Romancing the Rogue (148 page)

About the Authors

The pen is mightier than the sword. And in bestselling author
Kay Springsteen's
case, that's especially true. Kay's talent goes beyond a flare for weaving a good story. Things she writes in fiction tend to happen in real life. No one knows this better than her children. Kay writes a story about a woman having a baby, and shortly after, she'll learn she's going to be a grandma again. And when she writes about a fire, hurricane, or any other natural disaster, run for cover and take a copy of one of Kay's books with you!

~~~~~~~~

If you ask bestselling author
Kim Bowman's
husband, he'd say she spends her days emailing her cyber best friend and writing partner, Kay Springsteen, drinking soda, and eating white chocolate. While that might be true, she also chases their four-year-old son Cage around, thinks about the housework she should be doing, and brainstorms her next favorite book. She's had the writing bug since she was a teenager and is happy to now live her dream of being a full-time author, thanks to her wonderful husband, Tony, and great writing partner, the afore mentioned Kay Springsteen.

May 1787

England

John Banks shut his Bible and heaved a heavy sigh. It was days like today when being the youngest son of a baron was not nearly as appealing as being the oldest.

But that was John's lot in life. He wasn't the oldest; therefore, he had only three options: he could become a barrister, which he detested the thought of; an officer in the military, which made him shudder to think of; or a vicar. Even common born men had more options than he did. He nearly snorted. Even some
criminals
had more options than John did. At least they could be transported far away, then... Well, that's the end of their advantage over John. Truly, once they arrived at wherever they were transported, it could not be a good experience.

“Is something the matter, John?” Edward, Lord Watson, and John's eldest brother asked, coming into the room where John spent no less than eight hours a day reading his Bible in solitude; Edward's wife, Regina, and their three-year-old son, Alex, coming in right behind him.

“No. I'm just memorizing Psalms 119.”

Regina's brown eyebrows furrowed. “Didn't you say that was the longest chapter in the Bible?”

“Yes.”

Edward lifted Alex onto his shoulders and walked to the bookshelves, telling him to pick any book he'd like. While Alex studied the red, green, blue and black spines with gold lettering, Edward said, “Well, I wish you the best of luck with that.”

Regina cleared her throat. Then, lacking the desired result, she cleared it again.

Edward sighed. “All right, Alex, it appears your mama will be the one reading to you. We'd better go look at the storybooks so she doesn't fall asleep reading you one of these vastly interesting science tomes you love so much.”

Regina smiled and shook her head. She was a good sort; quiet, amiable, humorous at times, and always understanding. She'd make an excellent wife for a vicar. How unfortunate Edward married her first. Not that there was really anything unfortunate about it. Their marriage was arranged, and John was only fourteen at the time of the wedding, far too young to know to be jealous. But ever since he'd gotten to know her, he knew he desired his wife to have the same temperament.

Alex closed his fingers around the spine of the book he wanted and gave it a hearty jerk, leading it to fall from the shelf and smack his father right in the nose. John grinned. The times had been countless when John had wished
he
could have gotten away with hitting his brother that way.

As if he'd read his mind, Edward shot him a pointed glance.

John threw his hands into the air. “Don't look at me. I didn't tell him to drop the book on your face.”

“No, but I'm sure you'll reward him with a biscuit for his excellent aim later.”

“Can't blame an uncle for spoiling his favorite nephew, can you?” John asked.

Edward shook his head and lowered Alex to the ground before picking up the fallen book. Regina took it from him and John looked away. Those two had been married almost five years and still looked at each other as if they'd married only a week ago. That was another thing he admired about Regina: she confined her affections for her husband to the bedroom. Not that other ladies didn't, but that was because most ladies he knew didn't actually love their husbands. And the few who did had a hard time keeping their hands
—
and lips
—
to themselves. He shuddered at the memory of Lord and Lady Craven, who were rumored to have a love match, sharing a close embrace when they thought nobody else was around.

But John had been around, and he'd forever be plagued with the memories of the couple engaging in intimacies better suited for the bedchamber.

“Come along, Alex,” Regina called to her son, holding her hand out for him to hold.

“Is something troubling you, Trouble?” Edward asked, falling into the chair opposite him. “Are you struggling with what to preach about after dinner tonight?”

“No, Edward,” he said with a sigh and a slight smile at his brother's nickname for him based on all the “trouble” he'd been accused of causing when he was younger. “With all
your
deplorable habits, I doubt I'll ever run out of things to preach about.”

“Good. I should hate for it to be said that I'm the kind of older brother who neglects the needs of his younger brother
—
even his need to practice putting everyone to sleep with his preaching each night.”

