"What do you mean, again? I haven't released any publicity featuring Maddox Hill."
Brett took a deep breath to try to calm down. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout at you, but if I don't protect my family's rights, no one else will. Seeing Maddox Hill mentioned in the newspapers my father receives periodically will upset him. I want to prevent that."
Darren stared at her intently for several seconds. "Sam didn't tell you I've written to your father, did he?"
Brett felt as though she were sliding faster and faster into a deep pit where the only light was made by flashbulbs, the only sound sirens blaring.
She didn't know she'd swayed until Darren called her name. She opened her eyes, only then realizing she'd made her own darkness by shutting them.
"Dammit, Miss Southern. You're white as a sheet."
"Leave my father alone, Mr. Fentress," she said tightly. "If you have an ounce of decency, you will let him be."
Intent on getting away from him, she turned to walk around the fender of her car, but Darren grabbed her arm.
"Don't leave, Miss Southern. Sam will want to talk to you. I'm sorry if you don't approve of me contacting Dr. Southern, but he can be a big help to us."
"My father was dangerously depressed after my mother's death, Mr. Fentress. The only thing that saved his sanity was getting away from Maddox Hill and all the reminders of the woman he loved more than life itself. He's finally gained some peace and you want to drag him back to the pain."
Darren swore under his breath. "Sam's going to want my head on a platter. He told me to let him handle any dealings with you. I should have listened to him."
"You would be wise to listen to me, Mr. Fentress. Arrange for a message to be relayed to my father by radio and tell him to discard any previous correspondence. Add that his daughter is taking care of everything as she promised." Brett grabbed the front of his shirt in her fist. "Am I making myself clear?"
"Any clearer and I'd have a black eye," Darren said in a wavering voice. "Would you ease up on your grip, Miss Southern? I used to have hair on my chest."
Brett released him and stepped back.
She gazed up at the crowd of people making their way down the hill toward the Sunken Road. Sam must have sensed his partner was looking in his direction, because Brett saw him turn toward the parking lot.
Darren raised his hand and gestured for Sam to join them. She couldn't see Sam's eyes, but she knew the moment he saw her. His gaze was like a caress on her skin.
Sam spoke briefly to the people he was with, then separated from the group to walk toward her and Darren. Her attention was on Sam, and she didn't see the photographer following Sam's progress with his camera. Darren did, however.
"Miss Southern," he said quietly. "Since you have a thing about publicity, I suggest you go to the visitors' center and wait inside. There's a small auditorium where they show a presentation of the battle of Fredericksburg to visitors before they take the walking tour. The room should be empty now. If you'll wait in there, I'll send Sam in, and you can talk to him privately."
Brett caught a glimpse of the photographer and his video camera. She looked back at Darren. "Thank you, Mr. Fentress. I would prefer not to be on the evening news."
"No wonder Sam is intrigued by you," Darren said as though speaking his thoughts aloud. "Most women like all the attention they get when they're with him."
Brett didn't comment. Mr. Fentress had just given her another reason not to become involved with Sam Horne, besides self-preservation, common sense, and a healthy desire for privacy. The last thing she wanted was to be the center of attraction for gossips and reporters, who to her were often the same thing. She walked away from Sam's partner and went into the visitors' center.
The room Darren had directed her to was dimly lighted with spotlights on a map on the far wall depicting battle lines of the Confederate and the Union regiments. Brett sank down on one of the metal folding chairs in the last row and waited.
The door eventually opened and closed, but she didn't bother looking around to see if the person entering was Sam. She knew it was he. The air around her had become electrified.
He sat down on the chair beside her, stretching his long legs out in front of him and leaning back. He didn't say a word.
Brett had been prepared for one of his demanding questions. When she didn't get one, she glanced in his direction.
His eyes met hers, his expression intensely serious instead of his usual amused manner. For several long minutes they simply looked at each other.
Sam finally spoke. "Darren is a good friend and a damn good producer, but sometimes he forgets he's dealing with people who have feelings instead of bankbooks for hearts. I'm sorry he upset you."
