by Pam Hillman
But he knew.
He knew all too well.
And he wouldn’t jeopardize her reputation—or his brothers’ lives, their freedom, and his own convictions—knowing there could be no future between them.
Connor’s breath hitched when he saw Isabella walking toward the mill the next morning, a basket draped over her arm. Her hips swayed with the rhythm of her movement, her skirts switching against the short grass.
She stopped in front of him, basket in hand. “Good day, Connor.”
“Good day, mistress.”
Instead of the usual ire that resulted from his use of the formal greeting, her features softened, and a shy smile tugged at her full lips.
He forced himself to concentrate on peeling bark off the oak he’d felled before dawn, even as his stomach rumbled when he caught a whiff of succulent fried meat and bread fresh from the oven. But he would not be swayed, not this time. Isabella was playing with fire, but she didn’t know the danger like he did.
If he ignored her, she’d leave, and he wouldn’t make a fool of himself.
“Where’s Papa?” She looked around, her brown eyes wide and much too enticing.
“Mews and Horne are finishing butchering the hog, so Toby took him over to the smokehouse in the pony cart.”
She rested the basket on the end of the log, right in his line of sight. Her slim fingers fiddled with the handle, and his thoughts shot back to the feel of her hands running through his hair. He jerked his attention back to the job at hand and jabbed the peeling iron against the log, grunting with the effort. “Your trip here was wasted.”
A soft laugh escaped her. “No. Not wasted entirely. Martha baked fresh bread this morning.” She lifted the corner of the cloth, and the aroma assaulted his senses. His mouth watered.
“Would you like some?”
Connor motioned to the table in the dogtrot. “Just leave it there. I’ll take a break directly.”
After a long pause, she picked up the basket. “Very well.”
He heard the disappointment in her voice, the confusion at the way he was acting, but he didn’t relent. He couldn’t.
“There’s leftover fish, too.” She pulled meat, bread, and cheese from the basket, then turned to leave.
The scrape of iron against wood filled the silence, but nothing could fill the ache in his chest as he sent her away. It occurred to him that he was rejecting Isabella just as Charlotte had rejected him, but for totally different reasons.
He was doing it to protect her. To protect himself. He wanted to call her back, ask her to share his meal, make her smile, try to make her understand.
And if he was completely honest, taste her lips again.
But he didn’t. Instead, he pushed the peeler harder, but out of the corner of his eye, he watched her walk away.
Suddenly she turned, caught his furtive glance. She stood there, their gazes locked on each other. Then she blinked, plopped the basket down, and drove forward, hands on her hips.
“I may not know a lot about men, Connor O’Shea, but . . . but something is wrong, and I want to know what it is.”
Connor steeled his heart against her plea. “There is nothing wrong.”
“I don’t believe you.” She raised her chin and glared at him, her Spanish eyes flashing fire. “I insist that you tell me.”
“And I’m expected to obey since Breeze Hill owns my papers?” Connor lifted a brow.
A rosy hue that rivaled the rising sun dewed her cheeks, and whatever rejoinder she’d been about to say died on her lips. She looked away, appearing contrite. Charlotte had never been contrite, embarrassed, or unsure of herself in any way, fashion, or form. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?”
She bit her lip, the action so sweet and innocent that he wanted to relent. “After yesterday, I thought you would be glad to see me.”
“Yesterday was a mistake, and it should never have happened. Just so we’re clear, Miss Bartholomew, I’m here to work to bring my brothers over from Ireland. Nothing more and nothing less. I won’t be toyed with.”
Her mouth fell open, and a flush of scarlet swept over her cheeks. “Toyed with?” she sputtered. “How dare you! You . . .” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “You kissed me. Not the other way around.”
“That’s exactly why I’m putting a stop to it. Now.” He dropped the peeler and stalked toward her. “Nothing good can ever come o’ letting a servant take liberties, mistress. You can be sure o’ that.”
The flush on her face blanched to white, and the fire returned to her eyes, hotter than ever. “It won’t happen again. You can be sure of that, Mr. O’Shea.”
She turned, lifted her skirts a good half inch off the ground, and stormed away, leaving her basket where it lay, discarded and forgotten.
Isabella stomped away, her heart pounding with hurt outrage.
Connor—no, Mr. O’Shea—had humiliated her. She’d fallen asleep with a smile on her face, thinking of the sweet, torturous pressure of his lips on hers, his strong hands holding her, shielding her from the slashing hooves of the wild hogs bearing down on them.
Then this.
She blinked away the sting of hot tears. She wanted to die right there on the spot. But she wouldn’t allow herself that luxury. Not with his eyes boring a hole in her back. No, she’d wait until she arrived at the safety and privacy of her room before she melted into a puddle of misery and embarrassment.
The closer she got to home, the more she embraced her anger instead of her heartbreak. Did he find her so repulsive?
She dashed her tears away with the tips of her fingers, growling low in her throat, so mad she could toss him to the hogs herself if she could pick him up. She couldn’t believe she’d been so gullible as to let him take such liberties. But in the heat of the moment, she’d not had the presence of mind to push him away, to reprimand him for even thinking of touching her, of kissing her.
