Playing the Rake's Game

‘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.

Chapter Four (#ulink_3351e3b0-ea99-565f-ada4-7c0eb76fb633)

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.’