In a flat, unemotional voice, she said, "Tell Mr. Fentress to leave my father alone, and I'll sign whatever papers you want."
Shock rolled off Sam in waves. "Just like that? Why?"
"You're getting your way, Sam. The whole purpose of contacting my father was to ask for his help in persuading me to change my mind, wasn't it? Well, you accomplished your goal. I've changed my mind. Send the papers to my lawyer's office, and I'll sign them."
Getting to her feet, she turned her back to him and started to leave.
Sam moved quickly to stop her, clamping his long fingers around her wrist. "Dammit, Brett. You can't just announce you've changed your mind and then walk away like that."
She tried to pry his fingers away from her arm. "I could if you would take your hand off me."
"Tell me why you caved in so easily."
She stared at him, fury whirling through her. "Easily? What makes you think this is easy?" Emotion made her voice quaver. "I respond the same way anyone else would to blackmail. I'm making the payoff."
"What the hell are you talking about?" he asked. He brought both hands up to her shoulders to hold her still. "You're crazy, woman. No one is blackmailing or threatening you. Certainly not me or Darren."
"Your partner just told me he wrote to my father."
"He did. But Darren wasn't asking your father to help us change your mind about using Maddox Hill. He was consulting Dr. Southern to confirm some historical facts about the plantation. Since your father wrote a book about its history, we thought he could save us time and energy if we asked him a few things. We need to verify a couple of changes that have been made inside the house. Our research department hasn't come up with whether the wood panels in the great hall were put in before or after the War Between the States. Your father is a well-known historian and lives on the plantation. Who better to check out our information than he?"
Brett stopped struggling. The only thing she was accomplishing was forcing Sam to tighten his grip and making a fool of herself. "Tell your partner to look somewhere else for his facts. I don't want my father bothered with anything involving Maddox Hill."
"Why not? Dammit, Brett, you aren't making any sense."
She knew Sam well enough by now to realize he wouldn't give up until he had the answers he wanted. She decided to give them to him.
"Can you spare an hour right now?"
He narrowed his eyes and looked closely at her. "If it's important, sure. Why?"
"I wish you'd stop asking why all the time. It's irritating."
"If you explained yourself better, I wouldn't have to."
"If you want to know why I've been so intent on keeping you away from Maddox Hill, you'll have to come with me. I can explain everything better there."
"We're going to your plantation?"
"Yes."
With some effort, Sam bit back the urge to ask her what she wanted to show him. This time he would go along for the ride, and not badger her to explain why they were going to the plantation when she'd been so adamant about keeping him away. Perhaps at the end of the trip, he would have some answers.
He didn't even complain when he had to cram his long legs into the front seat of her compact car after he told Darren he would be gone for a couple of hours
. Sam hoped they got to the plantation quickly, or he might never be able to walk again.
It was a quick drive, although they were on Brett's property for five minutes or so before they approached some of the outbuildings that had been a stable, a smokehouse, two barns, and a laundry house. A greenhouse had been built about fifty years earlier with the house's original style of construction in mind. A conservatory design had been used rather than a modern glass-and-steel frame. Camouflaged by shrubbery and trees, the brick-and-glass hothouse fit into the general time period.
Instead of driving up to the impressive front portico with its solid cypress columns, Brett bypassed the circular driveway that was used by the public. She drove along the side of the brown sandstone mansion, then turned onto a narrow road that ran behind the separate cookhouse and led to the rear entrance of the house. She stopped the car in a small graveled area where two other cars were parked and got out.
Sam did the same, managing to untangle his legs and maneuver his long length out of the front seat without turning into a pretzel. As he walked around the back of the car, he was pleased to be able to stretch his legs. He stopped abruptly when he saw that Brett was staring up at one of the second-story windows. The look of utter despair on her face made him want to reach for her, to comfort her from whatever pain she was feeling. The knowledge that she wouldn't welcome his touch right now held him back, and he was surprised by the hurt he felt knowing she wouldn't want his support. Lifting his gaze to the same window, he saw only the reflection of the sky on the glass panes and a sketchy glimpse of dark drapes tied back to allow light into the room.
