Ignoring Fancy, Chance walked over to a long table and opened one of the many crystal decanters there. After pouring himself a snifter of brandy, he crossed to where she sat and took a chair across from her. Staring down at the swirling amber liquor, he asked suddenly, “Why is it so important to know my reasons?”
She smiled bitterly. “Must you always answer one question with another?”
He shrugged and took a sip of the brandy. “Let us just say that I am curious to know why the question has arisen now instead of some other time.”
“I came to the barn this afternoon,” Fancy said levelly. “I came looking for you. I wanted to see if you had time to show me around.” Her eyes dropped from his intent gaze. Becoming enormously interested in pleating the fabric of her skirt, she said softly, “You were talking to Hugh about Jonathan and Jenny and revenge.” Her eyes lifted and clashed with his. “I did not mean to eavesdrop, but I could not help hearing every word said between the two of you. It was a rather illuminating conversation.”
Chapter Nineteen
Chance’s face did not change expression, but he was silently cursing the damnable fate that had allowed Fancy to overhear that particular conversation. He had no trouble recalling the words spoken to Hugh, and after examining them, he groaned inwardly.
Fancy’s name had never been mentioned, nor had his marriage to her been remotely connected to a quest for vengeance against Jonathan. But . . . His eyes narrowed. Already suspicious of his motives, already having suspected that it had been precisely to punish Jonathan that had occasioned their marriage, Fancy would have had no trouble applying his expressed sentiments to their own situation. How could she not? And he could hardly claim that revenge against Jonathan had not had any part in the circumstances surrounding their sudden wedding, not when his own words could be used to call him a liar. Worse, it was partially true, and there was no way he could reasonably explain to her his jumbled thoughts the night he had decided to compromise her. Not, he admitted savagely, without revealing how completely she had bewitched him.
To give himself time to think, Chance took a long swallow of the brandy. His thoughts no clearer than they had been, he frowned across at Fancy, wondering how she would react if he told her the truth, that as he looked back on that night, he had realized that taking revenge against Jonathan had only been an excuse, a reason to allow him to gain what he really wanted—her. His mouth tightened. And freely hand her a weapon with which to tear his heart from his chest?
He got up abruptly and returned the snifter to the table. Swinging back to face her, still playing for time, he asked, “And what momentous conclusions have you come to regarding what you heard?”
Fancy rose to her feet. “Still avoiding the question, Chance? Still returning question for question?”
A spot of color burned high on his cheeks as he said,
“ ’Tis obvious that whatever you think you overheard does not bode well for me. I think I am entitled to know what it is I am on trial for tonight.”
“There is no trial,” Fancy said wearily. “I merely wanted the truth from you—for once. As you said earlier, we are married and it is unlikely that the situation will change. But since you have seen fit to so cavalierly rearrange my life, I think you owe it to me to tell me why.” Her eyes hard and bright, she asked for perhaps the fifth time, “Why? Why did you marry me?”
“Because I wanted you,” he said bluntly, his body braced as if for a blow.
A bitter laugh came from Fancy. “And that is to satisfy me? That is all you have to say? You wanted me?”
Chance nodded curtly.
“And Jonathan? Can you swear that taking vengeance against him had nothing to do with our marriage? That you did not believe that it was me he intended to marry and that you did not do as you did in order to take me away from him? To punish him? To get your revenge?”
In one swift stride he was upon her, and digging his fingers into her arms, he jerked her next to him. His face near hers, he said tautly, “It does not make any difference why I married you. You are my wife, and by heaven, nothing will change that fact. Have done, Fancy. Forget what you overheard this afternoon. It was a private moment between Hugh and me, and it had nothing to do with you.”
Scornfully she stared up at him. “I see. I am just to forget about it and pretend it never happened? How convenient that would be for you.”
Chance’s jaw clenched. “Fancy, I do not want to fight with you. Let it alone—please.”
Hurt and angry, Fancy shrugged out of his grasp and turned her back on him. “I do not seem to have any choice in the matter,” she said stiffly, and walked toward the door that separated their rooms. It was only when she had her hand on the crystal knob that she glanced over her shoulder at him. A bitter smile curved her soft mouth. “You do realize that your very silence on the matter—your refusal to answer me—leaves me with no choice but to believe that you did think I was to be Jonathan’s bride and that it was precisely to wound him that you compromised me.”
Better she think that, Chance admitted savagely, than to know how completely she had him enthralled. One hand clenched into a fist at his side, he fought the urge to snatch her into his embrace and give free rein to all the powerful emotions that preyed upon him. “I cannot control what you want to think,” he said finally, when he thought he had himself safely under control from any silly outbursts. “I can only swear to you that no matter what the circumstances of our marriage, I will be as good a husband to you as I can. I will try to make you happy.”
His words warmed her, melting some of the ice around her heart and making her wonder for one treacherous second if she had been all wrong in her conclusions about him. There was such sincerity in his voice. It would be so easy, so simple, to accept the olive branch he was holding out to her. So easy to ignore all her doubts and fears and let herself be swept along in his wake. She stiffened. But that was what happened every time. He charmed her. Beguiled her. Made her forget the real situation between them—just as he had on their wedding night. Suddenly furious, she snapped, “You want to make me happy? Never let me look into your scoundrel’s face again! Now, that would make me happy!”
