Deceive Not My Heart

by Shirlee Busbee

  Ashley only smiled, his breathing faster than usual. He had enjoyed kissing her, enjoyed the softness of her body next to his, and he cursed the fact that last night he had not known fully the secrets of her slender body. Ah well, the gold of her dowry would buy women enough for him, and he would derive a spiteful enjoyment from the irony of it all. For just a moment, he pictured Morgan's face when Leonie appeared demanding her dowry.

  Controlling the urge to chuckle at his own cleverness, Ashley finally took his leave from Leonie and her grandfather. By the time darkness fell, he was happily ensconced in his cabin on the Scarlet Angel, drinking a toast to his good fortune as the ship slowly sailed away from New Orleans.

  Leonie drank no toast that night; instead she crawled gratefully into her own bed and as soon as her head hit the pillow she was sound asleep. It had been a difficult twenty-four hours for her, but at last it was over. She was married, it was true, but Yvette was safe—too, she had the precious agreements, which should protect her from her husband in the future, and in time she should receive her dowry back. The return of the dowry worried her just a little—Monsieur Slade had shown, to her at least, that he was not an honorable man, and even with the signed agreement, she felt fairly certain, she would have a fight on her hands when the time came. But for tonight, she would not dwell on the problems that might arise in the future.

  Claude rested easily that night also, and in the morning when Leonie suggested that they return to the Chateau, he raised no objections. He was feeling tired and listless these past few days and the delights of the city held no allure for him.

  The following morning the townhouse was closed and everyone returned to Chateau Saint-Andre. As most Creoles avoided the city in the summer, Claude, for once, seemed in no hurry to return to it. Gayoso's death had shaken him, making him accept for the first time inevitability of his own death, and with Leonie's future safely taken care of, it was as if he was simply marking time, waiting for the grim reaper to take him too.

  The weeks immediately following her wedding were a good time for Leonie. Grand-pere was staying at the Saint-Andre plantation and not running up more debts, and she had the satisfaction of knowing that sometime in the future there would be money to put back into the Chateau... when she got it from Monsieur Slade!

  Claude, his brain cleared for the first time in years of brandy and liquor, took a casual interest in the plantation and for Leonie it was sheer heaven. Perhaps, she told herself hopefully, he has realized how desperate we have become and means to help salvage what we can.

  Leonie and Claude grew very close during those weeks as August gradually gave way to September, and Claude mourned the years that he had ignored his granddaughter's lively, enchanting presence. If only I could call back the time, he thought sadly. But then his mood lightened. At least I have seen that her future will be safe—soon Monsieur Slade will return and my sweet Leonie will have a fine husband to care for her.

  Claude had noted that Leonie did not speak of her absent husband, but it didn't disturb him. She is probably still angry at the way I forced her to marry him, he decided with a smile, and is not about to let me know that she finds him attractive.

  * * *

  Of course Leonie had found nothing attractive about Monsieur Slade, but if she had met the real Morgan Slade, she might have felt differently. Certainly, the young woman that he was dancing with at the ball Armand Beauvais had given the night before he was to leave for Natchez thought he was prodigiously attractive. No man, she thought bemusedly, should be allowed to have such wicked blue eyes and such curling black lashes, as Morgan's gaze rested mockingly on her mouth. Almost despairingly Raquel Dumond said softly, "Must you leave tomorrow? Couldn't you stay for a few days longer?"

  Morgan smiled teasingly. "So that you could ensnare me further, sweetheart?"

  Raquel blushed, uncertain whether to laugh at his accuracy or stamp her foot in embarrassment. Laughter won out, and with amusement peeping in the brilliant dark eyes raised to his, she murmured, "Perhaps... one never knows what the future holds."

  "For me, it holds a journey to Natchez... tomorrow," Morgan replied easily, not so ensnared with her Creole charms that he couldn't bear to leave them. Raquel had been a pleasant way to spend a few evenings, but with the departure looming in the forefront of his mind, he was restless and in no mood to play the gallant.

