Regency Rogues

August 2019

Outrageous Scandal

September 2019

Rakes’ Redemption

October 2019

Wicked Seduction

November 2019

A Winter’s Night

December 2019

Unlacing the Forbidden

January 2020

Stolen Sins

February 2020

Candlelight Confessions

March 2020

Rescued by Temptation

April 2020

Wives Wanted

May 2020

Disgraceful Secrets

June 2020

Talk of the Ton

July 2020

Exotic Affairs

About the Author

BRONWYN SCOTT is the author of over fifty books. Her 2018 novella, ‘Dancing with the Duke’s Heir’ was a RITA® finalist. She loves history and is always looking forward to the next story. She also enjoys talking with other writers and readers about books they like and the writing process. Readers can visit her at her Facebook page at Bronwynwrites and at her blog at http://www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com

Regency Rogues: Exotic Affairs

Playing the Rake’s Game

Bronwyn Scott

Breaking the Rake’s Rules

Bronwyn Scott

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-0-008-90796-9

REGENCY ROGUES: EXOTIC AFFAIRS

Playing the Rake’s Game © 2015 Nikki Poppen Breaking the Rake’s Rules © 2015 Nikki Poppen

Published in Great Britain 2020

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Playing the Rake’s Game

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Epilogue

Breaking the Rake’s Rules

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Epilogue

About the Publisher

Playing the Rake’s Game

Bronwyn Scott

For my awesome staff on the Disney Fantasy; Gabriella and Nicolas who kept us fed, and Puhl who had to clean my kid’s stateroom every day and still greeted me happily every morning.

Chapter One

Bridgetown, Barbados—early May, 1835

Ren Dryden believed two things about the nature of men: first, a wise man didn’t run from his troubles and, second, only a foolish man ran from his opportunities. Ren considered himself in league with the former, which was why he’d spent two weeks aboard a mail packet aptly named the Fury, braving the Atlantic and sailing away from all he knew. In truth, a large part of himself had revelled in the danger of the adventure; revelled in pitting his strength against the sea. He even revelled in the unknown challenges that lay before him on land. At last, he could take action.

Ren levered himself out of the bumboat that had rowed him ashore, tossed the boatman a coin and stood on the Bridgetown dock, feeling a kindred spirit with the bustle of commerce about him. His blood hummed with the excitement of it. Ah, the Caribbean! Land of rum and risk.

Ren surveyed the activity with an appreciative eye, taking in the vibrant colours of people, of fruits, sky and sea, the scents of citrus and sweat, the feel of heat against his face. It was a veritable feast for the senses and he engaged the feast wholeheartedly. Life began today, more specifically his life, a life of his choosing and his making, not a life predestined for him based on the caprices of earlier generations of Drydens.

There were plenty of people in London who would say he was avoiding his problems. The list was long and distinguished, ranging from his family, who’d found the ‘perfect solution’ to their little problem of ‘dynastic debt’ in the form of a weak-eyed, sallow-cheeked heiress from York, to the creditors who hounded him through the grey streets of London, even being so bold as to lie in wait for him outside his exclusive clubs.

There were also plenty of men of his acquaintance who would have bowed to the inevitable, married the heiress, paid the debt and spent their lives blindly acquiring new debt until their sons had to make the same sacrifices a generation later. He had promised himself years ago when he’d come of age he would not be a slave to the past.

Ren found it rather frightening that not only would those men have bowed to the inevitable, but they would have preferred to bow instead of breaking free. After all, there was a certain comfort to be found in the known. He understood the penchant for the familiar and he pitied the men who craved it. Ren had never counted himself among that number.

On the outside, perhaps he resembled his peers in clothing, clubs and mannerisms, but inside, he’d always been different, always railed against the things and people that kept him leashed, his hopes restrained by the narrow parameters that defined a gentleman’s potential.

All that railing had paid off, all that hope was now fulfilled. He was here and he’d broken free, although it came with a price, as freedom always did. If he failed in this venture, his family failed with him; his mother, who had wilted after his father’s death; his two sisters, one waiting for a debut, the other waiting to wed; and thirteen-year-old Teddy who would be the earl of debt-ridden lands should Ren not return.

Ren’s hand curled tightly around the valise he’d brought with him from the boat. He’d not trusted it to remain with his trunks to be brought ashore separately. His future was in the valise: the letter of introduction and a copy of Cousin Merrimore’s will bequeathing him fifty-one per cent interest in a sugar plantation—majority interest in a profitable business.

There would be shareholders to deal with, but technically the entire place was his to control. He would not fail. As unseemly as it was for a gentleman of his birth, he’d made it a point to know the dynamics of trade—he’d quietly made investments on the Exchange, invested in an occasional cargo. He’d listened to discussions in Parliament and taken an active interest in political circles when he was in London.

As a result, he did not come to Barbados without at least some knowledge of Britain’s colonial gem. Nor did he come without his opinions. He would make an honest profit and he would pay an honest wage to see it done. He would not raise his family up by abusing the sweat of other men. Even a desperate man had ethics.

‘Ahoy there, Dryden, is that you?’ A tall, bronzed man with sun-bleached hair cut through the crowd, taking Ren by momentary surprise. Ren might not have recognised the man, but he’d know the voice of his one-time best friend anywhere in the world, case in point. London would have an apoplexy if it could see its one-time ballroom favourite now. The Caribbean had bleached his dark-blond hair and tanned his pale skin.

‘Kitt Sherard!’ Ren felt his face break into wide grin. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d make it.’ He’d sent a letter on the mail packet preceding him telling Kitt of his arrival, but there’d been no chance to receive a response.

‘Of course I made it. I wouldn’t leave you stranded at the docks.’ Kitt pulled him into a strong embrace. ‘What has it been, Ren? Five years?’

‘Five long years. Look at you, Kitt. Barbados agrees with you,’ Ren exclaimed. He couldn’t get over the completeness of his friend’s transformation. Kitt had always been wild at heart, but now the wildness had entirely taken over. His hair was not only bleached, but long, and his dress more closely resembled the loose clothing of those swarming the docks than the traditional breeches and coats Ren had on. They looked more comfortable too. But the eyes were the same: a sharp, shrewd sea-blue. It was Kitt all right and it felt good to see a friendly face.

‘It does indeed.’ Kitt laughed as a pretty, coffee-skinned fruit seller approached, swinging her hips.

‘Fresh fruit, me loves, de best on de island. Is this handsome fellow a friend of yours, Mr Kitt?’ She wafted a firm round orange under Ren’s nose, teasing him with its citrusy scent. The persuasion was effective. After two weeks without anything resembling ‘fresh’, the orange was a temptation nonpareil. She might as well have been Eve with the apple, and if Eve had been wearing a scoop-necked blouse like this island beauty, Ren completely understood why Adam had eaten it.

‘He’s come all the way from London, Liddie. You be good to him.’ Kitt gave her two coins and took the fruit, tossing it to Ren.

‘Are all your friends this handsome?’ Liddie flirted with Ren, the loose neck of her blouse gaping open to offer a quick glimpse of firm, round fruit of a more erotic sort. She flashed him an inviting smile.

Kitt feigned wounded pride, a hand on his heart. ‘More handsome than me, Liddie?’

Liddie laughed. ‘You’re too much for a poor girl like me, Mr Kitt. Are you going to introduce me?’

‘Liddie, this is Ren Dryden, Albert Merrimore’s cousin. He’s going to be taking over Sugarland plantation.’

Ren thought he saw Liddie take the slightest step backwards. Her next words confirmed it wasn’t his imagination. ‘There’s trouble out there.’ She shot a warning glance at Kitt. ‘You better tell him about the spirits and the witch woman, Mr Kitt.’ She fumbled with a string about her neck and pulled a necklace over her head. A chunk of black coral hung from a strip of leather. She handed it to Ren. ‘You’re going to need protection. This will keep the bad spirits away.’

Ren took the charm, unsure of what to say. The idea there was trouble at his plantation was more than a little unsettling. That the trouble involved spirits and a witch woman seemed to portend the ominous. He looked a hasty question at Kitt, who merely shrugged at the mention.

‘My friend and I are good Anglicans, Liddie. We don’t believe in spirits.’ Kitt dismissed Liddie’s worries with an easy smile

Good Anglicans? Ren fought back a laugh at the notion. He didn’t think Kitt had ever been a good anything except a good amount of trouble. Decent simply wasn’t in Sherard’s vocabulary.

Ren tucked the amulet inside his shirt and Kitt went back to flirting with Liddie. ‘I am a bit jealous though, Liddie. What about me? Don’t I get an amulet, too, just in case?’

Liddie’s face broke into a pretty smile. ‘Mr Kitt, I pity the poor spirits that mess with you, Anglican or not.’ It was a good note to leave on. Liddie sauntered away, hips swaying.

‘She likes you.’ Kitt elbowed Ren. ‘Do you want me to arrange something?’

‘No. I think women will need to wait until I can get my bearings at the plantation.’ Ren laughed. ‘You’re the same old Kitt Sherard, women falling all over you wherever you go.’

Kitt seemed to sober at that. ‘Well, not quite the same, I hope. I didn’t come here to be what I was in London and I’m guessing neither did you.’

Ren nodded in understanding. For them both, Barbados was a place for new lives. Kitt had left London five years ago rather suddenly and without warning. He’d shown up one night on Ren’s doorstep needing sanctuary but unable to explain. He’d left the next day, slinking out of town towards the ports, leaving everything behind including his real name. Ren had been the last to see him. After that, Kitt had cut all ties with the exception of random letter to him and the third of their trio, Benedict DeBreed.

Ren had no idea what Kitt had been up to since then. A silence had sprung up between them, a reminder of the profundity of their choices. Ren steered the conversation back to the practical. ‘Were you able to bring a wagon?’ It was easier not to think about the larger scope of his decisions, but to take it all step by step. The next step was to get out to the plantation.

‘It’s right over here. I think they’ve just brought your trunks ashore.’ Kitt gestured to the returning bumboat. Ren’s questions had to wait while they loaded his trunks, but his nerves were rising. What had Cousin Merrimore done? What was wrong at Sugarland? He’d expected a bit of unease. There’d been four months between his cousin’s passing and his arrival, but surely there was enough sense in the group of investors to manage things in the short term.

In fact, he’d assumed there would be very little to handle. Most plantation owners were absentee landlords who left the running of the estate to an overseer while they lived in England. But if that was the case, none of them had contacted him. It would have been simple enough to meet if they had been in England.

Since no one had come forward, Ren was starting to believe the landlords were in residence on the island. Even so, with or without his cousin’s presence or the presence of any other shareholders, the overseer would keep the plantation going just as he always had. Ren ran a finger beneath his collar, the heat starting to make his garments uncomfortable. He shot an envied glance Kitt’s direction.

‘Take off the damn coats, Ren. We aren’t in England any more.’ Kitt laughed at his discomfort. ‘Even the heat’s different here, but you’ll learn how to cope. You’ll get used to it.’ He winked. ‘If you’re anything like me, you’ll even like it.’

Ren grinned and shrugged out of his jacket. ‘I love the heat and I don’t think London ever had a sky this blue. This is paradise.’ Just minutes off the boat and he could see the allure of this place. Everything was different: the sky, the heat, the fruit, the people.

The talk of spirits and witches didn’t bother him so much as did the fact that they were connected to his property. He’d risked everything to come here. Hell, he’d left the earldom unprotected, having turned the day-to-day affairs entirely over to his steward and solicitors. He could trust them, of course, and if he was wrong on that account he’d left his close friend, Benedict DeBreed, in charge to ensure he wasn’t. He had protections in place, but still, if he’d been Trojan Horsed...well, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about. He’d find a way to make it work.

Ren climbed up on to the wagon and squeezed in next to Kitt. He decided to ease into the conversation. ‘Thanks again for coming to get me.’

‘I’m glad to do it, although I’m sure someone from the plantation would have been happy to come out.’ Kitt chirped to the horse and caught his eye when Ren said nothing. ‘They do know you’re coming, don’t they?’ He paused, interpreting the silence correctly. ‘Oh, hell, they don’t know.’

‘Not exactly,’ Ren said slowly. ‘I wasn’t sure there would be a “they” out there. I assumed Cousin Merrimore was the only one in residence.’ By the time he’d rethought that hypothesis it had been too late to send a letter.

Kitt shifted on the seat next to him and Ren’s sense of foreboding grew. ‘Well, out with it, Kitt. Tell me what’s wrong at Sugarland. Are there really witches and spirits?’ Ren absently fingered the chunk of coral beneath his shirt. Bridgetown was behind them now and there was an overwhelming sense of isolation knowing that they’d just left the only town on the island behind. For a city man used to having entertainments, food and anything else he needed at his fingertips or at least within a few streets, it was a daunting prospect indeed, a reminder of the enormity of what he’d chosen to do. He would be relying on himself and himself alone. It would be a true test of his strength and knowledge.

Kitt shook his head. ‘It’s a bad business out there—of course, I don’t know the half of it. I’m gone most weeks.’ Ren didn’t believe that for a moment. Kitt was the sort who knew everyone and knew everything.

‘You don’t have to sugar-coat anything for me,’ Ren said sternly. ‘I want to know what I’m up against.’ Had he taken on more than he could manage? Assumptions were dangerous things and he’d made a few about Cousin Merrimore’s property, but he’d had no choice. It was either marry the heiress or gamble on the inheritance.

Kitt gave another of his shrugs. ‘It’s the apprenticeship programme. It’s a great source of controversy in the parish.’

Ren nodded. ‘I am familiar with it.’ Slavery in the British Caribbean had been abolished a couple of years ago. It had been replaced with the notion of apprenticeship. The idea was decent in theory: pay the former slaves who were willing to work the land they’d once worked for free. In practice, the situation was not far different than slavery.

Kitt went on. ‘Finding enough labour has been difficult. The plantation owners feel they’re losing too much money so they work the labourers to the bone, to death actually. As you can imagine, no one wants to work for those wages. Death doesn’t really recommend itself.’