John smiled weakly at his jest. Truly, that's all it was. Edward didn't say it to be cruel or because he was annoyed with him and his past behavior. But, it didn't make it any less true. In the time since he'd concluded his studies at Eton—and for as much of his life as he could remember before then, if the truth had to be exposed—he'd been memorizing Bible passages, giving Biblically based advice, and delivering impromptu sermons as part of his ministry training. And why shouldn't he? Edward always knew he'd grow up to one day be a baron and spent his life looking after others and learning the skills he'd need to be a baron. So why shouldn't John have spent his life preparing for his future? Because it was maddening; that's why!

Not to imply that the Lord's work was maddening, mind you. But the always being honest, always thinking before acting, and the overwhelming pressure that every word you say or action you take could one day be used against you and ruin your entire future was more than any gentleman at the ripe young age of nineteen should be concerned about. But John was, and the pressure was threatening to surround him until the last atom of oxygen in his lungs was squeezed out.

“John, have you considered that a life in the ministry isn't for you?” Edward's softly spoken words startled him straight from his woolgathering.

“There isn't another option.” He glanced out the window. “At least not one I care to pursue.”

Edward nodded. “I can accept that. An officer's life isn't for everyone.”

“And neither is a barrister's,” John added.

“No, it's not.” Edward ran his hand through his hair. “Have you considered going on a Grand Tour?”

“No. It's too late for that now anyway. The archbishop said he'd have placement for me in June. That's not enough time.”

Edward waved him off. “Then go on Tour and have the archbishop assign you to another mentor when you return. There will always be lost souls in need of saving, John. The profession is not on the verge of extinction. It won't hurt you to delay your life's work by a few months or even a year.”

John exhaled. Edward didn't understand.

“I understand more than you might think,” Edward said softly. He grinned. “I seem to remember a conversation we had a few years ago when I reminded you that I, too, was once fourteen. Fortunately, the circumstances of this conversation are vastly different; but I can also tell you that I, too, was once nineteen and felt the weight of the rest of my life and the future of all of you boys pressing down on me. Father had just died, and I didn't have a choice but to step up and fulfill my role as baron. I'm not saying that your role in life is any less important, but your need to begin is not immediate. Go and have a bit of fun now while you still can.”

John sat motionless as his brother left the room. Then, he picked up his Bible and flipped it open, resigning himself to the fact that living in a metaphorical glass box where he could be observed and made an example of for the rest of his life was what his life was to be. The words blurred in front of him. This couldn't be it. He was only nineteen! Far too young to live out the rest of his days in a small country village, precisely what would happen as soon as the archbishop found placement for him. He shut his Bible again and set it down on the table in front of him. Perhaps Edward understood better than John thought he did. What would it hurt to spend a little time seeing the world? Then, when he was done, he could return and settle in to a calm serene life as a country vicar and find a meek and mild lady to be his wife.

July 1788

Charleston, South Carolina

“The only thing that could salvage this ball would be if everyone stopped dancing and played charades,” Carolina Ellis whispered to her friend and neighbor Marjorie Reynolds, who was standing in the back corner of the ballroom with her.

“I thought you liked to dance.”

Carolina tucked a tendril of her long curly, brown hair behind her ear. “It's not the dancing I don't like. It's the talking to all the dimwitted gentlemen I find annoying. At least with charades, everyone has to keep quiet unless guessing the act.”

The corners of Marjorie's lips twitched in what seemed to be the only open expression of humor or amusement she had shown since the end of the war. Not that Marjorie actually had a reason to smile. She didn't. The war had taken so much from her, from her family's home and wealth to Marjorie's own fiancé. “Surely, it's not that bad.”

“Surely it is,” Carolina countered, tamping down her jealousy for her friend never being asked to dance. “The worst is when they try to infuse a history lesson about the formation of the city during their dance.”

“And you don't like that?” Though her facial expression was bland, Marjorie's gray eyes danced with amusement.

“No,” Carolina confirmed, scowling. “Truly, I don't know which is worse: when they try to educate me on the wisdom of how old Charles Towne came to be; or when they think it's oh-so-fascinating to tell me about when what's-his-name advised they build the streets wide in the city, so as the city expanded, houses and land wouldn't have to be compromised.”

“Perhaps you'd do well to have a retelling of that one,” Marjorie teased.

“No, thank you. I might not remember his name, but I certainly remember the rest.” She'd never be so rude as to voice this to Marjorie, who seemed never to have a dance partner; but in her mind, she'd always try to guess which historical fact her current dance partner would use in his attempt to impress her.

“Oh, look who just walked in.”

Carolina wasn't sure she wanted to look, but did so anyway. “Willard Boyles.”

“You don't sound very excited,” Marjorie murmured.

