By Any Means

by Cindy Nord

  Green eyes squeezed into slits as she stepped closer, shoving her finger into his linen-covered chest. “Don’t you tell me what I can or cannot do, you…you baboon!” She jabbed again. “Ruby Jones is consumptive. She requires a comfortable bed, and better food.” Another jab of her finger sent him stumbling back a step. “And I must have a more hygienic area to work with proper ventilation.” She lowered her hand, her glare never wavering. “These are critical requirements set forth by the British Medical Journal. Unless you know better than they, you will provide me these things, monsieur. If not, I shall go straight to Mother Superior and inform her of your refusal of proper care for Mrs. Jones.”

  Her statement cut deep.

  Damn the termagant!

  He wasn’t some heartless, whip-slingin’ overseer from the Deep South. He was a man raised to respect others, gave a damn about people’s lives, and as much as the war tried to cut out his heart, though tattered, it still beat with emotion. Brennen glared at her, cursing the trace of lavender that wafted upward from her braided circlet. The alluring fragrance fused with his wrath and threatened to drive him mad.

  After years of gambling, he’d learned people were easy to intimidate. Easy to use. Except, this…this she-devil staggered him. He towered above her by a foot, outweighed her by nearly a hundred pounds, and yet she held her ground. Gone was the stammering debutante who’d bumped into him outside Wissner & Wise, Attorneys at Law several weeks before.

  His throat worked like mad to swallow the knot lodged halfway between hell and high water. “Good God, woman—” He pointed at the manor. “--if it means that much to you, then get up there and pick out whatever damn room you want.”

  A whisper-thin smile touched her mouth as a soft yearning filled her gaze. She turned toward the mansion.

  Brennen also glanced toward the house. The building stood in stark contrast against an emerald backdrop of trees vibrant with life. He frowned at the mesmerizing spill of sunlight that shimmered across the red bricks, the wide veranda, and all four of the chalk-white Corinthian columns as if in a swath of hope.

  He scoffed, his stomach muscles clenching. When he’d first arrived, he’d seen the property as an easy sale, something he could ride away from and never consider again. And yet, the slightest hint of appreciation in Miss Swan’s eyes had deepened his whisper of awareness.

  A pang of longing rose without warning inside him. That she would care, or perhaps could see beyond the disrepair and find optimism, twisted his gut into a knot. Didn’t she realize hope didn’t exist? Life had proven to him that only the fittest survived. This wasn’t a home to save, at least not in his lifetime.

  Only a fool would believe otherwise. Son of a damn bitch! She should save her hope-filled sighs for her patient. Struggling for calm, he gulped in a quart of air. He didn’t give two flying figs if Jubal Jones brought every kin in Kentucky up to the main house. Hell, he should invite them all in until no rooms remained and this green-eyed shrew had to bed down in the stable.

  “Just do what you need to,” he growled between clenched teeth. “And leave me the hell out of this.”

  Maybe he’d go live in the blasted shanty.

  “Thank you…oh, and if I were still notetaking I would inscribe the gentleman should never curse in front of a lady, Monsieur Benedict.” A sultry wind tugged a wisp of hair free from its raven-black circlet. The strand fluttered across her cheek to underline her mesmerizing eyes.

  Shit.

  “Brennen,” he snapped. “Call me that name instead.” Not that he wanted to hear his forename falling from her lips, but every time the word monsieur rippled over him in that silken-smooth lilt of hers, well… A man’s sanity could only take so much.

  Cursing be damned?

  With another mumbled stinger, he turned and stormed down the path to break the news of relocation to Jubal who waited in the open doorway of the shack. Brennen grimaced. The only saving grace in this entire fiasco would be his absence from the house during the day.

  Chapter Eight

  A clap of thunder rolled overhead. Annabelle jumped as flashes of light exploded, penetrating even the darkest corners of the bedroom. Easing out a shaky breath, she paused, then sucked in another. Her heartbeat slugged her chest as she scanned the enormous chamber. Another boom sounded. Gasping, she clutched the polished wood of the just-cleaned mantel as the home shook beneath the force.

