The Promise of Breeze Hill

by Pam Hillman

  What was he doing here? Had he simply sought shelter in Nolan’s barn? And what of the men with him? Were they highwaymen as well? But Nolan’s plantation was the least likely place that lawless men would take shelter in a storm. Breeze Hill was much closer to the trace, and there were no other main thoroughfares near Braxton Hall.

  Heart pounding, Isabella hurried to the settee and picked up her riding cloak. She had to go home, regardless of the hurricane-like winds buffeting the house.

  She turned toward the door and came face-to-face with Nolan Braxton.

  The wind howled around Connor, whipping sheets of rain against his face, and it was all he could do to keep up with Wainwright.

  For a man who’d just survived a stabbing and being shot in the head, he was showing strength of determination as he urged his mount toward Braxton Hall. Connor raced after him, praying he wouldn’t have to scrape Wainwright off the roadway.

  A thunderous crash ripped through the wind and rain, and a massive oak twisted from its moorings and slammed toward the earth not twenty feet ahead of his horse. The animal whinnied and reared in fright. Connor fought to stay seated but found himself flat on his back on the ground, his mount racing toward home.

  By the time he got to his feet, swaying against the gale-force winds, Wainwright was gone. There was nothing for it but to keep going. It couldn’t be far to Braxton Hall.

  He vaulted over the tree and continued onward. Finally, through the trees, he spotted a stately three-story plantation home surrounded by oaks. Where was Wainwright? There! He’d dismounted and was leading his horse toward the stables set off to the side of the house. Connor leaned into the wind, aiming for the open door. He’d catch up with Wainwright, and then they’d find Isabella and go home.

  If she was still here.

  It had been hours since she’d left home, and with each passing minute, he’d grown more worried. He was supposed to be gone by now, putting miles between him and Breeze Hill, putting thoughts of Isabella out of his heart and out of his head. But here he was, running to her rescue even as she ran to the arms of another man.

  He scowled as he struggled across the open space between the trees and the barn. The similarities from eight years prior couldn’t be ignored, except for the fact that Isabella’s father hadn’t come after him with a flintlock and a hangman’s noose.

  But once again, the ones who suffered the most from his stupidity ended up being his brothers. As soon as they got Isabella home, he’d leave, even if he had to hunker down somewhere until the storm passed.

  Movement at the side of the barn caught his attention, and Connor pulled up short as he recognized the broad-shouldered slave Turnbull had forced to dance to his pistol.

  “Massa. Massa,” the slave whispered, motioning him to the side, away from the barn door. “Come.”

  What was going on? Had William sent the slave to him? But why not enter through the barn door? The slave beckoned again, and he followed him out of the roar of the wind.

  “Where’s Wainwright?”

  “Massa Turnbull, da Frenchman, an’ another man, they have da other massa in the barn.” The slave hurried toward the back of the structure, waving him forward. “Come. See.”

  “Wait. Why are you doing this?”

  “You were there the night the scarred man used the whip on Massa Turnbull. I will help you in return. We must hurry before they kill him.”

  For a fraction of a second, Connor considered finding Wainwright on his own. But the man’s panicked state convinced Connor to trust him.

  “Lead the way.”

  Moving quietly for such a big man, he eased open a door at the rear of the barn and crouched down, pressing a finger to his lips, signaling silence. Connor flattened himself against a wagon wheel. Over the roar of the wind, he heard bits of conversation from the front of the barn.

  “I say we just kill him—”

  The wind snatched the words away, but the voice was unmistakably Turnbull’s. No doubt he was talking about William, but whom was he talking to? The slave had mentioned a Frenchman.

  Connor motioned to a carriage parked in front of the wagon. “Closer.”

  “No, suh.” The slave plucked at his arm. “Massa Turnbull kills you, too.”

  But Connor shrugged him off and padded forward, keeping in the shadows. He had to get closer if he was going to be any good to William. He stumbled over a pile of discarded harnesses, thankful for the wind that slammed against the barn walls, masking the clatter as he fell against the carriage. He hunkered down and peered through the undercarriage. What he saw shot fear through him.

