The Promise of Breeze Hill

by Pam Hillman

  “Very well, monsieur.” Pierre stood. “I will wait out the storm in the barn. But don’t think you can play me for the fool.”

  Nolan smiled and shook his head. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Chapter 32

  ISABELLA PACED the length of the parlor, nerves on end.

  She should be relieved that Nolan had agreed to her request to maintain Breeze Hill until Jon came of age. If the babe was safe and his future secure, that was all that mattered, wasn’t it?

  But instead of relief, a knot of dread tightened in her stomach. She’d just pledged herself to a man she didn’t love for the sake of her nephew, while the man she did love walked out of her life forever.

  She steeled herself against longing for Connor. She’d learn to respect Nolan, even if she never loved him. It would be enough.

  A crack and a loud crash shook the house and had her racing to the window. A mighty oak lay uprooted, its branches reaching like claws toward the three-story structure. The wind picked up in intensity, the remaining trees writhing as if in pain.

  What was taking Nolan so long? She’d insist that they retire to the cellar as soon as he returned. The hurricane-force winds could spawn a tornado at any time. No sense in risking their lives for propriety’s sake. They were to be wed, after all.

  As she watched, the porch shuddered, then flipped upward, slamming against the side of the house. Isabella rushed out of the parlor, the sound of splintering wood and shattering glass following in her wake.

  “Nolan?” she called out. “Nolan, where are you?”

  Even though it was midday, darkness shadowed the hallway, save for scant light through a window at the far end. A flash of lightning illuminated stairs to the second and third floors. In the brief flicker, she spotted a man at the end of the hallway.

  “Connor?”

  She moved in his direction, stopping just shy of touching him. “What are you doing here?”

  A deep-throated chuckle rumbled through his chest. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “I thought you were gone.”

  “Ah, lass, I would have been. But that fool Wainwright was determined to get himself killed by coming after you, so I was obliged to come along to keep him safe.”

  Isabella bit her lip. “So you only came to keep an eye on William?”

  Lightning flashed, illuminating his furrowed brow, eyebrows dipped over eyes filled with pain. But Isabella didn’t need to see his face to know what he looked like. His features were branded on her heart.

  “No, I came for you, Isabella. Will you forgive me for being an eejit?” He reached out a hand, smoothed her hair back, then stepped forward and wrapped an arm around her waist. “I should’ve believed you when you declared your love. Instead, I let my past blind me to the truth.

  “I love you, Isabella,” he whispered. “From the beginning, I’ve loved you.”

  A sob broke free, only to be swallowed up when Connor’s lips closed over hers, claiming her breath, her heart, and her love.

  Tears trickled down her cheeks, and Connor pulled back. His thumbs swiped at the tears. “Ah, lass, what’s this?”

  “It’s too late, Connor.”

  “Too late for what?” He kissed her tears away.

  “For us.” She shuddered. The touch of his lips on her face almost made her forget her promise to Nolan, the storm battering the house, everything but Connor and the way he made her feel. “I told Nolan I’d marry him.”

  Connor shook his head. “You can’t. He’s—”

  The front door slammed open, and Connor whirled.

  Nolan Braxton stood in the open doorway.

  He advanced, ignoring Connor, his gaze on Isabella. “Isabella, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, but—” Isabella moved from behind him, but Connor blocked her, keeping her safely out of harm’s way. “Nolan, we need to seek shelter immediately. The storm—”

  “Of course.” He motioned to the stairs. “We’ll seek shelter in the cellar below.”

  In one fluid motion, Connor pulled his pistol, cocked it, and pointed it at Braxton. The weapon was useless, his powder wet, but Braxton didn’t know that. If he could just buy enough time for Isabella to get away. “No. We’ll settle this once and for all. Now.”

  “Connor, what are you doing?” Isabella gasped even as Braxton halted his advance toward them. “Please. Put the gun away. Nolan isn’t any danger to me.”

  “Did he tell you who’s in the barn?” Connor narrowed his gaze, watching Braxton for any sudden movements. “The highwayman who kidnapped you, the Frenchman from Harper’s Inn, and Turnbull, the slave trader.”

