The Promise of Breeze Hill

by Pam Hillman

  There!

  A man. Definitely a man. Moving stealthily toward Connor, the rain masking any sound of his movements.

  She caught the glint of a pistol.

  “Connor!”

  Chapter 26

  CONNOR LAUNCHED himself sideways as Isabella’s scream coincided with a boom of thunder and the sound of a misfired weapon.

  Fast on the heels of the first attempt, a second shot peeled bark off the tree behind him. Taking a chance that the man would have to reload, Connor palmed his knife and plowed through the undergrowth toward his assailant.

  He broke from cover, the rain falling steadily. Less than ten feet away, he spotted the highwayman, knife in hand, lumbering toward Isabella with a slight hitch in his gait. She swung a half-rotten tree branch, the effort puny in the face of the knife he wielded. With a primal growl, Connor threw his own knife. The blade glanced off the man’s shoulder, and he turned, coming at Connor.

  Connor jumped back, reaching for the extra knife in his boot.

  For the first time, he got a good look at the man who had taken Isabella. Greasy buckskins covered his body, and long, stringy hair hung past his shoulders. A multitude of scars crisscrossed the haggard map of his face. He grinned, looking half-wild, the rain running in rivulets down his face, into his beard, and sluicing off his buckskins.

  Connor gripped the knife in his hand, weighing his odds. From the looks of the outlaw, he knew how to fight, or he’d be dead already.

  “I’ll do you in, and after that I’ll take care of your woman.” The bandit made slashing motions with his knife, then lunged forward, striking at Connor, missing by inches. “How do you like that?”

  Connor ignored the verbal jabs, saving his energy and his wits for the fight ahead. He made a quick jab and jumped back as the man took another swipe at him. White-hot pain lanced his forearm as the blade sliced a three-inch gash.

  He slashed downward, clipping his opponent’s knife with the tip of his. The knife went flying over the side of the bluff. With a roar of rage, the outlaw grabbed a piece of deadwood and swung at Connor. Connor jumped back, crouched, and circled, watching for a chance to end this once and for all.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Isabella rush forward, her club raised. Before he could yell at her to stay away, she swung. The highwayman pivoted, swinging his own weapon at her, the blow connecting with her shoulder. Her feet slipped on the wet leaves. One moment she was teetering on the bank, arms windmilling; the next, she lost her footing and plunged over the cliff, her scream tearing at Connor’s insides.

  He heard the splash as she hit the water.

  The bandit turned, a wicked grin on his face.

  Connor drew back and threw his knife. Not taking the time to see if his aim was true, he took a running leap and launched himself over the edge of the bluff. He hit the water, drew in his legs, and went down, down, until his feet hit the bottom. He kicked off, giving himself momentum to shoot back up. He broke the surface, and the water swept him downstream. He spotted Isabella several feet away, fighting the current. Then she went under, the weight of her skirts pulling her down.

  Connor sucked in a deep breath and dove downward but couldn’t find her. When he surfaced, he spotted her once again.

  “Isabella!”

  She tried to turn toward him, but then the force of the current pulled her under again. Connor knew this was his last chance. He dove forward, down, aiming for where he’d last seen her.

  His grasping fingers caught hold of a flutter of cloth, and he tugged, tangling his fingers in the material, pulling, grappling, hoping, praying, all in one second of desperation. Then he got a firm hold on her, pushed off from the bottom of the creek bed, and broke the surface. Isabella lay limp in his arms, no longer fighting.

  The rushing current carried them past sheer banks that would be impossible to scale. Connor rode the current, half-swimming with one arm, keeping Isabella afloat with the other. Rain fell in sheets and lightning flashed overhead. He’d almost given up hope when he spotted a sandbar. With the last of his strength, he kicked toward it. His feet hit bottom, and he renewed his efforts, dragging both himself and Isabella clear of the current.

  The two of them fell across a half-submerged log, and he lay there gasping for breath. Isabella lay limp as a rag doll. He crawled to her and lifted her in his arms, pounding on her back, her stomach, trying to expel the water she’d swallowed or inhaled.

