by Cindy Nord
Her breath caught in her throat as his handsome features brightened. This time she welcomed the joy that spurted through her. Clearing her throat, she smoothed back the disobedient wisps brushing her cheek just as he lifted the glasses and strode across the veranda toward her.
The rays of a low-slung sun sliced through the port to lay a multicolored rainbow across his hands. “Here,” he said, extending a wineglass, “since we didn’t get around to doing this the other evening. I always say better late than never.”
Reluctantly, she accepted his offering, the bowl of the cut-crystal cool beneath her fingers. Despite her racing heart, and much too aware of this scoundrel’s charm, Annabelle forbade her hand to tremble.
“Time to make amends, don’t you think?” With a wink to underscore his dangerous appeal, he clinked his glass against hers. “Cheers.”
She brought the rim almost to her lips, then paused. “Perhaps that particular incidence is also best left in the past.”
“Ah yes, the past. A discussion we both seem so eager to avoid.” He took a generous swallow.
Annabelle followed suit, though she imbibed in a more modest sip. The fortified wine slipped a rush of sweet berries past her tongue. She swallowed, and breathed a sigh, content with the taste and acidity of the brandy-infused port.
Her sister’s favorite of all the wines.
“Well, I suppose we could chat about this.” She raised her stemware in a mock salute as she fixed him with a steady gaze. “’Tis rumored Christopher Columbus took barrels of port, or perhaps ‘twas sherry, on his voyage to the New World.” She smiled and took another sip, appreciating the delicacy of the vintage.
“Is that so?” Brennen’s gaze penetrated deep into her eyes as he leaned against the closest column.
Eager to share her knowledge, she nodded. All the while a strange sensation swam through her. “And when preparing to sail around the world, the famed explorer spent more money on wines than he did on the weaponry for his own crew.” She giggled, then sipped again.
“So…our little minx is a professor of more than just the alphabet.”
Minx. His moniker for her never failed to arouse. “There are a few more things I know other than ABCs, Monsieur.” Her enjoyment of this unexpected tête-à-tête cradled her lonely heart inside another warm squeeze. “In fact, the vineyards of southern Rhône were nearly wiped out a dozen years ago by a pest that caused destruction to most of the wine-producing regions of France.” She paused as the port’s tantalizing taste bedeviled her, the spirit loosening her tongue, as well as her reserve. “Frantic grape growers even released live toads beneath their vines in a desperate attempt to offer the bugs as easy fodder for the creatures.” She glanced at the decanter’s label and smiled. “Yours is a worthy brand, and dozens of Quinta da Roêda bottles fill my brother-in-law’s wine cellar, as well.” She banished the ache that memory of the congressman evoked.
“So you’re also a connoisseur of fine spirits?”
The humor in his voice assured her he was pleased, and she relaxed further. “I’m far from an expert, but my parents did much socializing. So, I suppose I learned by observing.”
“Observing?” he asked, amusement sparkling bright in his eyes. “I guess that’s one way to gain familiarity. Yes, France still boasts a few excellent vineyards, I’ll give you that…but Douro Valley in northern Portugal will always be the true home of port.”
“What do we have here? A debate? Is that what you’re wanting now?” Annabelle laughed, pleased at her boldness and unwilling to terminate their banter. A blush burned high across her cheeks and she took another swallow, surprised to find the drink nearly gone.
Huskiness seared his voice as he leaned over, swept up the decanter, and then refilled her glass. “No debate, ma chère. Merely a fact.”
The aroma of the aged spirit mingled with the masculinity that emanated from this compelling man. Everything about him tangled Annabelle’s heartstrings into a knot.
She blew out a breath.
He stepped closer, leaning past her to settle the decanter onto the table behind her. Lured by the moment, of the ache his presence incited, she breathed him inside her again. A symphony of scents swirled through her, the warm, pungent fragrance of the port, the beckoning whiff of cloves and cherry wood, and that sweet, smoky bite of his cheroot.