Great, his fields were rotting and there was no one to hire. But Kitt’s next words riveted his attention. ‘Except at Sugarland and that’s what has all the neighbours angry.’

Ren let the thought settle. He tried to dissect the comment and couldn’t make sense of it. ‘You’ll have to explain, I’m afraid.’

Kitt did. ‘The plantation owners refuse to use the apprentice system fairly, except Sugarland. Anyone who wants field work, wants to work there where they are assured of a wage and safe conditions. As a result, Sugarland is the only place producing a significant profit right now.’ That was good news. Ren breathed a little easier, but just for a moment. Kitt wasn’t done.

‘Someone put it about a few months ago, at the time of your cousin’s death, that spirits were luring workers to Sugarland, that the woman running the place was in league with practitioners of black magic and that’s why the plantation was successful. Since then, the rumours have multiplied: she’s cursed the neighbouring crops, she’s put a growing spell on her own.’

‘Wait. Hold on.’ Ren grasped the information one idea at a time. Spells? Witchcraft? A woman?

Kitt took pity on him, misunderstanding the source of his agitation. ‘I know, the whole concept of black magic takes a bit of getting used to. The islands are full of it. The islands have their own names for it: voodoo, obeah. It’s from Africa. It’s full of superstitions and ghosts and spells.’

Ren thought of the chunk of coral beneath his shirt. Black magic was the least of his concerns. ‘No, it’s not that. Back up to the part about a woman. There’s a woman at the plantation?’ Cousin Merrimore’s will hadn’t said a thing about anyone, certainly not a woman.

Kitt nodded and said with the most seriousness Ren had ever heard him use. ‘Her name is Emma Ward.’

A pit opened in his stomach and Ren knew with gut-clenching clarity there was no ‘they’. There was no absentee landlord syndicate to write monthly updates to. There was only a ‘she’. The other forty-nine per cent belonged to a crazy woman rumoured to be casting spells on her neighbours’ crops.

Ren was starting to rethink the merits of surprise, especially when those merits were reversed. It was one thing to be the surprise as he’d planned to be. It was another to be the one who was surprised. Ren definitely preferred the former. A more cautious man would have waited in town until he could have notified the plantation. But he’d never been one to wait and he’d never been one to shy away from a challenge. He made a habit of meeting those head on, whether those challenges were notorious females or not.

Ren leaned back on the wagon seat, letting the sun bathe his face. Ah, the Caribbean. Land of rum, risk and apparently a little insanity, too.

Chapter Two

Waiting was driving her insane! Emma Ward took yet another long look at the clock on the corner of her desk. He should be here by now, Mr Fifty-One Per Cent. If he was coming. Emma idly shuffled the papers in front of her. They could have been written in Arabic for all she’d been able to focus on them today. Emma left the desk and began to pace, a far better use of her energies than staring at a paper.

Was she technically even waiting? Waiting assumed he was actually coming. What she really wanted to know was at what point could she stop waiting and be confident in the knowledge that he wasn’t coming at all?

Her nerves were a wreck and they had been every mail day since Albert Merrimore’s death. That meant she’d gone through this uncertainty for four months. Was this the day she got the letter saying Merrimore’s cousin was coming? Or worse, would it be the day he actually showed up? Anything could happen. His ship could have been delayed, he could have been personally delayed and that was if he’d decided to come at all. It was just as likely he could have rethought the notion of coming halfway around the world simply to see his property when his profits didn’t depend on whether he saw the place or not. Most gentlemen wouldn’t bestir themselves if it wasn’t required, especially since there was some risk involved. Who was she fooling? Not some risk. A lot of risk, starting with an ocean voyage. Ships went down even in the modern age of steam.

Emma scolded herself for such a morbid thought. It wasn’t that she wished he was dead, merely marooned, her conscience clarified. It was possible his ship could founder and he could float to safety on an overturned table. For four months, she’d got her wish. How much longer before she could safely assume her wish had been granted on a more permanent basis? She didn’t wish Mr Fifty-One Per Cent dead, she just wished he weren’t here.

She had to stop calling him that. He had a name. It had been in the will and a terribly stuffy name at that. Renford Dryden. An old man’s name. But of course, what sort of relations did dear old Merry have if not old ones? Merry had been in his late eighties. A cousin couldn’t be expected to be much younger. Even twenty years younger would put him in his sixties. Which perplexed her further—why a man of advanced years would want to make such a dangerous trip that would only serve to disrupt both of their lives? Perhaps he wouldn’t come at all. Perhaps she would be safe on that front at least.

Emma wanted nothing more than to grow her sugar cane in peace and independence without the interference of men. After everything she’d been through, it wasn’t too much to ask. Men had never gone well for her, starting with her father and ending with a debacle of a marriage. The only man who’d done well by her had been old Merry and now she had his relative to contend with. She couldn’t stop him from coming, but she didn’t have to make it easy should that be his choice.

She’d already begun the campaign. She’d not written to him when she could have, explaining the situation when the solicitor had sent word to England. She’d feared a letter would be viewed as a personal invitation, as encouragement to come when that was the last thing she wanted. She hadn’t sent the wagon into town on mail day these past months to see if anyone had arrived.

Guilt began to gnaw again. If he had arrived on this packet, she’d left an ageing man to fend for himself in the foreign heat. It was poorly done of her. She should have sent someone into town just to check. That was her conscience talking. She should tell Samuel to get the wagon ready and go to enquire about the mail. Emma glanced again at the clock, the knot in her stomach starting to ease. It was getting late. The threat had almost passed for another two weeks. If he was coming, he would be here by...

‘Miss! Miss!’ Hattie, one of the downstairs maids, rushed into the office, hardly attempting any pretence of decorum in her excitement. ‘It’s him, it’s our Mr Dryden! I’m sure of it. He is coming and that rascal Mr Kitt is with him!’

‘Kitt Sherard? Are you certain?’ What would the local scoundrel of a rum runner have to do with a man in his dotage? Sherard was the last person she’d want Renford Dryden to meet. Emma stopped before the mirror hung over the side table to check her appearance. Sherard was only one step above a pirate. ‘I hope he hasn’t got our guest drunk already.’ Emma muttered, tucking up a few errant stands of hair.

She wanted to make a good impression on all accounts. She had plans for that good impression and Kitt Sherard did not qualify as part of it. Emma was counting on that impression to convince Mr Dryden to sell his interest to her or, at the very least, to sail back to England secure in the knowledge that his money was in good hands, which was mostly true, she was just a bit short on funds right now. The harvest would change that.

She would gladly trade some profits for independence. The autonomy of the last four months had given her a taste of what it would be like to be on her own, to be free. She was loath to relinquish even an iota of that liberty or responsibility.

‘Do I look all right, Hattie?’ Emma smoothed the skirts of her aquamarine gown, one of her favourites. ‘Are they out front?’

‘They’re pulling up just now, miss. You look fine.’ Hattie gave her a saucy wink. ‘After two weeks on a ship, I think anything would look fine to a gent like him.’

Emma gave a dry chuckle. ‘I’m not sure that’s a compliment, Hattie.’ Satisfied with her appearance, Emma set out to meet Dryden with a brisk step as if her presence could undo any damage that had already been done. The sooner Dryden was free of Sherard, the better.

She was a little breathless in her eagerness and anxiety by the time she reached the covered porch. This was the moment she both feared and welcomed. At last, the future could begin now that Dryden was here. Perhaps, she thought optimistically, that future would be better than the limbo she’d been living in. If she could manage an entire plantation, she could certainly manage one old man.

The wagon pulled to a halt in front of the steps and she saw the flaw in her hypothesis immediately. Renford Dryden wasn’t an old man, not even a middle-aged one, but an astonishingly handsome young one. The man who jumped down from the wagon seat was certainly able bodied if those wide shoulders and long legs were anything to go on. So much for trying to caution him about the rigours of island life. He certainly looked as if he was up for it and much more.

Emma shot Hattie a sharp look that said: Why didn’t you tell me? But she supposed Hattie had warned her in her own way. She should have known something was amiss the moment Kitt Sherard’s name entered the conversation. Now she saw what it was. Up close, Renford Dryden was six feet plus of muscle topped with thick honey-blond hair and sharp blue eyes set above a strong, straight nose. He mounted the steps, oozing confidence and growing taller with each step he took. Still, he was a man and men could be managed, must be managed.

Emma took a deep breath. She needed to begin as she meant to go on. Men who weren’t managed had run roughshod over her life to date and she was done with them. Emma held out her hand to greet him as if he was precisely what she’d expected. ‘Welcome to Sugarland, Mr Dryden. We are so glad to see you.’ She hoped he couldn’t hear the lie.

His grip was firm as his hand curled around hers, sending a jolt of awareness through her. His eyes riveted on her, making her aware of the male presence of him. Never had a simple handclasp seemed so intimate. ‘I am so very glad to be here, Miss Ward.’ Was that a touch of irony she heard? Did he suspect she hadn’t been entirely truthful?

There was no chance to verify the impression. In the next moment she was very nearly lost. Renford Dryden smiled, dimple and all. It was a most wicked smile that invited the mind to imagine all sorts of pleasantly sinful things without even meaning to. He was that type of man, all charisma. But there was more to him than a charming facade. There was self-assurance and intelligence, too. Those blue eyes were assessing eyes, eyes that took nothing at face value and when they looked at her, they were shrewd and wary. It occurred to her that in these initial moments they were both doing the same thing: measuring the opponent, selecting and discarding strategies.

It didn’t take much guesswork to divine what his strategy would be. It was the strategy of all men when faced with a woman who had something they wanted. Emma stiffened her spine with a stern mental admonition to herself. She would not be wooed into giving up her independence. She had strategies of her own. It was time to teach Mr Dryden it wasn’t easy to run a sugar-cane plantation, time to lead him to the conclusion that his best choice was to leave all this in her capable hands and go back to the life he knew.

She flicked her gaze down the length of him, taking in the cut of his clothes, the expense of the materials. Here was a man of quality, a man used to luxury. Perhaps she could use that against him. Luxuries here were hard won, something men of charisma and charm weren’t used to. Those sorts usually didn’t have to work too hard to get what they wanted, especially when they were endowed with a heavy dose of self-confidence like Mr Dryden. They just smiled. But smiles didn’t harvest crops or pay the bills. Hard work was at the core of everything Sugarland had.

Emma gave him her hostess smile. ‘I have lemonade waiting on the back veranda. We can sit and talk and become acquainted, Mr Dryden.’ And he would learn how different they were and how he didn’t have to be here to reap the benefits Sugarland had to offer.

‘Call me Ren, please. No more of this Mr Dryden business,’ he insisted, stepping aside as two servants came up the stairs with his trunks.

Emma looked past him to the wagon, using the disruption to ignore the request for informality. For now she would resist the temptation. First names were usually the first step in any seduction. ‘Mr Sherard, would you care to join us?’ Politeness required she ask. She hoped Sherard understood politeness also required he refused.

Sherard shook his head. ‘No, thank you. I leave tonight on business and there’s much to be done before I sail. Now that the wagon’s unloaded, I’ll return to town.’ He gave her a strong look that reminded her Sherard was a man with a well-warranted reputation for fierceness. ‘I expect you’ll take good care of my friend, Miss Ward.’ He nodded to Dryden. ‘Ren, I’ll look in on you when I’m back in port.’

Great. The notorious Sherard was on a first-name basis with her guest and now felt he could use that familiarity as a reason to call regularly at her house. Her conscience prodded at her again. The bloody nuisance had been busy today. It probably served her right for stranding Dryden at the docks. She’d left him to his own devices and this was what she got.

Having the new partner befriend Sherard was not what she needed, considering the other rumours swirling about her. Never mind most people didn’t believe the rumours wholesale about her, the mere presence of those rumours was enough to still cast a certain cloud on her reputation. It called attention to her, something no decently bred woman deliberately sought. Nor did Sherard’s presence help her disposition towards her new house guest. Sherard already acted as if Dryden were in charge with his damnable fifty-one per cent, no matter that he technically was. She was the one who’d been here. She’d seen to the planting and nurturing of the crop. If Dryden had been a few days later he would have missed the harvest too. How dare he swoop in here, unannounced, at the last and claim any sort of credit for her labour.

Emma tamped down her roiling emotions and led her guest through the house to the back veranda. She liked that word, ‘guest’. It was precisely how she should think of Dryden. It was a far nicer term than ‘Mr Fifty-One Per Cent’ and, better yet, guests were temporary. She would make sure of it.

He could stay forever! Ren let the lemonade slide down his throat, cool and wet. He didn’t think anything had ever tasted as welcome, or any breeze had felt as pleasant. Things were definitely looking up. When Kitt had pulled up to Sugarland, Ren had been more than pleasantly surprised with the white-stucco manor house, threats of witches and magic receding. He’d felt an immediate sense of affinity for the place. This was somewhere he could belong, somewhere he could thrive.

Such an intuition was an odd sensation for a man who prided himself on logic, yet Ren couldn’t deny it was there. Possession, pure and primal, had hummed through his blood; his, his, his, it had sung. Then she had appeared at the top of the steps and his blood had hummed a more familiar tune of possession, a lustier tune. It was hard to mind being Trojan Horsed when it looked like Emma Ward. ‘She doesn’t look like a witch,’ he’d murmured to Kitt.

‘They never do.’ Kitt had laughed as he leapt down from the wagon. ‘Witches wouldn’t be nearly as effective if they did.’

But Emma Ward did look like something else just as worrisome and perhaps more real, Ren thought as they sipped their lemonade. Trouble. She had a natural sensuality to her. It was there in the sway of her hips as she led him through the airy halls to the veranda, it was there in her dark hair, in the exotic, catlike tilt of her deep brown eyes. It emanated from her, raw and elemental; a sensuality that coaxed a man to overstep himself if he wasn’t careful.

This woman was no virginal English rose. She was something much better and much worse. Maybe she was a witch, after all. He would have to reserve judgement. Ren raised his glass and stretched out an arm to clink his glass against hers. ‘Here’s to the future, Miss Ward.’