  “They were just taking shelter from the storm. Nolan sent them away.”

  “They almost killed William.”

  Isabella gasped. “William’s hurt? Again? Where is he?”

  “He’s safe.” At least Connor hoped he was. The Frenchman was still unaccounted for, and who knew how many other highwaymen were afoot this night. “Turnbull’s dead, Braxton, and so is the man who kidnapped Isabella. Mr. Bartholomew was right. An influential plantation owner was behind Jonathan’s death and the attacks on Isabella’s family. That plantation owner was you.”

  “Isabella, don’t listen to him. He’s gone mad.”

  “I have, have I? Who are you, Braxton? Or should I call you that? The elder Braxton didn’t have a son. He didn’t have any heirs.”

  Braxton’s composure slipped, and his eyes widened.

  “What, no answer for the lady? Even now the authorities in Natchez are combing ships’ manifests to figure out how you managed to assume the identity of an heir who didn’t even exist fifteen years ago. It’s over, Braxton. Give yourself up now, and the governor might grant leniency.”

  The look on Braxton’s face told Connor that he knew the futility of that argument.

  “Nolan, is this true? Did you kill Jonathan?” Isabella’s voice cracked.

  “Unfortunately, yes. I had my future mapped out, and Breeze Hill stood in the way of my success.” Nolan’s gaze shifted, met hers. A tight smile graced his features. “With you by my side and the governor’s blessing, we could have risen to heights of glory and riches that the common man only dreams of.”

  Lightning flashed behind Nolan, blinding Connor. He blinked, and when he opened his eyes, Nolan had his pistol drawn. The man aimed and fired. White-hot pain slashed through Connor’s right arm, and he dropped the pistol.

  “Connor!” Isabella screamed.

  He grabbed a heavy candlestick off a nearby table and flung it toward Nolan, then shoved Isabella toward the stairs. “Run!”

  He turned back toward Nolan even as the man pulled a second pistol, cocked it, and leveled it at him. Connor froze as a roar unlike anything he’d ever heard swept toward the house. The vortex reached through the open door, sucking at everything inside, seeking to turn the house inside out. Horror spread across Nolan’s face, and he reached toward Connor.

  In the next instant, the monster wind grabbed Nolan and sucked him through the open doorway.

  Connor dived for the stairwell.

  “Connor!”

  The deafening roar swallowed up Isabella’s scream, but she felt Connor behind her, half-pushing, half-carrying her down the stairs to the pitch-black servants’ kitchen. They fell in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. Connor grabbed her around the waist and pulled her beneath the staircase, wrapping his arms around her, his body cocooning hers.

  Memories of the day they’d sought shelter from the hogs assailed her, but that had been nothing compared to the wind that ripped the house apart over their heads. They huddled together, the screech of splintering wood, glass shattering into a million pieces, furnishings flung hither and yon, all overshadowed by the ferocious howl bearing down upon them.

  The staircase shook, shuddering against the force of the wind. Isabella clutched Connor’s shirt, holding him close, the warmth of his body pressed against hers in the small space beneath the stairs. This
time they were going to die. She knew it in her heart. Knew that she’d brought death on herself by coming to Nolan’s in the first place. And God forgive her, she’d brought it on Connor and William as well. Dear William. She prayed he’d made it to safety.

  Oh, God, spare us, but if you must take Connor, take me, too. I can’t bear to see him cold and lifeless, his life snuffed out even as he tried to save mine. Please, God.

  Her prayers mingled with her tears and thoughts of the foolish decisions she’d made. Decisions that had cost so many their lives.

  Just as suddenly as the tornado struck, it passed, and with one last groan, the battered staircase shuddered and became still. Isabella opened her eyes to light and sky and rain splattering against the kitchen floor, the wind blowing gusts of moisture under the staircase and dampening the hem of her skirt. She sucked in a breath as she realized the entire outer wall on this side of the house was gone, save the staircase under which they huddled.

