Deceive Not My Heart (20 page)

"Hmm. The very same," Dominic answered. "The gossips say that Gaylord needed a rich wife and that Melinda was his choice... until you came back. There's some who even say she wasn't averse to his suit either."

His voice without inflection, Morgan inquired, "Are you warning me about something, Dom?"

The picture of innocence, Dominic glanced up. "Me? Of course not! I just thought you might find it interesting." Dominic turned away and started towards the house and then stopped. Over his shoulder he added, "I'd be careful of Gaylord, Morgan—he doesn't have the best reputation, and I would wager he's not going to take Melinda's betrothal well... or without trying to do something to stop it."

Without another word, Dominic strolled back into the house, leaving Morgan alone with his thoughts. Dominic hadn't been exactly subtle, and the knowledge that Melinda had been involved with another man just prior to his arrival sat ill with Morgan—especially in view of what had happened with Stephanie. He wasn't jealous, and if the involvement had been an old affair, he would have dismissed it. But Dom had obviously felt the need to warn him, and as his brother was not given to gossip, Morgan took heed of the words. Had Melinda's heart been involved with Easton... were her parents pushing her into a more advantageous match?

During the days prior to the public announcement of their impending nuptials, Morgan made several attempts to discover just that, but to all his gentle probings, Melinda returned a sweet smile and began to speak of something entirely different—usually her wedding gown or their plans for the future. She was particularly insistent about wanting to go to Paris, once the horrid war between England and France was over, to buy an entire wardrobe, and Morgan was left with the bitter reflection that marriage was
not
going to be the answer to his restless state.

Gaylord Easton had lived up to Dominic's prophecy, and Morgan had found himself delicately treading a line between the desire to laugh out loud at Easton's ridiculous behavior and a strong inclination to give the young man the fight he was obviously spoiling for. Gaylord made no secret of his blighted hopes, and while most people were inclined to smooth over his wild accusations that Morgan had used unfair tactics in gaining Melinda's hand and heart, there were a few who nodded their heads in agreement and encouraged young Easton to make a complete fool of himself. Things came to head two evenings before the grand ball at which Morgan and Melinda were to be toasted and honored.

Seeking some relief from the talk of the wedding and the rapidly approaching ball, Morgan had escaped to King's Tavern, which was located on a slight hill on the outskirts of town. The place was not precisely fashionable, but Morgan liked its simple good cheer and comfort.

The well-known tavern was situated at the end of the Natchez Trace, and travelers usually stopped here either traveling up or down the Trace. Consequently, it was a busy place and there was generally a pleasant hum of activity about the tavern. The lower floor was bricked and it was here that the taproom and kitchen were located, while the second story, constructed of wood with a narrow porch and slim wooden columns, consisted of private rooms for the weary travelers.

Stepping inside the taproom with its thick wooden beams and narrow doors and windows, Morgan was reminded of similar places in England and France—the air was blue with smoke from the cigars and cheroots; the smell of ale and whiskey and the appetizing aroma of roasting beef and baking hams assailed his nostrils. He recognized a few people from town, but most of the patrons were strangers to him. Finding a small oak table in a secluded corner, he settled back comfortably in the wooden chair and prepared to relax and watch his fellow patrons. After ordering a glass of Monongahela rye whiskey, he lit a cheroot and glanced idly around the taproom, his experienced eye appraising and judging the other inhabitants, the obvious travelers, the merchants from town, and the few young bucks who preferred the easy atmosphere of the tavern to exclusive places in town.

He had just taken his first sip of the strong rye whiskey when Gaylord and two companions lurched into the taproom. It was obvious that Gaylord had been drinking as could be seen from the unsteady sway in his gait when he approached the bar that ran along one side, and Morgan cursed under his breath. Gaylord Easton was the
last
person he wished to meet tonight! So far, he had managed to avoid a direct challenge from that hot-tempered young man, but judging Gaylord's condition tonight, he rather doubted that a confrontation could be averted if Gaylord spotted him.

