Ren leaned back on the wagon seat, letting the sun bathe his face. Ah, the Caribbean. Land of rum, risk and apparently a little insanity, too.
Waiting was driving her insane! Emma Ward took yet another long look at the clock on the corner of her desk. He should be here by now, Mr Fifty-One Per Cent. If he was coming. Emma idly shuffled the papers in front of her. They could have been written in Arabic for all she’d been able to focus on them today. Emma left the desk and began to pace, a far better use of her energies than staring at a paper.
Was she technically even waiting? Waiting assumed he was actually coming. What she really wanted to know was at what point could she stop waiting and be confident in the knowledge that he wasn’t coming at all?
Her nerves were a wreck and they had been every mail day since Albert Merrimore’s death. That meant she’d gone through this uncertainty for four months. Was this the day she got the letter saying Merrimore’s cousin was coming? Or worse, would it be the day he actually showed up? Anything could happen. His ship could have been delayed, he could have been personally delayed and that was if he’d decided to come at all. It was just as likely he could have rethought the notion of coming halfway around the world simply to see his property when his profits didn’t depend on whether he saw the place or not. Most gentlemen wouldn’t bestir themselves if it wasn’t required, especially since there was some risk involved. Who was she fooling? Not some risk. A lot of risk, starting with an ocean voyage. Ships went down even in the modern age of steam.
Emma scolded herself for such a morbid thought. It wasn’t that she wished he was dead, merely marooned, her conscience clarified. It was possible his ship could founder and he could float to safety on an overturned table. For four months, she’d got her wish. How much longer before she could safely assume her wish had been granted on a more permanent basis? She didn’t wish Mr Fifty-One Per Cent dead, she just wished he weren’t here.
She had to stop calling him that. He had a name. It had been in the will and a terribly stuffy name at that. Renford Dryden. An old man’s name. But of course, what sort of relations did dear old Merry have if not old ones? Merry had been in his late eighties. A cousin couldn’t be expected to be much younger. Even twenty years younger would put him in his sixties. Which perplexed her further—why a man of advanced years would want to make such a dangerous trip that would only serve to disrupt both of their lives? Perhaps he wouldn’t come at all. Perhaps she would be safe on that front at least.
Emma wanted nothing more than to grow her sugar cane in peace and independence without the interference of men. After everything she’d been through, it wasn’t too much to ask. Men had never gone well for her, starting with her father and ending with a debacle of a marriage. The only man who’d done well by her had been old Merry and now she had his relative to contend with. She couldn’t stop him from coming, but she didn’t have to make it easy should that be his choice.
She’d already begun the campaign. She’d not written to him when she could have, explaining the situation when the solicitor had sent word to England. She’d feared a letter would be viewed as a personal invitation, as encouragement to come when that was the last thing she wanted. She hadn’t sent the wagon into town on mail day these past months to see if anyone had arrived.
Guilt began to gnaw again. If he had arrived on this packet, she’d left an ageing man to fend for himself in the foreign heat. It was poorly done of her. She should have sent someone into town just to check. That was her conscience talking. She should tell Samuel to get the wagon ready and go to enquire about the mail. Emma glanced again at the clock, the knot in her stomach starting to ease. It was getting late. The threat had almost passed for another two weeks. If he was coming, he would be here by...
‘Miss! Miss!’ Hattie, one of the downstairs maids, rushed into the office, hardly attempting any pretence of decorum in her excitement. ‘It’s him, it’s our Mr Dryden! I’m sure of it. He is coming and that rascal Mr Kitt is with him!’
‘Kitt Sherard? Are you certain?’ What would the local scoundrel of a rum runner have to do with a man in his dotage? Sherard was the last person she’d want Renford Dryden to meet. Emma stopped before the mirror hung over the side table to check her appearance. Sherard was only one step above a pirate. ‘I hope he hasn’t got our guest drunk already.’ Emma muttered, tucking up a few errant stands of hair.
She wanted to make a good impression on all accounts. She had plans for that good impression and Kitt Sherard did not qualify as part of it. Emma was counting on that impression to convince Mr Dryden to sell his interest to her or, at the very least, to sail back to England secure in the knowledge that his money was in good hands, which was mostly true, she was just a bit short on funds right now. The harvest would change that.
She would gladly trade some profits for independence. The autonomy of the last four months had given her a taste of what it would be like to be on her own, to be free. She was loath to relinquish even an iota of that liberty or responsibility.
‘Do I look all right, Hattie?’ Emma smoothed the skirts of her aquamarine gown, one of her favourites. ‘Are they out front?’
‘They’re pulling up just now, miss. You look fine.’ Hattie gave her a saucy wink. ‘After two weeks on a ship, I think anything would look fine to a gent like him.’
Emma gave a dry chuckle. ‘I’m not sure that’s a compliment, Hattie.’ Satisfied with her appearance, Emma set out to meet Dryden with a brisk step as if her presence could undo any damage that had already been done. The sooner Dryden was free of Sherard, the better.
She was a little breathless in her eagerness and anxiety by the time she reached the covered porch. This was the moment she both feared and welcomed. At last, the future could begin now that Dryden was here. Perhaps, she thought optimistically, that future would be better than the limbo she’d been living in. If she could manage an entire plantation, she could certainly manage one old man.
The wagon pulled to a halt in front of the steps and she saw the flaw in her hypothesis immediately. Renford Dryden wasn’t an old man, not even a middle-aged one, but an astonishingly handsome young one. The man who jumped down from the wagon seat was certainly able bodied if those wide shoulders and long legs were anything to go on. So much for trying to caution him about the rigours of island life. He certainly looked as if he was up for it and much more.
Emma shot Hattie a sharp look that said: Why didn’t you tell me? But she supposed Hattie had warned her in her own way. She should have known something was amiss the moment Kitt Sherard’s name entered the conversation. Now she saw what it was. Up close, Renford Dryden was six feet plus of muscle topped with thick honey-blond hair and sharp blue eyes set above a strong, straight nose. He mounted the steps, oozing confidence and growing taller with each step he took. Still, he was a man and men could be managed, must be managed.
Emma took a deep breath. She needed to begin as she meant to go on. Men who weren’t managed had run roughshod over her life to date and she was done with them. Emma held out her hand to greet him as if he was precisely what she’d expected. ‘Welcome to Sugarland, Mr Dryden. We are so glad to see you.’ She hoped he couldn’t hear the lie.
His grip was firm as his hand curled around hers, sending a jolt of awareness through her. His eyes riveted on her, making her aware of the male presence of him. Never had a simple handclasp seemed so intimate. ‘I am so very glad to be here, Miss Ward.’ Was that a touch of irony she heard? Did he suspect she hadn’t been entirely truthful?
There was no chance to verify the impression. In the next moment she was very nearly lost. Renford Dryden smiled, dimple and all. It was a most wicked smile that invited the mind to imagine all sorts of pleasantly sinful things without