Sweet Silken Bondage (4 page)

"My dear boy, when did I ever give you the impression that I wanted to come back to you?" she asked in
disbelief. "Did you really think I would run back to
Windown after all. this time just because you made a
little money?"

Clay's jaw tensed at her jibe.

"I can see that that's exactly what you expected, but
I'm afraid that's not what's going to happen. Did your
father put you up to this?"

"No!" Clay blurted out.

"So this was all your idea?"

"Yes," he answered tightly, tension gripping him as
he regarded her across the room. He had waited a long
time for this moment. He had often imagined how this
conversation would take place. How he would offer her
untold riches and how she would take him in her arms,
tell him that she loved him, and return to Windown
with him where they would all live happily together as
a family. Now that it was actually taking place, however, it was nothing like what he'd imagined. She was
nothing like he imagined. As he stared at her, he
wondered when it was that her beauty had started to
fade and when her eyes had turned so cold?

Evaline gave a cynical chuckle as she came to stand
before him. She lifted one lily-white hand to pat his
cheek indulgently. "Darling, no matter how rich you
and your father become, I will not return. I'm happy.
Why in the world would I want to go back to living in
that hellhole?"

Clay bristled as he came to his feet. "Windown is no
hellhole!"

"It's all a matter of opinion." Evaline shrugged. "I
hated living on that stupid farm. I hated it from the
first moment I saw it, and I hated your father for
taking me there. I have everything I've ever wanted
now, Clay. I'm happy with my life just the way it is. I
have no desire to change it. You can keep your money.
I have no need for it"

Clay stood, his entire body rigid. "But I've worked
for years so I could give you what you wanted..."

"Clay, the only thing I wanted from you was my
freedom, and I've had that since the day I left," she said
it with pointblank cruelty, bored with the conversation.
"You are my son, but I suppose I'm the type of woman
who should never have had children, let alone a husband."

He cringed inwardly at her words. "But you and
father never divorced..."

"A mere technicality, Clay. I fully expected him to
divorce me for desertion, but when he never took legal
action..." She lifted her shoulders in an elegant
gesture of nonchalance. "I never really worried about
it. I vowed to myself long ago that I would never be
trapped into marriage again, so it really didn't matter."

"I see," he managed through clenched teeth. An icy,
helpless rage was slowly overwhelming Clay as he came
to understand the truth. She didn't love him or his
father. She didn't want to come back, now or ever, and
she probably never had. All the years he'd devoted to
winning her back had been for nothing. His dream of
their being a family again was just that-a dream, and a childish one at that.

An understanding of his father's attitude dawned on
Clay then, and he realized what a wise man his father
really was. His father had known all along how his
mother felt, but had refused to shatter his son's innocent illusions or poison his mind against her. He had
let Clay find out the truth for himself, and that painful
lesson, so vividly taught, impressed him more now
than all the lectures he might have given.

"I hope you do," Evaline continued, moving toward
the hall. She paused in the archway of the open parlor
door in an obvious effort to get him to leave. "I have
my own life now and have no wish to change anything."

Clay stared at her for a moment as pain coursed
through him. He realized what a fool he'd been, and he
swore to himself right then and there never to allow
another woman to ever become so important to him.
Clay's gray-eyed regard turned glacial as he committed
to memory the sight of her standing there and with
such utter disdain as she ushered him out of her life
once and for all. It was a bitter mental portrait he
would carry with him the rest of his life.

Drawing on every ounce of willpower he had, Clay
allowed his eyes to meet hers. In the silver depths so
like his own, he saw no reflection of any warmth or
hidden affection. He gave a slight incline of his head as
he started for the front door. "As you wish." When he
passed her, he almost called her mother, but choked on
the word. Instead, he bid her a curt, "Madam."

"Good-bye, Clay," was all Evaline said, and she shut
the door behind him without a second thought.

