Mischief and Magnolias

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.

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 and 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.