Deceive Not My Heart (47 page)

Morgan cocked an eyebrow at her. "No?" he asked with feigned astonishment. "Pity. We'll just have to see if I can't change your mind, won't we?"

Giving her no chance to answer, his mouth caught hers in a long, sweetly punishing kiss, his hand gently caressing her breasts. He'd only meant to tease her further, but the feel of that soft mouth beneath his and the fullness of her breast in his hand was too much for him. With a groan, he deepened the kiss, his hands moving now with an increasingly feverishness over her skin. His mouth against her lips he muttered thickly, "Say it, damn you, say it!"

The blood rushing madly through her veins, her body already beginning to arch up to meet his seeking hands, Leonie finally capitulated and whispered, half-caressingly, half-angrily,
"Darling
Morgan."

But she had waited too long and Morgan, his body aflame to know again the pleasure only she could give him, was no longer in a teasing mood. He needed to take her again and in the moments that followed; he made love to her with a fierce urgency that left Leonie both fulfilled and shattered. Her mouth felt bruised and her body ached from his hungry possession, and yet, despite the almost violent way he had taken her, there had been an odd sensation of tenderness about his lovemaking.

There was no conversation between them when Morgan at last withdrew from her body, but his hands were still roaming over her heated flesh, and his mouth pressed a warm path of light kisses from her temple to the corner of her lips. He seemed unable to stop touching her, but the wild emotion that had driven him moments before was gone, and Leonie found herself enjoying far too much this gentle aftermath of his passion.

She was exhausted, as much from Morgan's lovemaking as the unending struggle with her own emotions, and despite the strong feeling that she should argue with him, that she should berate him for this further breeching of the agreement between them, she discovered that her body was filled with a delicious, almost overpowering languor. To her intense shame, she admitted the only thing she wanted to do at the moment was sleep... sleep with her naked body curled against Morgan's hard form. Which was precisely what she did a few minutes later.

Sleep did not come as easily to Morgan. For a long time after Leonie's even breathing told him she had fallen asleep, he lay there with her head resting on his shoulder and stared up at the ruby silk canopy. His body was at rest, but his brain was working at a frantic pace, and his thoughts were not pleasant.

He might have admitted to himself that he had been unwise enough to fall in love with Leonie Saint-Andre, but it was a bitter,
bitter
admission. Certainly, it gave him no pleasure, and the knowledge that there could very well be a
real
husband lurking in her background displeased him even more. And there was the question of the future....

What the hell was he supposed to do now? Fall down on his knees and beg her to love him? To marry him? Morgan snorted.
That
was goddamned unlikely!

But what was he going to do? With a less than gentle movement, he shifted Leonie away from him and propping himself up on one elbow he stared down at her sleeping features. How sweet and innocent she looked, he thought. Angrily aware of the wave of tenderness that swept through him as he watched her, he tore his gaze away and left the bed.

Snatching up his robe where it had fallen earlier, he shrugged into it and sparing one last look at Leonie, he left the room in a black mood.
Why,
he wondered grimly,
is it my fate to fall in love with deceitful women?

The question remained unanswered the remainder of the long night and when Morgan did finally fall asleep, he slept only fitfully, images of Leonie and Stephanie drifting in and out of his dreams. Even more disturbing was the return of the nightmare he hadn't experienced in years—he was filled with fear and he was riding desperately up the Natchez Trace, knowing that his son's life was hanging in balance. And as always in his recent nightmares, as he approached them, to his horror and pain, when he moved the still forms to discover their identities, the woman had Leonie's sweet face and the dead child lying at her side was Justin.

A moan of anguished denial broke from him and Morgan woke up to find himself safely in his own bed, his body bathed in perspiration, his heart beating as if it were going to burst from his chest. Knowing it was foolish, and yet unable to deny the impulse he slid from the bed and walked into Leonie's rooms, a sigh of relief escaping as he stared at her sleeping form. Still driven by the reality of the dream, he left her room and quickly found his way to the nursery, where Justin lay sleeping in childish abandon.

With a hand that shook slightly, Morgan reached out and touched the dark, tousled curls, aware that Justin had come to mean a great deal to him.

The nightmare having faded, Morgan walked slowly back to his own rooms and this time when he slept, he slept dreamlessly, deeply, for the first time in weeks at peace with himself.

If Morgan had momentarily found peace, the opposite was true for Leonie. Waking with soft, yellow rays of sunlight spilling into her room, she was both pleased and inordinately disappointed to find herself alone in the big bed. Gently her hand touched the snowy pillow where Morgan's head had rested and then angry with herself for giving in to a stupid rush of love for him, she jerked her hand away.

Sitting bolt upright in bed, she rang for Mercy, pulling on the velvet bellrope with unnecessary violence. When Mercy arrived a few minutes later, her mood was not helped by the knowing glance Mercy gave the bed, the tangled sheets, as well as Leonie's naked state and the torn nightshift which clearly revealed that
something
had transpired during the night.

A sly smile curving her full pink mouth, Mercy murmured, "And did Miz Leonie sleep well last night?"

Leonie glared at her and muttered, "I want a bath, Mercy... and no prattling from you."

Unruffled by Leonie's manner, Mercy chuckled and disappeared. Knowing the gossip Mercy would gaily spread as she oversaw the preparation for the bath, Leonie could have sworn with frustration and embarrassment.

But there was nothing she could do about it and she grabbed the torn shift and bundled it into an unrecognizable knot. Feeling slightly better, she waited for her bath, wondering what the day would bring and, more importantly, how she would react when she saw her husband.

