By Any Means

by Cindy Nord

  Annabelle chuckled, too.

  * * * *

  Exhaustion swirled through Brennen as he heaved another cartload of clay atop the new pile they’d been gathering all day. The storm had slowed their progress a great deal. On a deep breath, he rested on the upraised handles, wishing for a breeze.

  He hadn’t said much to Jubal after rejoining him at the Knoblick, but from the smile that had brightened the giant’s face when he’d ridden up, Brennen knew the man was glad of his return. They’d worked hard all day with little time to visit, but the need to share his latest news burned a hole inside Brennen. He turned to his foreman whose clothing was as sweat-soaked as his own. “Well, I’ve gone and done it.”

  Jubal pushed aside his empty cart and leaned against the tree. “Done what, suh?”

  “Placed an order for that new bricking machine.” Heart pounding beneath his excitement, he swallowed a gulp of water from his canteen and glanced at the streaks of orange that tinted the sky.

  “That ought’a help speed things along for ya now, Mista Brennen.”

  “Exactly my thoughts.” He capped the canteen. “It’s only money, right?”

  “Well, now, I wouldn’t know ‘bout dat, suh, seein’ as I ain’t never had much in my life. Ever bit seems mighty precious to me.”

  A strange embarrassment filled Brennen. They were alike in many ways, and yet…so different. Of course this man had never known wealth. “Anyway,” he said, stifling the foolish sensation. “I dropped in on my attorney while I was in town. He’s handling all the buying details for me. We should hear something soon.”

  Jubal’s shoulders drooped. “Dat’s good, Mista Brennen.” Face taut, he bent to gather up the tools.

  That’s it? Good? Why wasn’t Jubal happier? After all, he was the one who’d mentioned the damned thing in the first place? Confused, Brennen pushed on. “Even though Wallace Wise said the machine might not arrive in time to help us with the nuns’ order, he assured me it’ll increase the value of the place when I sell.”

  Mouth grim, Jubal glanced across the rain-swollen creek. “So yo’s still plannin’ on leavin’ us then?”

  What the hell? A few days away and this is what he’d returned to? Brennen glared at the setting sun. As if the man’s opinion mattered, anyway. A toss of the dice, the flip of the cards…this was his life now. Not digging up clay or playing house like some farmer waiting to end the workday to return home to a wife. He cringed at the ludicrous thought. The last thing he needed was the emotional baggage he’d witnessed first-hand with his parent’s horrid marriage.

  “As soon as possible,” Brennen said with a huff. He missed the comfortable predictability of the Robert E. Lee. Winning this homestead had turned his life into an expensive mess. Had he known all this beforehand, he would’ve just thrown in the hand and accepted his loss. “Hell, Jubal, you know I’m only good at one thing. Cards.”

  He looked back.

  Sadness glistened in his foreman’s ebony eyes. “Yo been doin’ pretty good dese past few weeks, suh. I mean, look at all yo’s done. Taken on da impossible ‘n tacklin’ things full-on. I never ‘spected yo to do so fine.”

  So fine? Anger rumbled deep, a coldness that clung to his soul. He refused to be painted in any light but the truth, and sure as hell not as a man who’d earned praise. His throat tightened as the disappointment in his loss of control, in his compassion…hell, even in Jubal’s kindness…intensified. “It’s not determination to do a good job, but rather desperation to get the hell out of here.” He tossed aside his canteen. The metal thunked on the moist ground. “Don’t you see that?”

  Shoulders bent with exhaustion, the man’s somber gaze held his.

  Brennen damned the sear in his words, more heated than he’d intended. He gripped the handles of the cart. “All right. Fine. Fine. Yes…I’ve somewhat come to enjoy this experience to a small degree, but I’m a gambler. It’s what I do.”

  “But, suh…don’cha know dat people can change? Just takes some motivatin’ to want to, dat’s all.”

  “And right there,” he snapped, pointing at the giant. “The key words…if I want to.”

  Sonofabitch. Brennen released the handles and strode toward his horse. “And there’s nothin’ here making me change my mind. Not now. Not ever.” He jammed his boot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle. He pulled in a steadying breath. By slow degrees, the anger simmered into a dull regret. At himself, at his behavior toward his newfound friend, at the whole asinine situation.