  Not now. Oh please. I can’t lose control now. She glanced toward the bed and her frail patient burrowed beneath clean sheets. The poor woman’s fevered mumblings were nearly lost beneath Mother Nature’s wrath.

  Annabelle crossed the room and retucked the quilt her patient had thrown off. She had to stay focused to drive away the building fear. On a sigh, she picked up her scrubbing rag, then knelt, and gripped the side of a battered pail to resume her task. Her chest squeezed, and she dredged up the memory of Bernice’s battered copy of Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management, and the chapter on the proper way to maintain a home. Though Edward had provided a cook, a housekeeper, and a fairly large staff, at times Annabelle had followed the scullery maids around to learn the process of home care. Although she’d perfected the ins and outs of cleaning, she’d never really acquired the skills needed for menu planning. In fact, they’d have starved to death if she had to make their meals.

  Lightning slashed sky with a lethal brilliance, sending a garish flash through the pair of floor-to-ceiling windows that banked the twelve-foot outer wall. She knew all ten panes gleamed bright and streak-free…on the inside. On the outside, rain pounded with relentless fists, rivulets of water cascading down the glass. Void of curtains, the openings now gaped like enormous eyes. Timbers shuddered as each minute the storm grew in intensity, drawing closer and closer, the wind and rain battering the very foundation of the house.

  Panic swelled as a muffled sob climbed her throat. She tightened her grip on the rag. Summer storms were the worse and the sweltering heat of the day fed this beast into a raging fury.

  If only Bernice were here.

  Annabelle squeezed her eyes closed. There was no one left who knew, or even cared about, her irrational fear created by thunderstorms. In her youth, how many times had panic taken her to her sister’s bed? Bernice had comforted her, had reminded her how the rains filled lakes and streams and water wells to provide them all a life-giving force. Another flash. Another bone-rattling boom. Annabelle bit back another sob. Her sister’s whisper crept through her mind: You are safe inside this house.

  She battled to keep her terror buried. She lifted her chin, her fingers tightening on the bucket’s rim. She’d lived through worse. And she was no longer a child who required comfort.

  Being weak meant vulnerability, and she’d vowed never to be helpless again.

  On a steadying breath, Annabelle refocused. I’ve work to do….Ruby needs me.

  She jammed the rag into the pail, wrung out the excess water, and swiped the floor in a wide arc, then replunged the rag and repeated her lifeline to sanity.

  Dunk. Squeeze. Swipe.

  The steady rhythm kept her fear at bay as she worked her way toward the door.

  * * * *

  Brennen scowled at the rain-fed sky. Damn the storm. They couldn’t make bricks in this mess, or so said Jubal. He glanced at his foreman asleep on the sofa across from him. The man’s long limbs stretched over the leather arm roll, and Brennen shook his head, amazed the giant didn’t awaken beneath such ruckus. Then again, during the war he’d slept many times sitting straight up in the damn saddle.

  Men did what they had to do in a time of crisis.

  Brennen rested his head against the leather wingback. Thank God, Annabelle knew what to do. And for the better part of the morning, she’d spewed out her orders. Stripping the bed, requesting bucketfuls of water, and insisting on rags and soap and dusting cloths. She’d even demanded they jerk down the window coverings, and roll-up the damned rug from the bedroom she’d chosen for Ruby.

  Severa
l hours later, with her patient tucked into the center of a plumped-up feather mattress, the stern little Napoleon had finally released him and Jubal from their duties. Hell’s bells, surgeons on the battlefield hadn’t administrated with such a driven purpose. The way she’d barked out her orders all morning, he’d rather be out in the fury of the storm slinging clay!

  He snapped closed the book in his lap, then shoved to his feet.

  Confined in the manor house only stirred up impatience that ate away at his nerves.

  With a mumbled oath, he strode to the bookshelf and jammed the novel back, dust spewing as the book slid into place.

  He stepped sideways and inspected the built-in beaufats flanking the ornate chimneybreast. For a moment, he envisioned a library of his own choosing, one perpetually smelling of morocco, with a bold Persian carpet that stretched from wall-to-wall. His shelves would be carved from rosewood, and full of only the best tomes; the collection protected behind expensive, glass-covered cases.

