“That is very generous of you,” Fancy said softly, wishing she understood him better. Used to her first husband’s cold, supercilious manner when she had displeased him, she found Chance’s easy acceptance of the situation between them confusing. Spencer had been a generous man, but she could not imagine him agreeing to terms that were not to his benefit without a great deal of open displeasure. Yet no one seeing Chance with her would have guessed of the bargain they had struck. He was as considerate and attentive as any bride could have wished. Perversely Fancy wished that he had been an utter beast. She would certainly feel more justified in the stance she had taken. Her eyes narrowed. Perhaps that was why he had been so agreeable?
Seeing the expression on her face, Chance cocked a brow. “What? What have I done now to vex you? I thought you would be pleased that Ellen will be coming with us to Devil’s Own and that I have not been bloody difficult about Annie’s sudden inclusion.”
“I am,” she admitted slowly. “I just do not understand you.” At Chance’s look of inquiry, she muttered, “I thought you would be angry about what we agreed this morning, but you have been most pleasant all day.”
Chance shrugged again. “I cannot pretend that I will not find the next month a burden, or that it will be easy for me not to avail myself of your many charms. But I did agree to your terms. Having agreed to them, why should I act in a disagreeable manner?”
Fancy sent him a perplexed smile. “Not all men are so.”
Chance smiled angelically. “I am not ‘all’ men.”
Fancy walked restlessly around the room. A hopeful light in her eyes, she finally stopped before Chance and asked, “Since you have been so generous to me about Ellen and Annie, are you certain that you will not change your mind and allow me to sleep in my own bed?”
“Will you change your mind and allow me to make love to you?” he asked dryly. The light died in her eyes, and she shook her head vehemently. Chance yawned and stretched, making her aware of all that lean, exciting masculinity. “Then, sweetheart,” he drawled, “don’t expect me to change mine.”
Fancy made a face. She had not thought that he would allow her to escape so easily, but she’d had to try. Not so certain of her own ability to resist him if he attempted to break the terms of their bargain, she was not looking forward to the night ahead.
Chance was not, either, being rather uncertain about his own powers of self-restraint. His bride was a very tempting morsel, and the knowledge that he could force his attentions upon her and slake the carnal demons that rode him was never very far from his mind. But to the surprise of both of them, they managed to share that big bed together with neither one of them having any reason for despair when they woke in the morning.
Fancy was not very pleased, however, to find herself snuggled up to his broad chest, one of her arms thrown across his shoulder and one of his legs nestled snugly between her thighs. She had lain there content and half awake for several seconds, listening to the steady beat of his heart, until she realized her position and had instantly jerked away to her side of the bed.
And of course, Chance did not have the decency to be asleep—or at least to pretend that he was. He was wide awake and had been for quite some time, enjoying the feel of Fancy’s yielding body lying so intimately against his. A gleam in his blue eyes, Chance said softly, “I wonder which one of us is going to find this coming month the most difficult?”
Ignoring him, Fancy slid from the bed and hastily donned a wrapper over her nightgown. Tightening the sash firmly around her slender waist, a spot of color burning in each cheek, she said loftily, “It certainly will not be me. I was sound asleep and not responsible for my actions.”
“Ah. So if one night I find myself making love to you, it will be because I am asleep and not responsible?”
Fancy’s lips thinned. Pushing back a strand of hair, she said, “You know very well what I meant. Must you tease me all the time?”
“But, sweetheart, you have denied me the delights of your body. Must you deny me even this small pleasure?”
Fancy strangled an urge to stamp her foot with vexation and proceeded to wash her face. Several of her personal items had been moved down to Chance’s room the previous evening, and studiously ignoring the provoking creature on the bed, she picked up her own brush and began to bring her tangled locks into order.
His hands behind his head, Chance watched her with obvious pleasure. There was something both innocent and seductive about the way she brushed her hair, the sensuous flow of her thick dark brown curls over the bristles almost mesmerizing him.
