Free Taking the High Road by Morris Fenris Page A

Father meant for me to have financial security, and that was his way of ensuring it. And, seeing your behavior here, today, I begin to understand why he hated your mother!”
    “Bitch!”
    Incensed, he swung at her, slapping her across that brightly tinted cheekbone with the back of one hand. Cecelia let out a cry and crumpled.
    “There’s more where that came from,” Noah snarled, panting with exertion. “Give it up, do you hear me? I’ll have those shares, or I’ll see you in jail for theft. This town will hear all about how the high-and-mighty Miss Powell was born a bastard in the upstairs room of her mother’s brothel. As will your so-called betrothed!”
    Cecelia stirred, moaning in pain and horror. “Josiah,” she whispered. “Josiah. You can’t—”
    “Oh, I assure you, I can. All the power lies with me, Cecelia. Learn that, and learn the lesson well.”
    The release of his crushing hold flung her aside like a heap of used laundry. He straightened, smoothing his gray silk vest and navy frock coat into immaculate lines. At the threshold he paused, to add one more warning.
    “I’m a fair man, Cecelia. I am willing to wait briefly, for you to see the error of your ways, and to come to terms with what must be done. As I say, I am a fair man. But I am not a patient man. Pray, do not test me.”
    A slam of the door behind him, and he was, thankfully, gone.
    He had left behind a mess. Nauseated by the violence of the encounter, shaken and sickened and tumbled like a rag doll emptied of stuffing, Cecelia pulled herself upright enough to collapse in her chair.
    Dear God in heaven! Who would have expected Paul Harper, that dear, good man, to beget such a monster? Evil had appeared in her office today: the devil personified by a half-brother she had no desire to claim. As vile and vicious as his abuse had been, she had truly feared, seeing the light of madness in his eyes, that he might kill her.
    The sound of the outer door opening and closing once more sent her heart racing like a steam engine. No! Surely he hadn’t returned!
    She had half-risen from her desk in panic, frantically questing as to where she might hide from another onslaught, when a slight knock came on the doorframe.
    “Mr.—Mr. Townsend—?” she quavered.
    “No, ma’am,” said someone in a southern drawl, entering the room. “It’s me, John Yancey. I stopped by, b’cause—good almighty God!” he jerked out.
    “Yes, I—I know I must look—uh…” Cecelia’s trembling hand brushed futilely at the hair once so carefully coiffed, now falling in disarray around her shoulders, and pulled together the fragile butterfly sleeve that had been torn. “For—forgive me, Mr. Yancey. I’m afraid—I’m afraid I’m not at—my best—right now…”
    Time. She needed time to recover; time to make sense of what had happened. Please go away , she wanted to shout at him, and give me time. Because in another minute, she’d be blubbering, and she desperately needed to do it in private.
    “What went on here, Miss Powell?” His tone was low and quiet, so as not to cause her further upset, but intense.
    “Uh…well…”
    She dared not meet his commiserating eyes, dared not hope for kindness offered in her jittery state, or she would fall apart.
    “Miss Powell?”
    Helplessly, she looked up. Tears converged in those blue  eyes, pooling around her lashes, and then overflowed. And suddenly, she began to sob.
    Just like that, he moved in beside her, took her gently and carefully into his arms, and held her while she wept. For some endless span, while the wall clock ticked quietly away and a bird cooed from its nest in the eaves, he soothed her with soft meaningless words and a light smoothing stroke from the back of her head down to her shoulder blades. Exactly as he might have assuaged the qualms of a restive horse…and probably had.
    Eventually, the vehemence of the sobs lessened, easing into only an occasional shudder for a breath or a