Deceive Not My Heart (57 page)

Having cast an experienced eye at the landing docks, he came to the conclusion that the most practical solution would be to dismantle them entirely and have new docks built. As for the lane to the plantation, he grimaced as the wheels of his well-sprung curricle hit a large pothole.
Tomorrow morning,
he promised himself,
I shall hire a crew to come out and get started on repair work.

It was only as they came closer to the house itself that Leonie displayed any sort of nervousness. Shooting Morgan a curious look of mingled embarrassment and fierceness, she said, "The house has not had any money spent on it in at least twenty years, monsieur. Please remember that when you see it." That was as close to a defensive remark about her home that she would ever come. But unconsciously her fingers dug painfully into the palms of her hands, and she steeled herself for Morgan's reaction to his first sight of the Chateau.

The lane ended abruptly and there drowsing in the hot, yellow sunlight was the Chateau Saint-Andre. Leonie's heart leaped at the sight of the house and she felt a sudden rush of tears. Despite its faded elegance, to Leonie it was the most beautiful house in the world. She reveled in its remembered charms—the tall double doors with the attractive fanlights above them, the steep, dormered, hipped roof, the intricately designed balusters and the glorious sweep of the horseshoe-shaped staircase. It didn't matter that some shutters dangled lopsidedly at the doors, or that the paint was peeling, the gutters sagging, or that weeds choked the grounds—it was home and she had fought for it too long, had loved it too intensely, to be deterred by such mundane things. With an agonizing knife-thrust of pain, she wondered how she had even for one moment considered
not
saving it. Then she swallowed convulsively. If she had to choose between the house or Morgan, she knew that there would never be any real choice. She loved Chateau Saint-Andre but Morgan was her life; without him
nothing
would matter.

Morgan pulled the horses to a stop near the house and thoughtfully stared at the building. Taking in the blistered paint, the sagging staircase, the missing gaps in the balusters, the shutters that hung haphazardly at the long double doors and the general air of decay, he very nearly turned the horses around and drove them at a breakneck pace back to New Orleans.

But realizing that to do so would seriously jeopardize his standing with the proud little creature at his side, he took another look—a long, careful look—and it was then that the house began to cast its spell over him. For the first time Morgan saw the charm in the building, the elegant sweep of the horseshoe-shaped staircase, the fine workmanship of the slender wooden colonnettes that encircled the upper story, and the delicate grace of its construction. It must have been absolutely breathtaking at one time, he admitted slowly to himself, aware of a sharp pang of regret that it should have been allowed to reach its present state of decay. Consideringly, his gaze swept to the matching pair of colonnaded
gargonnieres
that flanked the main house, noting how their equally moldering state could not obscure the elegant lines. The smaller buildings duplicated the design of the house, and viewing the attractive setting of the buildings, the massive, spreading moss-draped oaks, the towering cedars and magnificently flowering magnolia trees, Morgan decided that the site held definite possibilities.

Staring intently at the house and its lush, beautiful background, he was suddenly aware of an odd sense of homecoming, as if all his restless wanderings had been leading him to this one place... to this one woman. Such a powerful sensation of rightness, of inevitability swept over him that he was startled by its depth and intensity. The house pulled at some buried part of him, wakening him to dreams he had thought long dead... perhaps, even to happiness.

The silence seemed to go on forever, and finally, unable to bear the suspense, Leonie risked a look at his face, and demanded almost fiercely, "Well? What do you think of it?"

His head full of half-forgotten dreams, for a second Morgan stared at her blankly, and then said huskily, "I think it is perfect. Or, rather, it will be."

A smile of pure delight crossed Leonie's expressive features. "Truly, monsieur?" she breathed.

A mocking gleam in the dark blue eyes, his gaze on her mouth, he murmured, "I thought we had decided my name was Morgan?"

Leonie blushed, but she would not be sidetracked. "It is beautiful, isn't it?"

His eyes never leaving her face, he agreed,
"Very
beautiful."

Shy with him, she glanced away from the look in his eyes, and scrambled out of the curricle. "Come, I will show you everything."

After securing the horses, Morgan followed her as she darted excitedly to one place and then another. "See, here is the barn!" And then rushing off in another direction, she cried, "And there are the stables. And over there is where our garden was. And over here is..."

By unspoken consent they saved the house for last. Gingerly climbing the creaking horseshoe staircase, Morgan remarked unwisely, "It's a wonder you haven't broken your neck on this damned thing."

Like a tigress defending her young Leonie turned on him. "You shall not find fault with the house! If you had paid me my dowry, it would not have gotten this bad." Her eyes flashing with gold flecks, she muttered, "It is your fault!"

"But you're going to forgive me, aren't you?" he asked teasingly, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth.

Leonie gave a saucy toss of her bright hair. "I might," she returned. "And then again..."

There was an easy air between them, and Leonie was conscious of a great bubble of joy that seemed permanently lodged in her chest. She had never thought there would come a day when Morgan Slade would step foot in Chateau Saint-Andre, or that she would be happy to have him at her side... or even more amazingly that she would dare to tease him. But today nothing seemed out of her reach... not even his love.

Covertly watching him as he studied the house, she felt her chest swell with love and wondered at the strange workings of fate. Less than six weeks ago his name had been anathema to her, and now, against all reason, she loved him, wanted above all things to share the rest of her life with him.
Mon Dieu, but my heart has much to answer for,
she thought with a rueful smile.

When Leonie and the others had left Saint-Andre, the house had been boarded up, but Morgan found a door that had not been properly barricaded and in a few minutes he had forced it open. Grinning at Leonie, he said, "I trust you do not intend to accuse me of housebreaking?"

