To Tame a Rogue (3 page)

Horse’s ass
. “I ain’t no thief, mister. I just want to get home afore dark.”

“I must insist you stay for dinner.”

She turned to face him, squaring her small shoulders.

“I told you, I ain’t stayin’ for dinner. Ain’t got no cause to stay for dinner.”

“You sure you won’t reconsider?”

“I wouldn’t stay if you paid me a hundred dollars in gold.”

“You leave me no choice then.” Nicholas

removed his burgundy overcoat, laid it on the ground at his feet, and came toward her.

Before she could utter a sound, she felt a pair of strong arms about her waist, lifting her as if she were a feather adrift on the wind, dragging her toward the river’s edge.

“Put me down!” her voice rose hysterically and she began frantically kicking her legs and arms, all to no avail. He carried her easily, pinned snugly against his side, then plopped her unceremoniously into the water.
 
 
 
 

Shock. Pure, cold shock. Camille felt herself sinking and began flailing her limbs. Dear God, she would drown, she was sure of it! She couldn’t make heads or tails of the bottom or the surface.

Just when she felt sure her lungs would burst, the water rippled and splashed and she felt strong arms about her waist again, bringing her gently to the surface.

Nicholas pulled her out of the water and sat on the bank, cradling her small form against his broad chest. The sun was now a hazy ball of orange over the horizon and Camille coughed and sputtered, desperately seeking its warmth.

“Urchin’, it would seem we are both in need of a bath now.”

“My nnnn...name is Camille,” she gritted out, her teeth chattering. “Not urchin’.”

She reached up, belatedly realizing she’d lost her cap and her hair had tumbled down her shoulders. She felt like a river rat and she couldn’t stop shivering.

His eyes narrowed as he took in the sun-kissed mass of wet, tangled hair, the creamy, smooth complexion of her skin, which had been hidden from him in his study. Her small fingers clutched at his shirt, unconsciously seeking the heat of his skin beneath.

“You’re trembling,” he said. “Do I frighten you?”

“I’m ccc…cold, you witling. And I cccc...can’t sww...swim!” she said, her eyes dazed.

“Bloody hell.” Nicholas regretted his hasty actions; he’d had no idea she couldn’t swim. His sister could; but then again, his sister wasn’t a typical female—she’d had to keep up with him.

“You’ll feel better after a warm bath and dinner.”

“Yer plan all along?” she said, gritting her teeth. They stood and he retrieved his burgundy jacket, draping it over her shoulders. She was small, and the coat hung on her shoulders. He led her along the path back to the house, his hand at the small of her back.

“That weren’t fair, mister.” She shivered again, this time not knowing if it was from the cold, wet rags she was tangled in or from the touch of his warm skin, the strange, uncertain way those gold eyes had touched her face, her hair. She had the feeling he was a complicated man, a man it would take a lifetime to know. A man to
avoid
.

Back in the main hall, they were greeted by Geoffry. He showed not the slightest hint of surprise at Camille’s disheveled appearance.

“Geoffry, see that Miss Hardison is comfortably settled and a bath drawn,” Nicholas said. “She had a rather unfortunate encounter with the river.”

“Yes Sir. Right away sir,” Geoffry said, disappearing into the cavernous halls of the house.

Genevieve soon appeared. She gave her brother a disapproving look then took Camille’s hand. Nicholas sauntered off, leaving matters in her capable hands.

“You must be dreadfully cold and wet. Follow me, and we’ll get you out of those wet rag...clothes. I’m so happy you’re staying.”

“I ain’t happy ‘bout it,” Camille replied. She felt her anger rise anew. Nicholas had won this round, but she vowed the next would be hers. Why was he being so stubborn? Why was he insisting on her staying? She wondered belatedly if he’d ever dunked any of his other lady callers in the river. She had a funny feeling she wasn’t the first. She could just imagine them all bobbing up and down in their hooped skirts and petticoats like so much forgotten driftwood. Perhaps he was simply mad, his mind unbalanced…and that was why he wasn’t married.

