Chance glanced up from his contemplation of the fire, and seeing the expression on her face, his lips thinned.
“I trust that your prurient interest in my antecedents, or lack thereof, is now satisfied,” he drawled, his eyes cool and hard. “And Duchess . . . I would warn you not to let that icy heart of yours feel any sympathy for me. Pity from the likes of you is the last thing that I want.”
Fancy glared at him, her compassion evaporating as the increasingly familiar desire to slap his mocking face rose within her. She stood up abruptly and shook out her ragged skirts. “Pity you?” she demanded disdainfully. “I think not. The ones I pity are Mr. Walker and his wife. Their son died and unfortunately you did not!”
Part Two
Chance
The easiest person to deceive is one’s own self.
Edward Bulwer-Lytton
The Disowned
Chapter Six
It had been a terrible thing to say, and as she lay on the ground later that night, Fancy writhed with shame. Turning restlessly in her blanket, she cursed her wayward tongue a thousand times and desperately sought forgetfulness in sleep. Sleep would not come, however, and the memory of her awful words kept repeating themselves in her brain.
What was wrong with her? she wondered fretfully. In her entire life, she had never spoken to anyone in the hateful manner in which she had Chance. She had always considered herself a calm, dignified, serene, polite sort of woman, the type of woman who never lost her temper. Yet around Chance Walker . . . Just one mocking word from him, one infuriating lift of his brows, one quirk of that long, mobile mouth, and she became lost to all decorum and dignity and turned into a raging virago, hotly spewing out the most appalling things, uncaring in that burst of fury if her words hurt. She grimaced. Not that anything she said could dent Chance’s thick, impenetrable hide! She sighed deeply. If only this wretched, interminable journey would end and she could be free of his obnoxiously disturbing presence. She could only hope that once they reached Walker Ridge she’d be able to put events in perspective and view Chance Walker in a more favorable light—and recover her own composure.
Hidden by the darkness, Chance lounged on the ground not five feet away from Fancy, his back resting comfortably against the trunk of a tree, his hand lightly clasping the long black rifle that stood upright beside him. This close to her he could hear every sound she made as she wiggled and tossed on the ground, but he could have been twenty feet away and he still would have been aware of every single thing about her. Too damned aware, he thought disgustedly, his mouth thinning.
He’d hoped that upon closer association his initial interest in the baroness would fade. More than that, he’d been certain that the journey to Walker Ridge and her subsequent actions would effectively put an end to his inexplicable preoccupation with her. But it hadn’t. If anything, she now fascinated him more than she had in the beginning, and he was thoroughly annoyed by that fact.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He was supposed to see her at her worst, and God knew this trek would bring out the devil in just about anyone. But so far she had confounded him. She had been helpful and pleasant, at least to Hugh and her sister; she had not slowed them down with unnecessary demands, and she had not complained, or whined, or made a nuisance of herself—except with respect to his peace of mind, he admitted grimly.
Their journey was almost at an end, and Chance discovered himself oddly reluctant for the moment when Walker Ridge finally came into sight and the baroness was no longer his responsibility. He’d grown used to her, he thought with a sardonic twist of his lips. Used to watching that graceful slender form move about the camp; used to that soft, silvery chuckle of hers; very used to the way her eyes would glow with that golden light when she was angry; and used to the way her smile could lift his spirits—not that she ever smiled at him!
She was going to waste that lovely smile and that slim, beautiful body on that bastard Jonathan, and there wasn’t one bloody thing he could do about it, Chance thought disgustedly. That knowledge ate at him, and every time he remembered how she’d felt in his arms, the sweet fire of her kiss, his determination to deny Jonathan those charms grew.
Why should Jonathan have her? he asked himself bitterly. He sure as hell didn’t deserve her.