  Suddenly she threw up, liquid gushing out of her mouth and nose.

  He held her as she purged herself of the foul swill, thankful she was alive.

  “Isabella?”

  Her lashes, dark and spiked, feathered against her cheeks, and her full lips were parted as her head lolled against his arm, but she didn’t respond. He smoothed back her hair, his hands trembling as he watched for signs of life. Her chest rose and fell with the rhythm of her breathing.

  She moaned, then coughed again. Connor held her close, his gaze sweeping the tributary, the high banks barely visible through the rain. Had his aim been true? Was the highwayman dead? If he’d survived the knife, Connor prayed the idea of crossing the fast-flowing stream would deter him. But he couldn’t take the chance. He gathered Isabella close and staggered away from the water’s edge.

  He left her in the shadows, took a brush top, and swept away the evidence of their passing. Even as he did so, the rain pounded the sandbar smooth as if they’d never been there.

  He hurried to Isabella’s side, picked her up, and plunged into the underbrush.

  Isabella opened her eyes to darkness, save a small campfire. Woodsmoke hung in the air, along with the clean, soft scent of rain.

  She lay on a bed of pine needles covered with furs, a quilt spread over her. Some kind of canopy stretched overhead, creating a makeshift lean-to. Even now, she could hear an occasional plop as water dripped against the top of the canvas. She heard voices, turned her head, and saw a clearing dotted with small campfires, protected against the rain with more lean-tos, tents, and wagons.

  “You’re awake.” Connor crouched at her side, the space under the canopy hardly big enough to accommodate his sizable frame.

  “How . . . ?” She swallowed, her throat burning. “Where are we?”

  “On the main road.” He fed the fire with a few more large sticks. “How do you feel, lass?”

  “Like I’ve had the ague. How did we get here? I don’t remember anything after falling in the water.” Everything came back in full force. She closed her eyes and shuddered. “That man . . .”

  “You’re safe. He can’t hurt you here.”

  Her hand rested on her stomach, her thin chemise the only thing between her fingers and her skin. Her gaze jerked to Connor’s even as her face flamed. “Where are my clothes?”

  “Easy, lass.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a couple o’ women in this caravan, and they helped you out of your wet clothes. They’ve got stew simmering over the fire if you’re hungry.”

  Her stomach rumbled as the scent of cooking meat and vegetables registered. She hadn’t eaten since . . . she couldn’t remember when. Sometime before they’d left Natchez. Was it only this morning? It seemed like a lifetime.

  “Yes, please.”

  Connor moved toward the open side of the lean-to.

  “Wait.” She bit her lip and inched away from the edge of the canvas, jittery with the thoughts of the men who’d attacked their party. “Do you think he’s still after us?”

  Connor shook his head. “If he’s still alive, he wouldn’t try to hurt you among so many.”

  She wanted to believe him. But every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was that man shooting William, grabbing her by the hair, and tossing her on the back of one of the draft horses, then the nightmare minutes, hours that followed until Connor found her.

  “Don’t leave me.”

  “I’ll only be a minute. Just over there.” Connor waited, his expression filled with concern.

&nb
sp; “All right.” Getting a grip on her fear, she pulled the quilt closer. “Where are my clothes? I’d like to get dressed now.”

  He motioned to a pine bough behind her, protected by the canopy over her head. Her dress, ripped and tattered, draped over the limb. “It’s mostly dry. Do you need assistance? I can fetch someone.”

  “No. I can manage.”

  “I’ll round up some o’ that stew, then.”

  He flipped a piece of canvas down over the front of her shelter, giving her a measure of privacy. Still, she could see glimmers of the campfires spread out before her, hear the faint sounds of conversation as the other travelers settled in for the night. She fumbled with her clothes, dressing as quickly as she could while lying semi-prone under the lean-to.

  It wasn’t an easy task, but she managed it, feeling like a weak kitten by the time she was done. She leaned back against the furs, eyes closed, trying to catch her breath.

  “Are ya decent, lass?”

  Her eyes popped open. Heart pounding, she pulled the quilt up to her chin. She must have dozed off again. “Yes.”