That night had effectively destroyed whatever defenses she had been able to erect against him. Frightened of becoming his plaything and yet loving him, Leonie viewed the future with both terror and anticipation. Thinking of last night, remembering the touch of his hands on her body and the drugging sensuality of his kisses, she sighed with a mixture of pleasure and shame.
I must not let that happen again,
she decided unhappily.

Mercy's return with the news that her bath was ready temporarily banished Leonie's troubled thoughts. Slipping into the brass tub of hot, soapy water, she forced herself not to think of last night. And yet when Mercy would have added some rosewater to the bath, Leonie said sharply,
"Non!
Not
that
one." Realizing that Mercy was staring at her in astonishment, she added hurriedly, "I think I would prefer lavender, it is less overpowering, don't you think?"

Mercy shrugged her plump shoulders and did as she was told. Uh-huh. Miss Leonie was in a most
peculiar
mood this morning.

Avoiding the quizzical expression in Mercy's gaze, Leonie silently finished her bath. Rising from the water, she was equally silent as Mercy handed her a fluffy white towel and began to briskly rub her dry.

It was only when Mercy resignedly handed her the old yellow linen gown that Leonie spoke. Her voice filled with bitterness, she muttered, "At least
you'll
be happy—Monsieur has ordered several new gowns for me. They will be arriving sometime today and tonight, for once, you shall have a choice when it comes to selecting what I shall wear for the evening."

Mercy's round, black face was instantly wreathed in smiles, but Leonie did not share her pleasure in the new clothing and after dragging on the old yellow gown and having her hair brushed, she left the room for the breakfast parlor in a belligerent mood. Her temper wasn't helped by the unwelcome knowledge that she had made no
real
effort to stop Monsieur Slade from having his way with her the night before.

And I will call him monsieur!
she thought with a tightening of the soft mouth, recalling with shame the way he had forced her to say his name.
He is an unfeeling monster,
she decided. Morgan had ruffled her fierce pride badly and she was determined to be as obstinate and stubborn as possible. He is
not
going to charm
me.

Sailing into the breakfast parlor ready to do battle, she suffered a check when she discovered the room was empty. A short conversation with the butler elicited the information that Monsieur Slade seldom ate breakfast, preferring a tray sent to his room.

"And Mademoiselle Yvette?"

"I believe that the mademoiselle is indisposed this morning," the butler returned.

Instantly concerned, Morgan's tactics flying from her mind, she swept from the room and hurried up the stairs in search of Yvette. Entering Yvette's room a few seconds later, she was alarmed to find that young lady still abed.

Crossing the charming room with its green and yellow decor, she swiftly approached the bed.
"Ma petite!
What is this I hear, that you do not feel well?" Leonie inquired anxiously.

Propped up with several plump pillows, her face paler than usual, Yvette smiled wanly at Leonie. "It is nothing. I think perhaps something that I ate last night disagreed with me. I will be better tomorrow, you'll see."

Laying her hand across one of Yvette's, Leonie peered closely at Yvette's features. "You are not lying to me?" she asked suspiciously, well aware that Yvette was perfectly capable of doing just that if she thought it would keep her from worrying.

Yvette smiled weakly. A faint sparkle in the beautiful brown eyes, she murmured, "No, I am not lying." And when Leonie still looked unconvinced, she added, "Truly, Leonie! I am just a trifle indisposed. Tomorrow I shall be up and about. Do not worry so."

It was easier for Yvette to say it than it was for Leonie to do it, but after several minutes more conversation with Yvette, Leonie was finally convinced that there was nothing seriously wrong with her half-sister. Sitting on the edge of Yvette's bed, Leonie stayed for quite some time. She told her of the new clothing that would be arriving and suggested that tomorrow Yvette might like to select several things for herself.

Yvette looked hesitant and Leonie scowled at her fiercely. "You will share these things, Yvette! I do not want to hear any nonsense from you about how monsieur is my husband and that he doesn't need to provide for you, too."

There was a note in Leonie's voice that made Yvette glance at her intently. "You did not want him to buy you anything, did you?" she asked shrewdly.

Leonie avoided answering. "Bah! It doesn't make any difference what I want."

Her lovely face worried, Yvette leaned forward. "Leonie," she began slowly, "I haven't wanted to intrude, but I can't help wondering if you are happy here. You have been acting very strangely. Are you sorry that you came to find Monsieur Slade?"

With difficulty Leonie choked back a bitter answer and made some reply. But later after she left Yvette's room the question came back to haunt her. Was she sorry she had found Morgan Slade? She knew the answer to that question in her heart, and miserably she admitted that no matter what happened in the future, she wouldn't have missed knowing Morgan Slade for anything in the world.

Chapter 23

The clothes arrived that afternoon, and watching Mercy blissfully shake out and admire the delicate chemises, lacy nightgowns, and silky peignoirs, Leonie was hard pressed to remain indifferent to the lovely things scattered across the room. At least a half-dozen fashionable gowns were spread across the bed; the elegant amber-bronze ball gown had been reverently laid on a chair. There were several other articles of feminine apparel which had been included, but it was the filmy undergarments and nightwear which held the black woman's attention, and Leonie could have boxed Mercy's ears for the sly glances she sent her way.

"My, my," Mercy exclaimed for the tenth time, "ain't we goin' to be fine! Uh-huh. Yes, indeedy, we is goin' to be
fine!"