Gaylord didn't see Morgan in the murky gloom of the taproom at first, and as he and his companions took a table on the other side of the room, Morgan hoped he would escape detection. For a while, it appeared he might. Gaylord's back was to him, and as that young man seemed intent upon drowning his sorrows in glass after glass of whiskey, Morgan relaxed slightly, thinking he could either outwait Gaylord or slip out unnoticed. He didn't want to have to kill the young fool in a senseless, unavoidable duel.

Unfortunately, his chance for escape was foiled when one of Gaylord's companions looked across the room and recognized him. The other man, a fair-haired youth of about twenty, instantly leaned over the table and said something in Gaylord's ear that caused him to jerk around and stare blearily in Morgan's direction. Morgan swore under his breath as Gaylord erupted to his feet and began a determined, if stumbling, walk towards him.

His mind working coolly as it had in the past when he had found himself in a tight position, Morgan decided that the one way to avoid bloodshed was to let Gaylord challenge him. As the challenged one, Morgan then had the right to choose weapons, time and place. If luck was with him, he could turn this dangerous, silly situation into a farce.

Gaylord reached his table and slamming both hands down hard on the table, he said aggressively, "You, sir, are a scoundrel and a blackguard!"

His blue eyes locked on Gaylord's flushed, handsome face, Morgan took a deliberate sip of his whiskey and then asked indifferently, "Oh? And why is that?"

Taken aback, Gaylord's dark young features expressed puzzlement "Well, because..." he began uncertainly and then stopped in confusion. He was very drunk and his thoughts were foggy, but he was quite certain he had just grievously insulted his successful rival. Why wasn't the man reacting? Deciding he hadn't made himself clear enough, he blustered, "You have stolen the heart of the woman I love! Only the basest dastard would do such a thing!"

Morgan sighed. What in the hell was he going to do with this hare-brained rapscallion? Even if his emotions were not involved, he wasn't about to have Melinda's name bandied about in a common taproom by a drunken fool. Eyeing Gaylord's gaudy yellow satin waistcoat with ill-concealed amusement, Morgan thought swiftly and then said coolly, "If I am a blackguard and a scoundrel, as well as a base dastard, what then are you? A trumpeting fool? Or perhaps just an ass-eared dunce?"

It was brutal, but it had the desired effect. Like one struck by lightning, Gaylord stiffened and burst out hotly, "And you, sir, are insulting! Name your seconds! I shall not let this
too
pass!"

Morgan leaned back further in his chair, and after flicking an ash from his cheroot, while Gaylord waited in simmering silence, he finally returned lazily, "Oh, I don't think that will be necessary. Seconds will not resolve this between us, will they?"

"By God, no!" Gaylord shot back furiously.

"Then may I offer a suggestion?" Morgan glanced up to the angry young man and at Gaylord's curt nod, he continued unhurriedly, "As the challenged man, I have the right to name the place and the time and the weapons... and what better place or time than here and now?"

Gaylord was too angry to think, but he did send a questioning look around the crowded room. "Here? In the tavern?"

His blue eyes glinting with mockery, and his face very dark and enigmatic in the gloom of the room, Morgan drawled, "Perhaps not right here—the garden adjacent should do very nicely, don't you think?"

"Absolutely! Name your weapons!" Gaylord said stiffly, the impending duel and the danger involved clearing his head rather effectively.

"Fists," Morgan said softly.

"Fists!" Gaylord repeated incredulously. "What are you, some kind of riverboat brawler? A gentleman doesn't fight a duel with his
fists!"

The blue eyes suddenly hard and a dangerous smile breaking across the rakish features, Morgan murmured softly, "You've already said I'm no gentleman."

Gaylord gulped, instantly wishing he hadn't let the liquor plunge him into this predicament. He couldn't back out, and so taking a deep breath, he said with an attempt at bravado, "Very well. I suppose it is what I should have expected from your likes."

Now, Morgan had been very patient and to a certain extent he sympathized with the young fool—a broken heart is not easy to soothe—but his temper was beginning to soar and in a level tone he promised grimly, "One more word, and I'm afraid I might be compelled to kill you instead of merely teaching you the lesson you so richly deserve!"

