Bronwyn Scott - Playing the Rake's Game

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 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.’