Brett pushed her private demons aside and glanced at Sam. "Have you taken the tour through the house yet?"
He nodded. "Several times."
She started walking toward the flagstone patio surrounding one of the back entrances. "The area of the house I'm going to show you is off-limits to the public. Unless you and your staff ducked under the ropes cordoning off the private sections of the house, you wouldn't have seen the room on the second floor that we're going to."
Slanting a grin in her direction, he asked, "How did you know we wandered into forbidden territory?"
"Lucky guess," she said dryly as she opened the door and led the way into the house. "The kitchen was originally in the square building we passed. The ladies' auxiliary that maintains the volunteers and the upkeep of the house and grounds has restored the cookhouse so it resembles the original."
They entered a modern kitchen with an assortment of up-to-date appliances and a rectangular wooden table where three older women were sitting with a cup of coffee or tea in front of them. Brett was greeted warmly by the women, who then gave Sam curious glances.
Starting with the lady seated closest to her, Brett introduced Sam. "Mrs. Arthur, Mrs. Pierce, and Miss Norville, this is Sam Horne, the director of the battle of Fredericksburg documentary. I'm sure you've heard of the documentary being filmed in the area. Sam, these three ladies are the backbone of Maddox Hill. Without them, the flowers wouldn't bloom, there wouldn't be any volunteer guides, the dust would be three inches thick on all the furnishings, and the repairs wouldn't be made on the drapes and the linens. Mrs. Arthur lives in the house and is in charge of housekeeping. Mrs. Pierce and Miss Norville are members of the auxiliary that maintains the house and the grounds."
All three women were on the gentle side of sixty but not too old to appreciate a charming smile from an attractive man. Mrs. Arthur and Mrs. Pierce shook Sam's hand, and Miss Norville, a maiden lady, blushed deeply, shyly extending her hand when it was her turn.
Sam followed Brett's lead by making polite conversation with the three women for a few minutes. If Brett was in a rush to show him whatever it was she'd brought him to Maddox to see, she gave no sign of impatience as the three women engaged her in a discussion of decorations they were preparing for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Unlike many of the other historical houses, Maddox Hill remained open all year round rather than close for the winter. In keeping with tradition, the holiday decorations were made of natural materials available on the property. Miss Norville got into a lukewarm disagreement with Mrs. Arthur about the use of holly over magnolia leaves, and Brett settled the matter by suggesting they use both.
A continuous thumping sound coming from a dog bed in the corner of the room drew Brett's attention away from the women to the dog that was wagging his tail.
"I see Ashley is his usual peppy self," she said.
Mrs. Arthur chuckled. "One of the volunteers said Ashley was frightened by a gray squirrel when he was sitting under a tree. He's been in his bed ever since."
Brett walked over to the large dog bed arranged at an angle in the corner. Kneeling, she cupped the tan-and-white bassett hound's droopy face in her hands.
"Poor Ashley. You're running out of places to go where nothing will scare you." She fondled his long ears and was rewarded by a moist tongue licking her hand. "Yes, I know you love me, Ashley, because you know I make sure you have all your creature comforts like a true southern gentleman should have."
The dog made a whining sound when she stood, but couldn't muster up the energy to follow her when she returned to the table.
Brett made their excuses and led Sam out of the kitchen. When she stopped abruptly halfway down the hallway, he had to put his hands out to steady her as he bumped into her.
"Could you say something next time you plan to stop unexpectedly, or maybe make a hand signal? I nearly ran over you." His gaze switched from her face to her hand, which she had placed on the carved wood paneling that ran the length of the hallway. "What are you doing?"
"Just be patient," she murmured, amusement warming her voice. "All will be revealed eventually. You're going to like this."