His breath caressed her ear, ruffling the hair on the nape of her neck. For one splitting moment she gasped a fragile, frantic sound that left her as vulnerable as tinder smoldering inside a hearth.
With a chuckle, he straightened and then stepped back to the column…taking with him the power and intensity that all but thrilled her.
At the restored distance, the tension in her shoulders eased. Air poured into her lungs to stabilize her pounding heart. If only she could keep her knees from shaking beneath the layers of her plum-colored serge skirt.
On a stabilizing sigh, she recentered her focus. Each passing day spent in this man’s presence proved to be her steadfast strength, as well as her own compounding weakness.
“Jubal thinks we’re almost half-finished with making bricks,” he said, again glancing out across the disheveled lawns. “I’ve asked him to find me a couple more helpers.”
Panic slithered through her. More workers meant a faster completion. Then she’d again be thrust into a world-gone-mad. Annabelle searched for and found her voice, sadness hovering on the edge of each word. “That will surely move things along for you.”
He nodded. “Only one will help us out at the kilns, though. The other will tend to repairs around here and act as my groundskeeper.” He pointed toward the outbuildings, the port in his wineglass sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “That main barn needs reboarding and the water well requires maintenance, as do the upturned bricks in the entryway, and those run-down fences…” He paused and gestured closer. “And see these overgrown lawns? They’re a damned mess. ‘Sides, I’m tired of looking at ‘em when I get home each evening. How ‘bout you?”
Annabelle scanned the circular veranda and the four large columns that enveloped her, as well as the manor house standing stalwart and strong. Earlier, all had been scraped and painted, and now she loved every angle and line. But, he wanted her opinion, so she would answer him honestly.
Her gaze shifted. She took another sip of port. Even though the land and outbuildings still cried out for help, she envisioned the estate fully restored. Beautiful. Peaceful. Completely whole. “Yes,” she whispered. “Repairs will add more value to the pla-”
“I’ve got to get everything finished. You understand that, right?”
She nodded. “I understand.” But, she didn’t. Not really. Not when everything she’d never had was sitting all around him just ripe for the picking. “But this magnificent place should at least have a name, Brennen,” she stated, facing west toward the sun that now kissed the treetops. The port had mellowed her just enough to allow the words their freedom. “And not The Chiswell Place, either. It’s your hard-earned money, your time and sweat being poured into the estate. So, claim that honor. Make this all mean something…if only for the short time you’re still here.”
Brennen snorted, swirling the port inside his glass. “Naming things is the least of my concerns, darlin’. ‘Sides, once I’ve claimed something…it becomes mine. And I don’t like to let things go.”
Annabelle knew the feeling well. She resented his aloof, detached manner. How dare he push away security and roots, and…and…her words slipped out stronger than intended, the tone almost scolding. “Naming this place will make your tasks, the brick-making, everything you’re doing and feeling more meaningful, don’t you understand?”
Another scoffing sniff filled the space between them. “Tell you what, Annabelle. How ‘bout you come up with a name then, since you’re so keen on the idea. I’ll see if it fits.”
She dragged her gaze back to his. If only she could read what lurked inside this complex man’s mind. “M-Me?”
He shrugged. “Yes. And for the time remaining, go ahead and make this whole damned place yours. You know, give things a much-needed feminine touch.” He peered down and inhaled so deep his chest rose. She swore she heard a rumbled curse fall from his lips.
On the exhale, he stepped closer.
She lifted her face, her gaze locking onto his sultry brown eyes. Beautiful eyes. Soulful, intelligent eyes.
His breath brushed warm across her forehead. “In fact,” he continued, his face caught within a play of lines and shadows in the late-afternoon light. “I’d like you to be the…woman of the house. To oversee everyone here while I’m gone during the day.” A strained laugh followed, allowing him to catch his breath. “You know, to wear the chatelaine, if ladies still do that sort of thing, and handle any day-to-day issues or deliveries that arrive.” His statement, more a plea than a request, offered her power and status in his household, however long that household might exist.
Wear his chatelaine?