“That's because I'm not. Of course, Mother thinks he'd be a good match, but
— Oh dear, he's coming this way.” Carolina bit her lip and looked to Marjorie. “May I take your glass?”

Marjorie started. “No, I'm not finished drinking it. Besides, I know what you're about, and it won't work. You'll just have to dance with him yourself.”

Carolina thought to protest, but before she could, Mr. Boyles walked up.

“Miss Ellis,” he said.

Carolina stared at him but didn't respond.

“Miss Reynolds,” he said reluctantly.

“Mr. Boyles,” Marjorie said.

“Would you care to dance, Miss Ellis?” Mr. Boyles asked.

Though she'd like to, she couldn't very well make a scene and refuse him until he treated her friend better. Marjorie couldn't help that her family had gone from being one of the wealthiest in the lowlands to the absolute poorest in the span of a night. But whether
she
could help it or not, it had changed how people treated her. With the same reluctance Mr. Boyles had shown with his muttered greeting to Marjorie, Carolina accepted his offer.

“How are you finding the city?” Mr. Boyles asked once they were on the dance floor.

“Very well,” she said without thought, the same way she answered all the others who asked her the same question.

“Good,” he said with a curt nod. “When I first came here fifteen years ago to start my upholstery shop, I found it to be quite lacking in comparison to where I grew up in Philadelphia. But I've grown fond of old Charles Towne since then.”

Carolina involuntarily jerked in his hold. Whether due to his indirect reminder of how much older he was than she, or the fact he'd referred to Charleston as Charles Towne, which admittedly was the original name but not used since the colonies had formed a union and gained their independence, she'd never know.

The wistful smile on his face made her uneasy. While he was a prominent citizen who'd never be confused for a loyalist or falsely accused of being one due to his slip, the fact that he appeared to be transported back in time to when he'd first arrived was unnerving
—
but not unheard of. Many of the gentlemen she'd met who were past thirty had a habit of doing this.

“Did you know when Charleston was first being settled, it was suggested that the streets...”

Carolina pressed her lips together to suppress the small giggle that was threatening to burst forth from her lips. She
knew
it! Sadly, this game of guessing which historical fact her dance partner would choose to bore her with was the only interesting thing she'd found to entertain herself with since coming to Charleston. It was also the reason she'd likely remain single until her dying day if she didn't depart this life early due to death by tedium. Or marry Charlie. Not that
that
was even a viable option as far as she was concerned.

“Say,” Mr. Boyles said, breaking into her thoughts when the music reached a softer part, “did you know that according to Poor Richard's Almanac, it's supposed to be a harsh winter this year?”

“Is that so?” Carolina murmured, inwardly cringing. She hated discussing the weather and what it'd mean for next year's planting season almost as much as being bombarded with historical facts.

“Sure is,” he said with a nod. “Is your father worried about what that'll do to his land before next planting season?”

Carolina nearly groaned. “I don't know.” And that was the truth. She didn't know, nor did she care. Other than the fact that her family grew indigo on a thousand acre plantation located on the westward outskirts of Charleston, she didn't know
—
or care
—
much about what they did. Sure, it was her family's livelihood and the legacy they'd pass down through the generations. But that mattered naught to Carolina. The family's plantation and the wealth that went along with it would pass to her cousin Robert if she didn't marry a man who wanted it—not that she minded Robert inheriting it. She didn't. She'd spent her entire life on the plantation, playing with the field hands' and house workers' children when her brother or the closest neighbor children weren't around. Plantations and all that went with them were not for her.

That's why she'd hoped she'd make a match during her time in Charleston. But with each Charleston gentleman she met, she was swiftly becoming convinced that gentlemen born of sophistication were no more entertaining than the pigs her brother had once kept.

And Willard Boyles with his talk of crops was just as dull as all the others she'd met.

Blessedly the reel ended before Mr. Boyles could bore her into a state of unconsciousness.

“Wait here and I'll get you a new glass of punch.”

The only way Carolina would wait there was if thousand pound weights suddenly attached themselves to her ankles. It wasn't that Mr. Boyles was a bad sort. He was just tedious; and if she were made to endure his company much longer, she might blurt something unkind.

She made her way back across the room to where Marjorie stood alone in the corner.

She so desperately wished some gentleman would see fit to ask Marjorie to dance; then, the others might do the same. Carolina knew better than to ask any of her dance partners to ask Marjorie to dance though. Marjorie might not enjoy coming to this particular assembly each year, but she hated pity even more; and while Carolina's motives were inspired by anything but pity, Marjorie might not see them that way.

“You didn't have to come back,” Marjorie said.

“Nonsense. I wanted to.”

