by Pam Hillman
Rumor had it that Bartholomew’s health was precarious at best. If the man should take sick and die, no one would think anything nefarious was afoot, would they? The poor man simply hadn’t recovered from his injuries after the fire.
As for Jonathan’s widow . . . she was young and beautiful, if a bit fragile. Her mourning period would be over soon. Gentlemen callers would swarm Breeze Hill in droves, and she’d be married and whisked away before the end of the year.
Leaving Breeze Hill and Isabella to him.
Yes, everything was working out much better than planned.
Connor motioned Isabella into a room at the far end of the hall.
He stepped across the threshold and eyed the humble quarters. A bed—small, but big enough for two in a pinch—took up more than half the space. A fireplace, a rickety table, and a chair filled the rest.
And a woman.
His heart pounded as Isabella faced him. He did not need to be here. Not with Isabella Bartholomew staring at him. Blindly, he turned toward the door and wrenched it open. He needed to leave.
Now.
He barreled straight into the innkeeper’s wife, bearing a tray with cheese, a bowl of vegetables and stew meat swimming in grease, and a hunk of bread.
“Bread and cheese for you and the lady.” She strained to see over his shoulder. “Will there be anything else?”
“That will be all. Thank you, and good night.” Connor blocked the room from her prying eyes, grabbed the tray, and shut the door in her face.
He turned to find Isabella standing in the middle of the room, looking lost and frightened and a lot like a drowned kitten. His gut instinct told him to set the tray on the table, turn tail, and run.
And he would. As soon as he built up the fire.
Like a bull charging a split-rail fence, he strode across the room and dropped the tray on the table, the clatter loud in the silence. Isabella jumped and wrapped her arms around her waist.
Connor whipped the cover off the bed and held it out. “Here. Wrap up before ya catch a chill.”
She clutched the quilt to her. He turned his back on her and fed the kindling in the fireplace. A rustling told him she’d finally come out of her stupor and done as he asked.
“You’d better eat.” He tossed a log on the fire.
Anything other than stand and stare at his back.
Connor willed the fire to take hold so he could leave and find somewhere safe.
“Connor?”
He froze, the husky tone of her voice bringing back memories. Memories better left in the dark recesses of his mind. He risked a glance in her direction and wished he hadn’t.
Curling strands of damp hair escaped their confinement and framed her face. “I apologize for taking off like that this afternoon. But you see, the babe is my brother’s first child.” She lowered her gaze, long lashes sweeping against pale cheeks. “Jonathan died five months ago.”
Connor let his breath out in a rush. What had he expected? The woman to launch herself at him like Potiphar’s wife? Like Charlotte? He shouldn’t judge her by the actions of another. On the other hand, he didn’t need to put himself in the way of temptation. What if Isabella Bartholomew turned out to be a temptress as well? Would he be able to withstand the lure of such a beautiful woman?
He bit back a groan. God, help me.
“I’m sorry for your loss. Losing a loved one is no’ easy.” He threw one last log on the fire and stood.
“It’s too soon for the babe to be born. My father isn’t well, and my sister-in-law needs me.” A sheen of moisture glistened on her lashes.
Tears. He’d lingered long enough. He edged toward the door. “Will you be all right? Do I need to call a maid?”
“I can manage.”
“Good.” He took three long strides and reached for the latch.
“Where are you going?”
The tremor in her voice nearly undid him. So much like Charlotte. Beautiful, beguiling, and utterly bewitching. And sweet, or so he’d believed. She’d baited her hook, caught and landed him.
Then gutted him when it suited her.
“I mean, those men.” A shudder shot through her words, and she glanced at the door. “Downstairs.”
He closed his eyes. He’d misjudged her again. All because of his own sordid past. Forgive me.
He’d insisted on stopping, but Miss Bartholomew had been right. They should never have entered the tavern, should never have mounted those stairs. He posed as much danger to her as the miscreants in the tavern below. He prayed they didn’t get it in their drunken heads to storm upstairs and violate his mistress.
