Claiming Mariah

by Pam Hillman

  Mrs. Brooks appeared behind her. “What is it, Livy?”

  Sheriff Carter spoke up. “There’s been a wagon accident. A family passing through on the outskirts of town. Their horses bolted. I’m sad to say the driver—a man—was killed, leaving three children.”

  Livy peered into the darkness, her heart going out to the little ones. “Are the children out there? Are they hurt?”

  “They’re fine. Nary a scratch as far as we can tell. We thought the orphanage might take them.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. Brooks took charge. “Bring them in out of the cold. Livy, go fetch some blankets. The poor dears are probably frozen with cold and fear.”

  Livy ran, her mind flying as fast as her feet. Less than an hour before, they’d prayed for help to feed the children already in their care. How could they manage three more? Of course they couldn’t turn them away. They’d never do that. But would she be forced to do something drastic to feed them all?

  Lord, don’t make me choose. I’m not strong enough.

  Heart heavy, she found three worn blankets and carried them downstairs.

  Mrs. Brooks met her in the hallway. “They’re in the kitchen. Mary’s already taken the other children to the parlor.”

  Her arms laden with the blankets, Livy followed Mrs. Brooks. Two girls huddled together on the bench at the table, their eyes wide and frightened. Poor things. If only she could take them in her arms and tell them everything would be all right. It must be. She’d beg in the streets before she’d let them all starve.

  She searched the room for the third child. Her gaze landed on a tall, broad-shouldered man with a tiny dark-haired child nestled snugly inside his sheepskin coat. The man lifted his head, and Livy came face-to-face with Jake Russell. She saw a fierce protectiveness in his haunted eyes.

  “I don’t believe you’ve met my deputy, Jake Russell.” Sheriff Carter waved in Jake’s direction.

  Dread pooled in the pit of Livy’s stomach, and for the space of a heartbeat, she stared.

  “Pleased to meet you, Deputy Russell,” Mrs. Brooks said, her attention already on the two little girls at the table. “I’m Mrs. Brooks, and this is Livy O’Brien.”

  Livy jerked her head in a stiff nod. For a few moments tonight she’d let her imagination run away with her, thinking maybe Jake Russell would call on her, that he might want to court her, that maybe he thought she was pretty.

  And maybe he would. Maybe he did.

  But it didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

  Jake Russell was an officer of the law, and Livy had spent her entire life running from the law.

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  Prologue

  The Lady Gallant in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean

  January 1792

  “Keep your brother away from my sister!”

  Quinn O’Shea spread his feet wide and tried to keep his balance on the deck of the Lady Gallant. After weeks on board, he’d just begun to get his sea legs. A violent storm had kept all the passengers confined for days on end, the coffin-like spaces in steerage hardly fit for pigs, let alone humans.

  But now the storm had passed . . . well, except for the one that stood in front of him, blue eyes blazing, strands of blonde hair blowing in the wind, and pale cheeks stained cherry apple red.

  She was sky blue and golden, from the top of her head to the peach-and-cream silk gown she wore. He’d seen her on deck twice before, but her kind didn’t mix with the masses stacked like cordwood in the belly of the ship.

  He grinned. “Ah, now which o’ me brothers would that be, lass? Rory or Patrick?”

  In response to his teasing, her brows, three shades darker than her hair, descended into a frown. She stood taller, looking down her haughty little nose at him.

  “Don’t tell me there’s more than one of the scoundrels?”

  Her tone and the tilt of her chin gave her the look of sniffing something foul on the wind. He scowled. Her accent was British with a wee hint of the homeland that she tried hard to hide. One of those, eh? Just enough British aristocracy flowed through her veins that she’d squashed her Irish heritage to death, much like the British landlords had done to him and his.

  “Scoundrels they be, fer sure.” Quinn stepped closer, his gaze on hers. She blinked, stepping back. “And aye, there’s more than one. So I shan’t be knowing which of the rascals you’re referring t’, now shall I?”

  Two well-dressed gentlemen taking a constitutional around the deck stopped nearby, eyeing Quinn with suspicion. One turned to the girl. “Miss Young, is this—” the middle-aged man tossed a condescending glance toward Quinn—“gentleman bothering you?”