Laughing, she shook her head and happily danced ahead of him into the house. They did not linger inside. After being closed up for almost two months, the house had an unpleasant musty smell and there was a depressing, forlorn look to the empty, echoing rooms. But the tour gave Morgan a fair idea of the floor plan of the living quarters on the upper floor and the condition of the interior of the house. Walking out onto the shaded gallery, he asked, "What's on the ground floor? The plantation office and such?"

"Oui,
monsieur." Leonie pulled a face. "And what few things we had to store. Monsieur de la Fontaine said he would let me keep some of the larger pieces of furniture and what odds and ends that we could not take with us in there until I redeemed the house or until it was sold... whichever happened first."

Morgan's mouth tightened. "That was generous of him."

Leonie glanced at him, a little uneasy at the note in his voice. "It doesn't matter anymore," she finally said. "With my dowry back, I shall be able to deal with him."

Morgan moved closer to her and tipping her chin up, he stared down into her face. "You don't have to, sweetheart. I'll take care of de la Fontaine."

"Oh, but—" she began to argue, and then stopped abruptly as Morgan gently covered her mouth with his hand. Staring down into her face, he said roughly, "You're not alone anymore, Leonie. You don't have to fight
every
battle yourself. Let me settle with de la Fontaine. I don't mean to belittle your efforts, but I think," he added grimly, "that I can settle all accounts with de la Fontaine far more effectively than you can." A gleam in his blue eyes, he ended with, "He won't try to seduce
me!"

Her eyes widening, she jerked her head away and demanded, "How do you know that he tried to seduce me, monsieur?"

Silently cursing his slip, Morgan shrugged his broad shoulders. "Monsieur LeFort mentioned that de la Fontaine is not the gentleman his father was."

"It seems to me you have been doing a lot of snooping! How dare you, Morgan Slade!"

Becoming angry himself, he snapped back, "If you'll remember, until yesterday, I didn't know about the damned marriage! And not knowing about it, I had every reason to believe that you were a conniving cheat out for my money. I'm certain you'll agree it was only logical to find out as much about you as possible."

Some of her quick fury dying, Leonie regarded him indecisively. She was still affronted with his actions, but her sense of fair play made her aware of the reasons behind what he had done. She confessed to herself that, if their positions had been reversed, she would have done the same. Reluctantly, she muttered, "Perhaps you were right, but it still isn't a very pleasant feeling to know that strangers are poking into one's past."

Watching her, Morgan asked carefully, "Is there something in your past that won't bear close scrutiny?"

Puzzled, Leonie glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

His eyes locking on hers he said bluntly, "If I didn't consummate the marriage six years ago, would you please explain to me how it comes about that you arrived in Natchez with a child? A child that you claimed, at first, was mine?"

Chapter 28

Leonie froze. Turning her pale face away, she said stiffly, "I do not want to talk about it."

Morgan regarded her keenly for a taut moment. He wasn't prying maliciously, but the more he knew, the more effectively he could forestall an unholy scandal from breaking over her innocent head. He particularly disliked his own role at the moment—he wasn't her husband as she thought, and yet he was making no attempt to enlighten her.
I am as bad as Ashley,
he thought. But he dared not tell her the truth, and in order to free them all from the damnable coil Ashley had created he needed all the information he could gain—even if it pained her and was gotten under misleading circumstances.

He almost let the subject drop, but he couldn't; finally he replied quietly, "That's what you said the last time. And as I was laboring under the mistaken impression that you were telling nothing but lies in the first place, I let it go. But I can't any longer—you bear my name, and because of that, I am legally responsible for Justin. I think that entitles me to know his parentage, don't you?" His conscience writhed at the half-lies he was telling, but it had to be done, he reminded himself bleakly. And he
did
wonder about Justin's parentage.

Not looking at him, Leonie gripped the railing of the gallery so tightly that her knuckles showed white. Morgan's request wasn't unjustified, she admitted miserably to herself. He
had
acknowledged Justin, and if he was going to allow her subterfuge to continue, then it was only fair that she answer his question.

She closed her eyes in anguish. It had been her secret for so long, her shame and degradation suffered alone in silence, that she didn't even know if she
could
tell anyone of it. And with things still unsettled between them, still uncertain of his true feelings, she found it even more difficult.

Morgan watched her intently for several seconds, aware with an angry sort of compassion of her embarrassment and bitter reluctance to speak of what had obviously been an ugly episode in her life. That she would not talk of it, told him much. Unable to bear the sight of her unhappy face any longer, he asked roughly, "Was it Maurice? Did he rape you?"

Astonishment caused Leonie to whirl and stare at him openmouthed. Her eyes widening with amazement, she finally got out incredulously, "Maurice? Maurice de la Fontaine?"

That he had guessed badly was very apparent and he replied, "He seems to have been the only man in your life. And as I have gathered Justin's conception is not a pleasant memory for you... it was only natural that I should think of rape... and Maurice."

Leonie gave a half-hysterical little laugh, and the sea-green eyes shimmering with suppressed tears, she said wretchedly, "How very perceptive of you, monsieur! It was rape, you were right about that, but not that it was Maurice.
Never
Maurice!" She turned her head away in pain, and her throat clogged with remembered shame. But the words came tumbling out, as if the admission of rape had destroyed the restraint she had placed on herself six years ago. "I was somewhere I shouldn't have been, and... and a man, a stranger, m-mistook me for something I wasn't." Her voice raw with agony, she spat out, "He raped me, monsieur! He was too big and powerful for me and I could not stop him! And, and w-w-when it was over I fled." Bitterly she added, "And so now you know—Justin's father could be anyone!" The threatened tears suddenly spilling down her cheeks, she added defiantly, "And if you're ashamed of us, disgusted with me, if you don't want Justin and me as part of your life, well then, it will be
your
loss!"