Her heart careened in her chest. She well-remembered the brooch her mother wore at the waist, along with the many sparkling chains suspended from the pin. Each one held domiciliary items such as the keys to their Paris manor-house, food stores, scissors, and watches.
The all-important household seals.
Annabelle swallowed hard.
His expression softened, sliding across his face like fragmented clouds from a tempest.
Moments ticked by.
His mesmerizing gaze deepened.
She’d seen that storm of emotions before, in the upstairs hallway where she revealed more about herself than she’d ever intended him to know, where mere moments later he’d kissed her.
Annabelle compressed her lips to stop from tasting him again. Speak. Say yes. She drew a shaky breath, then tipped her head. A fragile smile parted her lips. “O-Of course. I’d be honored.”
The space of one footstep separated them. All she needed do was lean forward, rest herself against his protective chest. His distinctive aroma teased her as did his oh-so-masculine presence. Everything about this man, about his generosity, about his continued unexpected requests entwined within her to weaken her further.
For the first time in years she felt as if she belonged, a place where she could find hope and belief in herself, where she wasn’t a nurse or caretaker. A place where she wasn’t afraid.
Because of him.
For an unsettling moment their breaths mingled. Would he pull her up against him and take what they both wanted? Heat eddied inside her, igniting the incredible sensations and memories of being wrapped in his embrace again, of once more feeling his mouth upon—
Wheels rumbled down the entry lane.
Pulse racing, Annabelle staggered back, bumping against the tabletop. She caught the flare of his nostrils, how his body tensed.
A second passed.
Then another.
He stood, his gaze riveted upon her.
The clatter of the wagon grew closer.
She clenched her half-empty glass of port. Unsure if she’d been spared or denied his touch, Annabelle glanced at the carriage rounding the bend. As if decreed by the Almighty, the rays of the setting sun split around the black-shrouded silhouettes of a formidable Mother Superior and a smiling Sister François Clare.
Chapter Seventeen
The nuns!
Apprehension sliced through Brennen as he settled his gaze on the Reverend Mother. Had the blessed sister shown up to snatch Annabelle away? Perhaps they’d discerned her nursing skills were no longer required. His mind scrambled for reasons why she should stay. The teaching sessions. His desire for her to help with the household.
He’d share all that….if need be.
Brennen swallowed. Hell’s bells, to keep Annabelle in his life ‘til he sold this godawful heap, he’d even toss in more cash to bolster the good sisters’ cause. The pressure below his belt perplexing, he inhaled and slumped against the column.
His gut tightened further when the abbess halted the horse at the bottom of the steps. She stared at him before shifting her attention to Annabelle, who abruptly shoved aside her wineglass.
“Bonjour, Reverend Mother,” Annabelle said, clasping her hands together. “And Sister Clare. How nice to see you both again.”
“Bonjour,” the older nun replied.
Teeth flashed white as the chubby, friendlier nun grinned. “We’re returning from mass in Owensborough and decided to stop by.”
The Reverend Mother looped the reins around the brake of the single-seat buggy, then rested her hands in her lap. “I do hope we’re not interrupting anything.”
The moment strained thin as Brennen cast a quick glance toward Annabelle.
“Absolutely not,” she snapped, her chest rising and falling as if she’d run behind the wagon all the way from town. If guilt were a color, the red staining her cheeks spoke volumes. “I-I was going to send you over an update this evening.”
He flexed his jaw as concerns over losing Annabelle eased. If only the need slamming in his gut at nearly kissing the minx again would fade.
Mother Superior arched a brow. “An update, my child?”
“Ruby’s health has vastly improved…” Annabelle shot him a hesitant smile before focusing back on the abbess. “S-So Monsieur Benedict has hired me to teach her and Jubal how to read, an unexpected but charitable act, and one I assured him would be favorable to God.” She swept her hand over the supplies strewn across the table as proof. “We were just discussing today’s lesson.”
“I see.” The elder’s savvy eyes narrowed. “And with wine, too. I’m sure that makes the lessons of the day more enlightening. Sherry? Or a fine, vintage port?”