  Connor raised the canvas, a bowl of stew in one hand. Her mouth watered. Struggling to a sitting position, she leaned against the large pine tree that formed the back of the shelter. “I can’t believe I’m so weak.”

  “Ya almost drowned, lass. That can take a lot out o’ a body. You’ll feel better after you’ve eaten and had a good night’s rest.”

  Isabella took a bite of the stew, and Connor moved away, putting distance between them in the small space. She quickly consumed the small bowl of stew and set it to the side. Leaning her head back against the pine, she watched Connor. He hunkered near the fire, poking it with a stick. The flickering flames cast his profile into stark relief.

  His brown hair fell across his brow, wild and unfettered. Her fingers itched to smooth the strands back, to . . .

  To do what? To declare her love? To wring promises of the same from him? Yes, that’s what she wanted. She loved him with all of her being. And she knew that he loved her, too. He’d risked his life for her. He’d thrown caution to the wind and followed her captor into the wilderness to get her back. He’d carried her to safety.

  And deep in the forest when they’d been battling for their lives, he’d held her in his arms and kissed her. And the memory of the desperation in his kiss haunted her.

  But he hadn’t said he loved her. Then again, neither had she. The time hadn’t been right for words, only actions, reactions, feelings, and honesty of the heart, not of the head.

  He turned, caught her staring, then motioned to the empty bowl. “Would you like some more?”

  “No thank you. One bowl is enough.”

  Connor stood, stalked toward the lean-to, stooped, and held out his hand for the bowl. She searched his face, but he didn’t meet her eyes. Disappointed, she handed the bowl over, and he moved away. “It’s stopped raining. I’m going to gather a bit o’ wood for later in the night.”

  Isabella resisted the urge to call him back. He vanished into the night, and she scooted to the rear of the lean-to, pressing against the pine tree, staring at the campfires ringing the clearing. Was Connor right? What would stop the highwaymen from attacking this party as they’d attacked the Wainwright party?

  Movement across the way caught her attention as the shadowy form of a man stood and walked away from his campfire. Her heart lodged in her throat when he crossed the clearing and disappeared into the woods not far from her lean-to.

  The intermittent plop of rainwater against the canopy became more frequent as it started raining again. Isabella burrowed deeper into the furs, waiting and watching. Where was Connor? What was taking him so long?

  A clatter beside the lean-to had her scrambling toward the light cast by the fire. She barreled straight into Connor as he ducked under the canopy.

  “Whoa.” He grabbed her shoulders, his brow furrowed with concern. “What’s wrong?”

  Her face heated when she spotted the firewood he’d dropped on the ground. “You startled me.”

  “Sorry about that.” He let her go, and she swayed on her feet. He urged her back under the shelter out of the rain. “You’d better sit. You’re too weak to stand.”

  She bit her lip and glanced up at him. “Will you be here all night, standing guard like you did at the inn?”

  A tiny smile tilted up one corner of his mouth, and he chuckled. “All night, mistress.”

  As he helped her to the bed of furs, she sighed. His face, shadowed by a daylong stubble, hovered over hers, his concern making her stomach do more backflips. “Why do you call me mistress?”

  He studied her; then he let her go and moved away, even though there wasn’t much room in the small shelter. If she wanted, she could reach out and touch him.

  And she wanted. But she didn’t dare.

  “Connor?”

  She heard a long-suffering sigh in the semidarkness. “Because you are the mistress o’ the house.”

  “But you call me Isabella, too.”

  “It’s a slip o’ the tongue, that’s all.”

  “I give you leave to use my given name,” she whispered.

  His eyes glittered in the firelight, flitting to her lips before catching and holding her gaze. “And you see where such familiarity has gotten us so far.”

  “Where?”

  Instead of answering her with words, he growled low in his throat, then swooped down, his lips claiming hers. Heart pounding at the ferociousness of his kiss, Isabella wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, reveling in the taste of his lips on hers. A low moan escaped his mouth, and a thrill of pleasure shot through her. He longed for her and her only. And she for him.