Fancy was very aware of him, and putting down her brush with a sharp thud, she turned to glare at him. “Will you stop staring at me that way?”
The teasing gleam in his eyes pronounced, Chance sighed heavily and murmured, “Do not tell me, sweetheart, that you are adding another thing I am not to do to our bargain.”
Hands on her hips, she said, “Has anyone ever told you that you are the most aggravating, provoking creature in the world?”
At her words, he assumed a look of such wounded innocence that Fancy felt her lips twitch with laughter. Knowing that he was incorrigible and that she could not win in this situation, she turned away to hide her growing amusement and said, “Oh, never mind. What time did you say that you wanted to leave this morning?”
“No later than the noon hour, if Ellen and Annie can be ready by then. We have several hours’ ride ahead of us, but rather than delaying until tomorrow morning, when it would be cooler, I would like to be at Devil’s Own tonight—even if we have to travel the last few hours in darkness.”
By midmorning there was much bustling about and a feeling of anticipation in the air as the servants scurried in and out of the big house with trunks and bulky packages for loading in the two small wagons that were to accompany the newlyweds. To Chance’s surprise, by ten-thirty that morning everything was loaded and all the good-byes and good wishes had been said and they were ready to depart.
Prior to the disastrous scene between Ellen and Hugh in the conservatory, it had been arranged for Hugh to accompany the newlyweds on their journey to Devil’s Own. Though Hugh treated Ellen’s presence with a cool disdain, he kept his word and grimly joined the small party. Chance and Hugh rode astride on tall Thoroughbreds that had been ridden over the day before the wedding from Devil’s Own by two of Chance’s men. The heavily laden wagons were pulled by pairs of stout draft horses—a wedding gift from Morely and his family. The two men from Devil’s Own were each driving one of the wagons; the three women were all in the larger vehicle, where a canvas hood had been hastily rigged to give them some relief from the hot, brilliant yellow sunlight. Amidst smiles and good wishes the little cavalcade slowly pulled away.
A forced smile on his face, Morely, along with the others, watched them leave from the steps of the house. When everyone else went inside, he remained staring in the direction Chance had ridden until only the red dust lingered in the air from their passage. Then, sighing heavily, he turned and entered the house.
He had wanted to tell Sam about the night he had found the newborn infant before Chance left for Devil’s Own, but with one thing and another it had been easy to put off the meeting with Sam—something he had been doing for over thirty years! But he knew now that he could put off the evil hour no longer. There were no more excuses. All the guests, except for himself and Pru, had left, the newlyweds were safely on their way, and quiet and tranquillity had once more descended upon Walker Ridge. At least until I open my mouth, Morely thought glumly as he went in search of Sam.
He found Sam several minutes later in his office. Sam was halfheartedly looking over some papers when Morely knocked and entered the building. Awelcoming smile on his face, Sam waved him to a comfortable black leather chair, offering him some ale from a pitcher that rested on a long table against one wall.
Only after refreshments were taken care of and Sam had settled casually into the leather chair behind his desk, his bo
oted feet propped on a corner of the desk, did Morely gather his thoughts and begin the difficult task of trying to explain why he had waited over three decades to speak.
It was not easy. He made several false starts before he finally said, “Do you remember Chance’s wedding night, when we spoke of his parentage?”
Looking perplexed, Sam answered slowly, “I remember that you were laboring under some great emotion. I have remained curious, but waited until you wanted to speak again of it.”
Morely drank nervously of his ale. The moment had come, and he knew a craven desire to once more avoid the subject. But he could not. He must speak, and he could put it off no longer, no matter what havoc it might wreak in his own life. He took a deep breath and then blurted out, “I swear to you on all that I hold dear that Chance Walker is not my son. I found him!”
“You found him?” Sam said in astonishment. “What the devil do you mean by that?”
Determinedly meeting Sam’s gaze, he said, “Exactly that. I found him still wet with the birthing blood, wrapped in a blanket and lying on that big bluff out there in front of your house.”