  “No, Mr. Marchette.” Her day dress rustled as she dipped into a curtsy, the creamy skirt falling in silky folds across the deck, then pooling over Quinn’s broken-down boots. “He was helping me look for my sister. But thank you for your concern, sir.”

  “Of course. Good day, miss.”

  Before he was out of sight good and proper, the haughty miss whirled back to Quinn. Like a dog worrying a bone, she didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t know your brother’s name, but ever since the storm broke, the two of them have been roaming this ship from stem to stern, and I’m at my wit’s end.”

  “And I’m supposed t’ keep him away from her? Mayhap your sister needs t’ keep her distance, eh?”

  “I’ll see that she does.” Her blue eyes snapped. “And if you would be so kind as to—oh!”

  The ship lurched sideways. She grabbed for the railing but missed. Quinn snagged her around the waist just before she pitched forward onto the rough planking.

  Those blue eyes stared into his, no longer narrowed in anger, but wide in shocked surprise. Her full pink lips rounded into a surprised O before just as quickly compressing into a thin line, her displeasure returning full force.

  She pulled away, straightened her dress, and crawled right back on her high horse. “My sister is too young—” Twin spots of color polished her porcelain cheekbones. “She oughtn’t be dallying with boys.”

  “Ya mean poor Irish trash?” In spite of his teasing, Quinn held his temper in check.

  “I never said any such thing.” She sighed. “Look, Mr. . . .”

  “O’Shea. Quinn O’Shea.” Quinn touched his hat and gave a short nod.

  “Mr. O’Shea. The truth is that within a few weeks, we’ll land in Natchez, and well, I’m to be married, you see, and . . .” She bit her lip, the fire in her gaze banked to a worried simmer. “Megan’s already a handful, quite the tomboy, and the less drama I have from her, the better off we’ll all be.”

  “A tomboy? And you’re worried about her and me brother Rory?” He squinted at her. “Just how old is this sister o’ yours?”

  “She’s eight—”

  “Eight?” Quinn threw back his head and laughed.

  “I fail to see anything funny about the situation.” The glare returned with full force.

  “As I said, I have more than one brother, and I do no’ think ya should worry o’er Patrick and the lass. They’re both eight. What harm can they do?”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. Do you even have a clue where either of them are right now?”

  He frowned. “Well, no—”

  “So they could have fallen overboard and you wouldn’t even know it—”

  “That’s a wee bit far-fetched, Miss . . .”

  “Young. Kiera Young.” She crossed her arms. “And on the contrary, it’s very likely. Do you know where I found them yesterday?”

  “Where?” Quinn asked, not sure he wanted to know, but just as sure that she was going to tell him.

  She stabbed a finger toward the mainmast. “There. Halfway up the rigging. Now, tell me that your brother is a good influence on my sister?”

  Quinn’s lips twitched, but he did his best to keep a straight face. “My humble apologies. I shall do everything in me power t�
�� keep me rascally brother away from yer—ah—delicate wee sister.”

  “Please see that you do.”

  And with that, she whirled and was gone.

  CHAPTER 1

  Three weeks later

  Natchez Under-the-Hill on the Mississippi River

  February 1792

  “Stay close.”

  Eyes on the bustling wharf, Kiera held tight to Megan’s hand, ensuring her adventuresome sister didn’t disappear into the crowd.

  “But, Kiera, I wanted to say good-bye to Patrick.”

  “That snotty-nosed lad?” Sixteen-year-old Amelia wrinkled her nose. “Really, Megan, he’s simply not the kind you should be associating with. Gutter—”

  “Amelia, that’s quite enough.” Kiera kept her tone even, nervously searching the wharf for a glimpse of the man who might be her intended.

  Amelia sniffed, then looked away, as poised and regal as Megan was wild and untamed. Sometimes Kiera felt like the two of them pulled her so hard in opposite directions that she would be torn asunder.

  She didn’t know which one she worried about the most—the one who never met a stranger and never backed down from a challenge, or the one who seemed bent on following in the footsteps of their flirtatious half sister, Charlotte.