She flung open the door, but before she could escape, his voice stopped her. “Haven’t you forgotten something?” he asked grimly.
“What?” she demanded, spinning around to glare at him.
He cocked a brow. “Your bed, madame.” He nodded in the direction of the massive four-poster. “You are sleeping here tonight, remember?”
Fancy took in an outraged breath. “Surely you do not mean to keep me to that ridiculous bargain we made?”
His eyes gleamed. “Of course not. If you wish to forgo your part of the agreement, then I would have no difficulty whatsoever in allowing my part to lapse.”
Smothering an urge to strike his mocking face, Fancy snatched up her skirts and stalked swiftly to the high bed. After viciously kicking off her satin slippers, she bounded into bed. Petticoats and silken skirts frothing around her slim ankles, she sat bolt upright in the bed, her arms folded across her chest, and sent him a baleful look. “I am in your bed,” she snarled. “Does this satisfy you?”
Chance’s dark mood lifted at the sight she made, sitting there so militantly in his bed, her elegant clothing in charming disarray around her. Suppressing a dangerous urge to grin, he said, “Sweetheart, you know very well that I am not satisfied.” His voice thickened. “And you damn well know exactly what it would take to make me satisfied.”
Fancy’s clothing suddenly felt too tight, her breathing instantly became erratic, and to her eternal mortification, she could feel the heat that flooded her lower body at his words. Damn him! She was certain that she had never hated any man as much as she did Chance Walker—or felt so gloriously alive with anyone else.
Fancy discovered during the night that followed that there were several very good reasons why one did not normally sleep in day wear. She could hardly move, for one thing. Her pettic
oats and skirts got caught time and again under her body as she twisted and squirmed, trying to get comfortable. Her bodice seemed fashioned for the express purpose of squeezing the breath out of her, and her laced stays poked unmercifully into her waist. Her head ached, too; the pins that kept her hair in its fashionable pompadour dug into her scalp and made her miserable.
Of course, Chance slept wonderfully, and Fancy spent most of the night thinking up several extremely horrid fates for him. She did finally sleep toward dawn but woke a short time later, heavy eyed and achy headed, to find that Chance had risen and left for the day. Thank God!
Sliding from his bed, she left a trail of discarded, crumpled clothing in her wake and staggered into the next room. Wakeful just long enough to rid herself of the punishing pins in her hair and the remainder of her clothing, clad only in her embroidered shift, Fancy emitted a grateful sigh and sank into the welcoming softness of her own bed.
The next time she woke it was late afternoon, and with pleasure she spied a tray with a china pot, steam still rising from its spout, sitting on the table under the window. Stifling a mighty yawn, she slipped from the bed and sat in one of the chairs near the window, sipping her coffee appreciatively and gazing outside.
The sky was sullen with dark clouds. Faintly in the distance Fancy heard the boom of thunder. But her mind wasn’t on the coming storm; she was mulling over last night’s confrontation with Chance. Her lips twisted. A confrontation that had accomplished little. Except, she decided sourly, Chance now knew that she was aware of his scheme to hit back at Jonathan—and that he had used her to do so. She might have preferred to delude herself otherwise, but she didn’t doubt that this was the reason why Chance had married her. That he wanted her, that she pleased him in bed, only made the revenge against Jonathan all the sweeter.
Her problem was that her knowledge about his perfidious actions did not change a thing. Not the situation, or the turmoil in her breast. In spite of everything, she loved Chance Walker. While she could agree that loving him, knowing what she did about him, was the act of a foolish, utterly besotted goose, it didn’t make any difference to what was in her heart.
Sighing, she put down the china cup and gazed blankly off into space. If only Chance would be honest with her, she thought mournfully. They couldn’t change the past; she couldn’t change the reasons he had married her. But those reasons, painful and humiliating though they were, could be acknowledged and then put behind them. There was much to be gained from their marriage. They may have started out badly, but they could start afresh and over time build a good marriage. But not as long as Chance refused to be open and honest with her. His unwillingness to trust her with the truth opened a huge chasm between them. She vowed fiercely, as she stood up and rang for Charity, that she would make no attempt to bridge it. He had created it. Let him be the one to cross it.
* * *
As August slid into September, the heat and debilitating humidity seemed to press down upon the land, animals and humans alike moving more slowly, frequently seeking shady spots to escape the punishing force of the sun. All the while, watermelons ripened, black-eyed peas made their first appearance on the table, Indian corn was finally ready for eating, and the leaves of the tobacco plants began to droop and turn faintly yellow—sure signs that harvesttime was imminent.