For someone who’d wanted to talk, she was awfully quiet, however. Perhaps he had misunderstood. He took the opportunity to learn a bit more about her. ‘It is Miss Ward, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Miss Ward is fine.’ She supplied the bare basics of an answer and the briefest of smiles. Ren noted that smile didn’t leave her mouth. Her eyes remained politely impassive. Perhaps her coolness was a result of his surprise arrival. She hadn’t known he was coming and she was wary. A stranger had just arrived on her doorstep and announced his intention to live there.

‘I am sure all of this comes as quite a shock...’ Ren began congenially. He fully believed in the old adage that one caught more flies with sugar. It wouldn’t do to put Miss Ward on the defensive without cause. ‘It’s a shock to me as well. Cousin Merrimore didn’t mention anything about you in his papers and here we are, two strangers thrown together by circumstance.’ He gave her a warm smile, the one he reserved for the ton’s stiff-necked matrons, the one that made them melt and relax their standards. It didn’t work.

‘In all fairness, Mr Dryden, I believe I have the upper hand. I knew of you by name. Merry did mention you in the will quite specifically.’

Intriguing. Ren’s critical mind couldn’t overlook the self-incriminating evidence. She’d known of him. She could have contacted him, something his lack of details had prevented him from doing on his end. He could be forgiven for a surprise arrival having no information about who to contact in advance, but she’d known. She’d had the ability to send a letter with the copy of the will. She’d chosen not to.

Ren gave her a wry smile. What would she do if he confronted her? ‘There is that, Miss Ward. You had my name. You were quite aware of my existence and yet you left me to find my own way here in my own time.’ He would have to tread carefully here. It seemed Miss Ward was already on the defensive, a very interesting position for a woman. Given her circumstances, he would have thought she’d be quite glad to see him, to have him remove the burden of running the place alone. The past four months must have been daunting for a woman alone.

She flushed at having been called out. Good. She understood precisely what he was implying, a further sign Miss Ward was an astute opponent. ‘It’s nearly harvest season, Mr Dryden. There’s hardly time for someone to sit for hours at the docks waiting for a ship to come in when it might possibly not and even if it did, it might not carry what you’re waiting for.’

Touché. She had him there. ‘Even for a relative?’ Ren probed. It was a shot in the dark, but he was curious to know how Emma Ward clung to the family tree. Undoubtedly she was more familiar with ‘Merry’ than he was. Where did that familiarity come from? Was she a lover? A mistress? Or merely a distant cousin like himself? Ren had met Cousin Merrimore, as his family called the old man, perhaps three times in his entire life, the last time being eight years ago when he’d finished his studies at Oxford.

Emma Ward gave a short laugh at the reference, but it was not warm. Ren had the distinct impression things were not getting off on the right foot. ‘You and I are not family, Mr Dryden. Merry was my guardian for several years until I attained my majority. After that, he was my friend.’ There was no help for him there. In his experience, ‘friends’ came in multiple varieties, bedfellows included. But if Merrimore had been her guardian, he could assume nothing untoward had followed.

‘Ren, please,’ he suggested again, making the most of the opening the conversation provided. ‘I should like for us to be friends as well.’ If there was any naughty innuendo in his response, he would let her relationship with Merrimore be the measuring stick.

‘We are business partners at present,’ she replied firmly, moving the conversation away from the personal, although there were a host of questions he wanted to ask—how had a confirmed bachelor like his ancient cousin ended up as someone’s guardian? Why hadn’t she left the island? Surely Merrimore would have sent her to London when she came of age?

Those questions would have to wait until she liked him better. It was an unsettling, but not displeasing, discovery to make. In London he was accustomed to making a favourable first impression on women when he had to make one at all. Usually it was the other way around. Women sought to make a good impression on him. Not Emma Ward, however.

Then again, his title didn’t precede him in Barbados. The York heiress had made it abundantly clear his antecedents were all she wanted. Her father would pay an outrageous sum for those antecedents to bed his daughter and give him a blue-blooded grandson. Ren had an aversion to being used as an aristocratic stud. A woman who didn’t want him for his antecedents would be quite an adventure.

Ren grinned and set down his glass, ready to try out his theory. Emma Ward had been attempting to disconcert him from the first moment, now it was his turn. ‘Miss Ward, I think you have not been entirely truthful with me.’ He was gratified to see a flash of caution pass through her dark eyes.

‘Whatever about, Mr Dryden?’ she replied coolly.

‘Contrary to your words earlier, you are not glad to see me. Since we’ve never met, I find that highly irregular.’ It was not a gentleman’s path he trod with that comment. But as she’d noted, this was business. More importantly, it was his business and quite a lot was at stake.

Miss Ward fixed him with the entirety of her dark gaze. ‘I apologise if you find your reception lacking.’

‘Really? I find that hard to believe when you don’t sound the least bit penitent.’ Ren pressed his advantage. If she meant to defy him, she would have to do it outright. Defiance he could deal with, it was open and honest. He would not tolerate passive aggression, not even from a pretty woman.

Her eyes flared with a dark flame, her mouth started to form a cutting rejoinder that never got past her lips. Boom! The air around them reverberated with sound that shook the windows and rattled the glasses on the table. Emma shrieked, bolting out of her chair, her eyes rapidly scanning the horizon for signs of the explosion.

Ren saw it first, his stomach clenching at the sight of uncontained flame. ‘Over there!’ He pointed in the distance to the telltale stream of smoke, clamping down on the wave of panic that threatened.

Emma had no such compunction for restraint. ‘Oh goodness, no, not the home farm!’ She pushed past him, racing down the steps, calling for her horse.

Ren bellowed behind her, ‘Forget the saddles, there’s no time!’ But no one was listening. The stable was in chaos, people running everywhere trying to calm the horses after the explosion. Ren managed to pull a strong-looking horse out of a stall. ‘Emma, give me your foot!’ Emma leapt into his cupped hand and vaulted up on the horse’s back. Ren swung up behind and grabbed the reins, kicking the horse into a canter as they sped out of the barnyard.

In other circumstances he might have taken a moment to appreciate the press of female flesh against him, the breasts that heaved against his arm where it crossed her and the excellent horseflesh beneath him. As it was, all he could focus on was the explosion. He’d been here a handful of hours and his fifty-one per cent was already on fire.

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.

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.

Chapter Five

‘Emma, my dear, you’ve been busy!’ Arthur Gridley effused his usual charm and was dressed in the height of luxury. The packet was always bringing him expensive clothes. If the island had a dandy, he was it.

Emma smiled tightly, aware of how dirty she was again compared to Gridley’s pristine neatness. He most certainly hadn’t spent the morning firing fields and touring his land. Gridley wasn’t exactly a hands-on manager when it came to his plantation. ‘Sir Arthur, it’s good to see you. Did we have an appointment?’ She would not give him an inch. She would show no fear in his presence. It would only give him one more weapon.

Sir Arthur grinned, showing even, white teeth. Many women on the island found that smile attractive, including the governor’s wife. Emma did not count herself among their number. Gridley’s appeal had worn out ages ago for her. ‘Since when do old friends need appointments to call on one another?’ He gave her a friendly wink. ‘I came to talk to Dryden. We didn’t have a chance to become acquainted yesterday with all the chaos.’ He said ‘chaos’ as if she’d planned the fire deliberately. ‘It was not the most ideal of circumstances for introductions.’

Emma saw Gridley’s intentions immediately. He’d come to be the serpent in the garden, to woo Ren with a false show of friendship. She should have warned Ren when she’d had the chance. Gridley had the devil’s own tongue and she could easily imagine the tales he would spin now that Merry’s heir was here, a new uninformed target for Gridley’s ambitions to acquire interest in Sugarland. Gridley was not a man to face without forewarning.

‘Albert and I were close. He was a good friend,’ Sir Arthur supplied with a sad smile when she offered nothing to qualify the nature of his relationship. What she said or didn’t say hardly mattered. He was never above a little self-promotion.

Gridley’s smile softened and fixed on her just long enough to create an impression of caring before turning back to Ren. ‘I’m not just a friend to Merrimore, but to his dear Emma too, I hope?’

‘You must forgive my manners, it’s been a long morning,’ Emma ground out with the barest of civility. It was the only demur he was going to get from her. Proper etiquette required she say something like ‘I did not mean to imply otherwise’ when she really did. She would not play the politeness game with him and avow him publicly in any form.

‘Yes, I see you fired the fields.’ Gridley raised a scolding eyebrow at Emma but he directed his next comment to Ren. ‘Not all of us fire the fields, Dryden. It’s too risky for some of us veteran planters, but Emma has a penchant for all the latest novelties.’

‘You make it sound as if I fired the fields on a whim,’ Emma cut in crisply. She would not let him reduce her farming methods to a female foible in front of the man she was desperately trying to impress with her capability. It was a sound decision to burn the fields and when she had her crop in first, she’d prove it to the others.

‘I am confident Emma knows what she is doing.’ She felt Ren move up behind her, the heat of his body echoing against her back. He was proprietarily close. Something dark flitted through Gridley’s eyes, but his ever-present grin was benevolent when he spoke.

‘Nonetheless, I’m glad you’re here, Dryden. You can take things in hand now and let Emma focus on running the house.’ Goodness, he was in full form today! He’d all but chucked her under the chin like a doting uncle, an identity which was a complete misnomer when it came to their dubious relationship. Gridley had no intentions of being a father figure to her. He had far lustier aspirations.

‘I’d invite you in, but I’m busy today,’ Emma said sharply, making apology for her breach in social manners.

‘Never mind about me, you go on with your business. As I said, I’m not really here for you.’ He gave another of his winks to indicate a friendly joke. ‘I’m here to see Dryden and give him the lay of the land. We’ll stay out of your way, just send a pitcher of falernum to the back porch where we can have a nice long visit.’ He slapped Ren on the back. ‘I’ll give him a proper welcome to the neighbourhood.’

‘A proper welcome?’ Ren shot her a discreet glance and she could almost hear the private laughter in Ren’s voice, laughter that was there just for her, some inside humour only the two of them shared. ‘I think I’d like that very much.’ The inside joke made Arthur Gridley a momentary outsider and in a subtle way let her know she had an ally.

Emma could feel the beginnings of a smile play on her lips. It could just be part of a larger strategy Ren was playing, but for now it felt good to know he had her back. It was certainly a new way to view Ren’s presence and it just might provide the new gambit she was looking for. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. For now.

Enemy? Friend? Concerned neighbour or ambitious interloper? It was hard to know how to classify Sir Arthur Gridley. Ren took a seat in one of the twin rockers on the veranda, gathering his thoughts. Emma certainly didn’t care for the man. But was that dislike or fear she felt? What was she hiding that Gridley might expose? All in all, Ren thought it would make a rather insightful afternoon.

‘What do you think of our little piece of the world so far?’ Gridley stretched out his legs, settling into his chair and looking quite comfortable at a home not his own. He’d said he was Merrimore’s close friend. In all fairness, he was probably used to being here, but the action struck Ren as overtly territorial, the tactic of a man who wants to remind everyone of his superior claim to ownership.

‘It’s hot,’ Ren replied affably. It couldn’t hurt to be nice. Knowledge was power and Gridley would want to demonstrate his. If Ren played this right, Gridley would talk all afternoon, thinking he was establishing his ground, when in reality Ren would get precisely what he wanted—information.

Ren had learned years ago it was the listener who held the upper hand when navigating the social waters of the ton. He had to start making friends in this new place. He wanted those friends to be the right ones. He had a hunch there might be wrong ones and he still had to figure out where Emma fit into the balance. Who to trust? The supposedly crazy woman running Sugarland or the well-dressed, seemingly well-intentioned neighbour?

‘It is hot, in an entirely different way than London,’ Gridley agreed. ‘You’ll get used to it. We have our rainy seasons and our fever seasons, but it’s not a bad way to live. There’s no cold, no ice, no grey skies that go on for months.’ Gridley was all friendly assurance.

A servant brought a tray carrying a pitcher full of an amber liquid and two glasses. She set it down on the little table between them and poured. ‘You’ll like falernum,’ Gridley said. ‘It’s sweet, full of spices and a hint of vanilla.’

Ren sipped tentatively, relieved Gridley was right. He could pick out the hints of ginger and almond, even a bit of lime. ‘It is good.’

Gridley chuckled. ‘You sound surprised. Don’t be. Emma has the best falernum on the island, there’s something about how her cook mixes it.’ Gridley sighed and dropped his voice. ‘Emma has the best of everything. The best cook, the best field manager, the best overseer, the best household staff. It’s made her some enemies and I’m worried for her. I’m glad you’re here. Perhaps you can talk sense into her.’

Gridley slid him a sideways glance, no doubt looking for compliance. But Ren was more astute than that. He needed information before he made any decisions about his support. Ren decided to play the ‘fresh off the boat’ card. ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you mean?’

‘Of course not, no one expects you to. We’ll show you the ropes around here. You’ll get the hang of how we do things in no time at all.’ Gridley gave him another friendly smile, but Ren was cautious.

‘I’d appreciate that,’ he said neutrally. Ren was starting to wonder if Gridley had come of his own accord or if the neighbours had elected him to be the one to call and sound out the newcomer. He was used to this discreet vetting process. It wasn’t all that different from the way the gentlemen’s clubs tested a member’s viability in London.

‘It’s not Emma’s fault.’ Gridley was quick to establish. ‘It’s the damn apprentice system. It looks good on paper, but it’s costing the planters a small fortune in profits and there’s hardly enough labour to go around.’

Ren raised an eyebrow in query, hoping Gridley would take it as a sign to elaborate on the process. Gridley took the hint and continued. ‘Under the new system, former slaves can choose if they wish to work on the plantations and they can choose which plantations. We can’t compel them to do it. Naturally, they want to work for the places that pay more and demand they do less.’ The complaint against Emma was implied in the comment. ‘She might as well tuck them all in with quilts and feed them meat three times a day.’ Gridley chuckled, but Ren heard the contempt beneath the humour. ‘You saw such a display yesterday with the afternoon off over the obeah doll.’

