Deceive Not My Heart

by Shirlee Busbee

  The thought of the Spanish revoking the American rights at any time was uppermost in everyone's mind, and dealing with Spanish officials in New Orleans was a nightmare. It seemed there was always one more hand to be crossed with gold before the necessary permissions and documents were granted.

  Staring out into the darkness, Morgan said slowly, "If only we could acquire New Orleans. Then this continual haggle with the Spaniards would cease."

  "Ha! Might as well ask for the moon! Spain isn't about to give up one more inch of territory. Look how long it took the Dons to evacuate the territory they ceded to us by the treaty... it was years!"

  Morgan took one last drag on his cigar and then tossed it in a nearby brass spittoon. "You're probably right, papa, but it would certainly solve a lot of problems for all of us this side of the Appalachian Mountains." Standing up he added, "Well, I am for bed, what about you?"

  "In a moment." Matthew hesitated, then brought up a subject near to his heart. "Morgan, when you're in New Orleans, there isn't any particular young lady you're going to see, is there?"

  A derisive expression flitted across the lean, dark face. "If you mean a marriageable young lady, the answer is no, papa! You'll have to be content to have your other offspring breeding your grandchildren."

  "Now, Morgan—" Matthew protested.

  But Morgan held up one hand and said in a voice laced with steel, "Don't! I will not talk about it, and if you want us to part on unpleasant terms, just continue the subject."

  Wisely Matthew abandoned what he had been going to say. Morgan could be so implacable, he admitted with a sigh, as he puffed on his cigar and followed his son into the house.

  Sleep came hard for Morgan that night, his father's words bringing back memories that he had thought were behind him. Apparently not, though, he admitted bitterly, as Stephanie's lovely face floated in his mind's eye. Angrily he got up out of bed and stood at the tall windows that overlooked the carriageway and drive.

  Moonlight gilded the magnolia trees in the center of the circular drive, making each leathery green leaf seem edged in silver, but Morgan was blind to the beauty of the night. He slammed his fist against the wall. How could I have been so misled by a beautiful face? Why didn't I realize that she had only been after money all along? he wondered bleakly. But while he could think of his dead, deserting wife, his grief was too deep to touch on Phillippe's death. Stephanie had been a woman grown, following her own destiny, but his little son had merely been a pawn. He had adored both his wife and his son, but his love for Stephanie had died the instant he had read her note. Love had died and left in its place an icy anger against her, which little Phillippe's death had only intensified. Faithless bitch! he cursed furiously, filled with hate for what she had done to him. Bitterly he laughed in the darkness—and papa wonders if there is any special woman waiting in New Orleans for me! I'll burn in hell before I ever believe a pair of lying eyes again, he promised himself fiercely. Never will I fall in love again. Never!

  Chapter 3

  Morgan woke with a start, the nightmare still very real; for a moment he didn't recognize his surroundings. With a blank, uncomprehending stare he gazed around the handsome, spacious room, trying vainly to identify his whereabouts. From the elegant, expensive furnishings it was obviously a place of wealth; his eyes lingered on the crimson silk hangings of the bed before wandering to an intricately carved mahogany chest against one wall. It looked to be of Spanish origin, and with that thought memory came flooding back—he was in New Orleans, at the governor's residence.

  Arriving the previous day in the city, Morgan had wasted no time and had gone immediately to call upon Governor Gayoso in his offices. Gayoso had greeted him warmly, and upon learning that Morgan intended to be in New Orleans for some weeks he had instantly pressed an invitation upon Morgan to stay at his home. Morgan had sought politely to refuse, preferring not to be so completely under Gayoso's observation, but Gayoso had been determined, and as it would be foolish to insult one of the most powerful men in Louisiana, Morgan had eventually agreed. After all, he told himself, he did have business with the governor and what did it matter where he stayed?

  Aware of the wisdom of not instantly broaching all of his reasons for being in New Orleans, Morgan had followed Gayoso's genial lead and had settled down to enjoy a few days of the older man's company and openhanded hospitality, aware that business would be discussed only when the governor was ready. Gayoso never rushed matters, believing firmly in the concept of manana.