  Lightening illuminated the sky, and thunder rolled again outside the Palladian windows. He shoved aside his asinine musings and returned his attention to the Robinson Crusoe novel he’d been holding. His gaze skimmed over two additional works from Defoe, Moll Flanders and Roxana, as well as several other tomes by Jane Austin and Elizabeth Barret Browning. He sighed. Slim pickings. Chiswell’s wife must’ve done all the reading in this household.

  Rain slammed the window panes like hooves upon cobblestones. The storm intensified, and his chest tightened beneath a surprising worry. Damnation. The Knoblick would’ve surely crested its banks by now.

  Had the kilns survived the battering wind and rain?

  Brennen pushed from the beaufats and crossed the room. At least his house stood strong.

  His? Yes, at least until I’ve sold the damned thing.

  He headed into the central passage, passing by the dining room, a smaller sitting room, then an office of sorts, and a double parlor which completed the floor plan of the main level. Constructed thirty years earlier, and though smaller than Em’s manor house in Virginia, this place still whispered of an earlier grace.

  He stared at the cob-webbed chandelier rattling overhead with each thunder roll, then narrowed his gaze on the facings and cornices over each room’s entry. The high-arched openings had been designed to allow airflow through the house to keep things warm in the winter and cool in the heat of the summer months. And the sheer size of the mahogany staircase that hugged the right wall would’ve intimidated anyone who’d entered the dwelling. He focused on the risers. Myriad footprints lingered in the dust.

  Nonetheless, even the flight of steps denoted remarkable craftsmanship. To have constructed a home of such quality, Chiswell’s brick-making operation must’ve been quite profitable. And in spite of the unwanted situation unfolding upstairs, approval sputtered through Brennen.

  Quite profitable, indeed.

  Perhaps he’d just go check on the ladies while Jubal slept.

  As he climbed, he swiped his hand along the bannister, then frowned. The wood, tacky now from years of neglect, begged for a good polishing. Even the aged steps creaked beneath each footfall.

  Hell’s teeth, he’d lived here for weeks, but until the little general had pushed her way into the place, he hadn’t noticed the disarray inside the house. Shoving away the thought, Brennen stepped onto the second floor landing, thankful she’d chosen the chambers closest to the stairs for her and Ruby’s rooms. Though five bedrooms separated them, he wished there were more, or even an entire other floor. Hell, he still considered moving into one of the shanties.

  Brennen turned, and in the ghostly light, he spotted Annabelle on her hands and knees scuffling backward over the threshold. He cursed the rush of awareness. “Miss Swan--”

  Another deafening thunderclap shook the house. She shuddered, then resumed her cleaning, shoving her rag across the poplar floor in a steady arc. With a scowl, he leaned against the stair’s newel post. Either she ignored him or hadn’t heard beneath all the ruckus. Regardless, she continued her hell-bent scrubbing, dragging the bucket along with her as she edged into the corridor.

  Surprise peppered through him at how hard she labored. No shirker, this one. He gazed at the curve of her backside, her enticing little derrière shifting seductively beneath brown cotton.

  Against his better judgment, he tipped his head…and admired, even as his heartbeat kicked up a notch. Her bum lifted at just such a provocative angle for…

  Tightness slipped across his belly, and then lower.

  Control yourself, you damned oaf.

  She’s not Cleo.

  His heart slammed his ribs. Besides, he didn’t want her kind of woman. Whether she wore a nun’s habit or was swathed in a damned canvas sack, every luscious curve of this one symbolized decency. And permanence. And…good.

  Brennen tamped back his foolish impulse as he watched her climb to her feet. He preferred his women shoddy and plump, requiring nothing from him. And this one had already proven to be a scrawny termagant.

  Still…she possessed a certain spark. He knew that truth firsthand. His chest tightened when she straightened. She raised a hand to her braided coronet, sweeping back several disheveled strands that had tumbled over one shoulder.

