by Pam Hillman
As if he regretted kissing her, holding her, letting himself get close to her.
She felt the impact as his gaze raked her from head to toe; then he lowered his eyes. “Make yourself presentable, mistress.”
Isabella gasped, turned away, and swiped at the grime that coated her dress. But it was no use. The only saving grace was that the garment was a plain dark-brown material that covered a multitude of sins and a lot of dirt and dust. Her hair was a different matter altogether. She’d lost most of her pins in the melee. Finally she twisted her hair up as best she could and secured the dark mass under her bonnet, thankful the wide, stiff brim would hide her features from passersby.
When she’d repaired as much of the damage as possible, she turned back to Connor. Without looking at her, he motioned for her to precede him down the alley. “After you, mistress.”
Tears pricked her eyes, and she lifted her skirts and turned away, blindly walking toward Mrs. Simson’s shop two streets over. She wanted to confront Connor, ask him why he kept her at arm’s length with one hand but pulled her close and held her tenderly with the other.
But she dared not ask.
She wasn’t sure she really wanted to know the answer.
Chapter 22
TIRED OF BEING cooped up inside, William insisted on leaving his sickbed. Isabella accompanied him to the porch so they could catch the afternoon breeze off the river.
Mrs. Butler arranged a mound of pillows behind him. “Master William, don’t you think you should wait a few more days before going back to the plantation? The road is so rough, and the carriage—”
“Now, Nanny, don’t fret yourself.” William reached for her hand and kissed the back of it. “Everything will be fine. Father and Connor took the carriage to the smithy’s not an hour past to make sure it’s in tip-top shape.”
Mrs. Butler pressed her lips together, sniffed, and plumped one of the pillows.
“Besides, Isabella will be in the carriage with me.” William winked at her. “She’ll make sure I’m all right.”
“Oh, I don’t need to ride in the carriage.”
“Of course you will. I wouldn’t dream of riding in all that comfort while you bounce along on a farm wagon.”
“Since you put it that way—” Isabella smiled, then inclined her head—“I accept.”
“Well, if that’s the case, I’d better start packing your things.” Mrs. Butler beamed at them both. “And cooking. You’ll need nourishment for the journey. Heaven knows what your father will feed you on the way home.”
She turned to go, but William called her back.
“Nanny, the girls would never forgive me if I didn’t bring home a batch of your freshly baked tea cakes.”
“Of course you should take some, Master William, and some lemon squares as well. It’ll be a treat for Mistress Wainwright and your sisters.”
When Mrs. Butler left, Isabella shook her head. “She spoils you rotten.”
“Always has.” He chuckled, reached up, plucked one of the pillows from behind him, and tossed it on a nearby rocker. “Always will. Don’t know what we’d do without Nanny. She’s more like a member of the family than a servant.”
“And she’s ready for grandchildren.”
William’s gaze cut to hers. “Really?”
“Really. She mentioned it the other day. Specifically said that you should get married and have children.”
“She did, did she?” William rubbed his chin, looking askance at her. “She didn’t have anyone in mind?”
“Not that I know of.” Isabella tried to keep the smile that squirmed on her lips from showing. Could she get him to admit his feelings for Leah? “Lemonade?”
“No thank you.” He stared at the river, a frown on his face.
Isabella poured herself a glass of the tart liquid and took a sip. “I’m confident there’s any number of eligible young ladies who’d jump at the chance to become your bride.”
“But not you?”
Isabella sputtered, almost spewing lemonade all over her dress. Surely William didn’t have feelings for her. No, he loved Leah. She was positive. She arched a brow at him. “Dear William, please don’t misunderstand me, but I just can’t see us as husband and wife. You’re too much like a brother for me to imagine anything else.”
He chuckled, an amused smile twisting his lips. “I’m sorry, Isabella, I think I’d better start over. When you came out of mourning, Mother started making noises about my courting you.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t averse to the idea. We’ve always been friends, and I suppose it is time for me to settle down and start a family. But—”
“You have feelings for someone else.”