  Manuel Gayoso de Lemos was a slim man of perhaps fifty; his dark hair, black eyes, and swarthy complexion made his Spanish blood very apparent. He was an oddity amongst the Spanish officials in that he seldom used his power and office for gain. That is not to say all of his dealings would survive scrutiny in the bright light of day, only that he had an honor of sorts. A hard drinker, his love of liquor was legendary, and it had been his ability to drink any Natchezian under the table, as well as his lack of blatant fortune hunting, that had made him so agreeable to the people of Natchez when he had been their governor a few years before. A charming, debonair, extravagant man, Gayoso made friends effortlessly and was an excellent host.

  The evening had passed pleasantly, the food, the wines, and the company of the finest quality. After they had dined, Gayoso and Morgan had excused themselves from the ladies of the family and had spent the remainder of the evening, doing as gentlemen do so often, drinking and gambling in a handsome room the governor had set aside for that purpose.

  A few more gentlemen had joined them, all strangers to Morgan, but they had proved to be agreeable company, particularly an aristocratic old gentleman by the name of Saint-Andre. The Frenchman had a witty tongue and a pleasing manner, and Morgan had found himself enjoying Saint-Andre's company immensely... at first. He had not enjoyed watching Saint-Andre become drunker and drunker, nor had he been comfortable watching Gayoso accept vowel after vowel from a man obviously unable to realize what he was doing.

  But Gayoso's actions didn't come as a surprise to Morgan. The governor was a curious blend of avarice and generosity, and some of his methods of gaining money—and Gayoso always had need of money—were neither nice nor proper. Unable to stand by and watch the old man openly robbed, Morgan had put an end to Gayoso's unfair practice simply by calling it an evening. He adroitly convinced the completely inebriated Saint-Andre that he too should retire for the night. Morgan even found himself offering to escort the old man to his home.

  Saint-Andre had been flattered, but he had declined, explaining somewhat incoherently that his own servants were waiting and that they would see him to his townhouse as they usually did. Feeling there was nothing more he could do, Morgan had bowed, made his adieus and retired for the night, Saint-Andre vanishing from his mind.

  Morgan had slept soundly at first, but then just as dawn had been breaking on the horizon, the nightmare began again. It was always the same dream and it had haunted him from the moment he had seen his little son's lifeless body lying in that shady glen on the Natchez Trace. In his dream Morgan knew Phillippe was in terrible, mortal danger, and urgently, fear shrieking throughout his body, he rode desperately to rescue him. To his horror, he always arrived just in time to see a dark stranger slit his son's young throat and then disappear into the green jungle of the Trace, leaving Phillippe to strangle in his own blood. And, as happened this morning, Morgan would come awake with his heart pounding uncontrollably, his body bathed in sweat, his brain silently screaming out an anguished, furious denial.

  If Morgan woke from the night's sleep with a nightmare, for Claude Saint-Andre the waking was an entirely different matter. It was true that his head was pounding like an African drum and that his mouth felt as if the entire Spanish Army had trampled through it, but he was full of confidence and excitement. He had found Leonie's husband! Monsieur Morgan Slade was everything a man could wish for in a granddaughter's husband! He was handsome, wealthy, and honorable—Claude had not been so drunk that he had no
t realized the motives behind Morgan's abrupt ending of the evening. Morgan Slade had given the definite impression of being a strong, determined young man who would brook no nonsense from a willful, headstrong little minx like Leonie. Claude was elated.

  There would be difficulties, to be sure, but Claude, with his usual disregard of unpleasant facts, waved them aside. He would contrive. Naturellement!

  As could be expected, that afternoon when Claude informed Leonie that he had found her a husband she was less than pleased. She had been furious at being compelled to leave Chateau Saint-Andre to come to their shabby townhouse for the express purpose of being married off to the first convenient man her grandfather found. It had been bad enough being forced to agree to grandfather's infamous bargain, but to have a prospective husband shoved down her throat on their fourth day in New Orleans was more than she could swallow.

  The sea-green eyes flashing with helpless anger, Leonie had asked bitterly, "And this Monsieur Slade, he has agreed to the marriage?"

  Claude had hesitated, not wanting Leonie to guess he had not yet even broached the matter to the young man in question. Deciding that the sooner Leonie realized that her fate was sealed, the better off they all would be, he replied easily, "Mais oui! We did not finalize everything last night, you understand, but he is most agreeable. I will meet with him tonight to discuss your dowry and the date of the marriage."