  Hair as dark as a raven’s wing…With a huff, he shoved off the bannister post and stepped closer, repeating, “Miss Swan--”

  Again, thunder cracked. And a brilliant wash of lightning illuminated the upper passage.

  With a scream, she whirled. Eyes wide open leveled on him. “Monsieur Benedict!” She gasped for air. “Y-You should’ve made your presence known.”

  “I did, but you were caught up in your chore.” Not that he wanted to linger or debate the issue. “Sorry to have startled you.” He stared down the hallway, then stepped closer. “I just wanted to check on how Ruby’s do--”

  Thunder boomed, rattling the enormous stained-glassed window that fronted the upper passage.

  On a wild screech, Annabelle dropped her bucket and propelled herself against him.

  What the hell…Wrapping his arms around her to keep them both upright, Brennen staggered backward, his boots squishing in the soaked runner that ran the length of the center hall. He caught his balance just as another thunderclap had her burrowing her head against his chest. Her quaking shoulders and all-too-real sobs shredded his momentary surprise.

  Good God, she’s terrified.

  More than a mere thunderstorm caused this irrational behavior, he’d stake his money on that suspicion. The soft scent of lavender wafted around him, overriding his sanity. He tightened his hold as a baffling desire for…something…her…engulfed him.

  Floundering beneath the recognition, he struggled for explanations. Still, the flare of awareness slid further into the emptiness of his heart. Lost in an overwhelming drive to comfort, he dipped his head, his mouth brushing her ear. His breath seized deep in his lungs as the need to safeguard this woman seared straight to the center of his soul.

  His rough whisper lifted the raven wisps into a dance against his neck. “You’re safe with me, Annabelle…always.”

  Chapter Nine

  The fear engulfing Annabelle momentarily receded. Awareness emerged through a hazy fog as she realized she clutched the scoundrel’s linen shirt. Inhaling, she peered up, her widened stare locking on his gaze. “F-Forgive me, Monsieur Benedict,” she bleated, her throat too tight to speak. Shame tangled with the other sensations that blurred her mind. “I…I was startled is all.”

  “Brennen,” he said, his tone gentle. “Call me that…remember?”

  His reply barely registered above the pounding rain.

  “Y-Yes,” she rasped. “Brennen. I’ll remember.”

  Eyes dark with concern held hers as he tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  She issued a shaky nod, the heat across her face intensifying. Thunder rumbled, and she stiffened again. “I…I…don’t want…you to…”
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  “What? Care if you’re frightened?” His voice slid around her, and she stared at him through a watery blur. An askew line slanted his mouth, the curve of his upper lip shadowed. “I’m a gambler. Not some churlish cad who discounts a terrified woman.”

  Another flash lit up the passageway.

  Annabelle grimaced, then swallowed, fixing her gaze on his chin. Tears built faster than she could blink them away. She floundered to present strength, but failed…the truth of her weakness growing with every toll of thunder.

  Panic pushed through her veins, overriding her feeble attempts at denial. Little by little, the unraveling talons dug in, shredding apart her sanity. How well she knew these episodes, underscored by the flashes of light that matched for her the many losses in her empty life.

  Don’t count them…not now…not in front of him.

  Annabelle gulped. Lifted her chin. Knowing she owed him some kind of explanation for her manic behavior. “Y-You see…Brennen. I am m-most off-put by this…disturbance.”

  “I can see that,” he said, his brow furrowing into a deeper groove. His reassuring words wrapped around her. “Nothin’s going to harm you here.”

  His gaze, searching and vivid and thick-lashed, never wavered. He stared down at her for so long she was assured he thought her demented. Lightening brightened the sky again, spilling a rainbow of colors through the stained-glass window on her right.

  She stiffened in his embrace.

  And his gaze softened in understanding.

  “I…know…” Annabelle sputtered, grasping for sanity. She envisioned the shape of the hands that splayed her back. The palms pressing firm. Fingers, strong and masculine, with nails once manicured now calloused from slinging clay.

  His words burrowed deeper past her shame. “From here on out, I’ll take on all the storms. Deal?”

  Her eyes widened at the startling gentleness of his tone. How she longed to believe him. But, he knew nothing of her world.