Leslie Lafoy Read Online Free PDF

wondered. That she was naïve and altogether too honest and trusting? That she was, despite her moments of bravado and resolve, too sentimental and kindhearted for her own good? That Isabella Dandaneau stupidly put being a good person ahead of self-interest?
    The carriage slowed and maneuvered to the side of the roadway, signaling the end of their ride and his pointless musing. As they were drawing to a halt, he leaned forward and grasped the door handle, sternly reminding himself that there was no reason to know any more about this woman in a personal sense than he had her cousin. Once Isabella got her hands on the missing half of the map, she was going to be nothing more than a flash of disappearing skirts.
    No, he amended, as he vaulted down onto the walkway in front of his house, that wasn’t entirely true. Or honest. She’d promised, in exchange for his help, to write the authorities a letter exonerating him in Mignon’s death and her actions so far suggested that she was, above all else, an honorable woman. She’d write that letter.
    And be gone within the same instant as she handed it to him, his more cynical side added darkly. If the authorities didn’t believe a word of what she wrote … If they had questions he couldn’t answer … If she turned up dead after leaving him … His stomach a tight and frigid pit, his mind numbly staring at the crumbling edge of the abyss, Barrett managed to summon a polite and courtly smile as he handed her down onto the public walkway.
    Gesturing up the walk that led to his front door, he let her lead the way and desperately tried to marshal his wits as he followed in her wake. No matter how he looked at it, he was buggered six ways to Sunday. If he let her walk away to pursue Lafitte’s treasure on her own, he stood a damn good chance of quickly regretting it. If he tagged along with her in the quest, he was going to regret that, too.
    She was trouble. A different kind of trouble than Mignon was, certainly, but trouble nonetheless. Just what exactly she’d end up doing to him, putting him through, he couldn’t even begin to imagine. But the heavy sense of dread and doom was undeniable. It was much like the feeling that came with looking out over a river gorge and knowing deep inside that it wasn’t meant to be bridged, that you were pitting yourself against the will of God.
    Isabella slid a quick glance up at him as he reached around her and opened the door of his home. His brows were knitted, his lips compressed, and his jaw a hard granite line. The light in his dark eyes wasn’t angry, though. No, more troubled and pensive, she decided as she stepped into the foyer. Not knowing what to do from there, she stopped and openly surveyed the portions of the house visible from the entry.
    “You have a lovely home,” she ventured. “It’s so English. I like it.”
    Gesturing for her to unbutton her redingote, he then set about removing his own wrap and took up his end of polite conversation, asking, “Are your homes so different in Louisiana?”
    “I’ve noticed that English houses, no matter how large, tend to have a very structured and tight feeling to them. Ours, on the other hand, tend to sprawl in a rather indolent manner and blur the lines between indoors and out.”
    “My friend Carden is an architect,” he replied, taking the light coat from her shoulders. Hanging it on a wall peg beside his, he added, “I’ve seen illustrations of your homes in one of his books. As I recall, there seems to be a fondness for what the author called verandahs.”
    “My own house had two of them,” she provided, trying—and failing—to keep the sadness from tightening her throat. She swallowed and forced herself to smile. “One on the main level and one on the second. Both wrapped the entire house.”
    “This way, please,” he said, indicating the stairs that led to the upper floor.
    Isabella gathered her skirts and started up, acutely aware that he was following on her