She followed Genevieve up the wide, carpeted staircase, her wet shoes making ungodly sucking sounds. Candles in their brass sconces flickered haughtily on the portraits of present and long-dead Brantons, all of whom seemed to mock her from the shadows.

5

Camille looked around the guestroom. It was very tastefully decorated with a hand-carved four-poster bed and matching rosewood armoire, a dressing table with a bowl of freshly picked wildflowers, and a large gold-leaf framed mirror.

There were yellow silken draperies on the windows, and a low fire burned in the Egyptian marble fireplace. A petite crystal chandelier hung from the medallioned ceiling.

Above the bed was a portrait of a young woman with large fawn-colored eyes and a devilish smile on her face. With her mane of gently curling, lustrous black hair, high cheekbones, and fine porcelain skin, the woman looked very much like Genevieve.

The mansion was certainly an enchanting place, and Camille would have liked to explore it. It was imposing with its statuesque Greek columns, and it lay near the river in fertile, flat land created by centuries of overflow.

Camille had heard that some planters made huge fortunes in only a few years; they filled their homes with imported furnishings, made the European grand tour, and concerned themselves with the finer things in life. Camille wondered what the Brantons had built their fortune on, for she hadn’t seen any slaves in the outer buildings; they looked vacant. If she had, she would’ve run home. She’d seen the horrible looks of despair and fear on the faces of slaves being sold at auctions. It was the vilest evil Camille could think of, the most horrible separation of human beings from the people they loved.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Camille said, unaccustomed to privacy.

A plump servant entered, followed by a slew of others carrying buckets of hot water.

"Welcome to Legacy Oaks. I'm to help ye with yer bath. Name's Lucille, but everyone in these parts just calls me plain Lucy."

"Name’s Camille."

"I gathered that much. Lordy, look at ye, dear. It's gonna take some scrubbin'. How'd ye get so wet and dirty?”

“I’d rather not say,” Camille replied.

“That'll ne'er do, ne'er do,” Lucy said. “Follow me."

Camille followed Lucy through a door to a small adjoining room with a curved, high-back tin tub, which the servants filled with hot water and the most delicious-smelling soaps. They quickly went back to their other duties.

"I suggest ye strip down and start lathering up; it’ll chase away the chill. Lordy, but you’ll catch your death running about in wet clothes."

A hot bath suddenly appealed to Camille after a day that was anything but normal; she rarely had the luxury of one and she didn’t feel like catching her death of chill, so she stripped off her grubby clothing and shyly climbed into the tub.

There was no formal bathing area in the upstairs rooms of the tavern; most of the time, she had to make due with a cloth, a crude chunk of soap, and a chipped porcelain bowl filled with cold water when she washed in the mornings.

While she was here, it was the least Nicholas could do for her, considering this whole unfortunate incident was his fault. Besides, her clothes stank to high heaven like dank river water.

She sank down into the tub, letting the steam soak into her pores as her hair tumbled over the side of the tub, nearly touching the floor. Lucy picked up her clothes.

 
As Camille scrubbed off the filth, she began to feel like her old self again. Lucy left her for a short while, shaking her head and threatening to return with a lot more soap.

Camille felt a small ache in her chest and tried to ignore it. She’d never felt so alone, so out of place, so lost. Her uncle had expected her to be jubilant about marrying a wealthy man. He’d laughed at her when she told him she would rather marry for love.

“You ain’t gonna get any offers for marriage, sweetie,” he said. “And if you do, he ain’t gonna be no gentleman.” She wouldn’t tell her uncle about Christopher, an English sea captain and one of the few tavern patrons who’d ever shown her respect.