In hindsight, she should have slapped his face.
Screamed for help.
Had him put in stocks and flogged.
But she’d enjoyed his kisses.
Immensely.
And she’d thought he had too. How could he hold her so close, so tenderly, moaning with the pleasure of the contact, and not feel anything?
Oh, he pretended that he was pushing her away to save her from the shame of being involved with a servant, someone of a lower class. That was just an excuse to extricate himself from an unwanted situation.
A fresh surge of embarrassment, anger, and hurt flooded through her. Today’s rebuff showed her what kind of man Connor O’Shea truly was.
But he didn’t have to worry. She wouldn’t toy with him again.
Chapter 15
THE SUN HUNG LOW on the horizon when the clink of chains drew Connor from the back of the house, where he’d been using the last bit of daylight to square off the foundation for the new wing.
He stopped at the corner of the house, the sight that met his eyes turning his stomach. Fifteen—no, at least twenty slaves, mostly men, shuffled along, iron bands on their ankles, a length of chain suspended between each stirring up puffs of dust where it dragged across the ground.
The slaves’ ankles were chafed, but they didn’t utter a sound, just kept moving forward, one step at a time, keeping pace with the men herding them along like a string of pack animals. A heavily armed bearded man rode at the head of the party, two men flanking him and two more bringing up the rear.
The leader waved his men away. “Stay here. I’ll see about lodging for the night.”
The guards dismounted, ground-hitched their horses, and moved to hunker down in the shade of one of the cedars that marched along the circular drive in front of Breeze Hill. Ever so slightly, a tall, muscular slave in the middle of the pack moved away from the guards, easy-like, not making much show or commotion or drawing attention, but seeking shade away from the men who held them captive. The others, tethered to the big man, all moved in u
nison with him like a team of mules harnessed together.
Once in the shade, several of the slaves sank to the ground, their heads hung low. More than one, including the one who’d shepherded his fellow captives to a bit of comfort, stood stoic, facing the slave traders, waiting.
Connor’s attention shifted when the front door opened and Isabella stood silhouetted there. The slave trader’s eyes swept Isabella from head to toe; then he grinned, jerked his hat off, and bowed low. Connor stepped onto the porch and moved closer, a feeling of foreboding twisting his gut. He didn’t like the way this man treated his slaves, and he didn’t like the familiar way he devoured Isabella with his gaze. It wouldn’t hurt for him to be close by in case she needed him.
Her gaze flickered toward him, a hint of relief on her face. They might have avoided each other like the plague the last few days, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t protect her with his very life. He hoped she knew that.
“Good day, madam. Cecil B. Turnbull at your service.”
“Mr. Turnbull.”
“May I be so bold as to inquire how far it is to the next inn?”
“Toward Natchez?”
“Yes, madam.”
“It’s seven miles to Mount Locust.”
“Seven miles?” Turnbull clasped his hat against his chest. “Perhaps I could impose upon the master of the house to allow us lodging for the night?”
“I’m sorry; we don’t have adequate housing for your party.”
“Not to worry, madam. We’ll be perfectly fine out in the open.”
“As you wish.” Isabella’s gaze sought Connor’s. “Connor, could you show these men to the well? If you need anything, Mr. Turnbull, ask Connor or Mr. Mews. Either can take care of you.”
“Yes, madam. I am indebted.” Turnbull bowed, hand outstretched as if to take hers.
Connor moved quickly, inserting himself between Isabella and the insolent slave trader. Isabella stood so close to his back, he could almost feel the heat of her touch. Faster than a striking rattler, the leer on Turnbull’s face turned to a hard scowl.
“This way, sir.” He motioned toward the well, situated a hundred yards downhill from the house.
“Thank you, Connor.” The tips of Isabella’s fingers rested against his back for an instant, so fleeting he might have imagined her touch; then it was gone, and the door clicked shut behind him.
“Bring them Negroes on over here. We’ll camp here for the night.” Turnbull dropped the affected social graces and yelled at his men. Connor heard the rattling of chains as the guards prodded the slaves across the yard.
Turnbull turned back to Connor. “Is the master of the house in? I’d like to talk business with him.”
“He’s home, but he’s indisposed. I’ll gladly give him a message, if you like.” If Isabella didn’t see the need to fetch her father, Connor wouldn’t either.
Hands clasped behind him, Turnbull rocked back on his heels, looking down his nose at Connor. “I’ve got slaves for sale. I figure the master might want to take a look at ’em while we’re here.”
“I’ll tell him, but it is late and it might be best t’ wait until morning.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Very well.”
Connor dipped his head with as much deference as he could manage, then turned away, leaving Turnbull and his men to make camp as they saw fit. He strode past the wide, panoramic windows lining Mr. Bartholomew’s sitting room situated on the corner of the house. Faint candlelight spilled from windows, and Connor caught a glimpse of Isabella’s father watching the strangers from the shadows.
“I’m not interested.” Mr. Bartholomew scowled.
“I’ll tell him, sir.”
The coffers here at Breeze Hill didn’t extend to buying slaves. Connor had figured that out shortly after Isabella had bought his papers in Natchez, and each day brought home to him how desperate Breeze Hill’s financial situation was. From the rumors circulating among Mews and the other men, they needed one good harvest to put them over the hump this year.