Sam looked incredulous. “In front of my house? Is this some Canterbury tale you have concocted?” When Morely shook his head vehemently, Sam added quietly, “Why are you doing this to yourself? If Chance is not your son, then simply say so and have done with it. You do not need to invent some wildly outlandish tale to convince me.”
“I wish it were merely an outlandish tale,” Morely muttered, “but it is the Lord’s own truth. I found him.” He took another drink of ale. A pleading note in his voice, he said, “Let me tell you how it was.” At Sam’s reluctant nod, he began slowly, “There was a terrible storm the night I found him. Slashing rain and rolling thunder filled the heavens, and I was struggling home in the midst of it all from an evening of deep drinking, singing to myself, if I remember correctly, when to my amazement I heard a baby crying. I could not believe it! Thought the liquor had fuddled my wits and that I was hearing things, but there was a lull in the storm just then and I could hear him squalling plain as day.”
Morely gulped some more ale. “I was still in the woods when I first heard him—I could not see anything. Except for the lightning it was black as Hades and the brush hid the bluff from view. But it did not make sense to me, even as drunk as I was, for anyone to be out on a night like that with a baby. I figured that someone was in bad trouble. Thinking I could be of help, I stumbled toward the bluff.”
Unable to sustain Sam’s fascinated gaze, Morely stood up and took a turn around the room. His back to Sam, he stared blankly out of one of the many windows that lined one wall of the room. “I might not have seen him if it had not been for the lightning,” he said softly. “I had finally gotten out into the open and was making my way toward the sound of the crying when there was a tremendous bolt—lit up the area just like high noon—and that is when I spied him. He was one angry little fellow, squalling and kicking in the blanket he had been wrapped in . . . and lying there all alone—just mere inches from the edge of the bluff.”
Sam sucked in his breath. “Are you telling me that someone had just abandoned a newborn infant? There was no one around? No one?”
Still not looking at Sam, Morely answered, “No one. It was as if the baby had just miraculously appeared there at the edge of the bluff. I called and called, but no one answered me. After a while, I decided that no one was going to answer, so I picked up the baby and took him to my place—your overseer’s house—you were letting me stay there in those days, remember?”
His face grave, Sam nodded. “Yes, of course I remember. But Morely, I find this tale hard to believe. If it is true, why did you not tell me right away?”
Morely smiled bitterly. “Oh, ’tis a true tale, and I would have told you—that is precisely what I planned to do once I had seen that the baby was safely settled. Only you left for England before I could talk to you.”
Sam’s face went white. “Are you telling me that this happened then? I knew Chance was born around that time, but I never realized . . .”
Morely nodded. “I found the baby the night Letty delivered her stillborn son.” He swallowed painfully. “Of course, I did not know that at the time, I only knew that there was this tiny infant wailing loudly in my arms and that someone had abandoned him to the fates in the middle of a raging storm. I wondered if his mother might have jumped into the river herself, but that was not something I could discover right then. I had to see to the needs of the newborn first.” Morely ran an agitated hand through his hair. “ ’Tis hard to explain, Sam, all the emotions that went through me that night.” He sent him a wry smile. “You do not know how badly I wanted your presence, how very much I wanted to lay the babe in your arms and wash my hands of him. But you were in Philadelphia and I had no one I could turn to . . . no one I trusted. It may sound farfetched and nonsensical now, but I felt strongly that I had to see that he came to no harm, that whoever had left him on that bluff did not come back to finish the ugly deed I had interrupted.”
A spasm of horror crossed Sam’s face, but it was obvious that he hadn’t taken in all the implications of the tale. Sighing heavily, Morely said quietly, “Sam, I found Chance right here at Walker Ridge, the same night Letty brought forth your stillborn son. Most coincidental of all, Chance has six toes on his right foot, the same as every man in your family for the last three generations.”
