Mischief and Magnolias

  Mischief and Magnolias

  Marie Patrick

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2014 by Donna Warner.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-7572-X

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7572-3

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-7571-1

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7571-6

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © istockphoto.com/andipantz; istockphoto.com/Jamesbowyer

  To my critique partners, Lexi and Ann, who are always up for a bit of mischief; to my son, who taught me what mischief truly is; and to my husband, who would never let me get away with putting molasses in his boots.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  More from This Author

  Also Available

  Chapter 1

  Natchez, Mississippi

  September 1863

  Shaelyn Cavanaugh leaned against the railing of the second-floor gallery of her home and focused on the two men coming up the road, their blue uniforms unmistakable. They rode at a swift pace, a trail of dust behind them.

  Since Natchez, Mississippi, surrendered to the Union forces, it wasn’t unusual to see blue uniforms, especially since they’d made Rosalie, the home next door, their headquarters. But the two men didn’t turn into Rosalie’s drive as she expected.

  Her breath caught in her throat when she glimpsed light auburn hair, much like her brother’s, gleaming in the sunlight. “Ian!”

  His companion had raven-black hair, though it too reflected the sun’s light. Traveling with Ian, he could be only one man—the one she had promised to wait for. “James.” Her hand gripped the wrought-iron railing, her knuckles white. Tears blurred her vision. Her heart beat a frantic rhythm in her chest as excitement surged through her veins.

  “They’re home!” she cried. “Mama!”

  She lifted her skirts and ran for the outside staircase at the back of the house. “They’re home!”

  She jumped, missing the last few stairs, and hit the veranda at a run, her skirts held high as she ran into the house through the French doors in the small sun parlor.

  “Mama!” Shaelyn darted into the central hallway, her footsteps clicking on the marble tiles as she ran to the front door, flung it open, and rushed headlong into a pair of strong arms. She rested her head against a firm, hard chest, and squeezed tight. A button pressed into her cheek, but she didn’t care. They were home. “Thank God,” she whispered into the uniform.

  “Well, that’s quite a greeting,” a deep, rich voice as smooth as drizzling molasses responded. Laughter rumbled in his chest. “Not expected, but certainly welcomed.”

  “Hmm. Where’s mine?” his companion asked in the clipped tones of New England.

  Shaelyn recognized neither voice nor accent and turned her head to glance at the auburn-haired man. Ian Cavanaugh did not look back at her, which meant she did not have her arms around James Brooks.

  Her face hot with embarrassment, Shaelyn pulled away from the man. She drew in a shaky breath and stared. The most beautiful pair of soft blue-gray eyes she’d ever seen stared back. “Forgive me. I thought you were someone else.”

  “Obviously,” the man replied. “Perhaps introductions are in order, although after your greeting, it may be too late.” Amusement gleamed from his eyes as a wide grin showed off his white teeth in a charming smile. She wanted to touch the dimple that appeared in his cheek. “Major Remington Harte.” He gestured to the man beside him. “This is my second in command, Captain Vincent Davenport.”

  “Miss.” Captain Davenport bowed from the waist.

  Shaelyn nodded in his general direction, but her focus remained on the major. She’d never seen hair so black or so thick. An insane impulse overwhelmed her—she wanted to run her fingers through that mass of thick, shiny hair and feel its silkiness. Struck by her own inappropriate thoughts, she stilled. He wasn’t James. She shouldn’t want to run her fingers through his hair.

  “Are you Brenna Cavanaugh?”

  “What?” Startled, Shaelyn shook her head. “No, I’m her daughter, Shaelyn.”

  Footsteps rang out down the hallway. Shaelyn dragged her gaze away from the man in uniform for just a moment as her mother joined them at the door. “I am Brenna Cavanaugh.” A sweet smile accompanied the hand she offered the major. “May I help you?”

  Introductions were quickly made, and Shaelyn watched the exchange of pleasantries, but her gaze was drawn back to the major. He looked dashing in his uniform. The dark blue complimented his eyes quite nicely. The material molded to his body, emphasizing his broad shoulders, lean waist, and slim hips. He stood tall, well over six feet she guessed, as her gaze swept the length of his body with admiration. She noticed a silver-tipped cane in his hand, which he leaned on. He must have been injured in battle.

  She had always loved seeing a man in uniform. They stood differently: straighter, taller. Proud. They acted differently, too, as if wearing a uniform had something to do with how the world perceived them.

  Her gaze met his and she felt the warmth of a blush creep up from her chest. A smile parted his full lips and her face grew hotter. She’d been staring at him and he knew it.

  “Is this about Ian, my son?” Hope colored her mother’s tone, a hope she had tended carefully, like one tends a garden.

  “Or James Brooks?” Shaelyn added.

  “May we go inside?” Major Harte gestured toward the open door.

  “Where are my manners?” Brenna smiled. “Of course.” She turned to Shaelyn. “Please show our guests into the sun parlor, dear. I just finished making tea.”