  Kiera sighed. If there was one thing to be grateful for about being shipped half a world away from her beloved home in Ireland, it was putting an ocean between Amelia and Charlotte.

  It was terrifying how much of Charlotte’s personality Amelia had taken on in the last two years. Kiera had spent many a night in prayer over the impressionable sixteen-year-old’s future. Amelia would have stayed in Ireland, but Charlotte’s husband hadn’t given her a choice. When Father died, God rest his soul, Charlotte’s husband had decided to sell the family holdings in Ireland in order to finance his own dealings in London.

  Since George was married to the oldest sibling and all their father’s property fell to him, it was his right to do with as he saw fit. But that still didn’t stop Kiera from pining over the loss of the only home she’d ever known.

  Only a few short weeks after George had cheerily announced that he was disposing of her father’s legacy, he’d dropped a startling piece of news. He’d arranged an advantageous marriage for her in the colonies. With Charlotte’s blessing, they’d agreed it was best that Amelia and Megan travel with Kiera across the ocean to the Natchez District.

  Not for the first time, her stomach roiled at the thought of her upcoming marriage to a stranger, and with great effort, she pushed the panic down. She wasn’t the first woman to enter into a marriage of convenience with a man she’d never met, and she wouldn’t be the last.

  She should be thankful George had arranged a marriage for her and allowed her sisters to accompany her to the colonies instead of just throwing them all out in the streets. As a British nobleman, he had no obligation to his wife’s half-Irish half sisters.

  Everything had happened so fast after that.

  Or maybe she’d simply ignored the inevitable during the long ocean voyage from Dublin.

  But now they were here, and she couldn’t ignore it any longer.

  Her gaze panned the wharf, the dockworkers in tattered clothes unloading the ship, the other passengers disembarking, some never pausing on the crowded thoroughfare but walking quickly away toward waiting carriages, greeting friends and relatives. Others, like her, stood at the railing, unsure where they were supposed to go or what they were supposed to do now that they’d arrived.

  Each conveyance wove through the crowd and up the steep incline that led to the city spread out on the bluff above the wharf. Even from here, she glimpsed several spacious homes nestled among the trees, the full-length verandas facing the river to catch the summer breezes. Wouldn’t it be grand if her intended owned one of those homes with the fancy scrollwork and porches that stretched from end to end? But she wouldn’t fret over that. If her husband was a man of God and of sound moral character, she’d call herself blessed.

  She searched the wharf once again, frowning as one by one their shipmates went on their way. The noon hour was far gone, and they needed to be settled before nightfall. Why wasn’t her intended here to greet her and her sisters?

  She spotted the boy, Patrick O’Shea, and his two older brothers threading their way through the crowd, Quinn O’Shea’s broad shoulders and forceful march breaking the tide and allowing them ease of passage toward their destination. He left his brothers in charge of a meager pile of baggage and, without hesitation, entered a small building tucked against the base of the cliff.

  She read the sign.

  James Bloomfield, Esquire. Attorney-at-Law.

  Bottom lip pulled between her teeth, she eyed the door that led to the lawyer’s office. Making a quick decision, she motioned for two stevedores to carry their trunks to shore and headed toward the gangway. “Girls. Come.”

  As they stepped foot in a strange land where she knew no one, she squelched another surge of panic. She breathed a prayer as a pair of drunken sailors pushed past, almost pulling Megan out of her grasp. Be with us, God.

  Even her unknown intended had to be better than the fetid smell of dead fish, unwashed bodies, and debauchery found along the waterfront.

  Without bothering to carry their belongings any farther than necessary, the stevedores dumped their trunks at the end of the gangway and rushed away, no doubt in search of strong drink and comfort in one of the rough buildings lining the wharf.

  She squared her shoulders. Surely Mr. Bloomfield could give her directions to her destination. She caught Amelia’s attention. “Keep an eye on our belongings. I’m going to secure a conveyance.”

  Amelia huffed. Kiera sighed and bent down to Megan’s level. “Stay with your sister. And no matter what, do not run off.”

