Deceive Not My Heart (11 page)

His mouth seemed everywhere, even on her breasts, and his hands were even more bold and brazen as they roamed her body. Her struggles to free herself seemed to please him rather than the opposite; as she arched up against his chest to escape the caress of his hand, it traveled down her back to curve around one firm buttock and pull her even closer to him. With amazement and shock Leonie felt a warm shaft of flesh press insistently against her stomach, and despite the welter of emotions that rioted in her breasts, she felt a queer jolt of pleasure shoot through her veins.
What is happening to me?
she wondered in a daze. And then she stiffened with shock when one of his hands slipped between her thighs and touched her gently there, where her thighs joined her body.

Morgan was a practiced lover and knew what he was doing, and as his fingers caressed and explored Leonie there, a small pant of pleasure and surprise escaped from her. "Ah,
monsieur
..." she cried softly, and Morgan knew he couldn't wait much longer before taking her.

His lips caught hers in a deep, probing kiss and gently he shifted his weight, his knees nudging hers apart as his body slid between her thighs. His hands lifted her hips slightly, and then with a groan of pleasure, he buried himself in the soft, warm flesh of the woman beneath him.

Leonie felt one sharp stab of pain, which instantly subsided into a dull ache as the man moved upon her, his body thrusting urgently into hers. Stunned, unable to believe what was happening to her, she lay with an unnatural placidness beneath him, so staggered and devastated by what was taking place that she could no longer fight this unknown man who had just taken her virginity.

That the woman didn't respond while he took his pleasure came as no surprise to Morgan—few whores did more than just lend their bodies for a man's use, and he assumed that was what this particular whore was doing at the moment. But her body was so warm and sweet that he didn't want to believe that of this one, and with a strange compulsion his lips crushed hers even more passionately, his hands tightening with exquisite enjoyment around the firm young hips.

The initial shock and horror of this forceful taking of her body was fading, and when Morgan's hands tightened around her hips, Leonie began to struggle once again, her body surging up to meet his, to throw him off of her if she could. Frantically she tried to free her mouth, twisting her head from side to side, but it was no use; then furiously she beat her small fists against his bare shoulders, but that too was no use.

For Morgan, the thrashings of the warm, silken body beneath him were suddenly more than he could bear, and with a long, shuddering moan, he released himself into the woman. Satiated and yet curiously dissatisfied, he slid off her body, wondering if he would ever again experience the exquisite fulfillment that had been his during the first years of his marriage. Then his mouth hardened and he cursed under his breath. God damnit! Would he
ever
stop thinking of Stephanie?

And because he was angry and disgusted with himself, his voice was harsh as he said, "You can leave now. There is some gold on the chest near the door, you can have it all."

Leonie was already in motion before Morgan spoke and she slid from the bed, scrambling frantically around in the darkness for her clothes. Finding them, she dragged on the clothes with shaking fingers and wasted a moment longer groping around for her reticule with the precious vowels, which had fallen to the floor when this abominable blackguard had swung her up into his arms. As for his gold... with glittering sea-green eyes, she stalked to the chest and reached for the coins. Her fingers closed around the gold and with short, jerky movements she came near the bed again.

She could barely make out his dark shape as he lay on the bed, but taking good aim, she flung the coins with all her might in the direction of his face and spat,
"Keep your damned gold!
You haven't enough to pay me for
what you did!"
Then spinning on her heels, she tore over to the French doors, wrenched them open, and ran out into the night.

The coins stung as they hit his face, and with a snarl of pain and growing anger, Morgan sprang up and raced to the French doors through which the woman had disappeared. She was nowhere in sight as he looked out into the courtyard, and shaking his head, he walked slowly back to his bed.
Who could understand women?
he thought with puzzlement. The amount of gold on the chest had been more than generous so it wasn't because he had underpaid her. So why?

Almost absently he lit a candle that was on a small table near his bed and surveyed the room. His robe lay in a black heap where he had thrown it, but it was the gleam of the fine gold chain against its darkness that drew him. Bending over he picked up the chair and discovered an intricate, unusually fashioned crucifix hanging from it.