The old, familiar feelings of hatred and revenge entwined in his heart whenever he let himself think of Jonathan, and tonight was no different. Jonathan had deliberately taken the only thing that had ever mattered to him and cruelly defiled it and, when through with it, had discarded it carelessly. The agony Chance had felt upon discovering that his wife had hanged herself and that she had been pregnant with another man’s child rose up inside of him, nearly choking him. Bleakly he wondered if he’d ever be able to remember Jenny without this terrible ache, this savage urge to rip out Jonathan Walker’s throat.
It had been months after Jenny’s death before he’d even been able to consider what had happened—to think about Jenny dying alone and frightened, abandoned by the one man who should have stood by her side—without wanting to smash something. By the time he’d been cool-headed enough to think about it unemotionally, he’d realized that it hadn’t been just lust for Jenny’s lovely body that had motivated Jonathan, but also the desire to strike at him. Chance’s lips tightened. Jonathan had been furious about the loss of those ten thousand acres in that card game, and he’d sworn vengeance. Chance didn’t doubt for a moment that seducing Jenny had been Jonathan’s way of paying him back. Whether Jonathan had known that Jenny would conceive a child and kill herself when he abandoned her or not was moot. She had, and for that reason alone—cuckolding him had little to do with his need for vengeance—Jonathan deserved to suffer. And what better way to revenge himself against the man who had destroyed his wife than to steal the one woman who meant everything to Jonathan?
Chance’s eyes narrowed. Not seduce her. No, nothing so common. No, he’d not plant any horns on another man’s head. He would simply take her away from Jonathan and marry her himself! Now that would be a fitting revenge. Jonathan would have to live the rest of his days with the knowledge that the man he hated most in the world had married the woman he had chosen for his bride—just as he lived every day with the memory of Jenny’s tragic death.
He’d enjoy taking the baroness away from Jonathan, he suddenly realized, and not totally because of what had happened to Jenny. The memory of that torrid kiss rose up to taunt him. Oh, yes. He would indeed enjoy taking that golden-eyed little witch away from Jonathan. In fact, he thought with a wicked smile, he was damn well looking forward to it.
If Fancy noticed that Chance seemed exceptionally cheerful the next morning, she assumed that it was because the end of their journey was in sight. Over breakfast he casually informed them that if all went well, tonight would be their last night on the trail. Tomorrow night they would sleep soundly in the finest feather-beds at Walker Ridge.
The news should have left everyone jubilant, but Fancy was conscious of an odd heaviness in her heart. Of course, she wanted this horrible journey to end. And naturally, she would be absolutely delighted to see the last of the infuriating Chance Walker. But somehow she couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for the prospect.
She wasn’t the only one not particularly overjoyed by Chance’s promise of finally reaching their destination. She noticed that Ellen seemed to take the information rather indifferently. Her sister seemed subdued, not smiling and laughing as much as the day progressed. All of them should have been thrilled for this ordeal to end, but in fact, it was a curiously quiet little group that made camp on the last night—except for Chance, who had worn a suspiciously pleased expression most of the day.
More than once Fancy had glanced at him, wondering what went on behind those dark blue eyes. Of course, there was no reason for him not to be pleased. After all, he had found them and would be returning them safely to Jonathan’s open arms.
Since they were, according to Chance, very close to their destination, bu
t not close enough to make it tonight, they had stopped early to camp.
“There is no use exhausting ourselves,” he had said.
“You will be at Walker Ridge by noon tomorrow. And this is as good as any place we have seen to camp for the night.”
It was a lovely place. A wide, shallow stream ran through the edge of a small tree-dotted meadow. Wild grape and berry vines cascaded over several oak and willow trees near one side of the stream, and the grass was thick and soft beneath their feet. From the forest that surrounded the meadow, they quickly gathered downed wood for the evening fire. Once he had seen that they were situated, Chance had left Hugh on guard and disappeared into the forest in search of their evening meal.
To pass the time and also to add to their nearly exhausted larder, Fancy and Ellen began to gather the ever-present blackberries. Hugh remained at a distance, his keen eyes scanning the forest for the first sign of trouble—not that anyone really expected any danger this close to Walker Ridge.