  Megan nodded without taking her eyes off the chaos surrounding them. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Kiera threaded her way along the crowded wharf. She mounted the steps, tossing a quick look toward her sisters. They both sat on one of the trunks, Megan openly watching everything while Amelia pretended not to.

  She ducked inside the lawyer’s office, hoping to get her questions answered posthaste and be on her way. She pushed the door shut, then turned.

  Quinn O’Shea stood next to a balding man wearing eyeglasses. Both men looked up, questioning, but it was Quinn’s arched brow that set Kiera’s face aflame.

  •

  Quinn took in the freshly pressed dress made of something soft and satiny, the pale hair pulled up and away from Kiera’s face, the white bonnet trimmed with a blue ribbon that matched her eyes.

  “Miss Young.”

  “Mr. O’Shea.”

  “Good day, miss.” Mr. Bloomfield nodded a greeting, then looked to Quinn for introductions.

  “Mr. Bloomfield, meet Kiera Young, a fellow passenger on the Lady Gallant.”

  “Miss Young, it is a pleasure.” Mr. Bloomfield motioned toward Quinn. “Do you mind if Mr. O’Shea and I conclude our business? We’ll only be a moment.”

  “Not at all. Please, continue.” She moved to stand by the window, giving them some privacy.

  Quinn turned back to Mr. Bloomfield. “You were saying?”

  Bloomfield smiled. “We’ve been expecting you and your brothers. As soon as I heard you were on board the Lady Gallant, I sent word to Thomas Wainwright—”

  “Thomas Wainwright?”

  “Yes, the Wainwrights, good friends of your brother and his wife’s family, have a home here in Natchez.” Bloomfield searched through some papers. “As soon as the runner returns, I’ll have him escort you and your brothers there until you head to Breeze Hill.”

  “Why do we have t’ wait?” Quinn scowled. He’d been cooped up on a ship for almost three months, and he saw no need to sit and wait when he could just as easily go straight to this plantation his brother had married into. “Just point me down the road t’ Breeze Hill, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “No, no, you can’t
go alone. The Natchez Trace is too dangerous. It would be much better if you wait and travel with Wainwright’s party.”

  Quinn tamped down his impatience. “I see.”

  Someone knocked and Bloomfield called out, “Come in.”

  A man old enough to be his father entered, followed by the distinguished gentleman who’d asked about Kiera’s welfare aboard the Lady Gallant. The second man nodded politely in Kiera’s direction, then turned toward Quinn. After a brief pause, he inclined his head in recognition.

  “Mr. Wainwright. I didn’t expect you so soon.” Bloomfield sounded pleased. “I haven’t long sent a boy to fetch you.”

  “Poor lad.” The man called Wainwright chuckled. “His trip will be wasted. As soon as I spotted the Lady Gallant, I came to welcome Mr. Marchette to our fair city.” Wainwright motioned to his companion. “My business associate from London, Alistair Marchette.”

  “Of Marchette Shipping?”

  “You’ve heard of us?”

  “Of course, my good man.” Bloomfield smiled, then cleared his throat. “Perhaps you could join me for dinner this evening? I have several clients who have need of a reputable shipping company in London.”

  “That’s why I’m here.” Marchette spread his hands, returning Bloomfield’s smile. “I’m at your disposal, sirs.”

  “Splendid.” Hands behind his back, Bloomfield addressed Wainwright. “Thomas, I’d be pleased if you’d join us.”

  “I’d be honored.”

  Bloomfield turned to Quinn. “My apologies, Mr. O’Shea. The prospect of an alliance with Marchette Shipping made me forget my manners. Thomas, meet Connor O’Shea’s brother, Quinn O’Shea.”

  “Mr. O’Shea, it is a pleasure to meet you at last. A pleasure indeed.” Wainwright shook his hand. “My son is a friend of your brother. Actually, my daughter-in-law and your brother’s wife are sisters-in-law.”

  Quinn’s confusion must have shown on his face because Wainwright laughed and clapped him on the back. “It’s complicated. You’ll get the gist of it by and by. I promised Connor I’d be on the lookout for your ship and would arrange transportation to Breeze Hill.”