‘You disapprove of such equity?’ Ren asked, eyeing Gridley carefully. Something more was at work here in his social call. Was his ulterior agenda political? Economic? Social?

‘I disapprove when those choices jeopardise one’s neighbours’ ability to make a decent living,’ Gridley answered squarely. Ren shot a quick glance at Gridley’s expensive boots. He didn’t think Emma’s choices were hurting Gridley too much.

Gridley dismissed the harshness of his comment with a wave of his hand. ‘Emma doesn’t know better. She’s too kind-hearted and impulsive as well, not the best combination for business. She doesn’t see the big picture—the consequences her actions have for all of us.’ There was anger and heat in the man’s words.

Ren felt himself bristle at the cut to Emma’s character. It was a strangely protective reaction to have towards a woman who had made it clear she was intent on disliking him. Still, what sort of neighbour maligned another in her own home? ‘Perhaps you judge her too harshly,’ Ren offered in Emma’s defence. ‘She believes she’s doing the best she can to sustain the property.’

Gridley’s demeanour became intensely serious. ‘She doesn’t quite grasp the larger implications. It is us against them and they have us vastly outnumbered. If we don’t stick together, they’ll be asking for seats in the assembly next or taking them outright.’ The voracity of his comment was almost disturbing.

Ren understood the reference. The white plantocracy was outflanked by the ex-slave population by nearly ten to one. The sheer numbers created a certain unrelieved tension between the two groups. The plantocracy minority held all the legitimate power, but the ex-slave faction held the overwhelming majority of force should they attempt to exercise it.

Rebellion, successful rebellion, was possible, even likely. He knew from talk in London that other islands in the West Indies had experienced such rebellions. There were people like Gridley who believed such rebellion against the legitimate power was inevitable, their only weapon being the ability to legislate punitive codes to keep rebellion at bay.

Even though Ren understood the motivation for the plantocracy’s logic, he could not condone it. His position was something he apparently had in common with Emma. It was also something that would not endear him to Arthur Gridley and his other neighbours if his position were known. Caution suggested he wait to reveal his feelings on the subject.

‘Perhaps if people work together they might find a middle ground.’ Ren put the unformed idea forward. He didn’t want to lie to Gridley or profess to hold an opinion he heartily disagreed with. However, he had navigated the shoals of London society long enough to know there were bridges one couldn’t afford to burn. If Emma had already burned hers, he needed to maintain his for Sugarland’s sake. He was staunchly in favour of the decision to abolish slavery and even of reallocating seats in the assembly to more accurately reflect the population.

Gridley’s response was curt and immediate. ‘I don’t know that there’s any middle ground to be had, or any ground at all. I mean that quite literally. Once you’ve seen the island in its fullness, you’ll understand. We don’t have any unowned land. It’s all claimed. The freemen want to work their own land, but where would that be? There’s no land for them to buy, no land to give them, without breaking up the existing plantations.’ There was a defensive gleam in his eye that belied the intensity of his convictions.

Ah, illumination. Land was the real threat, the real fear, that somehow Britain would legislate land be taken from the planters. Ren nodded thoughtfully, allowing Gridley to pour him another glass of falernum. Ren had no doubt if that came to pass, Arthur Gridley would meet people at the door with a gun.

‘But enough of politics, you’ll learn all that,’ Gridley said, his earlier bonhomie returning in a sudden wave of good humour. The man definitely possessed a mercurial range of emotions. One moment he was serious, almost fanatical in his commitment to his positions, the next he was easygoing. ‘As for Emma doing the best she can, that’s another issue. We all understand she has a huge responsibility. It doesn’t have to be that way. She needn’t shoulder the burden of Sugarland alone, but she refuses to listen to reason.’

By ‘we’ Ren supposed Gridley referred to the neighbours, all of them male. ‘What sort of reason?’ Ren asked, although he could already guess how their brand of reason had gone over with Emma. Even on short acquaintance he knew she would see the solutions as infringements on her independence.

‘The usual,’ Gridley said sobering. ‘I was close with Albert Merrimore, especially during his last year. He was worried for Emma and what would become of her. He knew his time was limited. I promised him I would be there for her. If she wanted to go to London, I’d see it done. If she wanted to stay here, I promised him I’d make it possible. We were neighbours, our plantations abut one another, of course I’d watch over his charge.’

‘And the options you put to Emma?’ Ren steered the conversation back towards his original question. ‘What did she want?’

‘She wanted to stay.’ Gridley gave a sad smile. ‘A woman cannot be out here alone trying to run a plantation without all nature of hardship, so I offered her marriage and she refused.’ His eyes met Ren’s, convincingly full of a man’s regret that something he valued had slipped through his fingers. ‘I shall ask again once she has found her centre. In my eagerness to fulfil my promise to Albert, I rushed my fences. I see that now. She was grieving, she was sorting through the estate and the will.’ He shot Ren a wry look. ‘She was adjusting to the news that a relative was coming who’d been given the majority of the shares. She was in no state to appreciate what a proposal would mean to her.’

This was what Gridley had really come to discuss. He was staking his claim to Emma. Ren assessed Arthur Gridley with new eyes. This was a man who was more than a neighbour, even more than a random suitor who fancied Emma. He’d been a family intimate with Cousin Merry. He had attempted to wed Merry’s ward and meant to try his luck again, regardless of Emma’s rather obvious feelings on the subject.

Even if Emma professed undying love for Gridley, allowing such a thing to happen was not in Ren’s best interests as long as Emma held the other portion of ownership. It provoked the question of what drove Gridley’s persistence. It was an academic question only. Ren could not allow Gridley’s persistence to win out.

His protective streak rose, coupled this time with a competitive urge. This wasn’t only about protecting Emma, but about protecting himself and his family. If Emma married Gridley, Ren would have to share the estate with him. It was not an idea he liked. It was one thing to drink a casual glass of falernum with the man, but it was another to make him a business partner and tie his family’s interests to Gridley’s. The prospect sat ill with Ren. His sixth sense told him that was not what his cousin had intended. He supposed he could buy out her share. He wondered if Gridley would still want her if she was without property...

‘That’s where you come in, Dryden,’ Gridley was saying as Ren dragged his thoughts back to the conversation. He must have missed the beginning.

‘How is that, exactly?’ Ren asked obliquely.

Gridley have a short chuckle. ‘You’re to help her see reason, show her the best options for Sugarland. She can’t go it alone forever without risking the plantation’s viability.’ There was a dark glint in Gridley’s eye and Ren wondered if he referred to a risk that had less to do with Emma’s ability to make agricultural decisions and more to do with what might be termed her ‘personal welfare’.

‘I will do my best to live up to my cousin’s faith in me,’ Ren said honestly, although his best might not lead to the decisions Gridley was hoping for. Ren took the opportunity to rise, signalling their conversation had come to a close. He had quite enough to digest. Gridley had discharged his duty to the so-far-anonymous neighbours quite well. All that needed to be shared had been shared and any necessary warnings had been given. Perhaps even more than was necessary. Were the neighbours astute enough to know that Gridley would advocate for himself as well as them? Gridley’s measure was clear. He was a man who did what benefited him.

Gridley shook his hand. ‘It’s good to meet you, Dryden. I want to have a dinner for you, give you a chance to meet everyone. I’ll set it up and let Emma know.’

‘I will look forward to it.’ Ren showed Gridley out, understanding that the next move was up to him. Gridley had initiated, had laid out the rules of the game. Gridley and the neighbours would wait to see what his response would be. They could be in for a surprise. He might not know much about sugar cane, but he knew a little something about navigating society, especially when a game was afoot. If Emma Ward thought she had everything under control, she needed to think again.

Chapter Six

She had everything under control. Emma took a deep breath and moved her pip on the backgammon board, embracing the silent mantra that had sustained her throughout the evening. Everything was going to be fine. Not just the game but everything: the harvest, Arthur Gridley’s unwanted attention, the plantation. She was balancing a rather precarious load just now, not counting the arrival of Ren Dryden.

One false step and it would all come tumbling down. But it wouldn’t. It simply couldn’t. To lose Sugarland was unthinkable. To allow Gridley to triumph, even more so. She told herself it was a good sign Ren hadn’t run to her immediately after Gridley had left. It meant there was no need to worry. Right? Ren had said nothing during dinner. They’d talked about the plantation and adjourned here to the library for backgammon.

Across from her, Ren critically surveyed the board, jiggling the dice in his dice cup. ‘Double would be useful about now. I won’t get off the bar without at least one five.’ It was the only open point he could move to. She’d completely blocked out her field.

‘You’ll never get it.’ Emma laughed, feeling confident she would have the advantage for another turn. She was starting to relax and enjoy the novelty of having someone to share the evening with. Surely, if something had alarmed Ren he would have brought it up by now.

‘You’re a very cocky minx, Emma Ward.’ Ren grinned, looking devastating in the lamplight. He’d dressed for dinner, but he’d shed his coat when they’d begun to play. She’d thought he’d been handsome in his evening attire. He was far more attractive in his shirt and waistcoat, his cufflinks set aside, his sleeves rolled up.

The gesture had created a sense of domestic intimacy and a domestic fantasy, too; a glimpse of what life might be like for a husband and wife spending a quiet evening at home after a busy day with the plantation. He was a master indeed if he could conjure such images for her with the simple gesture of removing a coat.

If there wasn’t so much on the line, the plantation, her own future; if she didn’t have to be vigilant regarding any covert game Ren might be playing with her, she would have allowed herself to fall for him. It had been a long time since she’d let herself fall. Surely, she’d learned enough in the interim to fall safely, to enjoy the fantasy.

Without the trappings of her present circumstances, an affair with Ren Dryden would be a delightful diversion. As it was, at this point it could only be a dangerous diversion, a delusion. ‘Are you going to roll?’ Emma prompted with a sly smile. ‘Staring at the board won’t change anything.’

Ren sat back in his chair, his eyes on her. ‘You are so sure I won’t roll double fives. Why don’t we wager on it? If I get double fives, I claim a forfeit. If I don’t, you claim the forfeit.’ He shook the cup and then halted, his eyes dancing with mischief. ‘The forfeit should be something little, Emma. No property, no crazy requests that either of us abdicate our percentage of the plantation. I don’t imagine you’d be terribly good at cards, my dear. Your thoughts are written all your pretty face.’

Emma feigned indignation over the teasing. ‘Very well, I’ll take your bet. I’m already thinking of all the “little” things you can do for me. It’s just so hard to choose one.’ The banter was almost enough to take her mind off her real worries: what had Gridley told him this afternoon? What was Ren thinking about her now? What sort of poison had Gridley added to the proverbial well?

Ren rolled his dice and let out a whoop. Emma stared in disbelief as double fives tumbled out. Emma shook her head. ‘You have the devil’s own luck. I’d thought to have you trapped on the bar a little longer.’

Ren gave a confident grin and moved his marker off the bar. ‘Now I have a chance to catch up, I might make a match of this yet.’ There was a warm twinkle in his eye and Emma realised he was having a good time. Whatever Gridley had imparted, it hadn’t dampened his spirits.

‘And your forfeit?’ Emma asked, bearing off her first pips.

‘I think I’ll hold on to it a while.’ Ren’s voice was low and mysterious, conjuring up images of a decadent forfeit. ‘It will give you something to worry about besides Gridley’s visit.’

Emma gave him a sharp look. ‘I’m not worried about Gridley’s visit.’

Ren took his turn. ‘Yes, you are. You’ve been worried all night.’

‘As I told you, I have Arthur Gridley under control.’ Emma rolled a disappointing two-three combination that slowed her march towards victory. She reached out to move her pieces.

Ren grabbed her wrist over the board, his eyes boring into hers, the sudden ferocity of his move startling her. ‘No, you don’t have him under control. You have a rejected suitor who isn’t taking your refusal as final. It makes me wonder what motivates his perseverance.’

Emma swallowed, her heart sinking. Gridley had told him! Goodness knew how Gridley had cased that particular story. ‘That’s private business. He should not have told you.’ She pulled her wrist from Ren’s grasp.

‘Probably not. Nonetheless, I was glad for the information. It adds a certain layer of understanding to the local dynamic.’ There was an accusatory edge to his response. He’d asked what Gridley was to her and she’d prevaricated. But Gridley had not. Gridley had seized the advantage and told the story first, no doubt to his advantage.

Ren played, rolling another set of doubles and neatly evening out the game. ‘The way I see it, a man would only share such personal information with a stranger because he was still wounded over the rejection and not thinking clearly, or because he has another agenda to advance. What do you think Gridley’s reason is?’ He was more serious now, the fun-loving Ren from a few moments ago had disappeared.

She tossed the dice. Another disappointment. ‘I think Gridley has overreached his ambitions.’ It was a non-answer, but she wasn’t about to voice her suspicions of what Gridley really wanted or what he’d done to get it. She hadn’t any proof of it. Even so, she didn’t know if she could trust Ren Dryden to side with her. He had done so briefly today because it had suited him. Gridley’s revelations might have changed that.

Ren made his last play, claiming victory with another miraculous roll. Emma shook her head. She’d had that game right up until the end. ‘You play like Merry. He was always coming from behind for spectacular finishes. Whenever I thought I had him, he’d surprise me. The dice never failed him. If he needed doubles, he got them.’

Ren laughed. ‘I’m glad to hear it. I have to confess I didn’t know my cousin all that well. He was here, I was in London. There was an ocean between us in distance and in age. I enjoyed his company the few times he visited, though. The last time was when I’d completed my studies at Oxford, about ten years ago.’

Emma gave a soft smile. ‘Merry was a good man, one of the best people I’ve ever met. He was always thinking of others.’ Ten years seemed a lifetime. She’d have been fifteen, her father still alive, their own arrival to the island new.

She hesitated and then took the plunge while the moment was poignant and they were both feeling charitable. There was unfinished business between them. She didn’t want to put it off any longer. ‘I hope Arthur Gridley said nothing today that would undermine Merry’s memory.’