Fortunately, Gaylord seemed disinclined to press the issue, and within seconds the two men, followed by Gaylord's companions, were standing at the side of the tavern. It was almost pitch-black outside, the waning moon only a thin curve of silver in the sky, but the feeble glow from the narrow windows of the tavern itself shed enough light for Morgan to see the others distinctly.

From the tavern came the occasional sound of a clinking glass and the rise and fall of conversation and laughter, but outside where the four men stood, there was a taut, tense silence. Gaylord was nervous, and it was apparent to Morgan that his two companions were definitely feeling ill at ease and uncertain.

He didn't recognize the two other young men, but that wasn't surprising—he could probably give them a good ten years advantage, and in the last five or six years Natchez hadn't seen a great deal of him. They looked like what they evidently were, a couple of high-spirited youths out for any lark, but Morgan suspected there wasn't any real evil in them—for that matter in young Easton either. His summation proved to be correct, as one of the young men, a short, dark-haired fellow, said nervously, "Um, if it's acceptable to you, sir, I'll act as your second. The name is Blanchard, sir, Evan Blanchard."

Morgan nodded and replied, "That's very kind of you. And as that little technicality has been settled, shall we begin?"

Gaylord pulled uneasily at his starched cravat and blurted out, "What exactly did you have in mind?"

Thoughtfully, Morgan glanced around the area. It was fairly clear of obstacles, the ground packed from years of passage by human feet, and the only shrubbery a few straggling oaks. "I suggest we have our duel here. Fists shall be the weapons, Blanchard and your friend shall act as witnesses and seconds. Whoever draws first blood will consider himself satisfied. Fair enough?"

Gaylord gave a stiff nod, and as the first shock of finding himself actually challenging his rival for Melinda's hand was lessening, he grew more confident. A patronizing note creeping into his voice, he said, "I'm considered to be very handy with my fives... and you are at least ten years older... are you certain you wish for such a
physical
confrontation?"

Morgan stifled a snort of laughter, and keeping his face straight he murmured, "Oh, I think I shall manage. Thank you, though, for your concern." If the young fool thought that at thirty-three he was old and decrepit, Morgan would just have to show him the error of his ways. Barroom brawls and hand fighting were no strangers to Morgan—not with the dangerous life he had lived these past years. More than once it had been only his punishing right cross between himself and death or imprisonment, but there was no way he was going to explain that to this arrogant puppy.

The two men were fairly evenly matched—Morgan was perhaps a few inches taller, but Gaylord was more powerfully built—and in an increasingly tense silence, they prepared for the duel. Unhurriedly Morgan shrugged out of the elegantly cut gray jacket he was wearing, and just as calmly unhooked his watch with its gold chain from his white Marseilles waistcoat, the little crucifix dangling at the other end of the chain. Silently he handed the objects to the waiting Blanchard and then set about undoing the exquisitely arranged, starched cravat at his neck.

Morgan's movements were sure and deft, almost indifferent, whereas Gaylord performed the same sequence of disrobing with short, jerky bursts of angry energy, his sense of injustice growing with every moment. By the time both men were in their shirtsleeves and ready to actually begin the fight, Gaylord had whipped himself into a fine, raging temper, and, finally facing his enemy across the small space that separated them, he snapped, "You will not marry Melinda! She has promised her heart to me, and I shall not stand idly by and let you marry her!"

Inwardly Morgan sighed and was very tempted to tell the young fool that he could have his bloody Melinda—any desire that Morgan may have had to marry that particular young lady had faded with every passing moment he spent in her prattling, empty-headed company. But essentially being a gentleman, he wasn't about to renege on his offer to marry, although he damned well wished he hadn't been
quite
so impetuous in asking for her dainty little hand.

Hiding his growing impatience for the entire silly episode, he merely remarked quietly, "That remains to be seen. But in the meantime, I would remind you that the young woman's name you bandy about so freely
has
accepted my offer."