Playing the Rake's Game. Bronwyn Scott
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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