  He cleared his throat and glanced back.

  The man still watched him.

  Good gawd! Is Annabelle right? Am I an inconsiderate bastard? “Look, Jubal…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. This has all been so damned frustrating. You understand that, right?”

  His foreman turned and tossed the tools into the empty cart. “Yes, suh. I understand more den yo’ think I do.”

  Brennen inhaled…starting tomorrow, he’d up Jubal’s pay. “Come on, it’s time to head back to the house. I’ve spent a bloody fortune on hiring us the best cook in Kentucky. I’m starving. Let’s go eat.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  After their evening repast, followed by instructions to Ruby on how to use a tatting shuttle to make lace, Annabelle watched as her patient drifted to sleep. A half-hour later she wandered out on the upstairs veranda and settled in the rocker.

  With a sigh, Annabelle gazed at the fireflies glittering in a hypnotic dance over the pastures. Twinkle on…Twinkle off…their mesmerizing chorography lulled her, as did the peacefulness of the midsummer night. A soothing breeze thick with the scent of honeysuckle eased past as katydids pulsed from soft to loud in synchronicity with the high-pitched drone of the crickets.

  Grateful for the calming, nocturnal symphony, she rested her head against the back of the chair. Eyes closed, her thoughts drifted. While offering her tatting lesson earlier, Annabelle had heard the men return from the Knoblick, heard Brennen stomp upstairs and enter his bedroom. Even heard him leave several minutes later, whistling a tune as he descended the stairs. He hadn’t looked in on them, hadn’t even paused at the door. Unlike her, their unforeseen kiss hadn’t seemed to disrupt his life in the least.

  A disappointment had crept through her, yet she’d stifled the conflicting truth and refocused on her needlework. After all, the last thing she needed in her life was a reckless gambler who would only hurt her. God knew she had enough problems without inviting more. Why should she care if she’d not been invited to join them for dinner? As Brennen had obviously done with her…she, too, resolved to steer a wide path around him.

  And now…hours later, the manor house stood silent.

  A breeze lifted the wayward wisps not caught in the braid that draped her shoulder as Annabelle pushed her rocker back and forth in easy rhythm. With each passing day, her patient’s strength improved. Soon, there would be no reason to stay…her return to the nuns inevitable.

  Slowly, she climbed to her feet. These days had been pleasant. Moreover, she’d been needed. Annabelle turned and re-entered her bedroom off the veranda. Her gaze settled on the camelback trunk in the corner. The La Malle Bernard malletier had been delivered from Mount Maple earlier by a driver, but she’d not yet put her things away. She smoothed her hand along the domed lid, then eased open the hinged top.

  Everything left to her in this world had been jammed inside.

  A sigh slid out as she lifted the inner tray filled with her toiletry essentials. What would happen when these things were broken or used up? Soap cost money. Clothes wore out. When the lawyer finally helped to free her of the murder charges, what would happen to her? She must seek employment; perhaps the nuns would hire her to teach the children. She knew more than most, had been educated by the finest scholars, both in Paris and in Pennsylvania.

  Surely there was something she could do to earn a living wage?

  She rummaged through the contents until she found a robe that matched the nightgown she’d
donned earlier. But teaching what? With a frown, Annabelle jammed her arms into the garment. How foolish could she be? French isn’t an essential language in the backwoods of Kentucky.

  Sewing, then?

  She smoothed her palms down the passementerie that graced the front of her wrapper. How many hours had she spent embroidering this intricate silk pattern while she sat with Bernice?

  A quick tug tightened the fabric belt around her waist.

  Yes. That’s what I’ll do. Teach needlework…and literature. She’d read all the classics to her step-sister over the years. At least I can offer my services.

  Satisfied with her plan, Annabelle lifted the oil lamp, crossed the room, and turned the knob. The panel squeaked open. She cut her gaze to Brennen’s door at the end of the long passageway. No light emanated from beneath.

  He’d obviously left for town again.

  Annabelle eased out, and stepped across the patch of carpet where she’d dropped her cleaning pail. The kiss. Her pulse did a double-hitch at the remembered strength of Brennen’s arms.

