Leslie Lafoy Read Online Free PDF Page B

heels, his hand not touching her, but hovering protectively near the small of her back. It had been such a long time since any man had made even the smallest effort at gallantry. Those who had made it the cornerstone of their lives were all gone. Those who were left—
    “You used the past tense just a moment ago,” he observed, gently interrupting her thoughts. “I gather you no longer own that house?”
    The tone of his question implied that it had been sold and she’d moved on of her own volition. “It was burned to the ground by the Union Army,” she supplied as the horrible memories of that night played through her mind. Reny. Nigel. Bartholomew. Their desperate insistence that she leave first. The three shots as the flames had leaped high and the bluebellies stood in the yard and laughed. Isabella took a deep breath and shook her head to dispel the memory. “The land on which it once stood is still mine,” she added, forcing herself, yet again, to move on. “Until they take it for unpaid taxes, of course.”
    Barrett winced at the stoic resolve evident in her voice and regretted his part in stirring what were obviously painful memories. The Americans and their war. It had been over for the better part of a year now, but he should have remembered it and known that Isabella Dandaneau was likely to have suffered in the course of it. Feeling the need to say something comforting and apologetic, he offered, “I know that words are of very little consolation,” as they reached the top of the stairs. “But I’m sincerely sorry for your loss.”
    “What’s done is done,” she said tightly—almost as though by rote. “What’s lost is lost. You can’t dwell on what was.”
    “A healthy attitude.”
    “Well,” she replied, looking up at him and arching a dark brow, “it’s either find a way to go on or lie down and cry yourself to death. And since I’ve seen quite enough of death in the last six years, it’s really not a difficult decision to make.”
    Not for the strong, he knew. The weak never saw the choice and the cowards pretended there was only one. An interesting woman, this Isabella Dandaneau, he thought as he gestured absently in the direction of his bedroom door. He watched her move off. She has secrets. Dark secrets.
    Her abrupt halt, her gasp, instantly brought him from his musings. Turning his head to see what had alarmed her, he found the door to his room standing wide open. Beyond it, the contents lay in complete shambles. He quickly put himself between her and the room while drawing the pistol from the small of his back, and then strode forward to the threshold.
    No one was there; whoever had ransacked the place was apparently long gone. But to have gotten in to do their damage … His heart in his throat, he turned on his heel and raced to the staircase and started down, yelling, “Mrs. Wallace! Cook!”
    He was aware of both Isabella following on his heels and of the unnatural stillness of his house. He should have noticed it the instant he walked in. Jesus! If something had happened to the two women … Older. Trusting. Defenseless. He’d find and kill the son of a bitch. “Mrs. Wallace!” he bellowed as he scrambled into the kitchen. “Cook!”
    Isabella’s hand was already on the pantry doorknob when he, too, heard the thumping sound. “No,” he whispered harshly, catching her wrist and drawing her back. “I’ll go first. Stand aside.”
    She nodded once, crisply, and took two small steps back. It wasn’t as far as he would have preferred, but it was far enough to be out of his and immediate harm’s way. He flung the door wide, instantly vaulting into the dimly lit space with the muzzle of his pistol sweeping across it.
    The shelves were in perfect order and his housekeeper and cook were neatly wrapped in sheets, bound, gagged, and lying in the center of the floor. And apparently, judging by the way they were kicking the base of the cabinets, relatively