And mistress she was, in the purest sense of the word. She owned his papers, making him honor-bound to protect her as mistress of the house, same as he would the master.
“I’ll be right outside the door, mistress. You’ll be safe.”
He prayed he could keep her safe.
Chapter 3
LONG BEFORE DAWN, Isabella was up, stoking the fire, donning her clothes, and wrapping the food she had been too worried to eat the night before. Cutthroats and thieves frequented Harper’s, not gentlemen farmers and certainly not ladies. Walking into the tavern had been one of the hardest things she’d ever done. But common sense told her it was foolish to ride along the trace behind three drunken men.
The faint rustling of movement and a light knock had her hurrying to the door. She rested the palm of her hand against the rough-hewn planks. “Yes?”
“Mistress Bartholomew?”
Her heart gladdened at the comforting sound of Connor’s Irish brogue, and she resisted the sudden urge to smooth her hair back. She’d done the best she could without a comb or other essentials for her toilet, but it couldn’t be helped. And besides, what did it matter how she looked to her indentured servant?
She quickly undid the latch and flung open the door, relieved to see his broad-shouldered bulk on the other side. He stood solid, looking no worse the wear from having spent the night outside her door.
“Top o’ the morning to ya, mistress.” He gave a short bow. “Looks like the rain has gone, and we’ll have a good day for travel. Are ya ready t’ be on our way?”
“Yes.” She grabbed the bundle of food, glad to be shaking the dust of the place off her boots. “I am more than ready.”
He chuckled at her enthusiastic response, lines bracketing his crooked grin. “Let’s be off, then.”
Her indentured servant turned out to be an enigma. He’d bucked her on the trail, determined to have his way. But tough as nails, he’d defended her downstairs at the risk of his own life. Then he’d watched over her, standing guard in the hallway all night long. In addition to giving orders. She followed him down the stairs and out of the inn, where he helped her mount. She could do worse than having Connor O’Shea as her escort and protector.
An hour down the road, Isabella’s stomach rumbled. Pressing a hand to her middle, she realized that if she hadn’t eaten, Connor probably hadn’t either. “Let’s stop and eat a bite. I brought the bread and cheese from last night.”
“You didn’t eat?”
“I wasn’t hungry.” She shrugged. He didn’t need to know that the raucous laughter from the tavern and worry over her sister-in-law tied her stomach in knots for most of the night.
He led the way off the trail to a secluded spot and helped her dismount. She settled on a fallen log. The storm had blown the clouds away and the temperature had risen along with the sun, promising another blistering hot day. She unwrapped the bundle, broke the bread in two, and offered Connor the larger piece.
“Thank you.” He hunkered down against a tree, facing the trail.
Isabella took a bite. The bread was a bit dry, but not bad, considering. She risked a glance at Connor. He ripped a piece of bread off with his teeth and chewed slowly, his eyes never leaving the trail, watching, always watching.
How long had it been since he’d eaten? It suddenly dawned on her that he’d paid for her room and h
er repast at the inn. He hadn’t asked for coins from her for either. For the good it would have done. Her pockets were as empty as her head—she’d left her purse in the carriage. She lowered her gaze, grateful for his interest in the road and the dappled shade that masked the blush stealing over her cheeks.
“You’re not eating.”
“Just . . . thinking.” So much for being ignored. “Connor?”
One eyebrow arched in question.
“I need to apologize. I shouldn’t have rushed off toward home like I did.” She tore a piece of bread from the chunk in her hand. “If you hadn’t come after me, I shudder to think what might have happened.”
He nodded. “My pleasure, mistress.”
Isabella sighed, wishing he’d dispense with the formality. “Just because I’m admitting my mistake doesn’t mean we should have stopped at Harper’s, though.”