  She shuffled faster toward the stairs and descended.

  Silence pressed in from all sides as she hurried through the house. A lingering warmth and savory scents embraced Annabelle the moment she entered the kitchen.

  A scan found the room empty.

  She placed the lamp on the table near a cloth-draped mound. Anticipation raced through her as her lips edged upward. “Now let’s just see what we have here.” Annabelle whisked off the cotton toweling. Two slices of apple pie, along with two forks beside the saucers, widened her smile. She leaned closer and inhaled, relishing the mix of cinnamon and nutmeg. “Thank you, Ellie.”

  Laying the towel aside, Annabelle walked to the wood stove. A kettle resting near the back contained enough water for her tea. Humming Ave Maria, she readied her evening beverage.

  Minutes later, teacup in hand, she sashayed to the table as the words to the popular tune rolled past her lips…

  Ave Maria! Maiden mild!

  Listen to a maiden’s prayer!

  Thou canst hear though from the wild,

  Thou canst save amid despair.

  She swept aside the hem of her nightgown, issued an embellished curtsey, and then lowered onto the chair. “How very kind of you, ma chère,” she said to the flickering shadows. She lifted her fork. “I don’t mind a’tal if I do.”

  A deep chuckle sounded behind her.

  On a gasp, Annabelle whirled.

  Cast in half-shadows, Brennen Benedict leaned against the doorframe.

  The intimacy of the empty kitchen engulfed her as her skin tingled with awareness, and her lips with remembrance of his kiss.

  But…he’s supposed to be in Owensborough. Lamplight danced across his amused expression, and any response she might have formed shredded beneath his overwhelming presence.

  “Looks like we’ve got the same idea,” he said, straightening. The solid thump of boot heels against the polished floorboards sent a blast of apprehension over her as he walked around the table. Paces away, his shadow draped her as he pulled out the opposite chair and sat.

  Sainte mère. I’m…d-dressed in my nightclothes. She swallowed back the rising panic…at the absence of proper apparel, at being caught in the kitchen with a fork in her hand, at sitting anywhere near this man whose kiss had every muscle in her body tightening.

  “Heard apple pie’s also your favorite,” he said, settling a half-filled glass of whiskey atop the table. Lamplight arced through the liquor and prismed a shaft of amber across her hand. A lazy smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “Hope you saved a slice for me.”

  Heart pounding, mouth agape, she pointed to the second plate.

  * * * *

  Brennen tightened his hand around the glass and stared at the wide-eyed minx across from him. One damned kiss. A single injudicious moment that should’ve meant nothing now monopolized his mind.

  She remained silent, staring back.

  His gaze dropped to her lips and his pulse raced. He’d kissed dozens of women. No…hundreds, and each one he’d easily forgotten. So why had this scrawny French spinster been the one who’d disrupted his hard-won peace of mind?

  The din of crickets and katydids hummed through the open window behind him as if to laugh at his irritation. And on top of everything else, she hadn’t even had the courtesy to join him for their evening meal. Hell’s bells, he’d specifically brought in someone to cook for them so she wouldn’t feel obligated. With each maddening thump of his heart, ire spurted faster through his veins.

  The least she could’ve done was sit at the table with him. Instead of marching upstairs and demanding she join him, he’d shoved himself inside a damned whiskey bottle.

  The irksome bang in his chest intensified. Why did any of this matter?

  He should’ve just ridden into Owensborough and bedded Cleo.

  The glow of the lamp illuminated Annabelle’s face, leaving her wrapper shimmering in a luminous ivory hue. His eyes narrowed as his gaze dropped to the curve of her breasts outlined against the flimsy material.

  Sonofabitch.

  He dragged his gaze to the thick braid that draped her shoulder. He should just strangle himself with the plait and put himself out of this hell-bent misery.

  He didn’t want pie…he wanted to see her laugh again as she’d done while prancing toward the table with her tea. She couldn’t weigh more than a hundred pounds…dragging her atop the table would be easy.

