O'Rourke's Heiress by Bancroft Blair

Author:Bancroft, Blair
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: historical romance, romance historical, regency historical
Publisher: Blair Bancroft

Bellerive, Louisiana, December 1816

Accustomed to a maze of small fields enclosed by stone fences or hedgerows, Terence could only stand at the ship’s rail and stare as the sturdy barge struggled upriver. Mud flats, backed by forests, stretched as far as the eye could see, occasionally broken above the flood plain by equally vast stretches of arable land. Glimpses of the great plantations of the south unfolded before him. Docks, graceful homes, sprawling outbuildings. He was too much the son of the man who had fostered him not to scent the possibility of immense wealth. And adventure. Land, so much land. At that moment, he felt the urge to buy the whole damn territory. And what he was seeing was only a tiny portion of the whole. Hard-headed and practical he might be, but his soul soared with the possibilities. He had not yet seen Bellerive, but already he knew that, barring something seriously wrong, he would add it to the Brockman Empire. As well as anything else he could get his hands on. Tobias had given him carte blanche. He would use it.

Somewhere deep down Terence felt the click, the moment when he returned from moon-struck haunted lover to being Terence O’Rourke, Merchant Prince. The arrogant, pragmatic son of a bitch who had helped Tobias Brockman become obscenely wealthy, and who intended to make him even more so. Himself as well.

He was pledged to remain ’til spring. A remarkable amount could be accomplished in three or four months. And Terence O’Rourke was the man to do it. If Bellerive would not do, he’d find another plantation, perhaps cotton or rice instead of sugar cane.

Plantations need vast amounts of labor, sneered his inner voice. Slaves, O’Rourke. Slaves. You know what you think about that.

Land, O’Rourke. Land. And there was no doubt what he thought about that. He’d never, even remotely, considered himself a farmer, but blood would tell. He saw the land, he coveted it. Not just for the wealth it could bring, but for itself. The sheer joy of having a piece of earth he could call his own.

Even if he went back—when he went back—he would know he owned a farm a hundred or more times the size of the O’Rourke acreage in Ireland, land ample enough to swallow the holdings of the Ardmores as well. He wouldn’t poach on Tobias’s plans, of course. Bellerive was sacrosanct. But there had to be a bit of Louisiana he could call his own. With unlimited funds at his back and enough money to cover several plantations in his personal account in London, he could do whatever he damn well pleased.

A scrambling around him brought Terence’s dreams to a swift halt. Sails clanked down, the barge lost way, was poled into place at a long wooden dock where a well-worn wagon was waiting. When his baggage had been loaded on top of the many items the river barge had brought for the plantation, Terence climbed up beside the driver. In the distance, nestled behind a scattering of trees, he caught a glimpse of a great white house.

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