Their eyes locked and a dark silence fell. “Are you saying,” Sam finally managed, “what I think you are saying?”
Morely shrugged. “Letty was all alone with Constance. You were away in Philadelphia. Constance had good reason to want you to have no heir but her own precious son, Jonathan.” Morely glanced away from the sudden anguish in Sam’s face. “Twins run in Letty’s family, don’t they?”
“Yes,” Sam said thickly, “they do.”
Seating himself in the chair in front of Sam’s desk, Morely said tiredly, “I had no proof. I still have none. I wanted to tell you, I had planned on telling you as soon as I got back from leaving Chance with Andrew and Martha. Only while I was doing that, you returned and swept Letty away to England.” Haltingly he added, “What I suspected . . . it was not something . . . I just did not know how to put the words on paper . . . and if what I suspected was true, I feared that any letter I wrote to you might fall into the wrong hands.”
“But when we came back, why in God’s name did you not say something then? Why have you never before breathed a word of this incredible tale to anyone?” Sam demanded, his blue eyes bright with suppressed emotion.
“You were gone four years, Sam. Four years in which Andrew and Martha raised Chance as their own. That is also why there is the discrepancy of his date of birthing; they chose the date I left him with them as his birthday. He was nearly a week old by then. You were gone for years, and during that time they were the only parents he knew. He loved them as they loved him. They were a family.” Morely sighed again. “I had no proof, beyond coincidence. Even the six toes is not irrefutable proof of his heritage. The only thing I do know is that Chance is not my son. But he does share the exact date of birth of your dead son, and he has the six toes. ’Tis obvious that he is a Walker bred in the bone. And that he looks enough like you to be your son.”
Unable to bear Sam’s painful scrutiny any longer, Morely dropped his gaze to the floor. “I am a coward, Sam. I should have spoken to you about this years ago, but I could not. ’Tis a terrible thing that I am suggesting, and with only coincidence to give it any credence, I was afraid that you would not believe me. That you would think I was simply trying to cause trouble for Constance. I always kept thinking that there would be a better time, that one day the good Lord would send me a sign that it was time to speak or something would happen that would make my telling of that night imperative.” He smiled sadly. “But somehow the years just went by. I was busy with my own family, Chance was growing up strong and happy with Andrew and Martha, and you and Letty seemed to hav
e dealt with your grief. I did not want to open old wounds or cause new ones.”
“And now?” Sam asked, his voice thick and rusty. “Why do you speak now?”
“Because I am an old man now. I know I am not immortal. Chance saved my life the day of his wedding. It was like a sign, and I realized I had waited so long, I risked dying without having told anyone what I knew.” His eyes lifted to Sam’s hard blue eyes. “I owed it to Chance,” he said simply.
Silence fell, both men lost in their own thoughts. After a long time, Sam said heavily, “Tell no one what you have told me. I will not have Letty learn of this until we know the truth. I do not want her overset.”
Morely nodded. “Do you believe me?” he asked painfully.
“I believe you,” Sam said harshly. “This is too wild and improbable a tale not to be true. The question is, who is Chance Walker? Was his birth that night and physical aspects some incredible coincidence?” His voice grew icy. “Or did my wife give birth to twins that night, one alive and one dead? And did my stepmother, or someone following her directions, deliberately abandon the living infant to die in the elements? They would not have left the baby there to be found the next day. It must have been planned to throw the child in the river, only your approach frightened them off.”
“I wondered from time to time,” Morely began hesitantly, “if some other woman had given birth that night, too. And if she disappeared, jumping into the river but leaving behind her child.”
Sam smiled mirthlessly. “You think that Chance might be my bastard? That I sought solace in another’s bed? That I made a mockery of my wedding vows to my beloved Letty and drove another woman to such despair that she took her own life? For shame, my friend—you know me better than that.”
Morely flushed. “I doubted it, but it seemed as likely as the other.” He took a deep breath. “Are you very angry with me?”
A Heart for the Taking Page 27