Thoughtfully he regarded it, and remembering the struggle as they had undressed, he decided it must belong to his little whore. He smiled, remembering her fit of temper, and was intrigued in spite of himself—whores did not refuse money, and few wore costly gold crucifixes. He came to the conclusion that he would like to see this increasingly fascinating little creature who had briefly shared his bed.

He turned away, intending to snuff out the candle, when his gaze fell upon the bed, his eyes widening with shock as he surveyed the telltale bloodstains.
Well, I'll be damned,
he thought half-angrily.
A virgin! No wonder she didn't take the gold!

Then he frowned. What the hell was Gayoso doing providing virgins for casual guests? And why had the girl agreed to it, only to throw his money back into his face?

The thought that he had so carelessly taken the girl left Morgan unsettled and vaguely regretful. He hadn't been particularly brutal in his lovemaking, but if he had known she was a virgin, he might have taken more time and been less concerned with his own pleasure. And then again, if he had known, he might not have taken her at all—virgins being firmly connected in his mind with marriage. He was not the type of man to roam the countryside with a view to deflowering every maiden who appeared on his horizon. If anything he held the opposite view—an experienced woman was far less trouble and could give a man a far more enjoyable evening. No, Morgan did not hunger after virgins, his one virgin until tonight having been his wife, and he would have been perfectly content to keep it that way.

Feeling somehow that he had been betrayed, Morgan snuffed out the candle and went back to bed.
Jesus, but I'll be glad to leave here and see Jason tomorrow! And Gayoso is going to have some explaining to do, he thought sleepily.

But in the morning when Morgan woke, he discovered that Gayoso was never going to explain anything to anyone again—the governor had died during the night.

Dumbfounded and disturbed by the news, any thought of a novice whore vanished from his mind. Feeling decidedly
de trop
in the face of Gayoso's unexpected and tragic death, as soon as he had paid his condolences to the governor's grieving widow, Morgan had vacated the premises and headed immediately to the Beauvais townhouse on the chance that Jason was staying in the city. He wasn't, but that news didn't perturb Morgan—he had been fairly certain that his friend would be at the Beauvais plantation. Without further waste of time, he hired a carriage and made arrangements for his things to be picked up at the governor's residence and delivered to the Beauvais plantation. Then riding a hired hack, he set out for Beauvais.

A long drive, lined with moss-hung oaks, led to Beauvais, the trees ending suddenly before the tall, white-columned mansion. At Morgan's arrival, a small Negro boy ran up and grabbed the reins of his horse, holding the animal as Morgan dismounted.

After tossing the boy a coin, Morgan asked, "Is Mr. Savage at home?"

Before the boy could answer, another voice rang out,
"Mon Dieu!
You certainly took your sweet time getting here!"

His dark face lit by a grin, Morgan turned to find his friend Jason Savage standing at the top of the broad steps that led to the cool galleries of the house. Morgan nodded his head ruefully, admitting, "I know, I know. But damnit, Jas, I made the mistake of calling upon Gayoso as soon as I reached the city, and what does he do but insist I stay with him for a few days." His grin fading, he said bluntly, "He's dead. He apparently overindulged himself with liquor last night and died. It gave me a shock, I can tell you!"

"What?" Jason cried, his lean face revealing the shock of Morgan's news. "But he can't be. I spoke with him only last week."

"I know," Morgan said. "But it's true. I was with him last night playing cards, and he seemed fine then." His expression distasteful, he added, "Our friend Wilkinson was there and I'll admit there was some heavy drinking, but nothing that seemed more than usual to me." He shook his head. "One never knows though, does one?"

Jason's heavy brows met in a frown over clear emerald eyes. "Wilkinson? I wonder what he was up to."

Morgan shrugged and, interjecting a lighter note, asked plaintively, "Are you going to invite me in, or must I stand forever out here in the hot sun?"