Ren began stacking his pips. ‘It seems Gridley and Cousin Merrimore were close friends, especially at the end. I must confess to finding it an odd friendship. Gridley is younger by several decades. I would not think they’d be natural companions, but perhaps one cannot be choosy about who one’s friends are out here?’ It was a question, not a commentary. He was the one probing now, daring her to confirm or deny Gridley’s assertion.

Her probe had not resulted in a direct answer. Emma opted for a different tack. She wanted to know where Gridley stood in Ren’s estimation before she committed. ‘And you? How did you find our neighbour? Will he be your friend?’ They were both dancing around the conversation gingerly.

‘I suppose he could be,’ Ren answered vaguely, closing the case. ‘I can’t say I know him well enough after one visit. I think in large part that decision depends on you.’ Ren paused ‘Do you want me to be his friend? Is there something useful we might cultivate there for Sugarland?’

She noted the reference to we. Something useful we might cultivate? It was a reminder he meant to be an active participant in the plantation. Still the question remained: did he mean to partner her or usurp her? In that regard, what made him different from Gridley? She’d had indications of both today.

‘I fear I have upset Gridley,’ Emma ventured cautiously. ‘My choices are not his choices and it has become a contention between us, one that has created irreconcilable differences.’ She was sure Ren would press her for more. Her answer was both descriptive and oblique.

Ren seemed to ponder her words. He moved towards the open French doors, his back to her. Without his coat, he presented a nice view of his backside, evening trousers pulled tight over firm buttocks, the tailoring of his waistcoat delineating the outline of broad shoulders before tapering to a trim waist. Not only did he possess a handsome presence but a commanding one, one that inspired confidence, even trust if she dared. She had to admit, it was easier to dare such a thing in the intimacy of the evening.

‘I suspect Gridley is not a complacent loser,’ he said at last.

She stood and went to join him at the doors, hoping the pleasant evening breeze would dispel the hot images in her mind. She needed to focus on the conversation, not on undressing her guest. He was fishing for something with his questions and she might inadvertently give it up. ‘Yes,’ Emma said carefully, ‘Gridley likes to win.’

‘Do you like to win, Emma?’ His voice was quiet in the darkness.

‘I like to protect what is mine. I think that’s a fundamental difference between men and women.’

‘You’re very direct. Such directness has wounded Gridley’s ego a bit.’

Emma let out a sigh. They were back to that dratted proposal. ‘How much did Gridley tell you?’

‘He explained he’d felt moved to act swiftly out of loyalty to Cousin Merrimore, but that you were in no state to properly assess the benefits of that proposal.’ He turned his blue gaze on her in full force, his voice low and private, moving a business conversation into something more intimate, just as the removal of his jacket had turned a simple backgammon game into a domestic fantasy. ‘Gridley indicated he meant to ask you again. Would his suit be welcome now that you’ve had time to settle and reconsider your situation?’

‘That is a bold question,’ Emma prevaricated. Her answer would be no. Gridley’s suit would never be welcome, but telling Ren Dryden that on the acquaintance of a day would be giving away too much. It might even be encouraging him to pursue his flirtation. She did not know if she could trust Ren any more than she’d been able to trust Gridley. But who to play off against whom? If she said yes, would the gentleman in Ren feel compelled to back off? If she said no, would the seducer in him pursue and could she could use his interest as a buffer against Gridley?

‘It’s meant as a business question,’ Ren answered. ‘Who you marry affects me greatly. I’ll have to work with them, trust them with forty-nine per cent of my livelihood.’

‘Perhaps I’ll never marry for exactly that reason. I, too, have to trust them with my forty-nine per cent.’ At some point in the conversation, Ren had picked up her hand and was tracing circles on the back of it with his finger. It was idly done, but the gesture was doing warm, tingling things to her arm.

‘Then Gridley will be refused?’ Ren brought the conversation full circle. ‘I sensed there was some tension between you this afternoon and yesterday.’ It was all she needed to be reminded of the favour he’d done her, taking her part without being asked. For literally stepping up. Now, she owed him and he wanted payment in the form of an answer.

‘Yes. Gridley will always be refused.’ She did not offer the reasons why. She’d paid her debt. Ren would have to judge the rest on his own.

Ren nodded. ‘The neighbourhood might not take kindly to that.’

‘I know,’ she said simply. There were advantages for everyone if she married Gridley, not the least being the cessation of her version of the apprenticeship programme. ‘Your presence should appease them for now. They want a man in charge and now they have one—at least nominally.’

‘More than nominally,’ Ren corrected with a wry grin. ‘Perhaps this means you’ve revised your opinion of me. Under these circumstances which have newly come to light, I’d think you would be glad to see me. Although yesterday, you led me to believe otherwise.’ There was a teasing quality to his words, but the topic was serious: where did they stand with each other? And why?

Emma felt as if she were fighting a battle on two fronts. On one side, she had Gridley to contend with, an enemy she knew in full measure. On the other, there was Ren, a man who could be either enemy or friend. That decision was up to her.

She did need him. She needed him to stand between her and Gridley’s proposals. She needed him to stand between her and the neighbours who felt a man, even a man who didn’t know a thing about sugar cane, would be a better manager of the plantation than a woman who knew everything. He’d aptly summed up the battles that had consumed her since Merry had died. She so desperately wanted to do this on her own, to show everyone who doubted that Sugarland could be run by woman, that a woman could do anything a man could do. Maybe then she could be left alone.

Emma clenched her fists covertly in her skirts, her nails digging into her palms, frustration mounting. She’d been managing decently until Ren Dryden had come along, now she had Gridley on her doorstep persistent as ever, obeah magic threatening her workforce and exploding chicken coops. How would she ever convince Ren she had it all under control when that control seemed bent on slipping away? The noose around her independence was tightening.

‘The truth is, Emma, you need me.’ He made the pronouncement sound like an invitation to sin, the way he’d made their discussion of cane crops on the bluff sound like foreplay. They were standing close, no longer side by side staring out over the dark lawns, but face-to-face, having turned during the course of the conversation. Ren’s knuckles skimmed the curve of her jaw, his touch warm against her skin.

Emma felt the door frame hard at her back. He had her effectively trapped. There was no escaping his hot blue eyes or the thrum of her pulse as it raced in anticipation. ‘What are you doing, Ren?’ she murmured, although she knew very well. He’d been staking his claim all day in little ways, pushing all other claims out of the way by her own denial of them.

Ren’s mouth bent to the column of her neck. ‘I’m claiming my forfeit.’

Chapter Seven

‘Give over, Emma.’ His mouth was close to her ear, whispering his decadent suggestion, the feel of his body intoxicating as she arched into him, giving him full access to her neck, letting him trail kisses up its length to her earlobe. She let his teeth nip the tender flesh, his breath feathering against her ear. She couldn’t give over any more without giving over entirely and that would be foolish. She knew what this was. The game of seduction he’d begun on the bluff was adding another delicious layer.

Tonight she seemed helpless to resist, even knowing better. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe it was best to get this first initial contact out of the way, remove all the anticipation and curiosity that often motivates first kisses. And perhaps she should play a little after all? She wouldn’t know what Ren intended if she didn’t let him advance. At least that’s what she told herself as his mouth closed over hers, his tongue running over the seam of her lips. She gave him entrance, her own tongue eager to duel, eager to taste.

Surely, there could be no harm in letting her guard down just for a moment. She had been fighting for so long, been on constant alert to the hidden agendas of others. Ren was no threat to her forty-nine per cent, he already held the majority and she knew what he was playing for. His agenda was not nearly as secretive as those who’d come for the funeral. They’d come to assess the spoils, to assess how they could best use her for their own advancement. But Ren’s agenda was clear even if she didn’t agree with it.

Ren’s hands were at her waist, strong and firm. It would be a very little thing indeed, only a matter of inches, to raise her hands to those broad shoulders. It didn’t have to mean anything, just a few moments of freedom, a few moments for herself. That decided it.

Emma slid into his arms, revelling in the feel of his mouth, the caress of his tongue as it claimed hers with the confidence of an expert lover, a man sure of his reception, her mouth drinking him in as much as he drank her. He tasted faintly of dinner’s wine, smelled of vanilla and clean, healthy male.

Her body moved against him of its own accord. This was a kiss that demanded full participation, not just mouths but bodies. She could feel the heat of him, the masculine strength of him where their bodies met, the power of his thighs where they pressed against her skirts, his body fulfilling the promises it had alluded to on the bluff. It was a potent signal that here was a man who understood pleasure was best when shared. Here was a man who would not seek pleasure only for himself. It was also a signal that this had gone too far. This was only to have been the experiment of a moment.

Emma broke the kiss with a little shake of her head. ‘We have to stop.’ Her voice sounded breathless to her own ears.

‘Why?’ Ren rested his forehead against hers, his eyes dark and dancing.

It was hard to think of a reason with him so close. ‘We hardly know each other,’ she said softly. Even that was a lie. She knew enough about him to know this was the road to no good.

‘I think you underestimate how much kissing can tell you about a person, even strangers.’ Ren gave her a wicked grin in the gathering darkness. He had one arm braced against the wall over her head, his body still indecently close to hers, giving her no quarter. ‘For instance, you’re an extraordinarily passionate woman. You do not kiss only with your mouth, but with your hips, your arms, with all you have.’ His free hand had dropped to her waist, his thumb drawing lazy circles low on her hip, pressing firmly, erotically, through the fabric of her gown. ‘You deserve a lover who is worthy of your passion.’ His mouth was at her neck again, his implication blatant.

‘You think you are that lover?’ Emma fought to sound aloof when her body was surging with desire. Never had she’d been so overtly pursued and she found the honesty of that pursuit heady in the extreme. She was passionate, yes. An easy conquest? No.

‘I could be, Emma. You’ve been alone too long.’ His eyes lingered on her lips. ‘I’ve issued a bold invitation, nothing more. The rest is up to you.’ Then he was gone, levering his weight off the door frame and slipping out into the night, the Caribbean darkness swallowing him entirely the moment he stepped beyond the reach of the lamplight.

Emma stared after him, thoughts forming, disintegrating and reforming in the wake of his departure. Gridley’s aggressive visit today had reshaped her perception of what Ren could mean to her. Instead of seeing him as a second antagonist to fight, he could be an ally given the right incentive.

Ren could stand between her and Gridley by virtue of being the majority shareholder. And he would. He’d demonstrated as much already. But for how long? What if Ren decided to sell in the future, or what if Ren returned to London? How could she entice him to stay?

What a difference a day made. Initially, selling or leaving were things she’d favoured in order to maintain her independence. But she’d underestimated Gridley. If Gridley had told Ren he meant to push his suit, more trouble than she’d realised was brewing. Being married to Gridley not only put Sugarland under his control, but it put her under his control as well.

This was her greater fear. Having been under a man’s control before, the experience did not recommend itself as worth repeating. Emma closed her eyes, pushing memories of Thompson Hunt and his cruelties to the back of her mind. Whatever Thompson Hunt had done, she had no doubts Arthur Gridley would be worse.

Thompson Hunt had been a selfish con artist with a malicious streak, nothing more. Arthur Gridley was a sadist and, in her opinion, a murderer. Those were two claims no one would believe if she made them as his wife, assuming she lived long enough to make them at all. She was certain their marriage would be a short one, just long enough for him to ensure Sugarland was his at last.

Emma opened her eyes and blew out a breath, refocusing her thoughts on the present. She needed Ren to stay, perhaps in a more permanent capacity than majority shareholder. How to ensure that, especially if he ever learned Sugarland wasn’t as solvent as perhaps he’d been led to believe? Did she dare to risk with him what she would not risk with Gridley? Marriage was the most permanent bond she could think of.

But even then, marriage wouldn’t prevent Ren from leaving her and sailing back to London, especially if it was an empty marriage done for convenience. It didn’t have to be empty. If she could give him a passion to stay for, a warm bed he’d be reluctant to leave... He was a man unafraid of passion, of his own sexuality. Tonight had proven she could rouse those passions, ignite them. Her past proved sex could be a powerful weapon. It certainly had been when wielded against her. She would never stoop to Thompson Hunt’s level, but she would fight with all she had.

Emma twisted a strand of hair that had come loose, an idea coming hard and fast. What had she thought earlier? A woman could do anything a man could do... Men seduced women out of inheritances all the time. Ren might even be trying to do that very thing. He had made it clear he couldn’t be pushed away. Maybe he could be pulled in. Emma tapped a thoughtful finger against her chin. It would take time, she’d have to go slowly. Ren would never believe she’d done a complete about-turn so immediately. Nor would he trust a woman too loose with her favours. But it would be perfect. She’d use his own seduction of her as a smokescreen; while he was seducing her, she’d be seducing him. Into bed, and with luck, beyond.

‘I believe he can be seduced to our side,’ Arthur Gridley announced confidently to the men seated at the round table in his library: Miles Calvert, Elias Blakely, Hugh Devore and Amherst Cunningham. All Englishmen, all upstanding citizens of St Michael’s parish, all of them bound together under the common standard of having suffered financial setbacks over the last five years and, most importantly, all of them having concluded that wresting Sugarland out of Emma Ward’s control lay at the heart of any successful solution to their cash-flow problems. Outside of those commonalities, there were other private agendas that drew them together, politics making very strange bedfellows indeed, in some cases literally, and Gridley knew them all.

Cunningham nodded slowly, his dark eyebrows knitted together in thought. ‘We’ll have to act quickly before that hellcat gets her claws into him.’

‘I am working on that,’ Gridley said. ‘Dryden and I had a long visit today.’ He hoped a few salient seeds had taken root, particularly the one that warned Dryden off pursuing anything with Emma Ward. Emma was his. If anyone was going to wed her, or bed her, it was going to be him. He’d paid his dues. It had been unsettling to discover Dryden was a younger man. He’d been counting on someone older, less physically appealing.

‘Does Dryden have money?’ Miles Calvert asked. The light of the candles in the centre of the table cast his face in shadow, the whole of his expression inscrutable.