  With effort, Shaelyn dragged her gaze away from the major and the pulse throbbing in his neck, above the collar of his uniform, which had mesmerized her. “Please follow me.”

  Major Harte’s uneven footsteps echoed in the hallway and the tip of his cane tapped on the marble tiles as Shaelyn showed them into a small, comfortable, sun-filled room at the back of the house, while Brenna pushed through the swinging door to the kitchen. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

  “Thank you.” The major moved to the fireplace and rested his arm on the mantle while Captain Davenport sat on a rattan love seat.

  Shaelyn sank into a chair across from the captain, her fingers settling into one of the rattan grooves, and let out a slow breath—anything to still the anxiety plucking at her spine with its icy fingers an
d chilling her from the inside out. After a moment, the heat of the major’s gaze rested on her, negating that chill. He didn’t speak as she turned to face him, nor did he smile, but the warmth in his slate-colored eyes captured and held hers.

  She opened her mouth, but no words issued forth. She didn’t know what to say. Or do. She’d never had to entertain Union officers, although her brother had marched off to war wearing blue. In all truth, she hadn’t entertained in a very long time, and the lessons her mother had taught her about proper decorum and genteel manners simply escaped her.

  Captain Davenport didn’t speak either, and a heavy stillness filled the room, the only sound the rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner. An ominous sense of foreboding stole through Shaelyn with each passing minute. Her heart pounded, not with excitement now, but with dread. A lump rose to her throat. She knew, deep down, whatever the reason for these men to be here, no good would come of it.

  Brenna entered the parlor and broke the silence. “Shaelyn, would you please pour?” Her mother placed a silver tea service on the table in front of the divan and took a seat in her favorite wicker chair.

  Shaelyn rose from her seat, though her entire body trembled. With shaking hands, she lifted the teapot and started to pour. A few drops of the dark brew spilled onto a linen napkin on the tray and stained it brown.

  She glanced up and caught the major’s wince before he addressed his second in command. “Captain, would you be so kind?”

  “Of course.” Captain Davenport leaned forward and took the pot from her hands.

  Shaelyn gave him a tremulous smile. Every muscle and sinew in her body tensed with apprehension as she moved behind the settee, her hand resting on her mother’s shoulder.

  Captain Davenport handed Brenna her teacup and attempted to give one to Shaelyn as well, but she declined without a word, afraid her voice wouldn’t work over the lump constricting her throat.

  Major Harte straightened and limped over to the chair opposite the divan, a grimace tightening his features. Shaelyn watched his painful progress and a surge of sympathy rippled through her.

  “Now, Major, please tell us why you’re here. If it’s bad news, don’t make us wait, I beg you.” Brenna’s voice shook as she said the words. She grabbed Shaelyn’s hand and squeezed.

  He hesitated. Shaelyn wanted to drag the words from his mouth. Whatever he needed to say, she just wished he’d do it. He took a deep breath. She prepared herself, swallowing hard against the bile burning the back of her throat.

  “Mrs. Cavanaugh, are you the owner of Cavanaugh Shipping and the steamboats the Brenna Rose, the Lady Shae, and the Sweet Sassy?”

  “Since my husband passed away,” Brenna replied. “Yes, I am, but Shaelyn runs the business. She’s quite good at it, despite this terrible war.”

  “And are you the owner of record for this home, Magnolia House, and the warehouse and shipping office located in Natchez-Under-the-Hill?”

  “What is this all about, Major?” Shaelyn asked. She didn’t like the expression on the major’s face at all. He seemed sad almost, as if he didn’t relish what he needed to do, and her dread intensified, those icy fingers no longer plucking at her spine, but squeezing her heart. She stiffened against the blow that was sure to come.

  He removed a document from his uniform pocket, slowly unfolded it, and began to read. “By the order of the government of the United States, for the duration of this war or until they are no longer needed,” he said softly, “you are hereby commanded to relinquish your home, steamboats, warehouse, and shipping office to the Union Army. Specifically, me.” He glanced at Shaelyn, an apology in his eyes.

  “What!” Shaelyn let go of her mother’s hand and came around the sofa on legs that felt like wooden stumps instead of flesh and bone. “You can’t do that. They belong to us.”

  She stopped in front of Major Harte and stared at him. The brief moment of sympathy she’d had for him vanished, and her face burned with anger. Indeed, her entire body felt as if fire consumed her. She grabbed the document from him, but her hands shook so badly, she couldn’t read the paper in front of her.

  “Indeed, I can, Miss Cavanaugh,” he said, his voice no longer soft, but commanding and strong. “I have my orders.” The expression in his eyes hadn’t changed, though. They were still apologetic.

  She knew the army, on both sides, frequently took homes and other possessions, but it didn’t assuage her anger one bit. “Why my steamers? And my home?”

  “The Union Army has need of your boats to transport men and supplies and your home, being in such close proximity to Rosalie, is perfect to quarter my men.”