  Turnbull had a pistol pointed at William’s head, a hungry look in his eyes that spelled death. The Frenchman from the inn stood in front of him.

  William’s face was battered and bloody, and he slumped against a post. The Frenchman slammed the handle of a pitchfork into his side where he’d been stabbed and William doubled over and fell to his knees, clutching his stomach. Connor pulled his pistol and felt for the knife at his waist. The pistol would do little good in the close quarters, since he had only one shot.

  The Frenchman spread his hands. “For the last time, monsieur, why did you brave this ferocious storm to ride all the way to Braxton Hall?”

  William glared at him but said nothing.

  Frenchie twirled the pitchfork, the tines sparking against the light of a single lantern. “Silence isn’t going to help you.”

  “Would ya look at this.” The third man led Isabella’s horse out of the shadows. “It’s one of them fancy sidesaddles.”

  Connor’s blood turned hot and angry when he got a look at the man’s face, scarred and pocked from numerous fights. It was the highwayman who’d kidnapped Isabella. His gaze jerked from the highwayman to the Frenchman, then to Turnbull, the pieces falling into place like a clock striking twelve. They were all in cahoots. His stomach clenched with a new worry. Was Braxton party to whatever nefarious deeds the three had been up to? And Isabella was in the house with him.

  He fought the urge to rush to her rescue. William needed him more than Isabella at the moment.

  God, please keep her safe until I can find her.

  Frenchie moved to inspect the horse and saddle. He chuckled. “Mon dieu, Braxton has pulled it off. The Bartholomew dove has flown here to roost. Most interesting. Maybe we should all retire to the house and join the party.”

  Turnbull waved his pistol at William. “I don’t care one whit about the woman, but this young whelp knows too much.”

  “Very well.” Frenchie shrugged and stepped back. “He’s all yours. I, for one, plan to make the acquaintance of a certain young mademoiselle.”

  As soon as the Frenchman let himself out of the barn, Turnbull pulled back the hammer.

  Connor stood, took aim, and pulled the trigger.

  Click. His pistol misfired.

  Turnbull and the highwayman whipped around, facing him. William slumped to the floor, barely conscious. The men spread out, minimizing the odds of Connor taking both of them out.

  Tossing the useless pistol to the side, Connor palmed his knife, waiting.

  “Well, if it isn’t the Irishman.”

  The highwayman reached for his own blade. “He’s mine, Turnbull.”

  “No worries, mate. I’ll just wound him; then you can have your fun.” Turnbull raised his pistol and pointed it at Connor. “Would you care to wager your life that my pistol misfires as—?”

  With a grunt, Turnbull broke off midsentence, his eyes going round. His weapon tipped downward, and in disbelief, he looked at his chest, where the tines of a pitchfork protruded. The big slave stood behind him, pitchfork in hand. As Turnbull pitched forward, the highwayman roared and charged.

  Connor flicked his wrist and threw his knife.

  Chapter 31

  NOLAN CARRIED a silver tray into the parlor. Isabella still sat in the same spot where he’d left her only minutes before. He placed the tray on a table and reached for the pot of tea.
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  “I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything more substantial. But my housekeeper is deathly afraid of storms. At the first sign of inclement weather, she scurried to the cellar. At least she left a pot of tea on the stove.” He reached for a spoon. “Cream and sugar?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The house groaned under the force of the wind, and Isabella’s gaze jerked toward the windows. Calmly, Nolan handed her a cup of tea, not surprised to see that her hands were shaking. Women as a whole were really quite delicate creatures. “Don’t worry, dear. I’m sure this storm will blow over in no time, and I’ll see you safely home before nightfall.”

  “I’m afraid it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better.”

  “Perhaps.” Nolan wasn’t the least worried by the storm. He smiled. “We can retire to the cellar with the slaves if you like, although that’s not exactly my idea of a relaxing evening.”

  “If it becomes necessary.” Isabella took a sip of tea, then placed the delicate cup on the table, seeming to gather her nerves about her like a well-worn cloak. Her dark eyes met his. “Nolan, I’ll get right to the point. I came here to accept your proposal. On one condition.”

