settle for questionable matches simply because only men of dubious character would take them; of watching the estates dwindle into disrepair for lack of funds to fix roofs and replace failing furniture; of watching the tenants move off the land one by one looking for more lucrative fields.
Genteel poverty was a slow social death sentence. He would not go easily down that road. He would fight it with every resource he had for the sake of his family. Even if he could afford to leave Sugarland, which he couldn’t, even if his family wasn’t depending on his success here, which they were, this was his fifty-one per cent and more—this was his future. He was here to stay. Both practice and principle demanded it.
Ren Dryden couldn’t stay! Emma slid deep into the soapy bubbles of her bath. Watching him manage the fire today had been proof enough of that. He’d done a good job, stepping in at a moment’s notice. Too good of a job. He’d been a natural leader the way he’d formed the bucket brigade and then joined in, working alongside the others. Perhaps he’d been afraid it was his fifty-one per cent on fire, Emma thought uncharitably, soaping her arms. The men had respected him, too. She’d seen it in their faces when he’d given orders. He was not what she needed—a man with enough charisma to usurp her years of hard work.
That was exactly what would happen if he knew the truth of things. She’d desperately wanted to paint a picture of idyllic prosperity, that all was well in the hopes of convincing Ren Dryden there nothing to do here. He might as well go home. Then the chicken coop had exploded, the obeah doll had shown up and Gridley had nearly let the rest of the cat out of the bag with his ‘poor Emma’ remark. If Dryden thought his investment was in danger, she’d never dislodge him. He’d shown today that he was a protector by nature and protectors were warriors by necessity. They would fight for the things they cared about.
Heat that had nothing to do with the bath water began to simmer low at her core. Such a man was intoxicating, his strength a potent attractant and how she’d been attracted! She’d been poignantly aware of him today even amid the crisis. Her eye had followed him throughout the afternoon, her gaze drawn to the rolled-up sleeves and the flex of his arms hauling the buckets, to the ash smearing his jaw, the blaze of his eyes as he barked orders. There’d been the feel of him behind her on the horse, all muscle as his power surrounded her.
There was an intimacy about riding astride with a man, about being captured between the power of his thighs, nestled against his groin, home to more intimate items. It was a position Dryden had been comfortable with. He’d not thought twice about the potential indelicacy of drawing her close against him. It suggested he was a man comfortable and confident with his body, a man who would be good at a great many things, bed included.
Oh, it was poorly done of her to harbour such thoughts about her guest, especially when she wanted that guest to leave. She suspected she wasn’t the only woman who’d entertained the idea of bed with Ren Dryden. He was the sort who could conjure up all sorts of hot thoughts with a single look, a single touch.
That makes him dangerous! her more logical side asserted. He was particularly dangerous to a woman like herself, who valued her independence, who didn’t want to be protected. Protection meant sheltering, shielding. She wanted neither. If she wasn’t careful, Ren Dryden would undermine all she was simply because it was in his nature to do so. Her best interests required she stay the course—ignore him when possible and when it wasn’t, resist.
In the meanwhile, she needed to continue life as usual. That meant praying her workers showed up and firing the fields tomorrow as planned in preparation for the harvest.
Firing the fields! Emma shot up in her bath, sending water and suds splashing on the tile floor. She should have told Ren. It was too late. She’d already effectively said goodnight with her dismissal and going to him now would require getting dressed. She wasn’t about to traipse through the house in her dressing robe. Ren might believe she’d rethought her welcome and that certainly wasn’t what she wanted. Ren Dryden was a spark she couldn’t risk igniting.
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
