Playing the Rake's Game. Bronwyn Scott
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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.
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