Clay kept himself under control as he descended the
steps and untied his horse. He had expected to be
leaving here and returning home right away, triumphant, but now, all thoughts of returning home were
banished. The pain of his heartbreak and humiliation
was too great. He needed time away.. .time to think.

Swinging up into the saddle, Clay turned his mount and headed for the riverfront and its section of wild,
rowdy saloons. It was not the usual area of town he
frequented for entertainment when he was in New
Orleans, and he was glad. He didn't want to risk
running into anyone he knew right now. All he wanted
to do was to find forgetfulness in the numbing solace of
cheap liquor.

Clay managed to open his eyes to a squint and was
immediately blinded by the harsh noonday sun that
was blazing through the dirt-streaked window. Pain
throbbed sharply through his head at the unexpected,
searing invasion of his senses, and he groaned out loud
as he threw a protective, shielding forearm over his
eyes.

"Mon cher?" a slurred, thickly French, female voice
sounded from very close beside him.

Clay started in surprise to discover he was not alone.
The nauseating scent of heavy perfume and stale liquor
assailed him, and his stomach gave a churning lurch.
In a tangle of semi-drunken, semi-hungover confusion,
Clay wondered distractedly just where he was. The
agony that was pounding in his head screamed to be
eased, and the distant memory of a half-empty bottle of
whiskey called out to him with sickening seductivity.

"Gimme the whiskey..." Clay growled. He needed
something to clear not only his head, but his mouth as
well. It tasted terrible, like the bottom of a backwater
bayou.

"Here," came the voice again as the bottle was
pressed into his hand. "Shall I help you sit up?"

Clay looked around for the first time, and his eyes
fell upon the woman stretched wantonly out on the
mattress beside him. She was a pretty girl with long,
dark hair and a lushly curved figure, but for the life of
him could not remember how he came to be here
naked in her bed. With a groan, he tilted the bottle to his lips and took a deep drink.

"Let me help you..." she offered again, her tone
husky with implied meaning. Though she was only
nineteen, Monique LaPointe had known many men,
yet in all her experience not one of them had excited
her the way this one did. This Clay, as he had called
himself, was one handsome, virile young man, and she
silently mourned the fact that, had things been different in her life, she might have had the chance to marry
a man like this. He was a man who could be kind and
gentle, a man who cared that she shared his pleasure.
She'd enjoyed every minute they'd had together since
he'd come to her room two nights ago, and she hated to
see him leave.

"No," Clay refused her offer, pushing himself up into
a sitting position as he glanced around the room. Still
not sure where he was, he lifted the bottle to his lips for
another quick dose of artificial strength.

"That isn't what you said last night," Monique said a
bit playfully, hoping to arouse his considerable ardor
one more time. He'd been an insatiable lover, and she'd
taken great delight in pleasing him. She reached out to
caress the leanness of his ribs, but he snared her hand
before she could make contact.

"No more," Clay said flatly, knowing that he had to
get out of there. "What time is it?"

"You're worried about the time? Shouldn't you be
asking me what day it is?" she asked archly.

"Day? What are you talking about?" Clay frowned.

"You've been here with me for two days."

Two days?" The shocking news had a very sobering
effect on him. How had he lost two whole days of his
life? His movements were jerky as he set the bottle on
the floor and got up. He wondered what had happened
during that time, and he was embarrassed as he
grabbed his clothes and began to dress. "I have to go."

"Pity," she cooed, watching in disappointment as he
pulled on his pants and buckled his belt. "It's still so early.. .we could..."

"Here." Clay dug a hand into his pants' pocket and
pulled out his remaining cash. He quickly tossed a
goodly amount on the bed next to her, and he watched
as her eyes widened in appreciation.

"Ooh, thanks. But for this much are you sure you
wouldn't like to...?"

"Forget it." The only thing Clay wanted to do was to
get out of there. "Where's my horse?"

"He's in the stable out back."

