Deceive Not My Heart (18 page)

Leonie had found the argument both heart-wrenching and irrefutable, and as she had been desperate for their help, she had not fought as strongly as she might have to persuade them differently. Even now, when they must leave Chateau Saint-Andre, Mammy and the rest were just as determined to go with her—they all belonged together. "It ain't fitting for you to go traipsing off by yourself," Mammy had informed Leonie indignantly, the big black eyes flashing with outrage. "Your
grand-pere,
he would skin us alive if he knew we was to let you do this foolish thing. We is family and family stays together!"

And that,
Leonie had thought with a tight throat full of tears,
is that!

Consequently, some three weeks later on a sunny day in May of 1805, Leonie, Justine, Yvette, Mammy, and the rest set out for Natchez, Mississippi in two old wagons pulled by four tired-looking brown mules. The cat and her kittens rested safely in a big basket of straw in the back of the wagon in which Justin rode, and his absorption in them lessened the pang he might have felt at leaving his home and birthplace. Leonie did not look back; her face was set towards the north. Silently she vowed that Monsieur Morgan Slade was going to pay back her dowry as promised, or she was going to make his life so miserable that he would wish he had never laid eyes on her!

* * *

At that particular moment, on that particular morning, Morgan Slade was idly sipping coffee on the east veranda of Bonheur, wondering why he had come back. It never
changes,
he thought vaguely to himself...
the fields grow and the crops ripen, papa grows a little grayer, maman a little plumper... and life goes on as it always has.

It was a cynical thought, but then, Morgan had grown a great deal more derisive and jaded in the past years. He was a restless man, never content to stay long in any one place, and always his gaze was on the next horizon, wondering what excitement and danger might lie over the next ridge, the next mountain. And yet he couldn't deny that his birthplace called to him, and no matter where he had been, he found himself always returning, only to become bored and restless within an appallingly short period of time. And also as always, there was maman telling him tartly that if he had a wife and would settle down and start another family, he wouldn't find life quite so full of ennui. Thinking of her comments last night on that same subject, a sardonic grin slashed across the rakish features.
Perhaps if maman didn't push quite so determinedly, I might find myself agreeing with her,
he thought.
Or perhaps I should simply go away and stay away....

The first time that he had left on one of his restless searches for something even he couldn't name, there had been a furious argument with his parents—an argument all the more serious because until then, despite his iron will and certain wild traits his parents preferred to ignore, Morgan had been an exemplary son. It was true he lived his life as he saw fit, not taking kindly to their well-meaning interference, but he had never done anything that had truly dismayed or distressed them... until he had left to follow Philip Nolan into Spanish Texas.

Reflectively Morgan stared at the contents of his cup, thinking of the changes that had occurred in the world since that day. The Louisiana Territory had passed in quick succession from Spanish hands to French and then to American. President Jefferson was in his second term of office and just last summer, the Vice-President of the United States, Aaron Burr, had shot and killed the leading Federalist, Alexander Hamilton, in a duel. In Europe, this past December, Napoleon had been crowned Emperor of France and presently, war was raging on all fronts with the French winning on the land and the British holding the seas.

For just a minute Morgan's thoughts stopped, and he briefly considered the possibility of going back to England and going ahead with his original plan to purchase a commission in the British Army. Fighting a war as a soldier instead of a spy might still this reckless disregard of life and constant search for adventure. But then he shrugged; at thirty-three he had matured and in view of his narrow escape from Europe earlier this year, he dismissed the idea for the dangerous whim it had been.

But had it been any more dangerous than the whim that had taken him with Nolan in the winter of 1800? Morgan rather thought not, and he smiled at himself. Nolan had returned safely in November of 1799 from his trip to Spanish Texas, and for a time had seemed ready to settle down. He had married Fannie Lintot that December and the wedding had been a notable event in Natchez, for the Lintots were wealthy and well-known. But marriage, a new bride, and even the expectation of a child couldn't hold Nolan, and though denied permission to enter Spanish Texas, he had gone ahead and gathered a party of men and secretly crossed the Sabine River into Texas.

Morgan had accompanied Nolan, and it was only Morgan's restless nature that had saved him from losing his life or finding himself imprisoned deep in Spanish territory. Nolan and his little band of men had passed into the open country beyond the Trinity and the Brazos, where Nolan had elected to camp and begin capturing wild horses. They had fared well in the beginning, and if Morgan wondered how long the Spanish would let them stay unmolested in their territory and without permission, he kept it to himself. He also quickly grew bored with catching wild horses, and when a band of Comanches came to trade horses for goods that Nolan had brought with him, Morgan went with them when they left.

Morgan had lived almost two years with the Comanches, spending the time hunting buffalo, existing like a savage, fighting and raiding Comanche enemies. If he had been a hard man to begin with, he came back from the Comanches harder and tougher. It was in that Spring of 1803, at Natchez, that he learned of Nolan's death at the hands of the Spanish in 1801, and a chill had snaked down his spine. If he had stayed with Nolan....

He found that Natchez held little interest for him, and taking advantage of the Peace of Amiens that existed then between England and France, he had boarded a ship for England. He arrived in England in May, and within days of his arrival, England had once again declared war on France.

Unwilling to remain idle on the sidelines and finding himself even more bored and restless amongst the dandies and simpering, marriage-minded young ladies he had, after a discussion with his uncle, the Baron of Trevelyan, called upon the Duke of Roxbury, Jason Savage's uncle.