  Connor shifted, turned her in his arms so that he could see her face. He smoothed her hair back, his gaze raking over her. Heart pounding, fingers shaking, Isabella caressed his face, every nerve ending conscious of the stubble on his jaw, the way his brow furrowed, his lips, every precious breath he took.

  “We’re alive,” she whispered. “And we’re together.”

  “We are.” He gathered her close. “And I’ll never let ya go, lass. Never ever again.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise. Isabella, I thought I could leave you to some rich plantation owner, but I can’t.” He cupped her face, his gaze holding hers a willing captive. “I’m asking ya again, lass, will ya be my bride?”

  Isabella lifted a brow, then reached up to smooth back a wayward lock of his dark-brown hair. “Now, Connor O’Shea, why would I say yes to such a grave proposal?”

  “Because—” His steady gaze wavered, and the remnant of a younger man who’d been burned in love flickered across his face. Then his jaw hardened and frown lines creased his brow. “Because I love ya, that’s why, and by all that’s right and holy, I won’t see ya married off to another. We’ll be poor, what with Breeze Hill goin’ to little Jon, but—” He broke off, then placed her hand over his heart, beating hard and fast beneath her palm. “I’m offering all I have. I’m offering my heart.”

  Isabella slid her hand up from his chest and around his neck. And as she pulled him to her, she whispered, “Yes, Connor O’Shea, I accept. I’ll marry you.”

  Chapter 33

  DAWN WAS BREAKING over the horizon when the sound of pounding on the cabin door jerked Connor awake.

  “Connor? You awake?” Toby yelled. “Mr. Bartholomew is asking for you.”

  The events of the day before came flooding back. Rushing to Isabella’s rescue. The fight in the barn. The tornado that ripped Braxton Hall apart and sucked Nolan Braxton out the door. Then Isabella agreeing to be his bride. The whole thing had been a nightmare and a dream all rolled into one.

  As inhumane as it sounded, Connor hadn’t stuck around to assist with the cleanup or to search for Braxton. When William and the slaves emerged from the cellars unscathed, and William insisted that he could ride, Connor, William, and Isabella had hurried back to Breeze Hill, the trip fraught with worry. Darkness had fallen by the time they arrived to find that the tornado had spared Breeze Hill any damage.

  Quickly he dressed and followed Toby to the main house. A garrison of Spanish soldiers lolled about close to the well, at ease. Soldiers? His concern mounting, Connor hurried through the courtyard to the veranda, took a deep, calming breath, then knocked on Mr. Bartholomew’s sitting room door.

  “Come in,” Mr. Bartholomew’s gravelly voice croaked out.

  The master of the house glanced up from his customary chair. Captain Minor stood next to the fireplace, and William and Mr. Wainwright shared the horsehair settee. Mr. Bartholomew waved him over to the group. “Ah, Connor. Please join us. The captain has news of Braxton.”

  “Nolan Braxton is dead. We found him late last night in the rubble of Braxton Hall. But there was something very strange about the corpse. As was to be expected, the body was pretty battered from the tornado, but that wasn’t what killed him. His throat was slit, the deed clearly done after the storm. I can only surmise that his own men took it upon themselves to kill him.” Minor spread his hands, looking sickened by the discovery. “Who knows why with men who have little regard for human life?”

  Mr. Wainwright shook his head. “What cruel fate to survive a raging tornado, only to be killed by one of his own.”

  “What of the Frenchman?” William asked.

  “Not a trace. I expect that’s one body that might never be found.” Captain Minor slapped his hands together and said, “But that’s not exactly why I’m here. Mr. O’Shea, my presence concerns you and your brothers.”

  Connor jerked to attention. “My brothers, sir?”

  “First things first.” Minor opened a satchel and riffled through a stack of papers. “Bartholomew, it’s my understanding that Mr. O’Shea is indentured to Breeze Hill. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. And no.”

  “No?” Captain Minor paused in the process of pulling papers out of his satchel.