The darkness didn’t bother Gridley. He knew without seeing Miles’s nervous pale green eyes that Miles would be wondering if he could entice the newcomer to buy his moderate-sized plantation and add it to Sugarland’s holdings. Miles had been privately contemplating a buyer so he could take the profits and return to England.

Fortunately, Miles had done that contemplating over absinthe in the evenings with him. So far, Gridley had dissuaded Miles from such a course of action in general. It hadn’t been hard, there’d been no buyer until now. Miles was wondering if the arrival of Ren Dryden changed that. Gridley would have to make sure it didn’t.

‘I’m not sure,’ Gridley answered truthfully. ‘He dresses well and presents himself as an educated man. I would think he’s not entirely without funds, but how much?’ Gridley shrugged to indicate he thought it unlikely Dryden possessed enough to buy a plantation.

Hugh Devore broke in with a shake of his head, dismissing Calvert’s financial concerns. He was a beefy, heavier-set man with greying hair and he spoke with a commanding voice. ‘It’s not money that matters, it’s relationships. What I want to know is who Dryden’s connections are. How well did he know Merrimore? We know he’s a cousin, but were they close? Was Merrimore likely to have told him about us? If so, what might that have been? Are we friends or enemies?’

The last was said with the faintest hint of accusation. Gridley bristled at the implication that somehow he was to blame if they were exposed. ‘I assured you months ago and I assure you now that the risks we so covertly refer to are secure. Merrimore suspected nothing, he told no one because in his mind there was nothing to tell.’

Hugh Devore was not satisfied. ‘We took an enormous risk at your urging, Gridley, and we lost. You were wrong in your assumptions. Nothing turned out as you purported and now we have a cousin on the scene, one more person that stands between us and our goals.’

Elias Blakely nodded his head in concurrence. Amherst Cunningham said nothing, but looked distractedly at his hands. So that was how things stood these days. A little faction was growing within his group, Gridley noted. He would have to calm them with a reminder of what he held against them. He wasn’t above a bit of blackmail to ensure compliance. But first, perhaps some soothing was in order.

‘I don’t recall seeing you in Merrimore’s sickroom taking those risks,’ he reminded Devore and Blakely. ‘That was all me. In that respect, gentlemen, your hands are clean.’ Never mind that they’d given permission for what he’d done in there. He’d remind them about that another time. Accomplices were just as guilty as those who executed the act.

Devore sat back in his chair, hands laced across a healthy show of stomach. ‘Be that as it may, Emma Ward has refused you, making our risky efforts for naught. Sugarland, either through legal deed or marriage, is beyond our grasp at present.’

That statement had everyone’s attention. The men at the table leaned forward in earnest. Six months ago when Merrimore’s demise was imminent, they’d decided the best, least intrusive way to take Sugarland from Emma would be to marry into it. The most likely candidate had been himself. Devore and Cunningham were already married, Miles was a ‘confirmed bachelor’ and Elias Blakely wasn’t much to look at and prone to ill health besides.

‘I will renew my courtship now that she’s had a chance to see what reality looks like,’ Gridley replied. ‘I will remind her of my promises to Merrimore and play to her sentimentality.’

‘And Dryden?’ Devore asked astutely. ‘Does he have matrimony on his mind?’

‘I’m not sure what Dryden has on his mind. I only spoke with him the once and he’s only just arrived,’ Gridley reminded the group with a note of censure. ‘I’m not a mind reader, although at times many of you think I am. I think the best course forward is to hold a dinner party for him so each of you can take his measure. We can plan how to deal with him from there.’

Elias Blakely spoke for the first time. ‘In the meanwhile, there must be something we can do to urge Emma Ward towards our conclusion. I don’t need to tell anyone here that time is critical. We are poised at the beginning of the harvest. Once the harvest is in, decisions will be made about next year. All of us will be making those decisions, too, and money is tight. If we cannot secure Sugarland, some of us might make different decisions about the following year.’ He swallowed and said quietly, ‘Plantation prices are dropping. Some of us may decide to sell before prices drop further.’

Gridley fixed him with a hard stare. ‘If anyone were to do that, it would ruin the cartel we’ve worked so hard to put together. All of us standing united can drive the prices of sugar back up. Then, we’ll be in the money.’

‘Only if Sugarland is with us,’ Miles put in, his eye always on the bottom line. ‘If Sugarland continues to stand alone, we’ll never achieve the ability to control the prices.’

Gridley gave a tight smile. He was growing weary of the effort of dragging the group along behind him, but he needed them. It would pacify them if he resumed an active courtship of Emma, so he would do it. He would give her two weeks’ respite from exploding chicken coops and obeah dolls before he launched his new campaign. His dinner party for Dryden would be the perfect venue for resuming his courtship.

Privately, he didn’t think such measures would be enough. But there were other ways to urge Emma to the altar that had nothing to do with the delicacies of romance and everything to do with the hard choices a person makes to save the things they love.

Chapter Eight

Ren stood impatiently while Michael put the finishing touches to his cravat. Arthur Gridley’s dinner party was tonight and Ren felt as if he were donning armour instead of evening dress.

The metaphor of battle was not amiss. The peaceful hiatus of the last two weeks while planters focused on their own crops had been a detente of sorts between Gridley and Sugarland. In the quiet of the interim, Ren had not forgotten Gridley and his self-serving intentions lurking just beyond the harvest. The dinner party marked the end of any reprieve. Gridley would be waiting to see how Ren would align himself—with the parish or with Emma.

‘Be patient, Mr Ren. Mr Merrimore was a stickler for perfection and you should be, too.’ Michael stepped back with the reminder that he was as capable as any London valet. ‘I dressed Mr Merrimore for many of Sir Arthur’s dinner parties. He liked to wear his stick pin just so. Perhaps I should adjust yours?’

Ren lifted his chin and tolerated the effort, a thought coming to him. ‘Were Merrimore and Gridley good friends?’ Who would know better than Merrimore’s footman-cum-valet? Currently, he only had Gridley’s word on the subject. Frankly, Gridley would be biased on that account.

Michael’s brow knitted as he reset the stick pin. ‘They were always friendly, but it wasn’t until the last year that they were what you’d call close. Sir Arthur was here every day, playing backgammon or chess. When Mr Merrimore wasn’t well enough to do that, Sir Arthur read to him. Sir Arthur would have me carry Mr Merrimore downstairs and they’d sit and read for hours. He was here when Mr Merrimore passed away and he was here every day after until Miss Emma couldn’t stand it any more.’ Michael stood back. ‘That looks much better.’

Ren gathered up his watch and chain from the dresser. ‘She kicked him out, did she?’ He was starting to piece together where Emma’s loathing for Gridley came from. He’d rather have had Emma tell him herself, but since she’d been reticent on the subject of Gridley except to say she would not consider his suit, Ren had to look elsewhere for information.

‘She was grieving, Mr Ren, and Sir Arthur wanted decisions made. It was just too much for her,’ Michael offered. ‘They fought one day. We could hear them yelling at each other all the way down in the kitchen. We couldn’t hear what they said exactly, just the rise and fall of voices. Then we heard something shatter. Later we found pieces of a vase when we were cleaning up. Miss Emma must have thrown it at him.’

Ren stifled a laugh. He could imagine Emma doing just that. She was a woman of passions and that included her temper. These weeks had seen progress on that front, too. The forfeit he’d claimed had accomplished its purpose. She was starting to reshape how she viewed him. That was exactly what he wanted. He wanted her to stop seeing him as an enemy and begin to see him as a man with potential, someone who could help Sugarland, help her if she’d let him. If that potential started with a kiss, so be it. If she would not welcome him as a business partner, perhaps she’d welcome him as a friend or something more. He’d left that invitation open. She was an exciting woman, a woman aware of her own desires and she was not immune to him.

‘Thank you, Michael. I can handle things from here.’ Ren dismissed the eager footman-cum-valet with a smile and strict orders not to wait up. He could get himself to bed and he knew Michael would have an early day of it no matter when he got in. He’d learned that during the harvest everyone had early mornings. Regardless of one’s usual status the rest of the year, everyone was in the fields these crucial weeks, including himself and Emma.

He’d been astonished by the amount of people needed to run the place. In part due to inherent labour shortage and in part due to the lingering effects of the obeah charm, Emma had ended up with only about two-thirds of the hands she needed. Everyone had been pulled to the fields. Jobs in other areas of the plantation went undone. The two of them had even joined in, stripping stalks of cane and tossing them on the wagons. It was back-breaking work. His friends at home would have laughed to see him sweating in the fields.

Thankfully, Sugarland was nearly done, but other plantations might continue to harvest or even start their harvests at staggered intervals for the rest of the month depending on the readiness of their fields.

Ren stretched to relieve the soreness of his muscles, a testament to the long hours and hard work. He didn’t mind. It felt good to be actively doing something on his family’s behalf, to feel that he was making progress in achieving financial security for them. Soon the harvest would be in and there would be money to send home, a good chunk of it, too.

He was already imagining the relief on Sarah’s face when the notice came, already hearing Annaliese’s happy laughter as she danced through the hall dreaming of all the ribbons she could buy in the village. Sarah would buy those ribbons and licorice drops for Teddy but she would know what it really meant. They were saved. She could go back to London and carry on as if nothing had happened. She could have her pick of husbands and in a few years Annaliese could too.

This would be the first of many infusions. He would not be there to celebrate with them, of course. His efforts would be required here, but his absence was a small sacrifice for their security. He’d known quite well when he’d left England there would be no going back. Maybe for a short visit in a few years, but never to live. This new life would require all of him. And in truth, he didn’t mind that either. London had paled for him long ago. If it hadn’t been for his sense of duty, he might have left with Kitt. But he’d been the heir and Kitt a mere second son. Kitt’s choices couldn’t be his.

Ren took a final look in the mirror. The image made him smile. It had been five weeks since he’d left England and already he was changing. His hair was a little lighter—more the colour of paler winter wheat, less the colour of deep wild honey. His face was tan, his arms would be too beneath the sleeves of his shirt. Even his chest was tan after weeks of working shirtless in the equatorial sun. He doubted Arthur Gridley would sport such evidence of hard work tonight. Emma had said Gridley did not take an active hand in his harvest.

Satisfied with his appearance, Ren picked up his evening cape from the bed. It seemed silly to take the garment with the weather being warm, but Michael had assured him Sir Arthur’s parties were formal affairs and one did not go to war without the proper weapons, after all.

Emma was waiting for him in the drawing room. She turned from the window and his breath hitched. She was stunning, exotic. Gone was any trace of the trouser-clad, boot-wearing woman who’d sweated and laboured beside him, although that woman had been appealing, too. In her place was a lady London would find no fault with.

Emma’s dark hair was piled high on her head and threaded with pearls. The coiffure was both demure and seductive, showing off the elegant length of her neck. At the base lay a thin gold necklace, simple but expensive. No jewel could have looked finer. The gold was the perfect foil for the deep coral of her gown. In London, the colour would have been scandalous, too bold among the whites and pinks of debutantes, but here among the lush colours of the island with its rich green grasses and deep azure skies, the vibrant red-orange seemed entirely appropriate.

It certainly suited her colouring: dark hair, dark eyes and skin tinged a healthy shade of light toast from days in the sun. It suited her figure, too. The cut of the gown made the most of her natural assets; a bare neckline exposed slender shoulders, a tight bodice lifted her breasts high, the fullness of her skirt fell sensuously over the curve of her hips, accentuating the provocative sway of her hips.

‘I thought the man was supposed to wait for the woman.’ She gave a throaty laugh and crossed the room, her eyes running over the length of him in silent approval.

Ren picked up her cloak from the chair and held it out for her, letting his hands skim bare skin as he settled it about her shoulders. ‘I assure you, I’m worth waiting for.’ He felt her telltale pulse leap beneath his fingers where they lingered.

‘You’re certainly the most arrogant man I’ve ever had to wait for.’ She slanted him a coy look.

‘I don’t think you mind.’ Ren smiled, enjoying the flirty sparring and gave her his arm. Perhaps tonight would be a chance to launch an offensive on this particular front. Goodness knew his body had been on edge since the night of their kiss, the proximity and long hours together since then working all sorts of magic in honing his physical desire to sharpness. Five weeks of enforced celibacy didn’t help.

The carriage, an open-air landau, was already outside. He handed her in and took the rear-facing seat, determined to be the gentleman. Women responded to manners and, oh, how he wanted her to respond. Give over, Emma, he thought. You know you want to, stop torturing us both.

She wasn’t the only one affected, not by a long shot. He was attracted to her, had been from the moment he’d stepped off the wagon and seen her standing on the porch. In all fairness, the kiss had not been all strategy. There was a certain thrill to seducing her, to feeling the infinitesimal tensing of her body as he’d come up behind her on the bluff, to seeing her pulse beat in anticipation at the base of her neck when he came near, to see those eyes darken in response to his innuendos.

The kiss had tested all sorts of waters and now he was waiting, rather impatiently, to see what she would do. The intervening weeks had been her test as well as his. He’d provoked her and, in turn, she was teasing him with a toss of her hair over breakfast, a lingering glance at dinner, flirtation and witty banter over backgammon, even a light brush of her fingers on his sleeve when she said goodnight.

All of which had conspired to leave him in a perpetual state of slow burn. He was starting to wonder who was playing whom. It was time, Ren decided, for her to take the invitation. Perhaps he could help that decision along tonight.

The drive to Gridley’s took half an hour and Emma had filled it with talk about who he would meet. It was a briefing more than a conversation. Ren’s head was swimming with names and details by the time the carriage pulled up to the impressive front of Gridley’s neo-classical home with its pillars and fountain.

‘The house makes quite a statement.’ Ren helped Emma down from the carriage, letting his hand linger at her back in silent persuasion.

‘It’s a pretentious monstrosity if you ask me.’ Emma shook out her skirts. ‘No other great house on the island is built this way.’