“You—you know?”
She smiled. “Of course I do. And I couldn’t be more delighted.”
William’s gaze narrowed, a challenging gleam in his eyes. “How do I know that you know, or are you just fishing for information?”
“Oh, I know.” Isabella nodded, laughing. “I’ll set your mind at ease. I’ve seen the way you look at Leah.”
A flush heated his face, and he sputtered out a cough. Isabella took pity on him, poured a glass of lemonade, and handed it to him.
He took a long drink. “And you’re not upset about it?”
“Upset? Why would I be upset? It’s not like we have romantic feelings for each other.” She could never imagine letting William take the same liberties as Connor had yesterday after the race. His lips on hers, kissing her, pulling her closer. Her arms entwined about his neck, pulling him closer. She felt her own face heating up, grabbed her fan, and fluttered it to cool her cheeks. Thankfully, William didn’t seem to notice but propped his chin on his palm, his attention on a carriage that rattled past.
“I feel like I’m betraying Jonathan somehow.”
“William, Jonathan is gone, and he’d want Leah to be happy.” Isabella leaned forward and placed her hand over his. “And nothing would please him more than for her to find that happiness with you.”
He turned his hand up and squeezed her fingers. “Thank you. I’m glad we had this talk. It eases my mind to know that I have your blessing in this.”
“Good.” She grinned at him. “Now, when are you going to have a talk with Papa about Leah?”
Before daybreak, the Wainwright party was traveling northward along the trace. A light shower in the early hours before dawn settled the dust and offered a cool morning to start the journey.
But the pleasing traveling conditions didn’t ease the knot of tension felt by every man in the party. Because of the delay over William’s injury, several of the party had left Natchez two days ago, cutting their numbers in half.
Connor held the reins with ease but kept the flintlock close by. The space next to him on the wagon was noticeably vacant. Isabella rode in the carriage with William, along with two other ladies—a woman and her daughter—Mr. Wainwright had invited to share the ride.
Connor spotted the black top of the conveyance at the head of the column. As could be expected, all the ladies were much more comfortable in the well-sprung carriage than rattling along on a wagon seat, but still Connor missed Isabella’s presence beside him.
Even though they were hardly on speaking terms.
They hadn’t been alone since he’d escorted her to the dressmaker’s after the race and found Toby and Jack alive and well.
Why he’d given in and tasted her lips again was beyond him. Did he have a death wish? Did he want Bartholomew to banish him from the plantation without references? Or worse, have him hanged? Had he learned nothing from his tryst with Charlotte? Nothing at all?
Isabella was better off with Wainwright now, just as she’d be in the future. His gaze jerked away from the carriage.
Master William and Isabella?
He scowled. He’d seen nothing but friendship between the two of them. The younger Wainwright had been a friend of her brother’s, so it was understandable that he’d think of her as a pesky little sister. But Jonathan was go
ne, and Isabella was a beautiful woman and in line to inherit Breeze Hill.
Marriages had been based on far less.
And William Wainwright was a good man. A decent man. A man of Isabella’s station set to inherit his father’s vast plantation. The two of them would make the perfect match.
Then why did he want to punch the man right now? A man who’d stood by his side in a brawl that had almost gotten both of them killed. A man who was still weak as water and in no condition to travel, let alone defend himself in a fight.
Disgusted with himself, Connor flicked the reins to close the gap between his wagon and the one up ahead. He’d do well to concentrate on his duties this day instead of moping over his master’s daughter.
By midmorning, as anticipated, the merciless sun beat down upon his head. The horses and mules plodded along, sleepy-eyed, ears drooping. Other than their sluggish forward motion, one would think the animals were almost asleep. But with each passing mile, as they drove farther along the dark wilderness road, the tension among the travelers mounted.
Even Connor, with his limited knowledge of the trace and the dangers it presented, pushed thoughts of Isabella to the back of his mind and kept his attention firmly on the shadowed foliage and steep banks on each side of the trail.