"Thanks." Clay gave a nod as he finished buttoning
his shirt and then picked up his hat. He was opening
the door when she spoke again.

"Will you be back?"

There was a wistfulness to her tone that made Clay
pause as he started from the room. He glanced back at
her and saw the flicker of hope in her eyes.

"No," he said solemnly, "I won't be back."

Somehow Moniq.ue had known his answer before
he'd said it. She realized all along that he didn't belong
there with her, even though she longed to keep him
with her if she could. He was from another world. A
world she dreamed of, but knew she never would
belong to. Tears burned in her eyes as she watched him
expectantly, waiting for him to leave. But when he
turned from the door and came back to the bedside,
she held her breath. With a gentle touch, Clay reached
down and drew her to her knees before him on the bed.
In a sweet, tender gesture, he kissed her cheek. He left
her then without saying a word.

There was a touch of sadness in her voice when she
called after him, "You take care of yourself..." But he
had already gone, shutting the door behind him.

It was long hours in the saddle later when Clay
turned his mount down Windown's main drive. Since
leaving the city, he'd been sorting out his thoughts, and it had been painful for him. No longer was he the
young innocent who'd left the plantation several days
before. He'd faced the ugly truth of his life now, and as
his beloved home came into distant view at the end of
the winding road, he knew what he had to do.

Clay reined his horse in beneath one of the spreading oak trees bordering the drive just to enjoy the view
of the house for one last time. Six years ago, the house
had been a modest, but decaying, wooden, two-story
structure with little magnificence or character. Today,
the pillared, glistening, whitewashed brick, three-story
mansion was the crowning glory of all his father's, and
his own, hard work. They had both struggled and
fought to make Windown into the success that it was,
but, Clay realized with a sickened heart, all his work
had been for nothing. His mother would not be returning... not now... not ever.

A great weariness of soul claimed Clay, and he closed
his eyes against the memories that threatened to overwhelm him. He didn't want to think about how, up
until just a few days ago, he'd held onto the dream of
hearing the sound of his mother's footsteps in the hall
once again or catching the scent of her sweet, light
perfume as she swept through the rooms. That was
over. Finished. Part of the past.

Still, Clay knew that if he returned to Windown,
those memories would haunt him forever. The dream
of his mother coming home had been his driving force
all this time. Everything he'd accomplished had been
done with that goal in his mind, and now he realized
that goal was unattainable.

His dream shattered, Clay knew that he had to get
away. The woman he'd cherished and strove to please
all these years had never really existed. The mother
he'd loved had been purely a figment of his naive,
wishful imagination. Well, Clay told himself firmly, he
was naive and wishful no longer. He would leave Windown
and the pain of its memory-shadowed glory. Clay mounted up again and rode on toward the house,
ready to face his father with the news.

Philip did not try to disguise the tears that clouded
his vision as he watched Clay pack his saddlebags the
following day. He had argued with his son long into the
night, trying to convince him not to leave, but his
efforts had been futile. Clay had become as stubborn a
man as he himself was. Once he was determined to do
something, he would not be deterred.

"I'm going to miss you, son," he told Clay, his voice
choked with emotion.

"I'm going to miss you, too," Clay replied, looking up
from his task to find his father's sorrow-filled eyes upon
him.

"Are you sure you're doing the right thing?"

"I'm doing the only thing," he reaffirmed his conviction to go. He knew that his father didn't want him to
leave, but this was something he had to do. "Who
knows what I'll find out west? I may end up in California and try my luck at the gold fields. I might even
strike it rich..." Clay let the thought drop without
further comment. Wealth was the last thing he was
concerned about right now. He had learned for a fact
that riches didn't bring happiness. All he wanted was
inner peace.

"You'll come back?" Philip desperately needed to
know that Clay would one day return; without that
hope to cling to, his life stretched before him in one
endless sea of pointlessness.

"I'll be back," Clay promised.

"Windown is your home. No matter where you are
or what you're doing, remember that."