  It had been a successful trip for Morgan, despite Gayoso's sudden death, and he had been able to secure the use of the wharves and warehouses that were so important to his family's plantation. His friendship with Jason Savage had helped, as well as the gold that had been discreetly passed from one Spanish palm to the other.

  At Jason's insistence, he had made Beauvais his headquarters and had only ventured into the city when business had called. The remainder of the time, he had spent at Beauvais, relaxing and visiting with Jason and his grandfather Armand. It had been a most pleasant time, but now he was anxious to return to Bonheur, even though he knew that once there, somewhere else would call to him.

  It had only been as the end of his stay at Beauvais drew near that he had thought of his uncle's letter and his cousin Ashley. He and Jason had spent a few hours in late August scouring the city only to discover eventually that Ashley had sailed on the Scarlet Angel for England at the end of July. He and Jason had exchanged looks and then burst out laughing. "Why didn't I think to check with ship departures before we started combing the city?" Morgan had asked with amusement.

  "Because, mon ami, you enjoyed slumming in those depraved dens of sin that you claimed your cousin was sure to inhabit." Jason had replied mockingly.

  Ashley dismissed from his mind, Morgan had busied himself preparing for the journey to Natchez. The next day dawned sunny and hot but there was the hint of a thunderstorm on the horizon, and eyeing it, Jason had said, "Are you certain you don't wish to delay your departure for a few hours?"

  Morgan grinned. "My dear friend, what flimsy excuses you present to hold me here. I am not made of sugar, I assure you, and a little thundershower will not melt me!"

  Jason had laughed, their hands meeting in a tight clasp; then, astride a prancing, chestnut gelding from the Beauvais stables, Morgan had ridden away, heading up the river for Natchez. Attached to his watch fob was the little gold cross from a virgin whore.

  He had looked at that little gold cross more than once during the past weeks, wondering about its owner. A dozen times, he had cursed the darkness that had hidden her features, cursed the circumstances that had allowed the girl to vanish from his life as quickly as she had appeared. And the fact that he thought of her often, that he had almost desperately wanted to know more about her, that he had regrets about that particular evening, annoyed him. What the hell—she was a whore, he had reminded himself repeatedly, ignoring the taunting voice in his mind that wouldn't let him forget that he had initiated her into her profession. Nor could he forget the feel of her in his arms, the sweet mouth beneath his, the soft body pressed next to his. He was grimly aware that if he could have found her, if his attempts to learn her identity from Gayoso's servants hadn't been fruitless, that he would be taking her with him now as he left New Orleans.

  If she had been determined to sell herself, he reasoned that he might as well be the one to take advantage of it—she would have found him a generous protector. A discreet house in Natchez, a stylish carriage, blooded horses, clothes, jewels, servants, he would have gladly provided them all, and as his mistress she would have been safe.

  Now why did I think of that? he thought sourly, as his horse trotted along the river road. Safety wasn't what she had wanted and he was angry that she could even now, weeks later, arouse a curious feeling of protectiveness within him. Scowling at the darkening sky, he angrily tried to push her out of his mind. But it was useless; a mile down the road, he caught himself wondering where she was now and what was she doing. And why the devil had she thrown his money back in his face?

  * * *

  The thunderst
orm broke a half hour later, and to Leonie it seemed only fitting that the heavens should weep with her. For the past two weeks she had tried to ignore the signs, had tried to tell herself that nothing was different about her body, but this morning when she had arisen and the nausea that had been with her the last few days had attacked again, she knew it was no use pretending otherwise. She was to have a child... a child fathered in darkness and by a man whose name and face she had never known... and would probably never know!

  Part II

  Fortune's Promise

  "What! wouldst thou have a serpent

  sting thee twice?"

  The Merchant of Venice

  William Shakespeare

  Chapter 8

  The Saint-Andre family graveyard was nestled in a shady glen about half a mile from the main house, and whenever Leonie came here, she was filled with a feeling of tranquility, of sadness—and yet not sadness, more a bittersweet nostalgia. There was an air of timelessness about the tiny graveyard, as if it had existed forever and would endure long after its inhabitants had faded from the memory of those who had known them in life.