Muted conversations drifted on the breeze as Mr. Wainwright rode along the trail speaking with each driver in turn. As soon as he came abreast of Connor, he turned his mount to match the plodding pace of the draft horses.
“Don’t let your guard down, man. If the devils attack, they can pick us off one by one without any effort at all.”
“I understand, sir.”
“The bandits usually leave us alone because our party is large enough to thwart attack, but with our numbers cut in half . . .” He trailed off, his gaze sweeping the high bluffs surrounding them, watching for an ambush. “Another reason they rarely bother us is because our pockets aren’t as deep as travelers going all the way to Tennessee and Kentucky.”
“Not as deep?” Connor glanced at the wagons snaking along the rugged trail.
Wainwright waved a hand at their traveling companions. “Most of these men went to Natchez to trade for supplies, not to sell goods for cash money. The Kaintucks float large flatboats of cotton, corn, pelts, and tobacco down the river to Natchez and New Orleans. Once they liquidate their assets, most times they abandon the flatboats and hike back up the trace toward home, their pockets filled with coin. Many a man has lost his life along this highway. There are some terrible men plying this stretch of road, men without an ounce of decency about them. Some even say the Harpe brothers have been in the area, but I suspect that’s just hearsay.”
“I’ve heard o’ the Harpe brothers.”
“Who hasn’t? The very name of Big Micajah Harpe strikes fear in the heart of any traveler.” Wainwright held his horse in check, his attention half on the conversation and half on the wilderness around them. “If they strike, keep your head. Under the wagon is risky at best, but it’s better than remaining topside.”
“Will they charge or try to pin us down?”
“You never know. It depends on how crazy they are. And how desperate.” He peered at Connor from underneath the brim of his hat. “Men of this ilk have no regard for human life, not even their own most of the time. They show no mercy. If you get one of them in your sights, shoot to kill. You won’t get a second chance.”
Connor nodded. He’d been in similar circumstances a few times and didn’t have to be told twice.
Pierre Le Bonne flattened himself on the high banks overlooking the sunken trace.
Soundlessly, his men faded into the underbrush, and within minutes, the deep forest became deathly quiet. They’d avoided Wainwright’s party for the last year, preying on smaller, more easily defeated groups of travelers. But Braxton had given the go-ahead to attack today, with instructions to kill O’Shea.
Pierre wasn’t surprised. Braxton had gotten a bee in his bonnet over the Irishman. Over the girl, if Pierre didn’t miss his guess. And the plan suited Pierre just fine. The cocky Irishman had gotten under his skin from the very first time he’d seen him at Harper’s Inn.
On a whim, he’d taken matters into his own hands when he’d spotted O’Shea and his companion entering Brice’s Tavern. But unfortunately the fight hadn’t gone as he’d hoped. It had been so simple, really. A crowded tavern, most of the patrons too sotted to know or care what started the melee or even who started it. A stabbing and the Irishman bleeding out on the floor. Instead, the son of one of the most influential planters in the area had taken the knife blade, and the Irishman had gotten off free as a bird.
Braxton would be livid if he knew of Pierre’s involvement in the incident—and his failure.
But Braxton wouldn’t find out. The miscreant who’d botched the whole affair was floating in the Mississippi River and wouldn’t be telling any tales about what he’d seen or heard.
Failure grated on Pierre, and he scowled at the empty roadbed, anxious to finish what he’d started. Eliminating O’Shea had become a matter of honor, and he wouldn’t fail a second time.
Whispers drew his attention.
“Silence!” he hissed.
Instead of the silence he demanded, a rustling of brush followed his order. Even before he looked, he knew that the imbecile wasn’t one of his own. His men knew that when he gave an order, it was to be obeyed instantly and without question. And complete silence was the one thing he demanded. No, Turnbull had brought the fool along.