She pushed against part of the paneling, and a scant second later something clicked, clunked, then made a soft dragging sound.
Sam stared in fascination as a hidden door swung open, revealing a set of dark narrow stairs leading upward. His curiosity had him stopping near the entrance to examine the wood carving that contained the mechanism that tripped the catch. He knew the approximate area where Brett had placed her hand, but he hadn't seen which part of the wall she'd pressed in order to activate the door.
"How does this work?"
"I had a feeling this would appeal to you," she said. "We could have simply used the regular staircase, but I couldn't resist throwing in a little drama."
"Throw in some more. Show me how this door works."
Standing on the first step inside the secret passage, Brett reached to the wall on her right. "I'll close the door behind me. Press the only acorn still hanging on the tree that's about five inches from your hand, and the door will open again."
Sam watched as the panel closed almost silently between them. Following her instructions, he pressed the acorn and grinned when the door opened again.
Brett was halfway up the stairs, shining a flashlight beam on the steps in front of her. "I know you'd like to stay and play with the door, but right now I want to show you something while I still think it's a good idea."
Sam had to duck to prevent bashing his head into the top of the small doorway. "How do I close this thing from inside?"
"There's a lever that's located about eye level for me, so it would be chest level for you." Her voice seemed eerily disembodied as she gave him the directions. "Pull the lever down and the door will close. Push it up and the door will open."
Sam closed the panel, but the temptation to play with the mechanism was too strong to ignore. He made it open again. A scene began to form in his mind about how they could use the hidden passage in the film.
A distant voice scolded him out of the shadowy darkness. "Sam, you can play with that later." Brett directed the flashlight on the steps directly in front of him. "You might want to duck your head as you come up the stairs. This passage wasn't built with tall people in mind."
Two seconds after her warning, she heard a thud followed by a muffled s
wear word. Smiling to herself, she continued up the stairs. One of these days he was going to believe her when she told him something.
"Was this passage built when the original house was constructed or added later?"
"The construction of the main house was started in 1812, but it wasn't finished until five years later because Roland Maddox, the first owner, kept making changes in the plans. He's mentioned in the family archives as being some-what eccentric, with a generous helping of paranoia. The secret chambers came in handy during the War Between the States. My ancestors managed to store some of the family valuables and food in them before the Union soldiers occupied the plantation after the battle of Fredericksburg."
Sam was about to ask about the other hidden passages when he heard the sound of gears grinding softly. Looking up, he saw Brett silhouetted in a patch of light as another door opened in front of her. Taking the remaining stairs two at a time, he was only a few seconds behind her when she stepped into a room.
Sam watched her walk over to a vanity table where a number of powders and creams were stored in crystal decanters arranged on a mirrored tray. The contents of the containers were probably responsible for the perfumed scent of the room, he guessed as he let his gaze roam around the bedroom. There was a closed-in, musty odor under the flowery fragrances, although the furniture was completely free of dust, indicating the room was cleaned regularly.
As Sam looked around the room his attention was caught by a portrait hanging above the mantel of the fireplace. Stepping closer, he stared at a woman who looked back at him with Brett's stunning eyes.
"That's my mother, Melanie Maddox Southern," Brett said unnecessarily. "This was her bedroom."
Sam knew from their research on Maddox Hill that Brett's mother had died the previous year. He hadn't seen a need at the time to investigate Mrs. Southern's death since it didn't have any effect on his filming. Now he wondered if that had been a mistake.
"Your mother was very beautiful," he said quietly.
Brett walked over to him and looked up at the portrait. "Yes, she was. On the inside as well as the outside. The sparkle of excitement you see in her eyes isn't just a dab of paint added by the artist. It's a true expression of her spirit. She had a joy deep inside that seemed to radiate from her, touching everyone who knew her. She used to find pleasure in the simplest things—a walk in the woods in the rain, searching for four-leaf clovers, a drop of dew on a leaf. She made sure whoever was with her saw the same wonder in everything that she saw."
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