Ren offered her his arm. ‘Then that’s probably why he did it.’ He was starting to understand this neighbour a little better. Arthur Gridley was a man who coveted the best and the rarest of things. No wonder he had proposed to Emma. She was a rare beauty. Gridley would have coveted her even without the plantation.

The others were already assembled in the drawing room, drinks in hand. Gridley noticed their arrival immediately and strode forward. ‘Everyone, our guest of honour is here!’ The announcement was met with a small round of applause. Gridley shook his hand. ‘It is good to see you, Dryden. You’re looking well. Emma hasn’t worked you to death yet.’ He turned to Emma and bent over her hand, bestowing a kiss on her knuckles. Ren could feel Emma freeze beside him, unable to avoid the physical contact. ‘You look lovely. I’m so glad you didn’t wear black. Albert wouldn’t have wanted you to mourn.’

‘I’m very clear on what Merry wanted for me,’ Emma answered sharply, pulling back her hand. ‘Shall I introduce Mr Dryden around?’ It was a ploy to escape Gridley.

‘Let me do the work, Emma. You relax and enjoy yourself. The ladies will want a good coze with you. I know it’s been ages since you’ve seen them.’ He gave Ren a knowing, manly look. ‘The ladies have little suitable company on the island, one of the drawbacks of living in the colonies.’

Gridley spirited him away to meet the gentlemen, leaving Emma to join the women gathered on one side of the drawing room. He met the neighbouring planters, shook their hands, listened to them discuss their harvests which were just getting under way while Sugarland’s was nearly done. But Emma remained relegated to the other side of the room, a bright, brilliant burst of colour against muted blues and grays. It occurred to Ren that Gridley might be attempting to divide and conquer.

Dinner was much the same. Ren sat at Gridley’s right hand with Gloria Devore on his other side, her hand resting occasionally on his thigh in blatant invitation. Alexandra Cunningham was across from him affecting the same sort of invitation with her eyes. Emma was at the other end of the table, holding court with Elias Blakely and Miles Calvert. By the time cheese and fruit were served, Ren did not doubt the meal, the whole event even, had been orchestrated and not solely for his benefit, but for Arthur Gridley’s.

Gridley had trotted out the best china and crystal, he’d shouldered the expense of preparing excellent food and opening the finest imported wines in the hopes of getting something in return. From him. He was the guest of honour for a reason. Ren finished the last of the wine in his glass and shot a quick glance at Gridley. The man was watching Emma again. Ren had caught Gridley watching her all night. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so egotistical and think it was only himself Gridley wanted something from. This was a display for Emma, too, a reminder of all he could provide for her, the lifestyle she’d have if she said yes.

Something possessive flared to life in Ren’s core at the thought of Emma in Arthur’s arms, of Emma kissing another the way she’d kissed him. Emma had made it clear she didn’t want Arthur Gridley, but he still didn’t know why.

Ren fingered the stem of his wine glass. Why did a woman turn down a man like Arthur Gridley? Gridley was wealthy, good-looking, well mannered, had a house that would impress a certain type of person, he even had a title. It wasn’t one that could be inherited, but he’d demonstrated his upstanding citizenry by providing a valuable service to the Crown. What wouldn’t appeal about that package? That it didn’t appeal was far stranger than if she’d accepted his proposal, especially when it was made at what Ren considered a very opportune time.

Devore’s wife rose from the table, her hand finally admitting defeat. ‘Ladies, let us adjourn to the drawing room. Conversation at this end is quickly turning to dull business.’ She flashed him a last look, invitation openly written in her hazel eyes as she led the ladies, Emma included, from the room. Gloria Devore was handsome, but Ren didn’t make a habit of dallying with married women. Unlike Kitt, who actively sought a new woman every night, married or not, Ren preferred the mixture of adventure and stability that came with long-term mistresses. Kitt was easy and he was hard, damn hard these days when it came to Emma.

Chapter Nine

Ren’s senses went on alert the moment the double doors were drawn behind them. Whatever purpose Gridley had in putting on this lavish dinner, it would be exposed shortly. It was just the men now and business would be discussed, talk would be freer.

Gridley began buttonholing the port around the table. There was general, unfocused conversation as everyone poured a glass. ‘As you can see, Dryden, we are not without our comforts. We live well out here in the colonies.’ Gridley raised his glass once everyone had served themselves. ‘A toast, gentlemen, to our success, hard won as it is.’

Ren drank to the toast although he couldn’t help but think Gridley’s success was due to force more than the winning of anything, much less loyalty. The atmosphere at Gridley’s was different from Sugarland. At Sugarland, the staff was much like a house staff in wealthy English homes. There was a sense of being in service, working for a wage, as opposed to being in slavery. Gridley might profess to follow the apprenticeship programme, but the climate of his home didn’t suggest a sense of freedom or personal pride in one’s work. It did, however, suggest a sense of fear driving the excellence that surrounded Gridley.

‘I won’t beat around the bush, Dryden. We want to discuss business with you.’ Gridley put down his glass and refilled it. ‘Sugar prices have fallen in the last few years. We are of a mind to form a sugar cartel in order to drive up the prices. We’d like you to join, to bring Sugarland in line with the other plantations in the parish.’

Ren sipped slowly, letting the rich port travel down his throat. So this was what Gridley wanted. What they all wanted. The others nodded their heads sagely. ‘I will need to discuss that with Emma.’

Gridley gave a friendly laugh and leaned forward, his hand on Ren’s arm in a gesture of familiarity. ‘You control the majority of the estate. You don’t need to ask Emma anything. Take charge, Dryden. Don’t let her lead you around by the short hairs.’ He winked and added conspiratorially, ‘Although you wouldn’t be the first man she had thinking with the wrong head, if you know what I mean.’ There was general masculine laughter around the table.

Ren bristled at the remark. It was insulting on so many different levels he didn’t know where to aim his anger: at slander against his masculinity and the idea that his head could be so easily turned or the crude reference to Emma. ‘As the will stands, Emma and I are partners. The division of the estate is all but equal.’ He made the protest even while his own sense of caution silently challenged him not to act rashly.

Was it slander or did Gridley speak the truth? Emma was no blushing virgin. He’d not thought it when he arrived and he certainly didn’t think so now after the flirting and kissing that had passed between them. Emma definitely had a sense of her own feminine power. Did that mean she lacked virtue as Gridley suggested? Up until now, he hadn’t realised how heavily he’d been relying on Merrimore’s judgement to serve as Emma’s character reference.

‘But it’s not equal when it comes right down to it. Don’t you let her convince you otherwise. Merrimore left you the majority for a reason,’ Hugh Devore put in briskly. ‘Emma’s impulsive, she’s emotional and we know she misses Merrimore. She’s not equipped to make a good decision and we can’t wait. We need the cartel in place before we sell this year’s crop.’

Elias Blakely backed him up in softer tones. ‘It’s not as if we haven’t waited. We’ve given her time. I think Merrimore would have joined us, but she’s backed off. Sugarland is the largest producer in our parish. Without you, the cartel will have no teeth.’

Ren nodded noncommittally. The game wasn’t a complicated one. They were trying the age-old back-door strategy. They couldn’t get to Emma so they were trying to go through him. ‘I will look into it.’ He put enough steel into his voice to end the conversation.

Gridley understood the message and intervened before Devore could argue. ‘Check the books at Sugarland if you haven’t already, Dryden. You need the cartel as much as the cartel needs you.’ He beamed at the group. ‘Now that’s settled, let’s go join the ladies.’

Emma looked up with relief as the door between the drawing room and the dining room slid open. She wanted nothing more than for the evening to end. Being inside Arthur Gridley’s home was nothing short of being in prison. There’d been a cold pit in her stomach all night, put there by the irrational fear she’d disappear inside these walls and never be seen again. It was what she feared if Gridley succeeded in marrying her.

Nothing all night had been able to distract her fear, not the fine food which she barely tasted, and certainly not conversation with the women. The women had bored her with their agenda of barely veiled concern over her being alone at Sugarland with a man. Emma had no doubt their husbands had put them up to it. They wanted her to move. Gloria Devore had offered her rooms with them. ‘Let Mr Dryden run the plantation, you needn’t be alone there any more,’ she’d said with false sweetness. Emma had politely declined. Gloria probably would have preferred to offer those rooms to Ren based on the amount of time her hand had spent under the table tonight.

At least the men hadn’t taken very long, only a half hour. She wondered if that was good or bad. Ren looked a little grimmer than he had at dinner. But whatever had happened had not got the best of him. With that grimness came an air of command. His presence dominated the room. She’d felt that presence before when they were alone. It was one thing to think he was powerful when there was no one to compare him to. It was another to think it when she saw him against the backdrop of the parish’s leading men. He stood out even in the company of large men like Devore and supposedly attractive men like Arthur Gridley.

Ren’s eye caught hers and the nerves in her stomach began to relax. She’d missed Ren tonight. After having had him to herself for dinners and days on end, she’d not had him at all this evening. He’d been whisked from her side the moment they’d walked in. She was sure it had not been accidental. She’d not realised how used to him she’d become. They’d worked together, they’d taken their evening meal together, they’d played backgammon games together before retiring. One might say they lived in each other’s pockets.

And yet, she worried. What she would have given to hear what had been said behind those doors! How had Ren responded? She might know his backgammon strategy, but she had no idea how he’d answer the leading members of the plantocracy. Would he undo all of her hard work? Would he use his fifty-one per cent to force her into accepting decisions she would not have made? Would he have betrayed her? Men had betrayed her before. Would Ren prove to be the same?

Betrayal was a strong word with only a kiss between them, yet betrayal was the emotion she felt when she looked at him; this strong, masterful stranger who’d entered her life. Would he betray her? Ren was speaking with Gridley. She smiled at him, hoping to signal that he should join her but it was Gridley who approached the sofa where she sat.

‘My dear Emma, come take a turn about the room with me. I don’t think you’ve seen my new painting.’ She couldn’t refuse, nor could she ignore the warm glances the women cast her way as Gridley led her apart from the group. It was no secret everyone’s lives would be easier if she accepted Gridley or if she disappeared, leaving them free to pursue their cartel at the expense of the backs they built their empire on.

The knot in her stomach returned. She felt vulnerable in his home with him, even surrounded by others. Who would come to her aid if Gridley decided to act less than gentlemanly? Would Ren? Had Ren decided over port that life would be smoother if her stubbornness was removed? Emma thought of the knife strapped to her thigh beneath her skirts and drew a deep breath. She would use it if she had to. She had no doubt she could plunge it into Gridley’s black heart if the need arose.

‘Is this the beginning of another courtship?’ Emma asked sharply. ‘If it is, you may also consider it the end. You already have my answer.’ She pretended to study the painting.

Gridley stood close, too close. She fought the urge to move away, so unlike her response to Ren. ‘You should re-examine your options, Emma. Look at all I have to offer you. My wealth is on display for you tonight. I can provide for you the way Merrimore wanted you to be cared for.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I am a patient man and I do not think you’d find my presence in your bed intolerable, my dear. I’m asking for so little in exchange for so much.’

Her temper began to override her fear. ‘Do not play the lovesick suitor with me,’ Emma answered in low, angry tones. ‘How dare you stand there, acting as if nothing else were at stake but your heart when we both know it’s Sugarland you want.’

Gridley gave a dry laugh. ‘You underestimate your charms, Emma. I assure you, I want you. I lie awake at night, dreaming of how it will be when you are mine.’ He lowered his voice, his eyes glinting with evil desire. ‘Shall I describe it for you?’

‘No!’ Emma almost shrieked. Only the steel grip she kept on her self-control prevented her from causing a scene. In her mind, she willed Ren to approach. Surely this didn’t look like a normal conversation to anyone, further proof that no one in the room particularly cared how Gridley achieved his ends, only that he achieved them.

Emma opted to play her one ace in an attempt to regain some control. ‘You are a slave-master and a murderer. If you continue to pursue this issue between us, I will be forced to go to the magistrate.’ She sought to walk away, but Gridley held her arm tight, his grip a vice.

‘Is that what you think you saw in Merrimore’s bedchamber?’ he hissed, his breath warm and sour on her face.

‘You killed him.’ Emma held her ground. Let him be scared. ‘I saw you with the pillow.’

A leer spread across his lips. ‘I saw something a little different. I saw you put the pillow over the old man’s face.’

‘Liar!’ Emma all but spat in his face for the accusation.

‘Who is to say who the liar is, Emma?’ He shrugged. ‘You say I killed Merrimore and I say you did. Who will the magistrate believe? A knight of the realm who has shown you every courtesy, including the protection of marriage, or you a woman who has a dubious past and who doesn’t exactly reek of good judgement? I think we both know to what I refer. I would think this line of attack over more thoroughly if I were you.’

She tugged but he wouldn’t let go of her arm. Instead he smiled as if the conversation were friendly. ‘You haven’t shown Dryden the accounts yet. How long do you think he’ll stay after that or even want to consult your opinion? I imagine he’ll lose interest unless you’ve offered him some other incentive?’ The type of incentive he referred to was obvious. ‘That’s what you offered Thompson Hunt, wasn’t it?’

‘How dare you imply—’

‘How dare you!’ Gridley interrupted, his fingers digging painfully into her arm. She would have bruises. ‘I am tired of hearing what I dare when it is you who insults me at every turn. You need me more than you think. Some day you will beg me on your knees for help.’ He licked his lips, his eyes dropping to the low swell of her neckline. ‘I will wait for that day. After all, I am a patient man with a vivid imagination.’

The fear her temper had held at bay clawed at her stomach. She’d seen Gridley angry before. There had been that one quarrel when she’d thrown the vase. But this anger was different. There was an unholy light in his eyes, a fierceness in his grip. He’d never laid hands on her like this. Gridley was a strong man, a tall man. In the past she’d always thought her word was enough to stop him. No meant no. Now, she wasn’t sure.

What if Gridley decided not to wait for her capitulation? What if he could physically force her to his will? No one would stop him. Everyone supported Gridley’s quest to see their lands united, to see them united. The others either didn’t see the evil in Gridley or they didn’t care. Who would stand up for her if Gridley came for her? She felt a presence behind her as if in answer to the question. Ren.