  Her eyes narrowed and Leonie queried sharply, "What dowry?"

  Aware that she would find out about the money eventually, Claude said with deceptive innocence, "A handsome dowry of five thousand doubloons in gold that your father and I set aside the day of your birth." Smiling almost proudly he added, "You see, ma petite, despite all my faults I managed to save that for you."

  He would have gone on, but Leonie's eyes went round with astonishment. Then, as the impact of what all that money would mean to her beloved Chateau Saint-Andre, an exuberant grin crossed her face and she burst out happily, "Grand-pere! Mon Dieu, but you had me worried! We are saved! With that much gold we can buy so many things for the Chateau—new livestock, new tools, and perhaps even hire people to work the fields! C'est merveilleux!" Throwing herself against her grandfather's chest, she hugged him impulsively and laughed gaily, "Oh, how afraid I was that you really meant to marry me off!"

  Aghast at her attitude, gently Claude disengaged himself from Leonie's embrace. Almost tiredly he answered, "But I do intend to marry you off, ma cherie. The money is for your dowry, and I will not squander it on land that will take it and then demand more. Non! You will marry, and the money will buy you a wealthy, respectable husband who will take care of you."

  Unable to believe him, Leonie stared openmouthed, the happiness dying from her face. He is mad, she thought wildly. He must be mad! Hard, cold gold could do so much for the Chateau... and he wants to throw it away on something as useless as a husband'! She swallowed with difficulty, fighting back a nearly irresistible urge to throw a flaming tantrum the likes of which Claude had never seen. With an effort she attempted to control herself, but unable to completely suppress her emotions, she stamped one small foot with unladylike temper and demanded fiercely, "Why do you insist that I marry? You are forcing me to do something that will make me hate you for the rest of my life! Why do you do this to me?"

  "It is for your own good!" Claude shot back. "You need a husband to control you! I am too old and tired for the task and it is time you were married."

  Leonie flashed her grandfather a withering look and muttered, "Ah, bah! I do not understand you in this mood. You are an imbecile!"

  Claude merely smiled at her anger and, walking toward the door, said with chilling finality, "Perhaps so, ma petite, but you will marry, and tonight I will attend to the final details with Monsieur Slade."

  Knowing that for the moment further argument would gain her little, except the satisfaction of releasing some of the helpless rage which surged through her slender body, Leonie dropped the subject and, instead, brought up another, equally explosive one. A set look on the young face, she asked tightly, "How many more vowels did you sign last night? Is that how you met this man—over cards and drink? Did he take your vouchers too?" Scornfully she finished, "Is he a man so without honor that he takes money from a drunkard?"

  Claude's features froze and his dark eyes suddenly hard, he snapped, "Shut your mouth, you little she-devil and hear me out—I will not be questioned or dictated to by my own grandchild! Understand?"

  "Zut!" Leonie replied inelegantly, her chin tilted at a rebellious angle. "You are throwing my life away... my future... and I am to say nothing! Bah! It is my life, grand-pere, and I am fighting for it! You would do the same in my position, you must admit."

  Some of his anger fading, Claude acknowledged the justice of her remarks, even if he disagreed with the idea of a woman having any control of her future. Unwillingly he confessed, "It is true that I met Monsieur Slade at Governor Gayoso's last night, but he is an honorable man. When he saw that I was—when he noticed that I was in no condition to continue gambling he very properly brought the evening to an end." And thinking to make Leonie view the gentleman more kindly, Claude added, "I was losing rather badly, and because of his intervention, Gayoso holds fewer of my vowels than he would have. You should be grateful to Monsieur Slade."

  One of Leonie's slashing eyebrows shot up and she murmured disgustedly, "I doubt it! He is probably just more clever than Gayoso and means to have you think he is a good man... especially if you mentioned the amount of my dowry. It would tempt many men." Her expressive little face suddenly changing, the rebellion fleeing, and only anxiety and affection in the cat-shaped eyes, she begged, "Please, please, grand-pere, forget this nonsense! Let us take the money and spend it on the Chateau." Desperately she pleaded, "Don't go back to the governor's tonight—you will only drink and lose more money." Her voice urgent, she asked, "How much longer can you expect your vouchers to be respected? Sooner or later, they must be paid." Unable to look at her grandfather's proud features, in a low tone she rushed on, "You know it is only kindness that allows your friends to take your vouchers now—they all know you cannot pay them. What if Gayoso calls them in? And he may... if not this week, then the next or the next." Her eyes meeting his, she finished painfully, "Grand-pere, you simply cannot ignore the disastrous state of our finances and continue to gamble as if we had an unending source of money."