  “Recent—” Mr. Bartholomew tossed Connor a glance and cleared his throat, a twinkle in his eyes—“um . . . developments necessitated that I release Connor from the terms of our agreement. He’s a free man and soon to be my son-in-law.”

  “Excellent.” Minor nodded and sorted his papers. “That takes care of the first step in this process.”

  Connor scowled. What process? One glance at Mr. Bartholomew’s face revealed that Isabella’s father was wondering the same thing.

  “Captain, I know you have a flair for the dramatic, but this is getting tiresome.” Mr. Bartholomew drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. “Speak your mind, sir. I have yet to break my fast this morn.”

  “Very well, then.” Minor seemed to be enjoying himself. He looked through his papers and held up one with a flourish. “Ah, here it is.”

  He turned to Connor. “Mr. O’Shea, your actions on the day the highwaymen attacked Miss Watts’s escort did not go unnoticed by the governor. It came to the governor’s attention that, per the terms of your agreement with Breeze Hill, Mr. Bartholomew had made inquiries about your brothers back in Ireland. Hence, the governor, at Miss Watts’s urging, has made arrangements for passage for your brothers to the Natchez District, posthaste.”

  Connor stood rooted to the spot, stunned. His gaze swept from William’s battered face, to Mr. Bartholomew, back to the captain. “My brothers? All of them? At once?”

  Minor chuckled. “All of them. When Governor Gayoso wishes a thing done, it’s done as soon as is humanly possible.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. Thank the governor—and Miss Watts. And there’s more.” He pulled a sheet of paper bearing the governor’s seal from the stack of papers. “As you all are aware, the man known as Nolan Braxton was an impostor and had no legal claim to the tract of land listed as Braxton Hall. By order of the governor of the Natchez District, for services rendered, I, Captain Stephen Minor, on August 15, in the year of our Lord 1791, do grant said property to Connor O’Shea.”

  Minor handed him the deed to more land than he could have ever hoped to own as a poor Irish lad. Rendered speechless, Connor could only stand there, staring at the official-looking piece of paper stamped with the governor’s seal.

  “What say you, O’Shea?”

  William stood, his bruised and battered face already turning blue, one eye swollen shut. “I say that is a most noteworthy wedding present.” A lopsided grin pulled at his puffy lips, and he held out a hand toward Connor. “Congratulations, my good man.”

  Isabella gave little Jon one last kiss, then placed him in his crib. Careful not to disturb Leah, she tiptoed out of the nursery and quietly let herself out of Leah’s rooms.

  Male laughte
r came from her father’s sitting room, and she frowned. Who would be visiting at the crack of dawn? Hardly anyone was stirring at such an hour. She turned and froze as she spotted the garrison of soldiers near the well.

  What in the world? Soldiers at this time of day?

  Her father’s sitting room door opened and Connor emerged. He spotted her, and a wide grin split his face. He quickly closed the distance between them, grabbed her hand, and tugged her into the entryway that led to the front porch.

  As soon as the door closed behind them, he swept her against him, and crushed her lips with his. Shocked at his brazen and sudden display of affection, Isabella could only return his kiss until she was breathless.

  All too soon, she pulled away, breathless and giggling, but oh, so happy. “Connor O’Shea, what in the world has come over you?”

  He threw back his head and laughed, practically shouted with glee.

  Isabella clapped a hand over his mouth. “Hush,” she whispered. “Someone will hear you.”

  His lips curved into a smile beneath her hand, and he kissed her palm, the featherlight touch setting off a fluttery feeling inside. “Let them. I don’t care.”

  He dropped onto the third step of the stairs and tugged her down to the steps, scooting her flush against his chest, his arms wrapped around her from behind. Isabella leaned into his embrace and sighed, loving the feel of his broad chest at her back, his arms around her, holding her close.

  “Captain Minor came to call, and I—I still can’t believe it.” Awe filled his voice.

  Isabella threaded her fingers through his and smiled. “Tell me everything.”

  And he did. When he was done, Isabella sat, stunned, fighting tears of joy. Connor’s initial excitement had waned, and he held her close, hunched over, his cheek pressed against hers.