Deceive Not My Heart (16 page)

Claude rested easily that night also, and in the morning when Leonie suggested that they return to the Chateau, he raised no objections. He was feeling tired and listless these past few days and the delights of the city held no allure for him.

The following morning the townhouse was closed and everyone returned to Chateau Saint-Andre. As most Creoles avoided the city in the summer, Claude, for once, seemed in no hurry to return to it. Gayoso's death had shaken him, making him accept for the first time inevitability of his own death, and with Leonie's future safely taken care of, it was as if he was simply marking time, waiting for the grim reaper to take him too.

The weeks immediately following her wedding were a good time for Leonie.
Grand-pere
was staying at the Saint-Andre plantation and not running up more debts, and she had the satisfaction of knowing that sometime in the future there would be money to put back into the Chateau...
when
she got it from Monsieur Slade!

Claude, his brain cleared for the first time in years of brandy and liquor, took a casual interest in the plantation and for Leonie it was sheer heaven. Perhaps, she told herself hopefully, he has realized how desperate we have become and means to help salvage what we can.

Leonie
and
Claude
grew
very
close
during
those
weeks
as
August
gradually
gave
way
to
September
,
and
Claude
mourned
the
years
that
he
had
ignored
his
granddaughter's
lively
,
enchanting
presence
.
If
only
I
could
call
back
the
time
,
he
thought
sadly
.
But
then
his
mood
lightened
.
At
least I
have
seen
that
her
future
will
be
safe
—
soon
Monsieur
Slade
will
return
and
my
sweet
Leonie
will
have
a
fine
husband
to
care
for
her
.

Claude
had
noted
that
Leonie
did
not
speak
of
her
absent
husband
,
but
it
didn't
disturb
him
.
She
is
probably
still
angry
at
the
way
I
forced
her
to
marry
him
,
he
decided
with
a
smile
,
and
is
not
about
to
let
me
know
that
she
finds
him
attractive
.

* * *

Of course Leonie had found nothing attractive about Monsieur Slade, but if she had met the real Morgan Slade, she might have felt differently. Certainly, the young woman that he was dancing with at the ball Armand Beauvais had given the night before he was to leave for Natchez thought he was prodigiously attractive.
No man,
she thought bemusedly,
should be allowed to have such wicked blue eyes and such curling black lashes,
as Morgan's gaze rested mockingly on her mouth. Almost despairingly Raquel Dumond said softly, "Must you leave tomorrow? Couldn't you stay for a few days longer?"

Morgan smiled teasingly. "So that you could ensnare me further, sweetheart?"

Raquel blushed, uncertain whether to laugh at his accuracy or stamp her foot in embarrassment. Laughter won out, and with amusement peeping in the brilliant dark eyes raised to his, she murmured, "Perhaps... one never knows what the future holds."

"For me, it holds a journey to Natchez... tomorrow," Morgan replied easily, not so ensnared with her Creole charms that he couldn't bear to leave them. Raquel had been a pleasant way to spend a few evenings, but with the departure looming in the forefront of his mind, he was restless and in no mood to play the gallant.

It had been a successful trip for Morgan, despite Gayoso's sudden death, and he had been able to secure the use of the wharves and warehouses that were so important to his family's plantation. His friendship with Jason Savage had helped, as well as the gold that had been discreetly passed from one Spanish palm to the other.

At Jason's insistence, he had made Beauvais his headquarters and had only ventured into the city when business had called. The remainder of the time, he had spent at Beauvais, relaxing and visiting with Jason and his grandfather Armand. It had been a most pleasant time, but now he was anxious to return to Bonheur, even though he knew that once there, somewhere else would call to him.

It had only been as the end of his stay at Beauvais drew near that he had thought of his uncle's letter and his cousin Ashley. He and Jason had spent a few hours in late August scouring the city only to discover eventually that Ashley had sailed on the
Scarlet Angel
for England at the end of July. He and Jason had exchanged looks and then burst out laughing. "Why didn't I think to check with ship departures before we started combing the city?" Morgan had asked with amusement.

"Because,
mon ami,
you enjoyed slumming in those depraved dens of sin that you claimed your cousin was sure to inhabit." Jason had replied mockingly.

Ashley dismissed from his mind, Morgan had busied himself preparing for the journey to Natchez. The next day dawned sunny and hot but there was the hint of a thunderstorm on the horizon, and eyeing it, Jason had said, "Are you certain you don't wish to delay your departure for a few hours?"

Morgan grinned. "My dear friend, what flimsy excuses you present to hold me here. I am not made of sugar, I assure you, and a little thundershower will not melt me!"

Jason had laughed, their hands meeting in a tight clasp; then, astride a prancing, chestnut gelding from the Beauvais stables, Morgan had ridden away, heading up the river for Natchez. Attached to his watch fob was the little gold cross from a virgin whore.