Annabelle’s mouth gaped open. “P-Port.”
“Delightful.” The abbess chuckled, then slanted her eyes to drill into his.
Among her many nunnish talents, could this sinister-sharp sister of the cloth read minds, too? He swallowed, then said, “Ma’am.”
“Monsieur,” she replied, her kinked smile indecipherable. “The framework of our church nears completion. Since I’m no longer receiving daily reports, I thought I’d check in on your progress firsthand.”
If he’d been caught with his hand up Annabelle’s skirts, he wouldn’t have felt any less guilty. That sensation, coupled with the gut-wrenching need for the minx still burning his insides, sent Brennen’s mouth into a downward tilt. It wasn’t enough that he couldn’t control his own damned desires for her…No! The fact this black-shrouded Trojan horse who’d placed Annabelle in his company to begin with now purred aloud at his discomfort blistered straight to his soul.
Their eyes locked.
Mother Superior’s blue ones narrowed further. “Do you have time from your other activities to show me?”
Show her? Hell yes, he’d show her, and do her request one better. Every damned brick he’d made so far would be stacked before her cabin door by week’s end.
Brennen straightened from the column. “My pleasure.” Unsure if he was angry at her or himself, his spurt of annoyance rattled him. For what? It wasn’t like he’d already bedded Annabelle.
Already?
Brennen drained the port, shoved the glass aside, and then turned and clamored down the front steps. The mare jerked her head back as he brushed past. He soothed the animal, and then extended his hand to the nunnish suzerain he’d rather chase off his land. “Allow me to assist you, Your Reverence.”
With a nod she slipped a blue-veined hand in his. The wooden rosary suspending from her waist clunked against the side of the carriage as she descended.
“Thank you, monsieur.” she stated as she straightened. Every inch of her five-foot tall frame decreed a solemn percipience.
He nodded, then gestured toward the outbuildings. “Before we run out of daylight may I suggest we head straightaway to the barn where you can inspect my fervent progress?”
The breeze swirled between them to lift the hem of her veil. The material brushed his arm.
“An excellent plan,” she replied, smoothing the front of her garment. An eye-blink later, she rose upon her tip-toes and whispered in his ear, “But first, I’m wondering if you’ve discovered anything new thus far about yourself, monsieur?”
Brennen clenched his jaw, his heart thudding into his gut. In spite of the breeze, a trickle of sweat tracked down his neck. He could no longer hide his ever-increasing wonder at this woman’s shrewd perceptions. Yet, for some damnable reason, he wanted to garner her respect. On a tight laugh he muttered, “More than you’ll ever know.”
“Good,” she trilled, and her chuckle warmed his hell-bound soul.
* * * *
As Brennen and the Reverend Mother headed across the knee-high, slender shoots of grass toward the barn, Annabelle took the stairs to the bottom two at a time. “I am truly happy to see you again.” She held out her hand to offer assistance to the remaining nun.
Sister Francois Clare nodded. “Seems like months have gone by rather than weeks since we’ve talked.” She patted the wide girth beneath her scapular. “But my malady’s flaring, so climb up here and we’ll visit. ‘Sides, Mother Mary Agnes won’t be long, and I don’t want to move from this blasted buggy if I don’t have to.”
“Fine by me.” Annabelle hoisted herself into the wagon, and then settled onto the leather seat beside her friend. “I’ve been so busy helping out around here that the time has flown.” She straightened her underslip and skirt. A quick wiggle of her arms fluffed the thin white cotton of her blouse sleeves.
“Glad to hear your patient’s improved.”
“When I arrived, Ruby’s consumption had taken a turn for the worse. Rest and proper food and a much cleaner environment inside the main house helped her recover faster than expected.”
“You’ve a knack for healing, ma caille. Not everyone possesses your skill and caring heart.”
Despite the duties she’d accepted, or the tugging of her heartstrings whenever in Brennen’s company, Annabelle felt she could relax her guard a bit. “Thank you, my dear.”
“Have you heard anything back from your attorney?”