“You're a good friend, Carolina.” Her whispered words made Carolina's heart squeeze.

“And so are you.” No matter what others thought of Marjorie and her unfortunate situation, Carolina would always be her friend. Mounds of wealth and the nicest things money could buy wouldn't alter that. She craned her neck to see around the man right in front of her. “I think your mother is looking for you.”

“It's probably time for us to go,” Marjorie said, setting her empty glass on the window sill. “Our crops are ready to harvest, so we have to get back to the plantation early tomorrow.”

Carolina didn't know whether the part about the crops being ready was true or not, but she had no intention of embarrassing Marjorie by questioning the truth of her statement. “Very well; I hope you have a safe journey. Would it be all right if I came to see you when I return to the country?”

Marjorie bit her lip and a pale blush stole over her cheeks. “I'd love to see you, but...”

“Then it's settled,” Carolina said with a quick clap of her hands; grinning. “I'll come by to see you after I return.”

Marjorie shook her head. “You're impossible.”

“No, I'm a friend who cares about
you
. Not what you do and don't have, but you.”

“Very well. Come whenever you please then. I must be going.”

A somber feeling came over Carolina as she watched her friend's retreating back. Marjorie had pride, she knew that, but sometimes pride was a very damnable thing.

“The next reel is about to start.” said the familiar voice of Myron Cale.

Carolina turned to him and forced a thin smile. “Are you asking me to partner you?”

Myron chuckled and flashed his best grin. “Always so direct; that's what I love most about you!” He held his hand out to her. “Come, let's line up.”

Reluctantly, Carolina took her spot in the middle of the floor. Though Myron Cale, with his painfully firm grasp, wooden feet, and the ability to ramble for half an hour about absolutely nothing, was one of her least favorite dance partners, this reel was one of her absolute favorites, mainly because it moved too fast to allow an abundance of talking!

An assembly of house servants sat in the back corner. One was positioned at a black piano, two held crudely fashioned banjars, and one had a tambourine, ready to keep time.

For a brief moment, Carolina's heart lifted. Those four men were actually having fun. That was quite extraordinary considering the hard labor the field hands were subjected to on her father's plantation.

Two quick strums of the banjars rang out, followed by a series of fast notes on the piano and Carolina grasped the middle of her red satin and velvet skirt with her gloved hands and dipped.

One and two and three and four.
She moved her foot back, then kicked to the right, took a step left and slid to the back. In front of her, Myron mirrored her actions, a grin the size of a cotton bushel splitting his sun-beaten face.

The music sped up, and it was now time to be led around the room by the gentlemen. Enjoying the music and losing herself in the steps, she barely winced when Myron's callused hands took hold of her hand and waist. He marched her around the perimeter of the room, then through the aisle of parted couples, and then released her so they could take their respective places.

All around them, women wearing beautifully crafted ballgowns and men dressed in the tattered blue and red uniforms that had become the Colonial Militia official uniform in 1779 danced. But no one said a thing about the difference in dress, as only a fool would believe those beautiful gowns would have been possible without the sacrifice of those dressed in the filthy and torn blue jackets with the red lining that covered the stiff, tan field shirts General George Washington declared would be fitting for proper military uniforms for the Continental Army.

This event had become a tradition when one July night eleven years ago, Mr. and Mrs. Jeffery Brown had decided to host a ball to raise money for the militia group which had formed in South Carolina and subsequently joined the Colonial Militia to fight against the Redcoats for the Colonies' independence. Each July that followed, Mr. and Mrs. Brown opened their home
—
either their townhouse or their plantation home when the English had occupied Charleston
—
again to raise money and garner more support for the war effort.

It had been five years since the war ended, and yet each year, the tradition continued. But instead of raising money or recruiting men to fight, the event was now held to celebrate the returned and fallen heroes of South Carolina. Thus, the men who'd fought wore whatever articles of clothing they'd worn home from the war, and the ladies dressed in their finest to “welcome” them.

Of course, not all the gentlemen in attendance had fought, and neither had all the ladies been old enough to welcome their sweethearts back. But that mattered very little. It was a tradition
—
one that, as far as Carolina was concerned, would never fade. It was because of this unfailing tradition and Mr. Reynolds' prominent role in the war that Marjorie and her family had even bothered to venture away from their plantation and face the whispers.

The piano player quieted and the banjars got louder as the men once again partnered their ladies and danced them the other direction around the perimeter of the room. Carolina loved this part of the reel and hummed right along with the music.

“Yer lookin' mighty pretty tonight, Lina,” Myron said breathlessly. He released her waist in order to do the next move which was to lean back and allow her to spin, then he pulled her tightly to him again. “I want to talk to you about something really important.”