Despite the discord between the newlyweds, the passing days had not been unpleasant. On the surface, in front of the others, she and Chance seemed to rub along together tolerably well, able to converse mundanely about the day’s accomplishments. It was only when they were alone that the stiffness and constraint between them was obvious. They had little of a personal nature to say to one another when the doors to their rooms shut behind them each night, and Fancy grew to dread the falling of darkness. She continued to sleep in his bed, as she had agreed to do, and while there were times when his arms would unconsciously slide around her and he would pull her close, or mornings when Fancy woke to find herself snuggled confidingly against his broad chest, there were no attempts to change the terms of their bargain.
Fancy couldn’t claim that it didn’t disturb her to lie night after night in such intimate proximity with a man she tried to tell herself she despised. It did disturb her—a great deal—yet he was also a man she loved, a man whose very look could make her dizzy with longing. But she fought stoutly against his magnetic pull, reminding herself of his trickery whenever she was in danger of weakening.
Fortunately, Fancy’s days were full and she had little time to brood over the situation between herself and Chance. Chance was gone from the house for several hours at a time, overseeing the various projects that needed his attention as everyone worked steadily in the shortening daylight hours in preparation for winter, so she was spared his mocking presence for much of the day.
Life at Devil’s Own was a stunning revelation to Fancy. Until she had married Spencer, she had lived simply, often helping with ordinary tasks, picking eggs for Cook and even, upon one memorial occasion, milking their cow. But she still hadn’t been quite prepared for life on a large plantation in the middle of the wilderness. Devil’s Own was almost entirely self-sufficient. They did need raw supplies, sugar, salt and some spices, and other items that they did not make or grow themselves, and these were brought in sporadically from the small outlying towns. Twice yearly there were trips to Richmond or Williamsburg for major restocking. As the owner’s wife, she discovered that it was up to her to oversee all things connected with the running of the domestic side of the plantation, from the sowing and harvesting of food for everyone, to the care and feeding of the chickens, pigs, and cows. As the wife of a baron in England, she had been able merely to give her orders for the day to the servants and think no more about it, but at Devil’s Own she was expected to take a much more active part, from helping weed the extensive gardens to sowing the winter vegetable crop.
To her great alarm, she found herself pressed into duty as teacher to the children of the plantation workers and, upon occasion, physician and midwife. There was very little connected with the smooth running of the various households that did not require some intervention on her part, even if she did not do all the backbreaking work involved. It was, she told Ellen one morning, rather like being responsible for the total well-being of a small, isolated village.
There was much for Fancy to absorb. With Annie’s gentle guidance and ably assisted by Martha and Jed, she and Ellen quickly learned the art of making candles and soap and even a simple paint that might be needed for some hasty repair. The sisters mastered the methods for pickling and preserving the various fruits and vegetables (Fancy was especially proud of her plum brandy, though it would be six weeks before they actually tasted it) and the steps necessary for the smoking and corning of various meats, including the making of the renowned Virginia hams.
Winter was not many months away, and this was one of the busiest times of year. Fancy and Ellen both were occupied nearly every moment of every day, either helping, overseeing, or learning some new task. There were still vegetables in the garden that at the proper time would be harvested and placed in the huge root cellars: potatoes, turnips, onions, garlic, beans, pumpkins, and squashes. Martha showed them how to properly store the foods, explaining, with a twinkle in her eyes, “If things rot and you are reduced to eating nothing but cabbage and salt pork until spring, you will never again carelessly heap your harvest in some damp and moldy corner of the root cellar.”
At night when she fell into bed, Fancy’s head was full of what she had learned that day, including recipes for everything from preserving fresh cream to making vinegar and even cement and pink dye.
But despite the fullness of her days, she was uncomfortably aware of the swift passage of time. Her month of married chastity was approaching its end, and nothing of any importance had been resolved between herself and Chance. She couldn’t pretend that she hadn’t learned something more of his nature during this time. They did speak, mostly about the workings of the plant
ation, but she was able to observe him with the others and realized that he was an able and respected taskmaster. He was also, she admitted glumly, kind, intelligent, thoughtful, considerate, and generous— traits she would not have connected with a man who had acted so dastardly. Chance Walker was a mystery, one she was determined to solve.
* * *
Fancy was not alone in wanting to solve the mystery of Chance Walker. Sam Walker would have given everything he owned and more to know the truth about the events surrounding the night of Chance’s birth. He implicitly believed Morely’s story of finding the abandoned infant on the bluff. It was too outrageous a tale not to be true. And with all his wild ways as a youth, Morely had never been given to telling lies. Having a lifetime of knowledge of the man, Sam knew that if Morely said he had simply found the newborn infant squalling on the bluff overlooking the river, that’s exactly what happened.
No, the mystery wasn’t in Morely’s incredible tale. The mystery was in what had happened prior to Morely’s discovery of Chance.
For hours at a time, in the days and weeks that had followed Morely’s confession, Sam would catch himself staring blindly off into space, his keen mind exploring ways to unravel the tangled skeins that time had woven. Constance, of course, would deny everything, even if he were mad enough to question her or dared to hint at his suspicions. Annie Clemmons was Constance’s creature, and therefore whatever she said would be suspect. Besides, at the moment Annie was out of reach at Chance’s plantation. The only other person who could throw light on that night was his own dear, beloved Letty.
A Heart for the Taking Page 31