  Leonie was very lovely as she stood before her grandfather, her eyes soft and luminous from the intensity of her emotions, the full mouth an enchanting curve of rose. For once the tawny hair was neatly confined in two shining coils about her small head and the apricot shade of the gown she wore gave her skin an even more golden tone than usual, but despite the charming picture she made, her words went deep, cutting into Claude's heart and pride like razors.

  Shamed, outraged, his pride more damaged than it had ever been in his life, Claude reacted with arrogant fury. His mouth thinned with anger, he snarled, "If you were a man, I'd kill you for that! Mon Dieu, but I would! How dare you speak of things that you know nothing of!" In a voice shaking with rage, he said, "My vowels are accepted everywhere—no one would dare refuse Saint-Andre!" Throwing her a glance, almost of hatred, he snapped, "I will go as I damn well please! No one tells me what to do... and certainly not a female of sixteen!"

  Her heart was filled with compassion and yet Leonie was furious with her grandfather as she watched him stalk from the room. She let out her breath in a long, gusty sigh and flung herself down in a nearby high-back chair. Once the chair had been covered in a glorious, burgundy velvet; now the nap of the material was worn and the color faded, but Leonie enjoyed the softness of the old velvet as she idly ran her hands over the arms of the chair, her thoughts churning distractedly.

  The room showed the same signs of lack of money as did the Chateau Saint-Andre—the carpets, drapes, and furniture, all obviously elegant, expensive items, had been allowed to wear with age. There were only a few rooms of the townhouse
that were actually still furnished—Claude having sold off the contents of the others long ago—but this room had always been one of Leonie's favorites. The places on the walls where exquisite paintings had once hung were apparent from the difference in color, but overall it was still a pleasant room, the carpet a warm shade of cream, almost yellow, the chairs of burgundy velvet, and the drapes at the windows in the same color and material giving it a striking appearance.

  Zut! But this was a nasty coil, Leonie mused unhappily as she sat staring blankly into space. Grand-pere was so stubborn at times! I must think of something soon, she decided grimly, after several minutes of furious concentration. And the first thing is those damnable vowels grand-pere has signed to Monsieur Gayoso!

  Her little face somber with determination, she reviewed the situation and found it just as daunting as ever. Surprisingly, the proposed marriage was the least of Leonie's concerns—at the moment the most important things in her mind were saving Chateau Saint-Andre and, somehow, miraculously retrieving her grandfather's gaming vowels—which would be nearly impossible. But if she could prevent grand-pere from signing more vowels... or, and she sat up alertly, if there were some way of getting her hands on any new vowels he might sign!

  Mon Dieu! If only I could! she thought fiercely. If only there was some way of snatching those little pieces of paper that would ultimately spell final ruin for them all. She frowned, unconsciously tapping her lips with one finger. What if I were to follow grand-pere to the governor's tonight? Bah! And do what, you stupid creature—beg the governor not to accept your grandfather's vowels?

  Leonie shuddered. No, she couldn't do that, not only would her grandfather never forgive her, but she wasn't so certain she could forgive herself for shaming Claude so. But I must do something! she cried silently.

  If only grand-pere would forget about this silly idea of marriage... the money he was determined to throw away on a husband could be put to so much better use, if he would only listen. And not continue to gamble, she added glumly. If he would just stay at the Chateau and oversee his lands, or let her do so, they could manage.... They could sell the townhouse, for despite its faded air the house and land it sat upon were valuable, and from its sale, not even touching the dowry, they could gain time... and who knows what would happen in a year or two? A few years of judicious economy and good crops, and they would be safe for a while. Not wealthy, not even well-to-do, but at least they would have their lands and their situation would be much better. Anything would be better than the current state of affairs, Leonie told herself cynically.