Eyes narrowed to slits, his anger barely held in check, Pierre watched the dolt settle down, getting into position as if he were building a nest and planned to lay eggs. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to slit the bumbling idiot’s throat right there on the spot. If that one lived through today’s skirmish, he wouldn’t survive what Pierre did to him afterward.
His gaze slid left, and he could barely make out Turnbull’s brown waistcoat in the shadows fifty feet away. The man’s presence grated on his nerves like steel on flint. Braxton had foisted the uncouth slave trader on him, insisting that Turnbull and his men learn the nuances of the trace. He’d used the excuse that too many of Pierre’s own men were recognizable in and around Natchez, and that one association would lead to another, then to Pierre and back to Braxton himself.
Bah! Pierre could recruit enough men to form an army if needed, and those who were no longer needed were dispatched in the same manner as the one who’d let O’Shea best him. There was always some riffraff willing to slit someone’s throat for a bit of coin. And when one couldn’t be found, he’d do it himself.
He glared at Turnbull, thoughts churning. Something else was afoot, and he’d do well to keep his eyes and ears open. He didn’t trust Braxton, and he trusted Turnbull even less.
A faint jangle pushed thoughts of Braxton’s duplicity from his mind, and Pierre froze, his attention fully focused on the job ahead. A cold, quiet calm descended, and he embraced it, holding back the excitement that wanted to rush through his veins, the flush of adrenaline that always hit him before a successful raid. There was an exquisite pleasure in the planning, in the waiting, in being patient.
Minutes ticked by as he waited for the first sight of Wainwright’s party. The clink and clank of harnesses grew louder, the snort of a horse blowing hard as it pulled up an incline. Then a flicker of movement through the trees. His heart kept time with the creaking of the wheels as the first wagon rolled into sight. Like ants, lined up one after the other, the wagons kept coming.
He felt a wave of excitement roll over his compatriots.
Patience, messieurs. Patience.
Even as he willed his men into complete silence, complete immobility, complete invisibility, it was all he could do to remain still. Like a jockey with a horse at the starting line, he had to hold himself back to keep from charging into the middle of the group of travelers, slashing and shooting his way through to kill the man who’d insulted him.
But he’d learn
ed that success depended on patience and perfect timing, and he’d become a master of both.
The train snaked by. Wainwright rode astride next to his fancy black carriage. From his vantage point, Pierre could see the silhouettes of several women inside. Pierre let the carriage roll on past, ignoring the riches of the fittings and the women inside.
Braxton had instructed him to leave the women alone. Pity. But Pierre knew to abide by the man’s order. He’d make it worth their while to leave the women alone if the Irishman died in today’s skirmish.
Chapter 23
THE MAN UP AHEAD flinched, reached back, and slapped at a horsefly on his shoulder.
Connor twitched his shoulders in sympathy. Those monsters stung, and they didn’t respect man over beast. They’d draw blood from either if the opportunity arose.
Other than the jingle of harnesses, the occasional snort of a horse, and the swish-swish of tails beating off horseflies, all was quiet. The soft dirt muffled the clop of horses’ hooves and well-oiled wheels rolled along nearly silent as they made slow progress toward home. Slower than usual in deference to Wainwright’s injuries.
Connor hunkered down, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze rimming the edges of the loamy banks that rose high on both sides of the trail.
A small cascade of loose soil tumbled down the bank, and he jerked to attention.
He caught a glint of sunlight off metal and twisted sideways seconds before the sound of a high-pitched whine swooshed by his ear. A musket ball splintered the footrest between his boots. Even as he hauled back on the reins, the man in front of him slapped his shoulder again, but this time blood spurted through his fingers. He toppled from the wagon, hitting the ground with a thud.
Heeding Wainwright’s advice, Connor jumped to the ground and rolled to safety as shots rang out all around him. He could see several wagons up ahead moving forward, hear the shouts of the drivers urging their teams out of the tight bottleneck they were trapped in. Any chance of escape was blocked by the unmanned conveyance in front of him.