Morgan had met the Duke of Roxbury on more than one occasion in his youth, but he was always wary of him—Jason's firm opinion that the Duke's sleepy gray eyes were
not
quite so sleepy, echoed his own. And in this instance both young men were proven correct. Morgan had come to the duke about the possibility of a commission in the army, but before the evening ended, he found himself agreeing to carry messages to spies in France and to turn his hand at a little spying himself. As Roxbury explained it, it seemed perfectly sensible—he spoke French like a native, thanks to a Creole mother, and also thanks to her, there were probably relatives in France who could and would provide him with information. Besides, Roxbury had added with a sly gleam in those gray eyes, it would be much more exciting than the army. Indeed it had been, Morgan thought with a grim smile. More than once in the past eighteen months he had thought it was perhaps a bit
too
exciting. His risky occupation in France had been ended rather abruptly by the unwelcome discovery that his cousin, Ashley, was working for the
French
in England! The instant a French officer had accosted him on a street in Paris, calling him by Ashley's name and wanting to know what new secrets he had brought to the Emperor, Morgan had known, that not only was he in a dangerous predicament, but also that the resemblance between himself and his cousin had made his continued usefulness to Roxbury impossible. Back in his rooms, he had sent a cipher message to Roxbury that he would try to get out of France before someone realized that he
wasn't
Ashley Slade. There was no doubt he would be killed if the truth were discovered, and as it was, he barely escaped out of the country. A company of dragroons had been on his very heels when he had boarded the American privateer that had brought him home.

But the brush with death in France had lessened some of his reckless urges, and today, even though he disliked the idea intensely, he seriously considered his mother's solution to his aimless wanderings.
Perhaps I
should
marry again,
he thought reluctantly. But then the memory of Fannie Lintot came to him, and cynically he admitted that marriage and child hadn't stopped Nolan from seeking his fate.

That evening, as happened several times since he had returned to the United States two months earlier, the Marshall family came to dinner, and Morgan, seated across from their only child, a lovely blue-eyed creature by the name of Melinda, was in no doubt why they were found so often at Bonheur. Melinda's name was the one mentioned the most frequently whenever his mother brought up the subject of marriage. Since the Marshall estates adjoined Bonheur and Melinda was considered quite an heiress in the district, there was no doubt, Morgan mused, that it would be thought a good match.

Idly Morgan let his gaze roam over the girl across from him. She was a pretty thing, he admitted, with those big blue eyes and soft golden curls. But she didn't have a brain in her lovely head, he told himself wryly. Conversation with Melinda consisted of wide-eyed admiration and open-mouthed astonishment. All very prettily done and he supposed some men might find it quite enchanting; unfortunately, it bored him. And yet in a wife, did a man truly need brains? One of the things he had admired about Stephanie had been her quick wit and intelligent conversation—and look where that had gotten him!

Melinda gave him a shy smile and sardonically Morgan returned it. He happened to glance around a moment later and noticed the pleased expressions on his parents' faces.
Ah, but they do have marriage on their minds, don't they?

His eyes swung back to Melinda, noting the soft mouth and the alabaster shoulders above her demure pink gown.
Well, why the hell not?
he suddenly decided, the sapphire blue eyes suddenly very bright and filled with mockery.
Why the hell not?

Chapter 9

If Morgan could have seen Melinda three hours later, he would not have been quite so complacent, and he certainly wouldn't have been considering marriage with her. Locked in the fervent embrace of Gaylord Easton, Melinda was vaguely aware of her effect on that young man—her thoughts pleasantly lingering on the evening.

It was only when a somewhat breathless Gaylord, his soft brown hair disheveled from Melinda's absently caressing fingers, lifted his head and shook her slightly that she came back to the present. "Will
nothing
deter you from this foolish path?" he cried, "Doesn't the fact that I love you mean anything to you?"

Gaylord Easton was a handsome young man, in a wild, dark way. He had a pair of fine, flashing brown eyes that had caused havoc among the young ladies of the neighborhood since he had been sixteen, and at twenty-four their brilliant darkness was even more potent. Gaylord was the youngest son of a wealthy planter in the Natchez district, and while he had grown up with his every whim granted, his father had recently made it clear that it was time Gaylord thought about his future. The elder Mr. Easton had stated firmly that while he did not object to paying Gaylord an allowance, and would never see his youngest child in want, Gaylord must stop playing the dilettante and start earning his keep.

Wasn't it time that Gaylord took an active interest in the small estate given to him at his majority? Did he think his father would support him in a lavish style all his life? It was time, Mr. Easton said, that Gaylord learned what a hard day's work consisted of. No more of this sleeping till noon, then joining friends for horses and drink and the like. No more of this careless, aimless pursuit of pleasure!

It was extremely unpalatable news for Gaylord, and shuddering at the thought of working, even if the work consisted of nothing more arduous than overseeing the twelve or so slaves that had also become his when he turned twenty-one, Gaylord had immediately set about seeking another way to feather his pocket. His fine dark eyes had fallen on Melinda Marshall for a variety of reasons. He had always admired her, for she was a beautiful girl, and now with money at the forefront of his mind, her inheritance made her even more beautiful.

Gaylord had begun his courtship some months ago, but somewhere along the line, he had made the mistake of falling madly in love with Melinda; and until the return of Morgan Slade, he had thought he was winning Melinda's capricious heart. Morgan's advent on the scene had been a nasty setback. During the past weeks, he'd had to sit back and watch with pain and impotence as his love meekly followed her parents' dictates, and his heart was filled with rage and jealousy.