The Promise of Breeze Hill

by Pam Hillman

  Connor glanced up, caught Isabella’s stunned expression. He inclined his head stiffly, holding on to his heart with just as much rigidity.

  “So forgive me, mistress, if I’m no’ wantin’ t’ be caught in the same sticky trap again.”

  Chapter 27

  TIRED, IRRITABLE, and just plain angry at the world, Connor jounced along in the back of a farm wagon on the way to Breeze Hill.

  The caravan plodded along slowly, the pace chafing on his nerves. And he could tell by the way Isabella fidgeted with the shawl loaned to her by one of the other women that she was anxious to get to Breeze Hill as well.

  And who wouldn’t be?

  Her father, Leah, and the Wainwrights would be worried sick. He frowned. He hoped Mews and William had fared well from their injuries.

  Eyes at half-mast, the jostling of the wagon and the heat of the day nearly lulling him to sleep, Connor watched Isabella. She’d said she loved him. He scowled. She didn’t know the first thing about love.

  He was a nobody from Ireland, and her father had carved a living out of the wilderness in the Natchez District. He’d want his only child to marry another plantation heir and build on what he’d made for himself.

  Somehow Connor had to convince her that he was no good for her, and the best way to do that was to get her safely married off. And William Wainwright seemed the logical choice. Somebody that Connor could stomach without wanting to rip his head off for looking at Isabella. She could do a lot worse than William as a husband. William would be heir to his father’s plantation, and the Wainwrights seemed like honest, hardworking men.

  If Connor could steer her affections toward William, the pain that would come his way when she realized she was only infatuated with him would be easier to bear.

  It was midafternoon by the time they reached the cutoff that led to Breeze Hill.

  Isabella passed word to the leader of the caravan that they could find food, water, and safe lodgings for the night. The travelers were grateful, and Isabella was indebted to them for their protection and provision throughout the day and the night before. She shuddered at what might have happened to Connor and herself if he hadn’t stumbled on their camp.

  She champed at the bit to borrow a horse and ride on ahead. But her impatience had to be endured for a bit longer as there wasn’t an extra horse to be had.

  Connor sat in the opposite corner of the wagon on top of a bag of ground meal. They hadn’t spoken much throughout the day, but it was hard to carry on a conversation as their driver, a grizzled old man, had kept up a monologue most of the day. He slapped the reins against the backs of the horses. “It won’t be long now, missy. I hope your friends are all right, what with them highwaymen attacking them. A shame, a downright shame, what this world is coming to.”

  “Thank you.” She grimaced. “The trip to Natchez was my idea.”

  Connor glanced at her. “You and your father did what you thought was right.”

  “But I keep thinking that there’s a better way than traveling to Natchez every fortnight and risking someone’s life.”

  The driver spat a stream of tobacco juice over the side of the wagon. “If the law-abiding citizens scurry to their homes and plantations every time there’s a little set-to, these outlaws will take over this country. The only way to take it back is to go about our business. Ain’t none of us will survive if we let ’em run roughshod over us.”

  Connor nodded. “He’s right.”

  “I know.” She faced forward again, the long, winding road that led home stretching out before her, her thoughts on the cold, lonely grave in the family plot. “But it doesn’t make it any easier when you bury friends and family.”

  Just a few more minutes, and they reached the plantation. Wagons and horses milled about the yard, blocking Isabella’s view of the porch.

  When the wagon stopped rolling, Connor jumped out, reached up, and helped her down. As soon as her feet hit the earth, Isabella lifted her tattered skirts and hurried toward the house. Tears gathered in her eyes as she spotted her father, Mews, Toby, and Mr. Wainwright standing near the porch.

  “Papa.”

  A grimace that only those who knew him well would recognize as a joyous smile lit up his face. He hurried toward her, his gait halting.