A shout of laughter greeted his words, and coming down the steps in a single lithe bound, Jason threw his arm about Morgan and said, "Ah,
mon ami,
it
is
good to see you! Your family, they are all well?"

As Morgan readily filled in Jason on the latest news from Natchez, the two men walked up the steps and entered the house.

It was cool inside the spacious, elegant interior, and leading Morgan to a masculine room at the rear of the house, Jason offered him refreshments. After these were served and both men were seated comfortably, he began to ask more about the governor's death and Morgan's trip to New Orleans.

The two young men were similar in several ways—both were tall, Jason perhaps an inch taller than Morgan; both had the blue-black hair associated with Creole parentage; both were dark-skinned, and each was attractive in his own way, though neither was classically handsome. Jason's nose was an arrogant blade in a hard face, while Morgan's chiseled features were too pronounced for perfect male beauty.

Their backgrounds were alike, both coming from wealthy plantation families with roots in New Orleans. Yet there were differences between them: Jason was the only child of his parents, and it was well-known that Guy Savage and his wife Antonia could barely abide the sight of one another and seldom did; Antonia lived in New Orleans, Guy on his estate, Greenwood, in Virginia. Jason also had relatives in England; his uncle was the Duke of Roxbury. The two young men had met at Harrow, and their friendship had lasted ever since.

Busy with their own affairs, their paths seldom crossed, but whenever they were in each other's neighborhood, it was understood the other
must
call and plan to stay... or else! There was an easy relationship between them and they shared many of the same pursuits—cards, liquor, horses, and women, although at twenty-six, Jason had so far escaped the trap of matrimony, saying with a crooked grin that with his parents as an example he rather thought he would forego the pleasure. It had been through Jason that Morgan had met Nolan, and as they conversed, it was inevitable that Nolan's name would arise.

"Have you heard anything from Nolan?" Morgan asked some time later.

Jason shook his dark head and said lightly, "No... but that doesn't mean anything. Philip is a secretive man, and believe me, as much as I admire him, he has secrets I would just as soon not know."

Morgan nodded. It was true, there was something about Philip Nolan that made one wary of being too close. Nevertheless Jason was an intimate friend of Nolan's and knowing how close Jason was to the man and the adventures they two had shared together, Morgan asked, "You went with him on one of his earlier trips... hunting for horses, I think... didn't you?"

A peculiar expression crossed Jason's handsome face. "Yes," he admitted slowly. "When I was seventeen. You remember, Blood Drinker?" And at Morgan's nod he continued, "Blood Drinker and I went with Nolan to trade for horses with the Comanches." His green eyes dancing, he said, "It was like nothing I've ever experienced, I can tell you that—and Blood Drinker still refuses to discuss it!"

Morgan smiled at Jason's reference to his Cherokee friend. He asked after Blood Drinker, and so the afternoon went, the two men eagerly and happily conversing the day away.

Armand, Jason's grandfather, wandered in at dusk, and after greeting Morgan with open affection, demanded to know if the two of them intended to remain cloistered in this room forever. Did they mean to ignore him
entirely?
Laughing, they denied the charge and the evening passed.

It was only when Morgan was undressing for bed that last night's affair with the tawny-haired whore returned to his mind. His frock coat had been thrown off, and he was just removing his waistcoat and checking his various pockets when his fingers encountered the gold chain and crucifix.

There was little chance of his being able to return it, in view of Gayoso's death, and yet he found himself strangely reluctant to get rid of it.
A momento of a night of passion,
he thought with a cynical smile. Perhaps. And not even certain why, he decided it would make an excellent charm. At any rate, every time he saw it he would remember that women were ever deceivers—even whores!

* * *

Leonie missed her mother's crucifix almost as soon as she reached home. Slipping breathlessly in the side door that Yvette had left unlocked for her, she had instinctively reached up to touch the cross in thankfulness for having at last returned to the safety of the house, and with a soft cry of distress, she had discovered its loss.