He stared at her, then looked away, a muscle in his jaw clenching. “It was no’ a place for a lady, that’s for sure.”
“Apology accepted.”
“That was an apology?”
She shrugged, trying not to smile at his consternation. “If I choose to take it as such.”
“Very well, then. You may take it any way that suits your fancy.” He leaned down, offering her his hand. Dappled sunlight played across his sun-darkened features, and a mischievous gleam emanated from his eyes. “But don’t be expecting such too often.”
Isabella let him pull her up, her gaze searching his.
“I’ll do well to remember that, sir.”
Connor turned away, wanting to kick himself.
He’d trifled with Isabella Bartholomew. And an indentured servant did not toy with the gentry. Maybe the Bartholomews weren’t gentry, such as those in Ireland and Carolina, and maybe Isabella wasn’t anything like Charlotte, but he’d be willing to bet the Blarney stone her father was. There could never be anything between the two of them other than master and servant.
And he’d do well to remember that.
He helped her mount, being careful not to linger long.
In spite of the distance he tried to put between them, she chattered on about how they’d be able to make better time because of the break in the weather.
“I hope Leah is all right. It’s her first child, you know.”
Connor mumbled a reply and mounted his own horse, leading the way along the shadowed path. As soon as they reached the road, she rode up beside him, her horse keeping pace with his.
“I understand from the agreement that you have several brothers. Any sisters?”
“No.”
She looked away, the hurt obvious. She grew silent when the trail dipped into a dark recess worn away by years of travel. They continued on without speaking.
Connor kept his focus on the trail and the dense undergrowth closing in around them. He’d succeeded in pushing her away, but he didn’t have to like it. She was simply trying to find out more about his family, and if the Bartholomew family was going to be responsible for bringing his brothers to America, the more sympathetic they were to his plight, the more likely they’d hold up their end of the agreement.
Inwardly sighing, he offered an olive branch. “Mam birthed the five of us lads before passing on.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Her voice had lost some of its friendly warmth. That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it? To push her away so there would be no confusion about where they stood.
“She’s been gone seven years. Da followed her to his grave three months later.”
“You miss them.”
Shimmering pain slammed into him. He should have been there when his mam passed over. Should have been there when Da simply gave up and left his brothers to fend for themselves. Instead, he’d been banished to America because of his foolish dalliance with a woman above his station.
And just like the prodigal’s father, Da had offered his forgiveness, but Connor couldn’t forgive himself.
He shrugged, trying to make light of something that clawed at him daily. “Best to put it out o’ my mind and forget about it.”
He didn’t offer any more about his past but guided his horse up a muddy incline, rife with slick mud. The animal slipped, scrambling to keep her footing. The incline leveled off, and Connor reined in, glancing back. “Careful here. Don’t be breaking your horse’s leg now.”
When Isabella topped the incline, she paused, giving her horse a breather. Her gaze caught his, frown lines puckering her forehead. “I apologize if I’ve offended you by asking about your family. I was simply passing the day in a pleasant manner.”
“Speaking o’ the dead is not a pleasant way to pass time, if ya don’t mind me sayin’ so, lass.”
Hurt slashed across her face. He’d been too harsh, but he didn’t soften the words with an apology. He reined away, and they rode the rest of the way in silence, Connor putting more emotional distance between them with each passing mile.
The sun was high in the sky by the time they neared a cutoff. They passed over a wooden bridge spanning a gently flowing creek with pine and oak trees standing tall and true. He spotted a cluster of buildings in the distance.
“This is Breeze Hill?”
“Yes.” Isabella nudged her horse forward and he followed.
Aptly named, a modest but stately plantation home sat atop the hill beneath the shade of a dozen or more moss-draped cedars. Painted white with black shutters, the home boasted eight, no, ten white columns supporting a smaller second story with its own gallery and a spindled widow’s walk from one end of the house to the other.