  His hug was fierce and stronger than it had been in weeks. He pulled away and cupped her face in his gnarled hands, tears shimmering in his eyes. “We were gathering a search party. I was afraid I’d lost you—”

  “I’m safe.” She gripped his hands. “How’s William?”

  “The lad’s hurt pretty bad, but he’s still holding on. Time will tell.”

  His attention shifted, moved past her to where Connor waited. Her father stepped forward, grasped him by the arms. “I owe you a debt of gratitude that nothing will ever repay, Connor. Thank you for saving my daughter’s life.”

  Connor nodded.

  Her father turned to the leader of the caravan. “We don’t have much, but what we have is yours. You’re welcome to stay as long as you desire.”

  “One night will be sufficient, sir. All we require is water for our animals and a place to bed down for the night.”

  “You shall have it. Toby, show them where to go.”

  Isabella’s father wrapped his arm around her and led her toward the porch, where Leah waited with Martha and Susan. As Leah gathered Isabella in her arms, she saw Nolan standing in the shadows, jaw tense.

  She followed his line of sight to where Connor walked along the path toward the sawmill.

  Connor barely had time to change into a clean shirt and breeches before Mr. Bartholomew sent for him. He stood, feet braced apart, blood boiling.

  Restraining himself, he focused on a knothole in the paneled wall of Mr. Bartholomew’s sitting room. Otherwise, he’d launch himself across the room and wipe the smirk off Nolan Braxton’s face.

  Mr. Bartholomew stood tall, his scarred face splotchy with rage. “Have a care, Braxton. This is my daughter you’re speaking of.”

  Braxton bowed stiffly. “I mean no disrespect, Mr. Bartholomew, and I wouldn’t say or do anything in the world to malign Isabella’s character. I have the utmost respect for her. But—” his gaze slid to Connor—“others might not be so kind when it becomes common knowledge that your indentured servant foisted his attentions upon her.”

  “While I appreciate your concern over my daughter’s reputation, sir, I’m afraid you’ve overstepped your place and completely misunderstood the situation. My daughter was accosted and kidnapped by highwaymen, and it was most fortunate that Mr. O’Shea, my trusted servant, was able to rescue her from the clutches of the deviant who made off with her.”

  “Be that as it may, sir, I feel compelled to speak my mind, if I may.”

  “You may.”

  Braxton eyed Connor. “In private.”

  Mr. Bartholomew sighed. “As you wish. Connor, please wait outside.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Connor strode toward the door, making every effort to walk as befitting a servant. He barely restrained himself from slamming the door. The veranda and courtyard were empty, but the grove of trees beyond the well was peppered with the caravan that had seen them safely back to Breeze Hill.

  He resisted the urge to pace and stood stoically outside the door, his gaze fixed straight ahead toward the wasteland that had been the west wing of Breeze Hill.

  He was well aware that his life hung in Mr. Bartholomew’s hands. All he’d wanted was steady work and to be reunited with his brothers. Was that too much to ask? His heart squeezed tight. Braxton had accused him of taking advantage of Isabella. And while he hadn’t done anything to warrant such an accusation, he had kissed her. Not once, but several times. Not even a gentleman, a freeman, could get away with that if a woman chose to take offense.

  One word from Isabella, and Braxton would have his way.

  But would she turn on him? He couldn’t believe it of her. She wasn’t Charlotte.

  After a le
ngth of silence, Mr. Bartholomew barked, “Connor, get in here.”

  Connor entered the room, finding Isabella’s father alone, Braxton nowhere to be seen.

  “Braxton’s gone. I sent him on his way.”

  Connor stood at attention, as befitted his place as Mr. Bartholomew’s servant. The two of them had spent many nights poring over the drawings for the new wing of the house, selecting the best lumber for the floors, the walls, and the beams. They’d chatted amicably as only two men who had an understanding and appreciation for crafting a pleasing structure might. But in a single moment, with Isabella’s reputation at stake, there had been a subtle shift in their relationship.