  “What are we supposed to do? How will I support us if you take my steamboats? Where are we to live?” Incredulity made Shaelyn’s voice sharper than normal. Although she was usually unflappable, even in the most dire of circumstances, this whole tableau had her feeling like she was someone else, someone she didn’t even recognize. “What if I refuse, Major? What will you do then?”

  A muscle jumped in the major’s cheek as he stood to tower over her. “You have no choice in this matter, Miss Cavanaugh.” His voice remained strong, but the warmth of his eyes conveyed another message. “It’s nothing personal. Consider this your contribution to the war effort.”

  The lump constricting her throat threatened to suffocate her. She took a deep breath and swallowed hard.

  “My my mother and I have already contributed far more to this blasted war than you could ever imagine.” Her voice barely above a whisper, she almost choked on the words. “My father suffered a stroke when war was declared. I watched him struggle for life for two months before he succumbed.” She blinked against the tears filling her eyes. “I have heard nothing from my brother or my intended in over a year. I can only hope they are still alive and were not at Gettysburg. I have lost two riverboats to shell fire. They lay at the bottom of the Mississippi, along with the people who were aboard.”

  She drew in her breath, tried to control her shaking body, and tried but failed to control her temper. “Now you will take my home and my business, and I am to give it to you graciously? I don’t believe I can, Major.”

  A strong desire to do him bodily harm made her clench her fists as he stood before her, his expression impassive.

  “I am sorry for your losses, Miss Cavanaugh, but we have all made sacrifices,” he replied softly. His gaze held hers and he shifted his weight to his other leg, as if mentioning the word sacrifices made him remember his own. “Some more than others. It is the way of war.”

  “Your war, not mine!” The words exploded from her, despite the constriction in her throat. How much more would this blasted war take? How much more could she give? Had she brought this on herself by applying for a government contract? She’d been denied, of course, and immediately tried again and again. Had she drawn attention to Cavanaugh Shipping by her sheer persistence? Instead of getting the contract she so hoped for, she had her possessions taken.

  A small sound drew her attention. Shaelyn tore her gaze away from the major and glanced at her mother. Brenna had not moved, had not uttered a sound except for a small whimper, but her face had lost all color. Her chin trembled and tears shimmered on her lashes. Pain and confusion flashed in her eyes. Shaelyn’s heart came close to shattering.

  She had promised her father she would always take care of her mother, a privilege she gladly accepted. She wouldn’t break her promise now. She took a deep breath and managed to smile at her mother to let her know it would be all right.

  “I’m certain you are a reasonable man, Major.” She forced her gaze away from Brenna and faced the man who stood to take everything from her. “We have nowhere to go, sir. No family left, no friends able to take us in. The war has seen to that.” She took a deep breath and tried to keep her anger under control. “Perhaps we can strike a bargain?”

  • • •

  Intrigued, Remy cocked a dark eyebrow. He hadn’t missed the look she’d given her mother,
nor could he mistake the devastation on the older woman’s face and his part in putting the desolation there. He hadn’t had this issue with the other homes where some of his men were now staying. “A bargain, Miss Cavanaugh? What did you have in mind?”

  “Perhaps we can discuss this privately,” Shaelyn suggested, and nodded toward Brenna.

  “Of course,” he conceded, and followed her from the parlor. They stepped across the hall, toward the front of the house, and into a well-appointed study. Remy limped to the desk and leaned against it, taking the pressure off his leg in an effort to alleviate the pain, which never seemed to abate.

  Shaelyn shut the pocket doors then moved to the center of the room. A ray of sunlight fell on her, and Remy sucked in his breath.

  Heaven help me, she is a beauty. Damn Jock MacPhee!

  Her light auburn hair, twisted haphazardly into a loose knot atop her head, left wispy tendrils to frame a lovely, heart-shaped, and at the moment, angry face. Bright patches of color stained her cheeks. Dark brows arched over smoldering eyes the color of cobalt. Her pert nose turned up slightly at the tip. He had no doubt her mouth, now compressed in annoyance, broke hearts when she smiled.

  She had spirit. He’d give her that. Her rage was tangible; he felt the heat radiate from her from across the room. Her eyes never left him. They sparkled with dangerous intent.

  “You have my undivided attention.” He hid a smile as she stomped toward the desk, the lace at the hem of her dark plum skirt swishing like ocean foam. He wondered briefly if the skirt had had lace originally or if she had used it to hide a badly frayed hem like so many other young ladies did during these difficult times. She wore no hoops or crinolines beneath her skirt, but he did glimpse pristine white petticoats and the tips of her worn, scuffed shoes.

  Shaelyn said nothing. The expression on her face spoke for her. Remy kept his gaze steady on hers, frankly admiring her blushing cheeks and flashing eyes.

  “You’re staring daggers at me, Miss Cavanaugh. Does the color of my uniform offend you?” he asked, unable to resist.