A wide porch ran the length of the first floor, which had at least four rooms, two on each side of the front door with its fanlight and matching sidelights. From the front, Breeze Hill was an impressive sight, with no sign of the damage Miss Bartholomew had mentioned.
They rode right up to the front door, and her almond-shaped dark eyes rested on him when he helped her dismount, but he didn’t make eye contact. Now that they were here, he’d probably rarely see her. It would be best in the long run. Better for him to stick to the role of indentured servant.
Starting now.
He took the reins of both horses. “I’ll find the stables, mistress.”
She nodded, turned, and hurried into the house without a backward glance. Connor watched her go. He should feel relieved that she thought him cold and unfeeling.
Instead, he felt lower than a sunken flatboat foundering at the bottom of the Mississippi.
“Isabella, dear, you look a fright.”
“I came immediately.” Isabella knelt by her sister-in-law’s chair, taking both her hands in her own. “Are you all right? The babe? Are you in pain?”
“Susan says it was a false alarm.” Leah eyed Isabella’s travel-stained clothes and disheveled hair. “Surely the Wainwright party didn’t ride home in that thunderstorm last evening?”
“No. We stopped at an inn on the way.” Isabella looked away, hoping her sister-in-law wouldn’t ask what inn or who all had been in their party. The whole incident with Connor O’Shea might not bode well for her if word got out that they’d made the trip together, alone, even though everything had been aboveboard and totally innocent.
He’d teased her about putting her life in danger by insisting they stop at Harper’s, but then he’d grown colder as the miles passed, barely responding to her questions about his family. He’d shut her out completely when she tried to apologize.
“I’m glad the boys met you on the trail and that Mr. Wainwright decided to wait out the storm.” She smiled brightly. “All’s well that ends well.”
Relief at finding Leah and the babe all right overshadowed the exasperation that her sister-in-law had sent for her at the first sign of a twinge. “I’m just thankful you and the babe are all right. How’s Papa?”
Leah bit her lip, looking a bit like a lost child. “I’m sorry, Isabella. I haven’t seen him since you left, what with the scare with the baby and all.”
Is
abella sighed. Leah blamed her avoidance of her father-in-law on her delicate condition. In some ways, Isabella sympathized with her, but her father’s burns proved how much he loved them all. He’d saved Leah’s life at the risk of his own. She loved her sweet sister-in-law to distraction, but sometimes she wondered exactly what Jonathan had seen in Leah.
Guilt assaulted her. She shouldn’t second-guess her brother’s love for Leah. What did she know of their feelings for each other? They’d enjoyed such a short time together, and it wasn’t her place to judge whether he’d made a good marriage or not.
She patted Leah’s hand. “That’s all right, darling. The baby’s welfare is the important thing.”
“Thank you for understanding.” Leah brightened, as if she’d been afraid of a reprimand. “Did you find a carpenter?”
“Yes, I did.”
Leah clapped. “How exciting. I can’t wait until the wing is repaired.”
“I’m going to check on Papa now. Would you like to go with me?”
“I’m still feeling a bit queasy. Maybe later . . .” Leah placed a hand on her stomach. She’d been sick with grief over Jonathan’s death, and so it had taken weeks to realize she suffered from a new, different malady: the nausea and vomiting that often accompanied pregnancy. Gradually the knowledge she carried Jonathan’s child pulled her from the darkness she’d burrowed in for months.
“As you wish.”
Isabella hurried upstairs to change before she saw her father. He had enough to worry about without wondering at her whereabouts for the last twenty-four hours. She could only pray the knowledge wouldn’t reach him.
An hour later she eased into his bedroom, not wanting to wake him if he slept. To her surprise, she found him sitting up in bed, pillows supporting his back.
“Papa.” She rushed to his side.
“You look tired.” He reached out one hand, red, puckered, and drawn. She wrapped it in both of hers, being careful of the tender flesh. His eyes, bright and clearer than they’d been since the fire, stared at her from his ravaged face.