‘I think Emma has recovered her balance sufficiently to stand on her own.’ Her knees nearly buckled from relief. ‘You did lose your balance, my dear, didn’t you? Are you feeling faint? I can’t think of any other reason for a gentleman to grip your arm so tightly.’ The last was said strictly for Gridley’s benefit, a threat neatly wrapped in polite enquiry.

‘I’m fine now.’ Emma edged closer to Ren and took his arm, her courage returning. ‘The painting was most, ah, enlightening.’

Gridley looked from her to Ren, trying to gauge their level of involvement. She felt her pulse catch. She was playing a dangerous game, pitting them against one another. Ren would not appreciate being used. ‘Just so, I think I’d like you to take me home,’ she appealed to Ren, eager to be away from this nest of smiling vipers.

Ren saw to the carriage and they were off within ten minutes, their lanterns lighting the way in the darkness. She was grateful for his efficiency when it came to arrangements. She was a little less grateful when it came to conversations. The driveway was hardly behind them when Ren started the questions. ‘What were you and Gridley discussing so intently?’

Emma shook her head. ‘Nothing. He’s jealous, that’s all.’ She fought the urge to spill everything to Ren, but that would give him power he might not deserve. Not yet, she cautioned herself. She had to be sure of him first. Not yet.

Ren’s eyebrows arched in the shadows. ‘Why would he be jealous?’ There was a hint of teasing beneath the question, their conversation taking on a lighter, flirtier edge now that Gridley’s house was behind them.

Emma smiled and moved to sit beside him. ‘Because he thinks I prefer you to him.’

‘And do you?’

Emma slid a hand up his thigh. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.’ This was a dangerous gambit too, but she had to be sure of Ren. There was so much at risk, she would do whatever it took to secure her future—which was a far better justification for her actions than simply admitting to herself that she wanted him, but far less true. She would have wanted him without the plantation between them. In the back of her mind, she knew she had planned to make her intentions known tonight regardless of the evening’s outcome at Gridley’s.

Ren’s hand covered hers in caution. ‘Emma, do you think this is a good idea?’ Good idea or not, it didn’t matter. It was the only idea she had, if sex would be something irrevocable to bind him to her. Besides, it seemed an natural evolution of their relationship at this point. Everything since their kiss had been leading to this. He had started it with his wicked forfeit over backgammon, but by heaven, she would finish it. Her safety and Sugarland’s security demanded it.

‘It’s the best idea I’ve had in a long time.’ She leaned forward and kissed him hard on the mouth, as if everything depended on it, because it did.

Chapter Ten

This was a bad idea on multiple levels, starting with the most obvious: there’d been a lot of wine served at dinner. They’d both imbibed thoroughly. There were more complicated reasons, too, Ren knew: whether she admitted it or not, Emma’s encounter with Gridley had left her feeling vulnerable, feeling in need of a hero. He was aware he’d been that hero for her in the drawing room, coming to her side when he’d noted the conversation had taken a less friendly turn. Perhaps the hand running up his thigh was being grateful for his assistance. Perhaps she felt she needed to offer recompense.

Mentally, Ren knew he should put a stop to that hand before it reached a more critical juncture. His mind didn’t want ‘grateful’ sex, but his body didn’t seem capable of making those distinctions. His body was responding to her with the wholehearted enthusiasm of a healthy man who’d been celibate for over a month.

Emma had managed to get a leg over his lap, straddling him, with her coral skirts riding high, her hand between them cupping the hardened ridge through his trousers, her mouth on his in a full-bodied kiss, her tongue in his mouth, his own tongue giving as good as it got. As much as his mind willed, his body would not be mounting any resistance to her intimate assault.

Emma ran a thumb over the outlined tip of him and he moaned. It had been so long since anything had felt this good, this physically inviting. His hands ran up her legs past the curve of her calves to her thighs and came to an abrupt halt as one hand made contact with a leather sheath. ‘Good lord, Emma, what is this?’

‘An old habit,’ she murmured between kisses. Why did a woman take a concealed weapon to a dinner party? He should have pushed the issue right then, but his mind had finally registered the sensual reality of bare flesh. His hands had moved on, clenching around the soft swell of her buttocks, ‘You minx!’ Ren nipped at her bottom lip with his teeth. ‘You’ve been naked beneath this dress all night.’

She gave a throaty laugh and squeezed him, her eyes dark with desire. ‘I’m hungry for you, Ren Dryden. Are you hungry for me?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Ren groaned. She was bold, beautiful, sure of herself, all the things he liked in a woman. The nakedness beneath her skirts confirmed it. She’d planned to have him, a most titillating and flattering realisation. Confident lovers were hard to come by. Apparently so was privacy.

They both recognised they’d reached the limits of what could decently be accomplished. There was no question of taking this any further in the open-air carriage with the driver’s back so near. Emma flashed him a frustrated glance. They had another mile to go before they were home.

Inspiration struck. There was one thing he could do. ‘Can you be very quiet?’ Ren whispered at her ear, his hand sliding again beneath the bunched fabric of her gown to the damp, hot core of her. Whatever reservations his mind had about taking her, there was no arguing she wanted this, wanted him. His fingers were wet with her honey as he found her secret place, the centre of her pleasure. He ran his thumb over the hidden little nub, watching her eyes widen, feeling her body shudder with delight.

She arched against his hand, her body instinctively wanting to be closer to the source of pleasure. He revelled in her response, intoxicated by the knowledge he could render this beautiful woman boneless. She wanted him, without any inkling of who he was, or what his title meant.

He stroked her again, and the tiniest of mewls escaped her lips. ‘Shh,’ Ren warned with a wicked grin. He silenced her with a kiss, long and deep, while he stroked, while he rubbed. It became an intense, intimate game to see who would break first. Emma writhed against him, the kisses coming hard and fierce as her climax neared.

‘Do not scream,’ Ren instructed hoarsely, feeling her body tighten. Her hands dug into his shoulders in an effort to keep her silence. She gave a gasp and Ren smothered it with a kiss as she collapsed against him, her relief palpable. Ren was almost jealous. She was momentarily sated while he was still very much aroused and painfully so, craving her touch, craving the release that would come. His mind urged his body patience. This was good, but there was better waiting. This was just the beginning.

They pulled into the drive, the carriage coming to a stop in front of the house. He helped Emma down, the sight of her, ravished and dishevelled, fuelling his desire to the brink of breaking. Her hair had come down in dark glorious waves, her lips were swollen from ardent kisses, marks of his possession, signs that she was his. And she burned for him still, her eyes hot with wanting as they mounted the front steps. The momentary release he’d given her now becoming only a prelude, a sample of something greater to come.

She might have sparked what had happened in the carriage, but Ren had become the master of it, driving her to the edge of pleasure and over it, but even that hadn’t been enough for his wild Emma. She was burning, her body on fire for more, for him. Knowledge of it stoked his passion to the breaking point. He was a well-primed powder keg of male desire by the time they gained the hall. She tugged at the lapels of his evening coat, dragging him to her for a hard kiss. Any thought he’d entertained about making it upstairs to bed vanished in the wake of his wanting.

Ren answered her with a devouring kiss of his own, his mouth claiming primal possession. Her arms were about his neck. Her body pressed into his, her hips undulating in an unspoken request. ‘Take me, Ren. Here.’ Her voice was a feverish murmur against his mouth.

It was all the invitation he needed. Desire rode him hard. He bore her back to the wall, lifting, balancing, as her legs wrapped about him and her skirts fell back to reveal bare skin, the grip of her thighs urging him closer. He released the fall of his trousers and, by all that was holy, he couldn’t recall wanting a woman with such uncontrolled abandon. He felt rough and wild as he thrust into her, not in the least a gentleman.

Her head went back, her neck arched, a feral cry escaping her. He was a king in that moment, watching her thrash in passion, knowing that the wildness was not his alone. He thrust again and again, pushing both of them to the completion that waited just beyond the wildness. He gave a last, rough thrust, his body pulsing into hers as she screamed his name one last time.

They could not stay here, locked in an intimate embrace in the hall. It was Ren’s first thought once sanity returned, a thought mobilised by necessity. His muscles were starting to ache from the strain of balancing her against the wall.

‘Emma love, let me help you upstairs.’ He disengaged as gracefully as possible and gently lowered her until her feet touched the ground, but she was boneless in the aftermath of their exertions. While he might take manly pride in that accomplishment, it had its own consequences. She gave only the slightest of protests, his muscles giving rather more, when he swept her up in his arms and mounted the staircase.

By the time he’d tucked a sleeping Emma into bed still fully dressed and reached the garçonnière, Ren’s brain had started to register the fullness of what he’d done, what they’d done. It was perhaps more sobering than any amount of coffee. From the wicked game they’d played in the carriage to the unrestrained lovemaking in the hall, the interlude had been savage and uncivilised in the extreme.

Ren supposed he could chalk it up as the natural repercussion of a healthy man and woman living and working in close proximity. There was bound to be curiosity. They certainly had been aware of each other from the start and heavy flirting had followed. Under those conditions, what happened tonight had been inevitable. But now that the curiosity was satisfied, what next? How did they go on from here?

Was this to be a one-night experiment or was it the beginning of an affair, or even the beginning of something more, a relationship? Ren undressed for bed, carefully laying aside his evening clothes for Michael to brush in the morning. He wished his thoughts could be set aside just as easily.

Had this evening been only about the physical? His thoughts might have strayed in such lusty directions, but in the end Emma had started it. She’d been the one to straddle him, to intimately cup him. One could not mistake an overture like that. Even exhausted as he was, his body roused to the memory. What had she been looking for? Satisfaction? Appeasement? A safe harbour?

She might have started it, but don’t forget you finished it. You were the one to play a decadent game of ‘don’t scream’. You were the one to push her up against the wall, to thrust into her until she cried your name, his conscience scolded. It wasn’t done. Whatever tonight was, you enjoyed it far too much for it not to matter. His pleasure was not inconsequential. Tonight had been as much about his pleasure as it had been hers. At the end, his own climax had ripped from him like a river breaking its banks and for a while it had obliterated everything in its path— common sense and reality.

The truth was, tonight had been a moment out of context. He knew deuce little about Emma Ward beyond the present. Ren lay down on his bed, his hands behind his head, his eyes fixed on the stuccoed ceiling. He knew of her only what their short time together had taught him. What he’d learned were attributes. She was strong, determined, independent. But attributes were not history. How did those traits translate into events? Had those traits worked for or against her? Sir Arthur Gridley suggested those characteristics led Emma to be impulsive, to make rash decisions in business and in sex. Gridley believed she needed to be protected against that rashness. Was Gridley to be believed?

Gridley would be livid if he knew what had transpired here tonight. Ren drew a deep breath and exhaled, making the argument with himself. He hadn’t poached on another man’s territory. Emma had made it plain she did not welcome Gridley’s attentions, but Gridley wouldn’t see it that way. Ren wondered if that had been some of Emma’s impetus. Had she merely been caught up in the moment and looked for a quick way to strike out at Gridley?

He didn’t relish thinking of himself as a pawn in her neighbourly war. Yet, that was the one thing he didn’t doubt. Tonight, Emma had been frightened. The war between her and Gridley was real, suggesting the stakes for Emma were high. Ren had seen her fight fire and marshal her troops without hesitation. She was not a woman who scared easily.

That Gridley unnerved her spoke volumes, some of it rather difficult for his ego to contemplate. Had fear forced her into his arms tonight? The idea that her seduction had been planned was starting to pale from its original flattery. Had she been scared long before this and decided to seduce him as security?

‘Oh, Merrimore, what have you sent me into?’ Ren mused, feeling a bit guilty. No matter how pleasurable it had been, he’d acted rashly this evening. Would he have dared such a thing if Merrimore had been alive? What would Merrimore think if he knew Ren had tupped his ward in the hall, nonetheless? That was something Kitt Sherard would do. It wasn’t that he wasn’t an imaginative lover. He was. He just wasn’t normally an exhibitionist, given to performance in potentially public places. Good heavens, what had he been thinking? Any late-night servant could have run across them.

But that was just it. He hadn’t been thinking. Every ounce of his being had been focused on succouring his desire, sating his want. Tonight, the pursuit of pleasure had stripped him of all logical thought. He hadn’t even possessed the decency to do it in a bed in a private room with the door shut. Not that those details made it better in the end. In the final analysis, he’d bedded—he did use that term loosely since there had been no real furniture involved—a woman he knew very little about and knew even less what he meant to do about it.

To make matters worse, Ren had to be honest. Despite the afterthoughts, he would do it again, even though it might be best if he didn’t. If sex with Emma Ward was so consuming he forgot all decency, celibacy might be in his better interests. He had a plantation to learn to run. He had a family back home relying on this money-making venture. He was relying on this venture. If he wanted to escape the clutches of the York heiress, he had to think with his brain, not his—

A memory from earlier in the evening stirred; something Gridley had said. Don’t let her lead you around by the short hairs. Initially, Ren had thought Gridley was merely referring to the division of the estate and the comment about who was really charge. Given Gridley’s longer-standing relationship with Emma, Ren had to wonder if that was all he’d referred to.

An uncomfortable feeling began to take up residence in his gut. Gridley had implied Emma was not above using seduction and had done so on at least one occasion. He had to exercise caution. He knew logically the interlude was a mistake, yet he also recognised he’d willingly make that mistake again if the opportunity arose.

She started it. Another discomforting truth presented itself. Emma had planned this. She’d gone to dinner stark naked under her gown. It was fair to say there’d been some premeditation there. A woman didn’t forgo undergarments on a random whim. Had she anticipated that when the act came it would be fast and furious, no time for undressing or for dealing with inconvenient underclothes? If she had, what did it mean?

The truth crashed about him in the darkness of his chambers. The longer he thought about it, the clearer it became. All roads led to the same conclusion. He, Ren Dryden, one of London’s most sought-after lovers, had been seduced by a master.

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