  Like a meteor shower on a hot summer night, the realization burst across the landscape of her mind that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with this man, not with any other. Somehow they’d find a way to be together.

  Another groan tore from his throat, and he broke away, his chest heaving as he stared down at her. Isabella cupped his face, loving the feel of his jaw, warm against her fingers. He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. His lips brushed the palm of her hand, and shivers of delight arched through her. “Connor, I love—”

  “No.” His eyes flew open, glittering with something other than the passionate kiss they’d just shared. “Don’t be sayin’ that.”

  “Why not?” She reached to caress his face, and he jerked away. She persisted. “It’s—it’s true.”

  “You know nothing of love.” He scowled, untangled her arms from around his neck, and backed away.

  A coldness settled over her, having nothing to do with the dampness brought on by the rain. “And what do you know of love, Connor O’Shea? You’ve already determined that these feelings I have for you are nothing. What of your feelings for me? Tell me they’re nothing.”

  “I won’t deny that I have feelings for ya, mistress. But nothing good can come from it.”

  Hot tears pricked her eyes even as sorrow pierced her heart. “Why? Why do you say that?”

  “I’m a servant, lass.” He leaned down, his face inches from hers. “That’s all I am.”

  “No, Connor, don’t say that.” She rose up on her knees, one hand against the rough cotton of his shirt. “You’re not just a servant. America is different from Ireland. You can be anyone you want, become anything you want.”

  “That may be true, but right now I’m a servant, and you’re the daughter of the master of the house. You’ll marry someone like Braxton or Wainwright and produce heirs to carry on the legacy of both plantations. Tell me I’m not right.”

  Isabella’s mouth opened and closed like that of a fish tossed up on the shore, gasping for breath. How could he know her thoughts so clearly? How could he know she’d once mapped out her life to do exactly as he’d said?

  That was, until she’d lost her heart to an indentured servant determined to stay in his place.

  “You’re wrong.” Isabella li
fted her chin, glaring at him. “I can marry anyone I choose.”

  It was all Connor could do not to throw caution to the wind and gather her in his arms again. But it would do no good. She didn’t know what she was talking about. Neither of them had much choice in whom they would marry. How could he make her see that?

  “Believe that if you wish, lass, but when the time comes, you’ll do whatever it takes to save your family’s land.”

  “You don’t know me, and you don’t know my father.”

  “I know how the landed gentry—the upper crust—operate.”

  “Ha!” She threw her arms out to encompass the crude shelter. “As if my father and I are part of the upper crust. Has it occurred to you that we’re barely making ends meet at Breeze Hill?”

  “It’s not about how much you own, but your position in society, lass. And your position and mine are too far apart. Just trust me on this.”

  “I know you’re being honorable, Connor, but—”

  He snorted. “There’s more to it than being honorable.”

  He’d spent the last eight years being honorable, making a vow to God and to himself that he’d avoid women above his station. As a bonded journeyman to Master Benson, he’d been forbidden to court, to take a wife. And when Benson had given him liberty to do so, he’d had little time, money, or desire for the company of women. Being shipped half a world away from family over the whims of a woman like Charlotte made a man think twice before becoming embroiled in affairs of the heart.

  But that was before he’d met Isabella.

  “Tell me, then. Tell me why you keep pushing me away.”

  Connor clenched his jaw, picked up a stick, and poked at the fire. Maybe if she knew the truth, she’d leave him be.

  “Her name was Charlotte. Like you, she was the master’s daughter. She was young and beautiful and could have any man she wanted. And she wanted me, nothing more than a stable lad. I was young and foolish and thought I had the world at my feet. But it all came crashing down the day her father made arrangements for her t’ wed an English baron’s son. It was an advantageous marriage, he said. And Charlotte agreed. She laughed in my face when I asked her t’ run away with me, t’ be me bride. The next thing I knew, I was bound for the colonies, courtesy o’ Charlotte’s father, who didn’t want anything or anyone t’ besmirch his daughter’s good name.” Connor laughed, the clipped sound completely devoid of amusement. “It was better than the hangman’s noose that he first suggested.”