  “Well, this is unexpected but delightful.” He reached for her hand and pressed a light kiss to her knuckles. She really was quite beautiful. He’d made an excellent choice. He could taste victory even now. “Anything you ask, my dear.”

  “I ask that you help me ensure my nephew, Jonathan William Bartholomew II, inherits Breeze Hill.”

  “So Leah had her child?”

  “Yes. A boy.”

  “I would think the child’s birth would be an occasion for rejoicing, not concern.”

  “My father is convinced that Jonathan’s death and the misfortune that has befallen our family is no accident.” A worried frown creased her brow. “If he’s right, then little Jon could be in great danger.”

  “Surely you jest?” Years of playing the part of a sympathetic plantation owner served him well.

  “It’s no jest. I want to protect my nephew at all costs. Our agreement would allow you to oversee Breeze Hill until he comes of age, when he could take over himself.”

  “You don’t need my agreement to accomplish that, Isabella. The child is legally the heir, regardless.”

  “If he lives.”

  “You’re—” Nolan paused, allowing a look of absolute horror to creep over his face. “Surely you’re not suggesting that someone would kill the child for the land. And what of your sister-in-law’s future husband? What if she remarries? What might her new husband have to say about such an agreement?”

  “Her future intended—should she accept his suit—has already drawn up papers relinquishing ownership of Breeze Hill to little Jon.”

  “Admirable.” He lifted a brow. “May I ask who the lucky man is?”

  “William Wainwright.”

  “Ah.”

  “I have no illusions that we’re marrying for love. This is a business arrangement, pure and simple. But it means a lot to my father—and to me—that Jon inherit Breeze Hill.”

  “Of course it does, and rightly so.” Nolan eyed her over the tips of his steepled fingers. “Isabella, I hate to bring up such a macabre suggestion, but the odds of the child living to adulthood are slim even without this . . . this far-fetched and barbaric idea that someone would intentionally try to end his life.”

  “True. But I couldn’t live with myself if anything should happen to him.” Her lips trembled, and she blinked back tears. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here so calmly talking about a newborn’s death. It’s just that I didn’t sleep at all last night. If his life is in danger, then I’ve got to do whatever I can to protect him.”

  “Of course you do.”

  Her proposal could actually play into his plan nicely. With access to the long stretch of the trace that ran the length of Breeze Hill, his men would be able to come and go as they pleased. As he gained favor with the governor, he’d slowly distance himself from Pierre and Turnbull’s activities along the trace—extorting a stipend for his silence, of course. His need for Breeze Hill would be long gone by the time the child reached adulthood.

  “Isabella, I think it’s admirable that you want to leave Breeze Hill to your nephew. I’ll certainly do everything I can to protect you and the child and to build the property to its former glory.”

  “Thank you.” She bit her lip, her gaze straying to the windows.

  “Was there something else?”

  “No—actually, yes. Are you aware that some men took refuge in your barn today?”

  “Pardon?”

  “While waiting, I couldn’t help but keep an eye on the storm. I saw several men ride up and take shelter in your stable.”

  “Well, I can hardly refuse shelter to anyone in this weather.”

  “I agree, but I recognized one of the men.”

  “Really?” Nolan took a sip of tea.

  “I thought it was one of the highwaymen . . .” Her voice trembled. “The man who kidnapped me.”

  Nolan choked on his tea. “Surely you’re mistaken.”

  “I wouldn’t be mistaken about something like that.”

  Nolan stood, moved to the window, and peered out. Had Pierre and his henchmen ignored him and come to the plantation after all? He’d taken great pains to keep their association separate. All his hard work could come undone with one careless act.

  He spotted Pierre hurrying toward the house. He dropped the drapes, turned, and strode across the room. “I think I’ll find a couple of men and check the stable. Will you be all right?”

  Isabella blinked. “Yes, yes, of course.”

  Both Turnbull and the highwayman who’d kidnapped Isabella lay dead, their blood seeping into the hard-packed dirt floor while the storm raged outside.