The two women picked in silence for several moments before Ellen said tentatively, “I suppose you have wondered why I have not corrected the impression that it is you who is to become Jonathan’s bride.”
Fancy’s busy fingers stilled. She glanced over at Ellen’s face, noting that her sister seemed to be concentrating very hard on the simple task of plucking berries. “Well, yes, I have wondered,” she said gently. “Do you want to tell me why?”
“Oh, Fancy,” Ellen fairly wailed, “it is so hard to explain. I do not even know if I understand my actions myself.”
They picked in silence a few minutes more, then Fancy asked quietly, “Have you changed your mind about marrying Jonathan Walker?”
Ellen grimaced. “ ’Tis so hard to explain. When we left London for the Colonies, there was no doubt in my mind that I was in love with Jonathan and that I wanted nothing more than to be his wife.” She paused, her face troubled. “But once we reached Virginia, Jonathan seemed to change.” She slanted Fancy a look. “He and his mother may have been treating me very well after we left Richmond, but while we were in Richmond, they both made me feel superfluous. You were the one, the Baroness Merrivale, whom they eagerly introduced to their friends. They brought me forth almost as an afterthought.”
Fancy looked stricken. “Oh, Ellen, sweetheart, I am so sorry you were made to feel that way. I told myself that I must have been imagining things.”
“Well, if you were imagining things—I was imagining the same things. You will not be able to convince me that Jonathan and his mother would not have been just as happy if I had stayed in our room at the tavern and never showed my face in Richmond.”
“I am sure that is not true,” Fancy protested. “I know that Jonathan and Constance may have inadvertently slighted you, but I am certain that is all it was. You know how some people are impressed by a title, and, while I did not expect it of Jonathan, perhaps, he and his mother simply wanted to boast to their friends a little. They did not mean to ignore you. And besides, you cannot have fallen out of love with him just because of what happened in Richmond. He is, after all, a very nice man.”
“And since when have you become Jonathan’s champion?” Ellen asked sharply. “You have never wholeheartedly embraced the idea of my marrying him. You were the one who did not want me to marry him in England. You were the one who counseled me to wait—to be absolutely certain that I really loved him.”
“I know,” Fancy admitted with a sigh, “but what does all this have to do with you letting Hugh and Chance think that I am Jonathan’s bride-to-be?”
Ellen didn’t answer her right away. Her blond head bent, she concentrated fiercely on picking berries. Finally, in a small voice she said, “You are going to think that I am the greatest fool in nature, but I have fallen in love with Hugh Walker.” She raised a tragic face to Fancy. “If he were to find out that I am Jonathan’s bride-to-be, I know he would be utterly disgusted with me, not only because I concealed the truth, but because, like Chance, he does not think very much of Jonathan.” Ellen’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Fancy, what am I to do?”
Fancy’s heart sank. She had noticed that Ellen and Hugh seemed to be getting along uncommonly well, but the idea of a romance between them had never occurred to her. She had been, she thought bitterly, too preoccupied with all the turbulent emotions aroused by Chance Walker to worry about what Hugh Walker might be doing to her sister’s notoriously tender heart. And Ellen on the verge of announcing her betrothal to Jonathan Walker. Dear heavens! What an awkward thing to have happened. Hiding her own dismay, she put her arms around Ellen and said softly, “Now do not cry, dear. Things are not so very terrible. We escaped from that awful Clem and Udell, did we not? This situation is far less dire, and I am positive that if we think about it, we can come up with a solution.”
Ellen gave a watery chuckle. “Oh, Fancy, you are always so calm and cool-headed. Do you never put a foot wrong?”
Fancy’s mouth twisted. Would Ellen feel the same if she ever learned of that never-to-be-sufficiently-regretted kiss with Chance? Brushing her lips across Ellen’s blond head, she murmured, “I am not quite the saint that you believe me, but for the moment, that is not the problem.” She put Ellen from her and, looking into her sister’s tearstained face, began uncomfortably, “Has Hugh, um . . . does Hugh . . .? Have you discussed your feelings with him?”