  Mr. Bartholomew shuffled across the room and dropped into his favorite chair, scowling. “He offered a solution to this delicate situation, as he put it.”

  “Mistress Bartholomew’s reputation is without question, sir, and any man who says otherwise is a liar, including Braxton.” Connor knew he’d gone too far, but he wouldn’t back down. Braxton had planted seeds of doubt about Isabella in her father’s mind, and no gentleman would do that.

  “Watch yourself, Connor.” Bartholomew’s clawlike hands gripped the arms of his chair. “Even though I agree with you, such talk about a plantation owner could land you in serious trouble. Regardless, that doesn’t negate the fact that Braxton is right about one thing. The scandal will ruin Isabella’s chances of an advantageous marriage in these parts. None of the suitors who’ve been calling will have anything to do with her now.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir, but if those men are willing to throw away Isabella’s reputation so easily, they never really cared for her anyway.”

  “I see that you feel strongly about this. Tell me something, Connor.” Mr. Bartholomew stared at him, his fingers drumming the arm of his chair. “With Isabella’s reputation at stake, what would you do if I gave you your freedom and insisted you marry my daughter?”

  Connor jerked his head up, his gaze landing on Mr. Bartholomew. He shook his head, unable to fathom the idea of Isabella’s father being serious. Had the man gone mad? “What about Wainwright? Surely he doesn’t think ill of Miss Bartholomew.”

  Mr. Bartholomew snorted. “For a smart man, O’Shea, you’re not very observant. Young Wainwright’s half in love with my daughter-in-law. It’s simply a matter of time before he asks permission to court her.”

  “Master William and Miss Leah?” Yes, he’d definitely missed that. William would make Leah a fine husband, but it put a kink in Connor’s plans.

  Mr. Bartholomew placed both hands on the armrests of his chair and, grunting with the effort, pushed himself to his feet. He straightened to a commanding height and faced Connor.

  “Connor O’Shea, I release you from the terms of your indenture.”

  Connor stood speechless, staring at Mr. Bartholomew. To be put in stocks or whipped, or even have his indenture extended by a year or two all because of Braxton’s misguided accusations—yes, that was to be expected. But this? “You would send me away without references? What about my brothers?”

  “I didn’t say anything about sending you away.” Mr. Bartholomew scowled. “Have you not heard a word I said, man? I’m freeing you and asking you to marry my daughter.”

  Connor gaped at the man.

  “Well, are you going to answer me, or do I need to do as Braxton suggested and have you put in stocks?”

  “Marry Connor?” Isabella’s heart stuttered in her chest. “Papa, you can’t be serious.”

  “You were alone in the wilderness. Your reputation is ruined.”

  “Nothing happened.” Heat suffused Isabella’s face as she remembered the passionate kiss they’d shared when Connor had found her and later when she’d thrown herself at him and confessed her love.

  Right before he’d rebuffed her and told her she knew nothing of love.

  Did she? Did she truly love him? Or was she just thankful that he’d managed to save her from a fate worse than death? Yes, she loved him, but she didn’t want him to be forced to marry her.

  And nothing had changed from the time he’d told her that he didn’t want to be trapped again. Unless—

  “I won’t marry a man just because you coerced him into it. Please.” She shook her head.

  Her father’s face flushed. “I’ve never asked anything of you, Isabella. I’ve always given you free rein to do as you please, but this is one time you must listen. After this, none of the plantation owners would dare propose marriage to you.”

  “Connor rescued me from a highwayman. He didn’t abduct me and haul me off to the woods to ravish me.”

  “There’s no need to be crude, Daughter.”

  “Well, if he hadn’t done what he did, you’d be dealing with more than the thought of my reputation being ruined. You’d be dealing with my death at the hands of a ruthless killer who wouldn’t have cared one whit for my reputation, let alone my life.”

  “I don’t like this any more than you do, but what can I do?” Her father reached out a trembling hand. “Connor’s a good man and will make a fine husband.”