  Letting the peace of the place seep into her bones, Leonie's gaze traveled slowly around the area. Over there, under the marble seraph with its wide outstretched wings, was buried her great-grandfather, who had come from France, and next to him, his wife. To the left were tiny headstones of the three infants that had been born to them but had not survived the first years of childhood. Her parents' grave was marked with a pair of weeping angels, and Grand-mere Saint-Andre's final resting place was noted only by a starkly simple obelisk of startling white marble. All of the tombstones were aged, except one... grand-pere's, and even it was beginning to reveal the soft ravages that five years time had wrought.

  Leonie slowly walked over to where Claude was buried, and sinking gracefully to her knees, she gently laid the spray of fragrant yellow and white honeysuckle which she had brought for his grave. She had come here often in the five and a half years since his sudden death in October of 1799. It was tragic, but she found it easier to talk with him as he slept in his grave than she ever had when he had been alive. She came often to sit by his grave and talk of events that had taken place, or to discuss the various difficulties that beset her. Today was no different.

  The huge, twisted live oaks that ringed the graveyard formed a leafy green umbrella, and the pink and coral roses, which persisted in clinging to the small white fence that enclosed the graveyard, filled the April air with their sweet fragrance. Absently, her eyes fixed on some distant spot Leonie plucked a pink rose and unthinkingly began to strip its petals as she talked softly to Claude's grave.

  "Justin is five years old today, grand-pere." A small smile flitted across the expressive face. "You would be proud of him! He is a true Saint-Andre—stubborn, obstinate, and determined to have his own way!" Her face clouded for a moment, regret surging through her slender body that Claude had not lived to see his great-grandson's birth in 1800. And she repeated again, "You would have been proud of him."

  Thinking of her son, her thoughts drifted for a time. Oh, how she had hated the idea of bearing that unknown man's child! There had even been times during the early stages of her pregnancy that she had struck her swelling stomach with helpless fury. It was so unfair—she had been left alone to bear the fruit of a night she would give anything to forget! It had been intolerable and there were times Leonie had thought she would go quite, quite mad. Yet, as her pregnancy progressed, as the child began to move inside of her, some of her fury lessened, and eventually she ceased to rail against her unwanted state and gradually came to realize that what had happened was no fault of the child that grew in her womb. And when her squalling son was placed in her arms, her heart had been so filled with a sudden, fierce surge of love that she had feared it would burst from her breast.

  The news of Leonie's marriage had not been well known in New Orleans. The Saint-Andres no longer mingled in society as they once had; only their closest neighbors and friends were even aware Leonie was married. She certainly didn't wish to dwell on it. Claude's death occurred soon after the family had returned to Chateau Saint-Andre; that sad event effectively ended further speculation about Leonie's sudden, almost secretive, marriage.

  The time which had passed since Claude's death and Justin's birth had not been pleasant, but somehow Leonie had struggled to retain possession of the main house and a hundred acres of land that surrounded it. Everything else—the townhouse, the two thousand or so fertile acres that had been part of the original plantation, and even grand-pere's one remaining thoroughbred and carriage—had been sold to pay off the bulk of his debts.

  But it hadn't been enough. Some people had been kind, many of his old friends simply burning the gaming vowels and shaking their heads that a man who had once been such an astute landowner could have let himself fall so deeply in debt. Others, of course, were not so kind, but with the sale of the townhouse and the two thousand acres of prime, loamy land, Leonie had been able to placate most of those who had clamored for repayment.

  When all the debts that could be paid had been paid, there was still a sizable sum of money owed, and just when Leonie had thought she would lose everything and be thrown homeless and penniless to face the world, one of her grand-pere's old friends came to her rescue. Monsieur Etienne de la Fontaine was their nearest neighbor; he and Claude had grown up together, and hiding the pity he had felt, he had gently suggested to Leonie that if she would put up the Chateau and the remaining lands as collateral, he would pay off the remaining debts. Gratefully, the sea-green eyes huge in her pinched face, Leonie had agreed. It had been a very one-sided bargain, for what Claude had owed, even after the sale of the townhouse and other lands, was well above what the Chateau and the hundred acres were worth. But Monsieur de la Fontaine was a kind old man and Leonie's plight distressed him. Besides, he told himself and others—someday, her husband might redeem everything and he would be well repaid.