He had looked at that little gold cross more than once during the past weeks, wondering about its owner. A dozen times, he had cursed the darkness that had hidden her features, cursed the circumstances that had allowed the girl to vanish from his life as quickly as she had appeared. And the fact that he thought of her often, that he had almost desperately wanted to know more about her, that he had regrets about that particular evening, annoyed him. What the hell—she was a whore, he had reminded himself repeatedly, ignoring the taunting voice in his mind that wouldn't let him forget that
he
had initiated her into her profession. Nor could he forget the feel of her in his arms, the sweet mouth beneath his, the soft body pressed next to his. He was grimly aware that if he could have found her, if his attempts to learn her identity from Gayoso's servants hadn't been fruitless, that he would be taking her with him now as he left New Orleans.

If she had been determined to sell herself, he reasoned that he might as well be the one to take advantage of it—she would have found him a generous protector. A discreet house in Natchez, a stylish carriage, blooded horses, clothes, jewels, servants, he would have gladly provided them all, and as his mistress she would have been safe.

Now why did I think of that?
he thought sourly, as his horse trotted along the river road. Safety wasn't what she had wanted and he was angry that she could even now, weeks later, arouse a curious feeling of protectiveness within him. Scowling at the darkening sky, he angrily tried to push her out of his mind. But it was useless; a mile down the road, he caught himself wondering where she was now and what was she doing. And why the devil had she thrown his money back in his face?

* * *

The thunderstorm broke a half hour later, and to Leonie it seemed only fitting that the heavens should weep with her. For the past two weeks she had tried to ignore the signs, had tried to tell herself that nothing was different about her body, but this morning when she had arisen and the nausea that had been with her the last few days had attacked again, she knew it was no use pretending otherwise. She was to have a child... a child fathered in darkness and by a man whose name and face she had never known... and would probably
never
know!

Part II

Fortune's Promise

"What! wouldst thou have a serpent

sting thee twice?"

The Merchant of Venice

William Shakespeare

Chapter 8

The Saint-Andre family graveyard was nestled in a shady glen about half a mile from the main house, and whenever Leonie came here, she was filled with a feeling of tranquility, of sadness—and yet not sadness, more a bittersweet nostalgia. There was an air of timelessness about the tiny graveyard, as if it had existed forever and would endure long after its inhabitants had faded from the memory of those who had known them in life.

Letting the peace of the place seep into her bones, Leonie's gaze traveled slowly around the area. Over there, under the marble seraph with its wide outstretched wings, was buried her great-grandfather, who had come from France, and next to him, his wife. To the left were tiny headstones of the three infants that had been born to them but had not survived the first years of childhood. Her parents' grave was marked with a pair of weeping angels, and
Grand-mere
Saint-Andre's final resting place was noted only by a starkly simple obelisk of startling white marble. All of the tombstones were aged, except one...
grand-pere's,
and even it was beginning to reveal the soft ravages that five years time had wrought.

Leonie slowly walked over to where Claude was buried, and sinking gracefully to her knees, she gently laid the spray of fragrant yellow and white honeysuckle which she had brought for his grave. She had come here often in the five and a half years since his sudden death in October of 1799. It was tragic, but she found it easier to talk with him as he slept in his grave than she ever had when he had been alive. She came often to sit by his grave and talk of events that had taken place, or to discuss the various difficulties that beset her. Today was no different.

The huge, twisted live oaks that ringed the graveyard formed a leafy green umbrella, and the pink and coral roses, which persisted in clinging to the small white fence that enclosed the graveyard, filled the April air with their sweet fragrance. Absently, her eyes fixed on some distant spot Leonie plucked a pink rose and unthinkingly began to strip its petals as she talked softly to Claude's grave.

"Justin is five years old today,
grand-pere."
A small smile flitted across the expressive face. "You would be proud of him! He is a true Saint-Andre—stubborn, obstinate, and determined to have his own way!" Her face clouded for a moment, regret surging through her slender body that Claude had not lived to see his great-grandson's birth in 1800. And she repeated again, "You would have been proud of him."

Thinking of her son, her thoughts drifted for a time. Oh, how she had hated the idea of bearing that unknown man's child! There had even been times during the early stages of her pregnancy that she had struck her swelling stomach with helpless fury. It was so unfair—she had been left alone to bear the fruit of a night she would give anything to forget! It had been intolerable and there were times Leonie had thought she would go quite, quite mad. Yet, as her pregnancy progressed, as the child began to move inside of her, some of her fury lessened, and eventually she ceased to rail against her unwanted state and gradually came to realize that what had happened was no fault of the child that grew in her womb. And when her squalling son was placed in her arms, her heart had been so filled with a sudden, fierce surge of love that she had feared it would burst from her breast.