  Isabella looked away, hiding the sudden tears that burned against her eyelids. “Yes, Papa, he’s a good man, but I can’t marry him.”

  “Isabella, look at me.”

  She complied, blinking back the tears.

  “Answer me honestly, and I’ll not pressure you again. Is your heart set on another?”

  “No.”

  “So you do love him? Or at least care for him deeply?” When Isabella didn’t respond, he prodded. “Isabella?”

  “Yes.” She nodded, miserably aware that her love for Connor was one-sided at best. After what had happened to him in Ireland, he couldn’t bring himself to trust her, let alone love her. “But I can’t marry him.”

  “I don’t understand you at all.” Her father slumped back in his chair. “You admit that you care for him, but you won’t marry him. What will you have me do? As Braxton suggested?”

  Isabella jerked her head up. “What? What did Nolan want you to do?”

  Her father scowled. “He suggested I have Connor horsewhipped or confined to Gayoso’s garrison.”

  Isabella cringed. “Please, Papa. You can’t do that.”

  “Do you want me to send him away? I told him I would release him from the terms of his indenture.”

  Isabella’s heart broke. If her father sent Connor away, she’d never see him again. But how could she marry him knowing he’d been forced into the arrangement by her father?

  It was one thing to indenture him to Breeze Hill for a brief span of time, but to forcibly bind him to her through marriage when he wanted his freedom would be like sentencing him to a lifetime of servitude. He’d hate her for it. And she’d end up hating herself.

  She hung her head. “If—if he wants to go, send him away.”

  “Very well, then. I’ll send for him first thing in the morning and tell him that he’s free to go.”

  Chapter 28

  THE DARK CLOUDS matched his foul mood when Connor stormed out of Mr. Bartholomew’s quarters early the next morning.

  Isabella had refused to marry him, and she hadn’t even had the gumption to tell him to his face.

  As soon as she was safely back home and the whispers had started, she’d backtracked her declarations of love. Even in the face of a scandal, she wouldn’t stoop to marrying a servant. Just as he’d predicted. He glanced up at the second-floor gallery and saw her standing motionless, watching him. Resisting the urge to go shake some sense into her, he turned his back on her and stalked toward the grape arbor.

  He’d been right to tell her that she didn’t know anything of love. He’d tried to do the honorable thing by marrying her to save her reputation, but just like Charlotte, she’d thrown his proposal back in his face.

  Even with her father’s blessing.

  A light mist showered the grapevines with moisture, and he paced, replaying the conversation with Mr. Bartholomew. It had been short and to the point. M
r. Bartholomew had called him in and told him she’d refused. He’d given Connor the option of staying and completing his indenture or of leaving with the promise of glowing references.

  Neither option sat well. But he couldn’t stay.

  At least this time the choice was his. This time there was no family to ruin, only Connor himself.

  The harder the rain fell, the more he paced, and the madder he got. He slammed the palm of his hand against a corner post and a spray of raindrops showered down on his head. Growling, he scrubbed his sleeve over his face, wiping the moisture away.

  He glanced toward the upper veranda. He deserved some answers, and Isabella Bartholomew was going to give them to him.

  Isabella froze at the sight of Connor charging toward her.

  He marched through the courtyard straight toward the steps that led to the gallery beneath hers. She stood rooted to the spot, knowing that running was fruitless.

  Her heart pounded, keeping time with his boots as he mounted the stairs, the impact of his footfalls shaking the second floor where she stood. She turned toward the stairs. Better to face him head-on instead of acting like a scared ninny.

  But when his head popped over the stairwell and his stormy moss-green eyes clashed with hers, she stepped back. She’d never seen him so incensed.

  It was all she could do to hold her ground as he cleared the stairwell and advanced on her. He stopped a few feet away, his jaw jutted out in fury. His shirt lay plastered to his skin, the hair on his uncovered head tousled with wind and rain.