  Justin, Yvette, Leonie and the half-dozen slaves that clung so tenaciously to her skirts had lived a hand-to-mouth existence in the years that followed. They had farmed the land to obtain most of their food, and with all of them working on the remaining acres from dawn until dusk, until their backs were aching and stiff, their bodies almost exhausted, they had planted and harvested sugar cane as a salable crop for the things they couldn't provide themselves—salt, spices, materials for clothes, and shoes.

  But they had survived. Until now—Monsieur de la Fontaine had died last month and his heir, Maurice, was demanding either payment of the note or the forfeiture of the lands and the house.

  Staring blankly into space, the striking little face pensive, Leonie sighed. Mon Dieu, but life was hard. It was out of the question that she pay off the note, and so, she and the other inhabitants of the house must leave by no later than the fifteenth of May. Maurice de la Fontaine, a smirk on his dark thin face, had been adamant about that.

  It was the most frightening situation of her entire life. No matter what had happened to her, her one solace had been the Chateau Saint-Andre, her home, her fortress against the world, and now in a matter of weeks, that was being wrested away from her.

  Her fingers suddenly crushing the mangled rose, she thought viciously to herself, if Monsieur Slade had repaid me my dowry last year, as promised, all would be well. Damn him for the liar and cheat that he is!

  She supposed she should be grateful that he had at least kept one part of their bargain and had not intruded into her life again. But in view of the child that had resulted from her desperate attempt in New Orleans to stave off more of her grand-pere's debts, she was thankful indeed for her marriage papers. At least no one will call Justin a bastard, she vowed fiercely.

  Leonie wouldn't have been human if at times she didn't consider the possibility of appealing to her husband for aid, but her own fiery pride and a deep abiding mistrust and dislike of Monsieur Slade had stilled the notion. She would die and let the worms eat her
flesh before she accepted his help. But he owed her the dowry, and time and circumstances were forcing her to go after it.

  She sighed again, wishing there were some other way she could support herself and her little family. But there was nothing—Yvette's needlework would bring in little, Leonie herself was untrained for any work except the running of a household, and Justin and the blacks that remained with them could earn little money. Her mouth twisting derisively, she admitted there was one other way: Monsieur Maurice had intimated that he might find it agreeable not to foreclose if Leonie would be more accommodating. For obvious reasons, Leonie had scornfully thrown his offer back in his face. No, they would go to Natchez and demand that her dowry be repaid as had been promised.

  A brooding expression in the cat-shaped eyes, she gazed at the soft, green mantle of grass that covered Claude's grave and said bleakly, "Grand-pere, I didn't come here today just to tell you that it is Justin's birthday... soon we will be leaving for Natchez and I do not know when we shall be back... if ever."

  She felt the sting of tears in her eyes and swallowing painfully she added, "I must get Monsieur Slade to repay me my dowry, and I do not know if I will receive the money in time to prevent Maurice from foreclosing. I have spoken with him and he has implied he would give me until the first of July before he accepts any offers for our home. But, grand-pere, you do understand that I might not be able to meet the deadline? Monsieur Slade has proved himself a dishonorable man, and I may have to take him before a magistrate to get my money. That will take time... too much time, I fear."

  An empty silence greeted her words, until in one of the oaks a mockingbird's clear song rang out in the warm April air. Leonie twisted around to find the source, and spying the cocky gray and white bird amongst the leafy green branches overhead, she smiled to herself. The mockingbird's song was a gay sound, and listening to the merry notes, she felt her spirits rise. She would succeed! She had expected no sign from the grave, but somehow, that happy warble drifting through the lazy spring air encouraged one to step forth with a lighter step... and to momentarily feel that the future might not be so bad after all.