He was tall, with blonde hair, and fair to look upon. She’d quickly fallen in love with him, though he’d only visited the tavern on two occasions. He was kind, and promised to write to her from his next port. And
he
wanted to marry her. He’d told her so before he left. He’d said she’d make any man a first-rate wife, then winked, his blue eyes bright, and asked her to wait for him.

He wasn’t arrogant, or complicated, or dark, like Nicholas Branton. His eyes weren’t a heated gold-brown, and maybe his shoulders weren’t as wide as Nicholas’...why was she comparing the two men?

The more she thought about her uncle, and about Nicholas dumping her in the river, the angrier she became. A string of vile tavern oaths would have left her mouth at exactly that moment if Lucy hadn’t returned.

"Lucy...okay if’n I call you Lucy?"

"You certainly can, missy," Lucy giggled. "Master Branton is sure gonna be tickled 'bout this change!"

What change? Dear God, all the filth was gone. She couldn’t hide behind it anymore. Still, Camille took the chunky, rose-colored soaps and another washcloth offered by Lucy. She couldn’t help but run her fingers over the smooth soaps, deeply inhaling their pretty, feminine fragrance.

"Why do you hide yourself in such rags, girl? Lordy, but I never would have believed this!" Lucy was a talker, and from what Camille could guess, a harmless gossip. She liked her immediately.

Lucy began washing Camille's hair. "Why, girl, your hair is as fine as spun gold!"

"What's he like, Lucy?"

"You mean Nick? He's a fine one, that one. Been a bit of a rogue since he was knee-high to a musquito. Always was gettin' into some scrape or ‘nother. Not a'feared of nothin', that one. Doesn't mince his words neither, not by a jugful. But ne'er sassy to me, no.

“See, I raised him since he was a babe, he and his sister and brother. His father was always off on business. His mother died when he was young. Wouldn't dare raise his voice to ol' Lucy.” She continued to wash and rinse Camille’s hair. “Well, I think yer as clean as can be now," Lucy said.

Camille rose out of the water and was wrapped in a thick, soft green dressing robe. They returned to the bedchamber and Camille sat in the chair before the dressing table.

"Who’s that?" Camille asked, looking at the portrait again. Lucy was silent for a moment.

"That was Caroline, their mother."

"I can see where Genevieve gets her fine looks."
And Nicholas too, for that matter
, Camille thought.

"This was her room, you know. She liked it because it looked out toward the river...and the ruins of the ol’ abbey. She used to tell me it gave her some sort of odd peace.” Camille sensed that she wanted to say more about the woman in the portrait, but she didn’t.

 
“I'll send Genevieve in soon. Sure enough, that child has something you can wear. Lord, she has more fancy clothes than the Queen of England.”

"Thanks, Lucy. I don’t need to borrow nothin, though. I’ll just put my own clothes back on when they dry.”

Lucy laughed and slapped her rounded thigh. “Child that would be a sight. Your clothes done fell apart. You can’t wear that robe to dinner neither. You’ll borrow one of Miss Genevieve’s nice gowns. Now, you just relax.”

“But....”

“Gracious, sweetie, a little southern hospitality never hurt no one.”

Hospitality? More like conspiracy.

The stout woman left Camille alone in the big, silent room. She dried off, put the robe on, and crossed the floor to the window, looking out at the shadows of the great moss-draped oaks and the silhouette of riders along the levee.

 
The spring rains had come down hard for the past few days, and the river had begun to swell. She knew from personal experience just how cold it was.

By the time her hair had dried, one of the servants arrived to help Camille finish her toilette, sweeping up her hair and letting a few wisps fall around her face. There was another knock on the door. This was getting ridiculous, all this pampering!

Why were they going to the trouble? Why was Genevieve being so nice to her? And how was she going to explain herself to her uncle when she returned to the tavern looking this way?

 
"Come in," Camille said. Genevieve's eyes sparkled impishly as she handed Camille something to wear.

"What happened to the grubby little urchin’?" She laughed. "I'm glad to see you out of those wet clothes, Camille.”