“Oh, no! He has been everything that is proper and decorous.” Ellen’s lips curved ruefully. “I doubt he even sees me as a woman. He is forever teasing me, and he treats me much in the manner I suspect he would treat one of his younger sisters.”
Fancy stared hard at Ellen. “Ellen, are you sure you are in love with him? It is not just because of the way you met? You have not romanticized our situation, have you? Imagined Hugh to be this wonderful hero and not looked beyond to see the man he really is?”
Ellen shook her head. “Fancy, there has been nothing romantic about this entire venture—you know that. While I will admit that for the first day or two I did look upon him, and Chance, too, as our noble rescuers, I think I began to see him as a real person the first time he helped me remove a tick from my ankle.” Ellen wrinkled her nose at the memory. “And, as you know, there is nothing the least romantic about that.”
“But what about Jonathan? You thought you were in love with him just a few weeks ago.”
Ellen sighed. “I know, and you are right to be skeptical.” A glow suddenly lit her face. “Oh, but Fancy, this is so different. What I feel for Hugh has made me see how shallow my feelings for Jonathan actually were. I was, I think, blinded by Jonathan. Here I was, this provincial little miss in the great City of London for the first time, and I was frightened and a little nervous. I did not really know anybody, and while the gentlemen were very kind to me, the young ladies acted so superior that I wanted to sink into the floor. Then, just when I was on the point of begging you to take us back to the country, this utterly divine gentleman, this tall, handsome, wealthy man who had been so much sought after by those same young ladies, suddenly began to pay attention to me.” She made a wry face. “I am ashamed to admit it, but I felt so smug when Jonathan squired me around London and I saw all those young ladies who had turned up their noses at me, looking so envious, that I did not stop to think about what I was doing.”
“And you are now?” Fancy inquired dryly.
Ellen nodded her head vigorously. “Yes, I am. I am in love with Hugh and I want to marry him. It does not matter to me what his prospects are, even if he is poor or that I will not have a grand home and expensive clothing.” She laughed. “These past few weeks have taught me that there are many things I once thought I could not live without that I have not missed at all. Oh, Fancy, I love him so much! I cannot imagine life without him.”
“Ellen, are sure? I mean really, really sure?”
Ellen smiled softly at Fancy’s concerned features. “Yes, I am.”
The words were said with such simple confidence that Fancy finally believ
ed her. A part of Fancy rejoiced that Ellen had had the good sense to fall in love with a fine young man like Hugh Walker. But another part of her saw nothing but trouble ahead. At least, she told herself gloomily, there had never been any formal betrothal between Jonathan and Ellen. Oh my, but it was going to be very difficult. They were staying at Walker Ridge as Jonathan’s guests, the entire purpose of their visit for Ellen and Jonathan to know their hearts. After the journey they had just finished, Fancy dreaded having to coolly announce to their host that Ellen had changed her mind and that they were leaving immediately. Leaving for . . .?
Fancy’s runaway thoughts ground to a halt. Where were they going to stay, anyway? And how was she going to solve the vexing problem of Ellen and Hugh?
“Ellen, you may be in love with Hugh, but what about him?” Fancy asked abruptly. “You say that he has not indicated to you how he feels . . . you mentioned that he treats you like a younger sister—has it occurred to you that he might be in love with someone else or even married?”
“He is not,” Ellen replied sunnily. “I asked Chance.”
“I see. But even if Hugh is not in love with anyone else—that does not mean that he will fall in love with you,” Fancy pointed out as gently as she could.
“Oh, but he will,” Ellen answered confidently. An imp of mischief danced in her blue eyes. “He has only seen me looking like a bedraggled hen. Once we are at Walker Ridge, I intend to make him understand that I am not his younger sister.”
“And Jonathan? You expect to make another man fall in love with you while staying at the home of the man who thought to marry you?” Fancy inquired incredulously. She knew that Ellen was very young and, she admitted with a grimace, a little spoiled. But surely not even Ellen thought it was going to be that simple.
A Heart for the Taking Page 11