  Connor dropped to one knee beside Wainwright. “William, are you all right?”

  “I think I’ll live.” Wincing, he pulled himself to a sitting position against the wall, still holding his side. “I’m beginning to think that you’re an unlucky man to be around, Connor O’Shea.”

  Connor grinned. “The feeling’s mutual, Master William.”

  William chuckled, then groaned. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  Silence filled the barn, save the howling wind that clawed at the building, the horses snorting and pawing at the ground in the stalls. William glanced at the bodies, then at the slave. He hadn’t moved but stood over Turnbull’s body, pitchfork in hand. William addressed him. “What is your name?”

  “Abraham, suh.”

  “Who owns your papers, Abraham?”

  “Massa Braxton most recently, suh.” The slave’s chin jutted in stoic defiance; his gaze flicked to Turnbull’s body, then to Connor and William. “He deserved to die. He was evil. Not just to you, but to my people as well.”

  “Abraham, I’m about to tell you something, and I want you to listen to me very carefully.” Even slumped against the wall, his face covered in blood, William somehow managed to convey the proud bearing of someone who expected to be obeyed. “I killed Turnbull. You were never here. Is that clear?”

  Abraham seemed to be on the verge of refusing.

  “It’s for your own good. They will kill you even though you were protecting O’Shea and me. Let me repay you in this manner. Please.”

  After a long moment, Abraham lowered his gaze. “Yes, suh.”

  William closed his eyes, and Connor gripped his shoulder. “William?”

  “I’m fine.” His words were slurred. “Help me up. We’ve got to find Isabella.”

  “William, please, stay here and let me—”

  Connor caught William as he swayed on his feet, slumping against him, unconscious. He lowered William to the ground, motioning to Abraham. “Stay with him. No, hide the bodies, then get out of sight.” Connor nodded at William. “And take him with you. The Frenchman might return at any time.”

  “Yes, suh. There is a cellar. He would not know of it.” />
  Connor nodded. “Good.”

  He headed toward the barn door. Now to find Isabella.

  Suddenly he stopped, turned, and addressed Abraham. “Does Nolan Braxton know of Turnbull’s connection with the highwaymen?”

  Abraham nodded. “He knows. He is the highwaymen’s massa.”

  Nolan strode into his office to find Pierre snipping the end off a cigar.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Pierre waved the cigar. “Pardon, monsieur. I knocked, but no one answered.”

  Nolan gritted his teeth. Pierre knew he didn’t mean here, in his home, but anywhere on his land. The Frenchman loved to intentionally pretend to be obtuse, but word games got on Nolan’s nerves—unless he himself instigated them. “I told you to never come here. Speak your peace and get out.”

  Pierre grinned. “Au contraire, my friend. Do you not want to know what we found in the barn?”

  “It seems you are going to tell me regardless.”

  “Young Master Wainwright came to collect Mademoiselle Bartholomew, but there is no need to worry about him.”

  “And why not, pray tell?”

  “Turnbull is taking care of him as we speak.” Pierre examined his nails.

  Nolan didn’t have to ask what Pierre meant. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Another plantation owner’s son dead, and in his own barn. “Why?”

  Pierre shrugged. “He knew too much, and he saw too much.”

  “He wouldn’t have seen anything had you and Turnbull stayed away as instructed.”

  Nolan eyed Pierre, thoughts churning. Too bad Wainwright had followed Isabella. But this too could work to his advantage. If Pierre ended up dead this night, he would be blamed for killing Wainwright, and Nolan could wrap it all up in a nice, neat package.

  “Listen, Pierre, everything is riding on my marriage to Isabella Bartholomew. Not only will we gain access to the trade route through Breeze Hill, but we’ll have the governor’s ear as well.”

  “How so?” Pierre arched a brow of disbelief.

  “Isabella’s mother was Spanish, from the same region as the governor.” Nolan spread his hands. “If you remember correctly, you foisted your attentions on Miss Bartholomew at Harper’s Inn. Perhaps you can rectify the situation at a later date, but tonight is not the time for introductions. She’s already distressed enough as it is.”