  Shame blistered him at the brutish thought. Never had he mistreated a woman, unlike his father who’d abused the mistresses he’d paraded through their Richmond mansion before the war. The memory of the drunken man, an arm around a half-naked whore as they whisked along the upstairs passage, echoed through his mind.

  “But…w-what about mother?” Brennen rasped from the open doorway.

  “That ol’ chinwagger?” Gripping tighter a bottle of rum, his father laughed, then shoved Brennen backward across the threshold. “I don’t care what she thinks, youngin’…now get on back to bed. You ain’t man enough to understand, nor will you ever be with that senseless question.”

  The door slammed in his ten-year-old face, and his shock became buried beneath years of uncertainty and loathing, both wrapped around the distant sobbings of a mother.

  On a tightened jaw, Brennen slammed the recall into the darkest recess of his mind.

  No, never would he harm one hair on Annabelle’s head. She was an untamed innocent…a fact revealed by her kiss. Though the woman sat a hands breathe away from him, in actuality she was miles above his despicable kind.

  He should just toss her over his shoulder and haul her back to that conniving Reverend Mother who’d forced them together in the first place.

  The pounding in his head intensified.

  Yet another reason he preferred expensive whiskey over what he’d found in the liquor cabinet. This cheap shit only burned a hole in his gut and weakened his resolve.

  He rolled his shoulders and forced the tension from his body. “The melody I heard…Ave Maria…didn’t Adelina Patti sing that particular one?”

  “Y-Yes,” Annabelle replied, the stammer in her voice betraying her surprise. “Do you like opera, too?”

  “Nope,” he said with a strained laugh. Stretching sideways, he dragged the second plate of pie before him. “I caught her performance a few years back when she appeared at the opera house in New Orleans.”

  A wash of excitement painted her face. “The world-famous Théâtre de l’Opéra? In the Vieux Carré?”

  “That’s right, at the corner of Bourbon and Toulouse Streets.”

  Her smile widened. “The Philadelphia Bulletin pens her the Queen of the Opera. How lucky for you to have seen her.”

  He snorted. “Luck played no part, I’m afraid. I lost a bet and had to escort the winner’s sister to the concert.” Brennen speared an apple wedge with the fork. His rash curiosity had forced him to follow Annabelle when she’d earlier swis
hed past the room on her way through the house to the kitchen.

  He drew his brows together. Instead of sitting here in the lamplight, he should return to the darkness of the library where he’d been immersed in drinking. “Missed you at dinner,” he said. Good gawd...why bring that up now?

  Annabelle’s soft sigh entwined with the hiss from the kettle. “My patient is upstairs, so I ate my evening meal with her.”

  “I see.” He stuffed the cinnamon-spiced fruit into his mouth. Even though her logic made perfect sense, he didn’t see…not one damned bit.

  “I’m pleased to say, though,” she continued, her voice matter-of-fact, “Ruby grows stronger with each new day.”

  “That’s good.” Another glob of pie slid down his throat as he watched her fumble with the silky belt on the figure-hugging wrap draping her curves.

  She reached for her teacup and paused, the porcelain a breath away from the fullness of her bottom lip. “I’ve also decided to bring her downstairs more often for a change of scenery. Perhaps we shall join everyone at dinner tomorrow.”

  Perhaps?

  Brennen squelched the ridiculous shot of joy as he scraped the fork tines back and forth across the plate to capture any remaining crumbs. “Jubal will like that.”

  “And it’ll help to encourage her recovery.” She took another sip. “But, if she’s well enough to get around, then…” Her gaze met his, then dropped away and the heartbreak he’d glimpsed in her eyes nearly stole his breath. “I guess there’s no more reason for me to stay.”

  He gulped the remainder of his whiskey, then shoved the empty glass on the table. Hauling her back to that scheming nun should be his top priority, yet his idiotic words chose another path. “Well, about that…” Aw hell. “Look, I’ve been doing some thinking…” Brennen paused, the conflict inside him growing. In truth, their kiss had jumbled him more than any other thing since he’d been here.

  “Some thinking?” she repeated, tilting her head in expectation as she returned her cup to the tabletop and reached for her fork. Lamplight glinted on a few raven wisps that framed her pretty face.