And from bits and pieces he put together, Jonathan’s dreams to expand the lumber business had been a big part of the plantation’s plans to turn a profit.
Mr. Bartholomew turned from the window and speared Connor with a look. “This might be some of the men who’ve been crossing Bartholomew land at night.”
“I don’t think so, sir. Those men travel fast. They’re not transporting slaves.”
“But they could be some of the same. Have you seen any more evidence of riders passing through?”
“Nothing that went unaccounted for. Mr. Braxton rode through here a couple of times heading toward his plantation, but other than that, the last week has been quiet.”
“Braxton came by? Alone?”
“Yes, sir. He was on his way home from Natchez.”
“The fool’s going to get himself killed. He should know not to ride the trace alone. Wainwright’s got the right idea by traveling with a large party. There’s safety in numbers.”
“What about his idea of forming a vigilante group to flush out the cutthroats?”
“Bah!” Mr. Bartholomew waved his hand in dismissal. “None of us have the resources or the manpower for such an undertaking. Every available man, woman, and child is needed in the fields. Without the backing of Gayoso and his soldiers in Natchez, we wouldn’t stand a chance. As much as it pains me, I have to agree with Braxton on that.”
Master Bartholomew peered out the window, silent, watchful. “I want you to find Mews and the rest of the men and keep watch. Nothing good will come of Turnbull’s presence, mark my words.”
“Yes, sir.”
He faced Connor, turning his back on the strangers. “Now tell me how the repairs are coming along.”
Hours later, a shot jarred Isabella out of an uneasy sleep.
She lay in bed, her heart pounding, listening. The haunting strains of a fiddle rolled throughout the house. She frowned. Mews’s cabin was on the other side of the barn, and he never played his fiddle so late at night.
Had she really heard a gunshot? Where had it come from? She jerked as another shot tore through the night, followed by the sharp bark of taunting laughter.
A chill twisted her insides. Turnbull’s men.
Be my help and refuge from my foes.
She sucked in a deep breath. A prayer? No, she was simply repeating a line from the song that Leah had been singing all week. So be it. Perhaps God would have mercy on her family this night.
Startled by the sound of another gunshot, she slipped from bed, lit a candle, and pulled her dress over her nightgown. She hadn’t wanted to give the strangers leave to stay, but what else could she do? One didn’t turn away travelers who came seeking asylum along the trace. It just wasn’t done. Even if the travelers themselves might seem of a suspicious character. The best she could hope for was that they’d take their rest and be on their way come morning.
But it seemed that would not be the case with Turnbull’s party.
She hurried down the stairs toward her father’s rooms. He’d know what to do. The closer she got, the louder the music. Yells interspersed with sporadic gunfire had her heart pounding so hard she thought it would beat right out of her chest.
Susan and Martha, with Leah in tow, met her at the base of the stairs, Leah looking like she was scared out of her wits. The dim light of a candle flickered over her face, ghostly pale.
Leah clasped Isabella by the arm. “What is it? What’s happening?”
“I’m not sure. I’m headed to Papa’s rooms. I’ll be able to see what’s happening from there without going outside.”
Isabella moved farther down the hall toward her father’s rooms.
“Isabella, don’t leave me. I’m frightened.”
“I must check on Papa. Take Leah to my sitting room upstairs. It’s the farthest away from this madness. Stay there.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The women shooed Leah up the stairs, and Isabella hurried to her f
ather’s rooms. She knocked softly on his sitting room door, not wanting to be on the business end of his pistol.
“Papa?”
No answer. Alarm washed over her. Had her father been shot? Dear heavenly Father, what kind of men have I allowed to stay in our midst? She wrapped her trembling fingers around the latch and twisted.
“Papa?” she whispered. She pushed and the door swung open, revealing an empty room, dark and silent.
Where was her father? She turned to the sitting room windows, her gaze landing on the slave traders’ campfire. Someone threw another log on the fire and the flames shot higher.
A slave stood in the midst of the circle of men, his black skin glistening in the night. A shot rang out. A spurt of rocks and dirt kicked up at the Negro’s bare feet, peppering him with tiny particles.
The fiddle twanged. A man laughed.
“I told you to dance. Now dance.” Turnbull aimed his pistol at the captive’s feet and pulled the trigger.
And yet the Negro stood, straight and still as a statue.
Isabella’s heart burned. She wanted these evil men gone from Breeze Hill. She glanced around the room. Where was Papa?
She would find Connor. And Mews. She’d gather all the men, and they could make a stand against Turnbull, tell him he had to leave. There was little they could do to help the slaves, but her father didn’t have to allow such vile behavior here at Breeze Hill.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a form lurching with a peculiar gait toward the interlopers, a bullwhip in one hand, a pistol in the other. Her eyes widened in horror.
“Papa!”
Chapter 16
MEWS GAZED AT CONNOR, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “What are we going to do?”
Connor rubbed a hand over his chin. Mews was a good man, loved the land and growing things, but he was as timid as a field mouse when it came to facing a fight.