops and wanted to poke his nose into Sugarland’s business, something he’d made a habit of doing since Merry’s death.

‘A nuisance then?’ Ren joked wryly.

‘Something like that,’ Emma responded tersely. Gridley was more than a nuisance. He was insidious. He liked to portray himself as the nosy neighbour who had her best interests at heart. Only she knew better.

‘If he’s not a nuisance or a guest, what is he, then?’ The protectiveness she sensed in him yesterday gave an edge to Ren’s voice.

‘Nothing for you to worry about. I’ve got him under control.’ She hoped she did anyway. She wasn’t about to admit otherwise to Ren and alert him to the possibility that not all was perfect at Sugarland. Neither did she want to give Ren a possible weapon to use against her.

Arthur Gridley strode down the steps towards them, smiling pleasantly, playing the good neighbour to the hilt, definitely a bad sign. It seemed she was about to trade Ren Dryden for something worse, a classic case of out of the frying pan and into the fire.